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svtdarlingbby · 2 years

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Dance the Night Away! HoshixTrainee!Reader

pairing: Hoshi x gender neutral Reader genre: angst in the beginning mostly fluff/humor no warnings! just Hoshi being the best boi word count: 1495 Ok guys this is my first fic on here! Hope you enjoy!

getting accepted into HYBE was your dream come true

just becoming a trainee under one of the biggest companies was surreal

it seems like your hard work was starting to pay off

however, things can't be 100% perfect

the loneliness was for sure getting to you

sure HYBE was a big company but you never had time to create meaningful friendships due to your workload

not to mention your homesickness

going from living with your family and seeing your friends often to being isolated in a new city with hardly anyone to talk to was rough

the effects of these feelings began to show through your performance

which brings us today to your dance coach snapping at you for not mastering the choreography as fast as you should have

"Y/N! How many times do we need to go over this? You should've had this down a while ago!" yelled your dance instructor

"I'm sorry" was all you could muster as you held back tears

"I thought you were better than this. Even if you have to stay in the studio all night I want you to master this choreography. No ifs or buts," sighed your dance instructor as they left you alone in the studio.

now that they were gone it was safe to let it all out

the tears you had been holding flowed out as you let out choked sobs

it really was a pitiful scene as you leaned against the mirrored wall with your face buried into your palms

I'm really going to screw up my chances at going big because of my feelings? you wondered

just thinking this made you cry even more

you didn't hear the door to the dance studio open in the midst of your crying session

whoever walked in didn't see you either

just as he was about practice dancing his newest song, he saw your wallowing figure in the mirror

"AAAAHHHH!!" he screamed and jumped surprisingly high

"AAAH SORRY!" you half squeaked/yelled through teary eyes

you realized that you had terrified the Kwon Soonyoung aka Hoshi aka Tiger

"You got my heart racing haha, no worries, Y/N was it?" he chuckled as he walked toward you

oh no

this is not how you wanted to meet any of your labelmates

you simply nodded in response attempting to hide your tear-stained face

you definitely failed for sure

"Y/N? Are you okay?" he asked as he kneeled to your height

"Yes" you lied

"You don't look okay. What's wrong?" he frowned as he sat next to you on the ground

something about his question made you want to cry more

this was probably the first time someone here has ever thought to make sure you were okay

"It's just..." you begin as you began to cry more

ngl Soonyoung felt a bit awkward but he felt his heart break at the sight of you

"It's okay, Y/N. Let it out" he said gently patting your shoulder

usually he was known for being super energetic but seeing his comforting side was calming

so you cried, at least until you felt composed enough to tell him what was wrong

"Sorry for bugging you, I guess trainee life is a lot harder than I anticipated," you admitted wiping the last of your tears against your sleeve

"Ah I remember those days, they were tough," reminisced Soonyoung

"For sure... I've just been feeling pretty lonely. My whole life is completely different than it was a couple of months ago and I guess the homesickness and anxiety is affecting my performance. My dance instructor was pissed off at me and I guess that was my breaking point," you vented as he listened attentively

"I'm sorry they were harsh on you. I wish they'd have a little more empathy. If you need any help with dancing and what not I'd be more than happy to help" he offered with a smile

"You'd help me?" you asked kind of shocked that someone as busy as Soonyoung would offer to help a lonesome trainee like you

"Yeah why not. You seem dedicated and you got this far. I don't mind really!" he said as he got up.

"Wow Soonyoung, I can't thank you enough," you said

"Alright let's get up" he said as he pulled you off the ground. "So what do you need help with exactly?"

You explained to him that you needed to memorize your assigned choreography by tomorrow

"My dance instructor said I needed to know this even if it took all night" you said worriedly

Soonyoung took a look at your assigned work and beamed

"Hey I know this song! Okay which part do you need help with?"

You were so thankful omg

You explained to him that you knew the beginning up until the first chorus but were kinda lost afterwards

"Okay Y/N, by the end of this session you're gonna know this dance by heart thanks to me"

As soon as he played the music Soonyoung went into full tiger dance pro mode

you were in awe of how a human could just become the concept of dance itself like woww

it definitely took some time for you learn and master the new parts of the choreography but Soonyoung was impressed by your motivation and drive

not gonna lie you did feel your face flush when Soonyoung would fix your positioning or stature

you knew he was being professional but man was he hot when he was in dance mode

he was very patient with you too!

and learning the choreography was actually fun because he'd joke around

"Okay Y/N, this final move is the hardest. Think you can keep up?" he asked raising a brow

"Heck yeah!"

"Okay, I'll guide you. First you raise your right hand about shoulder length" he said as he performed the move

"Alright" you followed raising your right head

"Good! Okay now you open your palm like this" he said opening his palm

"Yup!" you followed his instructions

"Okay, don't screw this part up. It's fundamental to the choreography. Bend your fingers and thumb forward" he said as his smile grew

"Alrighty!" you said bending your fingers forward

before you knew it you horanghaed

"HAHHA HORANGHAE Y/N" laughed Soonyoung as he horanghaed

it took you a second but you burst into laughter

"WOW SOONYOUNG tricking me a poor trainee into horanghae-ing. The tiger agenda has gone too far" you laughed

"Ugh Y/N, you're too cute" chuckled Soonyoung

aaaaand you felt your face get warm and felt all shy

"Anyways, this is what happens when you hang out with me for too long. Just ask my members!" laughed Soonyoung

"Although tricking people into your Tiger agenda is devious, they really are lucky to have you Soonyoung" you said with a smile

"Aw Y/N stop" blushed Soonyoung at your compliment as he looked down smiling

"It's true! Thanks to you I got the choreography down! Seriously thank you so much" you said

"I just couldn't leave a poor little trainee alone like that. But you made my night Y/N. I had fun" he admitted with a small smile

"Night?"

"Yeah, it's about three quarters past midnight" said Soonyoung matter of factly

"HOW LONG HAVE WE BEEN HERE?" you wondered loudly not realizing how much time has gone by

"Shoot I don't know maybe 5-6 hours? I wasn't keeping track" chuckled Soonyoung

"Oh my gosh I'm sorry I didn't mean to keep you up this late!" you apologized

"Nah don't worry. I had fun Y/N. And I'm glad to see you happier now"

"Thanks Soonyoung"

"But you're right, it is kinda late. I know you need your rest but let me know if you ever need help dancing. Or if you just wanna hang out in general. I know you said you've been feeling lonely and I would love to spend some time with you" he rambled with sparkling eyes

"Soonyoung, I'd love that. Thank you for everything" you said enveloping him in a hug

he gently returned the hug giving you a gentle comforting squeeze

"You're welcome" he smiled as you two pulled apart.

you two planned to meet tomorrow after you presented your newfound choreography skills to your dance instructor to tell him how it went

and maybe hang out some more

but you could not be more grateful for Soonyoung

and hey, you now have your first fan!

BONUS:

"Soonyoung, where have you been all night?" asked Chan running into his bandmate in the halls as he got up to get some water

"OH MY GOD OH MY GOD CHAN!!" yelled Soonyoung

"SHUSH the whole floor is asleep!" whisper yelled Chan

"CHAN I MET SOMEONE THEY'RE SO CUTE THEY'RE A TRAINEE AND- AHH" yelled Soonyoung as he felt himself blush remembering the evening you two shared

Needless to say, all of the boys heard about you through Soonyoung's very loud recounting of the day you two had

#seventeen x reader #hoshi x reader #hoshi x you #soonyoung imagines #soonyoung x reader #svt x reader #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #seventeen idol au #hoshi imagines #seventeen reactions #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x you #seventeen x y/n

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cherrycosmos-10 · 1 month

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Maybe friends do influence us in a way we don't even recognize or maybe they don't I don't know. Now there have been studies and well there's my mom who has always told me that friends change u in a way that you can't even know like the people who you surround yourself with have an impact on the choices you make, the person you become etc. and I always thought that it was just a bunch of bullshit, like how can someone influence me i am me ( i was 13) but growing up has made me realize that maybe just maybe if I had a different group of friends who did not just believe in idling around or who weren't rich and were from a middle class background like me, would I have made different decisions in my life? Would my life be different? Too many ifs and buts.

But then I thought that maybe they were worth it in the end until, one day I realized that they really weren't, maybe my life would've been different, and maybe I would've made different decisions. So many maybes or maybe nots. Now don't get me wrong I'm not blaming my friends and their rich background for my shortcomings I just can't help but wonder sometimes that if, just if I had chosen different people to be around would I be where I am right or would have I have been in a better place academically, socially like everything thing that makes me "me" right now would that be the same or?

Would I be different?

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therenlover · 3 years

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The Boy With The Easel (A Young Artist!Helmut Zemo x Reader Oneshot)

(Hey! If you end up enjoying this fic, it’s the first chronological part of a new fun expanded AU I’ve created with @creme-bruhlee! Their fic Bliss is part of the same timeline and takes place about a year after this one, so you should check it out!!!)

Synopsis: About a month into your first semester at Novi Grad’s top university, you finally meet the strange young man that you’ve taken to calling “easel boy” in the back of a bookshop. From a distance, he always seemed cold and aloof. As you get to know him, though, you realize things aren’t always what they seem.

Tags: Meet Cute, College AU, First Meetings, Coffee Date, Artist!Zemo, Embarrassment, Awkward College Kids Falling In Love

Rating: T

Warnings: Very Vague Mention of Sexual Content, Swearing, Zemo Says The Word Daddy In Reference To His Father and The Reader Thinks It’s Kinda Hot

Word Count: 7000~

This fic has been crossposted to my AO3!

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The University of Novi Grad

Fall 1996

Mornings in Novi Grad could be beautiful if you knew what to look for.

Sokovia was… different from America in many ways. From the language to the scenery, you often found yourself adrift in the strangeness of it all. There had been nothing quite as old as the buildings in the historical district of Novi Grad back home, no towering grey behemoths serving as a reminder of a bygone fight against Soviet invasion in the memories of your childhood. Still, though, there was beauty in the strangeness nonetheless.

From your tiny room in the Helena Lyudmila International Scholar’s dorm, for instance, you had a perfect view of a large campus courtyard hosting a statue of the donor by the same name. She was some royal who had invested in education a few hundred years ago, and by the looks of her metal likeness, she had been quite pretty. The sight of her shining in the early morning sun was one of the things that made uprooting your whole life seem worth it in the end, no matter how silly that seemed.

There were other small comforts that you had found beauty in during your first month attending your prestigious university, too.

You found beauty in the way the sunlight streamed over the rooftops like the opening to an Oscar-winning film. In the sound of traffic below and the overcast skies above. Sandwiches from corner stores, wildflowers growing in the median of the road, cups of the worlds best black coffee served steaming by scowling attendants at the cafe; Everywhere there was something small and kind and just familiar enough to relish in, more than able to distract you from the stress of living hand-to-mouth in a country where you didn’t even know the language. It made it all worth it.

That being said there was something else too…

Someone else to be specific.

The campus tended to run like clockwork. The same groups of students would walk past your window to their classes, the same professors would get their coffee and lunch at the little cafe across the square, and every weekday morning at 8 am on the dot, easel boy would set up his palette and canvas and paint the same bustling street.

He was talented, that you couldn’t deny. Even from the 6th floor, which was a considerable distance away, it was possible to admire the detailing and consistency with which he painted. His talent wasn’t when kept you captive at your window in the morning, though. Though you were sure his art was beautiful, he himself was a thousand times more stunning.

All dark eyes and dark hair and dark clothes, he parted crowds with his piercing gaze alone. He was always dressed like the protagonist of some awful artsy film. Massive argyle sweaters, untucked button-ups, corduroy jackets, and flare bottomed pants that must have survived his father’s wardrobe from the ’70s… his style was as close you could get to atrocious while still being impeccable as possible, and that wasn’t even getting started on the smudged black liner always present under his persistent gaze. You had never had the pleasure (or embarrassment for that matter) of meeting him in person, but you were sure that you would have had the same awed and slightly frightened reaction if you ever did. He could have been plucked entirely from the pages of some awful romance novel.

You were well and truly smitten with the idea of him.

If you looked at your morning routine through the eyes of a stranger, you’d consider yourself odd for your strange obsession with him, but you didn’t look at it like that. It wasn’t an obsession. You never overstepped your bounds. He was simply pleasing to look at and so you did. That didn’t constitute as obsessive, right?

Even if it did, you weren’t causing any harm.

Easel boy, as you had come to refer to him, was simply a tool you used to ground yourself in your new and frightening environment. Nothing more. If you ever met him, you would surely hate him from the short interactions you’d seen him have with strangers. They never ended well. He would remain an unattainable, attractive ideal in your mind until he eventually faded away into a funny memory you’d share with your kids one day.

Until then, though, you would watch him from your window before your morning classes and refused to feel guilty about it. So, that was that, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

On the morning in question, you had woken up a little late and in a foul mood. In preparation for a test in your foundations of algebra course you had spent the better part of the night pouring over formulas while your upstairs neighbor’s bed slammed repeatedly into the wall and floor. Though you were sure they were having an excellent time, you were most definitely not. It all culminated in you missing your original alarms and despite the fact that your first class started at 10, you were exhausted, furious, and not looking forward to missing breakfast to finish the assigned reading you had put off the night before. The only thing keeping you from throwing in the towel and just giving up was the promise of seeing the painter.

So, when he arrived for the day at 8 am sharp, you were positioned at the ledge by your window, textbook in hand with a mug of instant coffee at your right. It was like a breath of fresh air.

As usual, he retrieved a small pack of cigarettes from the back of his eternally paint-stained jeans only to bring one to his lips and light it quickly. He always smoked before he worked, and just like always, he took an extra cigarette from the pack to tuck behind his ear for later. Then, he got to work setting up his easel and the small stool where he set his palette.

Pulling tubes of acrylic, brushes, and pencils from his well-worn messenger bag, easel boy flipped out the kickstand without any problem and set his thick, pre-primed canvas on the worn metal. You watched in fascination. Art had always seemed so unattainable to you. Instead, you were drawn to the more academic. The man before you, though, created beauty with an ease that had evaded you all your life, and it had you both jealous and entirely intrigued. Slowly, you reached down to take a sip of your coffee as you let your eyes drift back to your reading.

Learning about ancient Babylon was far less interesting than watching him, though.

When you next looked out the window and away from your work the handsome artist had created his base sketch already. How did he do it so fast? You assumed it was practice. He had been drawing the same 3 buildings every weekday morning for at least a month, so after a while, it must have been second nature to measure out the lines and put things into perspective. You smiled. He tended to have that effect on you.

The process was repeated until a little before 9:30. You would read a few paragraphs then look up to watch the painting progress from a sketch to a full-fledged work of art. It was good today from what you could see. The colors were a bit more muted than usual, but that was only on account of the awful, dreary overcast sky that threatened to dump rain on the city at any time. Overall, you would have considered it a masterpiece. Easel boy didn’t seem to think the same.

He regarded the painting with a sort of begrudging satisfaction that bordered on disappointment before he pulled the second cigarette from behind his ear, lit it, and began the process of packing up his materials. You finished the last of your coffee watching him do so. Smoking, well, smoking tobacco at least, had always been a vice you had avoided and yet you often wondered what it would feel like to take a drag of one of his cigarettes after it had been between his lips. Then, the magic lifted.

He folded up the flimsy easel, tucked it away with his materials back into his messenger bag, hoisted the stool under one arm and the painting under the other before taking off at a brisk clip down the street away from your window. You watched him until he was out of sight.

You were snapped from your concentration by a knock at your door.

“Y/N,” a heavily accented voice called, sending you scrambling for your bag, “If you are not outside in the next 15 seconds I will break down your door,”

Shit.

“Coming, Sasha!” You wailed. It took about 10 of those seconds to grab your backpack and shove your textbook inside, an extra 2 to check your appearance in the mirror- you looked slightly disheveled, but it was the best you were gonna do after the night you’d had. Besides, it wasn’t like you were doing anything important. You didn’t need to be dressed for a date -and you were opening the door for a quick save at the 14th second. Your door was safe for another day.

Out in the hall waited Sasha Balandin, arms crossed and grey eyes piercing in the flickering light of the terrible overhead fluorescents. As a fellow international student, you had become fast friends with Sasha. He was a little rough around the edges, and definitely didn’t take your bullshit, but he was a rare friend. “I have been waiting for 10 minutes,” he griped. You tried your best to look apologetic. “Don’t do that,”

“Do what?” You asked, closing and locking your door behind you as you began walking down the hallway.

Sasha huffed. “Do not pretend you were not too busy ogling that painter in the courtyard to hear me knocking on your door,” His Russian bluntness was on full display now as you shook your head in mock disbelief.

“I can’t believe you’d accuse me of something like that!”

“It is not an accusation if it is true,”

“There’s no way you know for a fact that I was watching him again,”

“But you were. This happens every week,”

You sighed, pausing at the top of the stairs. “I was,”

Taking the stairs in twos, Sasha sighed. “You are too soft, Y/N. Besides, you have said so often that he seems like an asshole. Why do you continue to get all mushy at him out the window if this is the case?”

“Because… well, because…” for a moment, you floundered in search of an answer that wouldn’t make you sound like a complete freak, but you found that there really wasn’t one. It came down the one small factor. “He’s just really hot, okay?”

The look Sasha gave you could have killed. He kept his mouth shut, though, choosing to let his silence shame you more than anything else did. It worked. For the entire trip down the stairs and the mile-long walk to your lecture hall, you felt the weight of shame heavy on your shoulders. Or maybe it was just your backpack. You didn’t know which you’d prefer. He did start speaking again eventually, going on about some party you had missed in favor of studying, but the feeling never left. Even as you sat down for your lecture it was still at the forefront of your mind. In fact, you were so busy thinking about your crush on easel boy and the problems with it that you barely paid attention to the professor’s rehashing of the Epic of Gilgamesh.

Your error only hit when the professor flipped the PowerPoint to the final slide.

“Before you go, I want to remind you that you have a paper on the importance of Enkidu in the Epic is due at the beginning of class this Friday. The details and requirements should be listed in your syllabus. Class dismissed,”

Fuck.

Friday was only two days away.

You were so screwed.

The problem was, you didn’t have a spare copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh just lying around your dorm room. Usually that wouldn’t have been an issue, the professor for your current history course used English for her slide because her particular history course was specifically for first-year international students. Unfortunately for you, though, you hadn’t been taking notes. Instead, you had been daydreaming about how it would feel to have easel boy blow his cigarette smoke in your face and then subsequently scolding yourself for having thoughts like that about a total stranger. In a terrible twist of fate, the professor only held office hours after her last classes on Mondays and Fridays, so even getting the information from her then was off the table. Dread began to pool in your stomach.

Any other student would have been able to cut their losses, rent a copy from the library, slog through it in a night, and write the damn essay even without the help of the classroom slides for context. The only problem was all the books in the library were in Sokovian, and you still barely knew how to order a coffee correctly. Reading the language in a full Cyrillic alphabet would just be impossible, especially for a book as stupidly old as the Epic of Gilgamesh.

In short, unless you could get your hands on a copy in the next day or so, you were absolutely, well-and-truly fucked.

Sasha was quick to find you as the hall cleared out, waiting near your seat as you packed away your notes. “That was all bullshit, no?” He asked, but the second he took in your slightly panicked expression he stopped short, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing deeply. You knew what he was going to say before he ever said it.

“Something is wrong. You were not paying attention. Were you thinking-”

“Yes. Okay? Yes, I was thinking about him,”

He shook his head slightly. “I am concerned for you,”

“Who isn’t?”

Despite his usually stoic demeanor, that made Sasha huff out a soft laugh. “You got yourself into this mess, Y/N, you will get yourself out somehow,”

Your jaw dropped as you slung your bag over your shoulder and started making your way towards the door. “You’re not gonna help me?”

“Though I would love to be helpful, you forget that my English is poor. It will do me better to read the book in Sokovian myself than to use the information from class,”

Oh, yeah. You winced. “Sorry, Sash’”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he shrugged as you walked out onto the lawn, chilled to the bone by the wind that whipped in every direction.

A storm was brewing. It might not fully take hold of the city for a few hours yet, but it would make the walk to your evening class absolute hell if the rain fell as hard as it had several weeks prior. You could only hope that it wouldn’t start until after you had walked home. Your odds were looking slim, though, based on the way you could already hear thunder clapping in the distance. After a moment you hit the edge of the sidewalk where your paths would diverge.

“Good luck with the paper,” you offered weakly.

Sasha replied with a sharp, “Good luck with your crush,” and then he was off in the opposite direction without another word. Sasha was blunt like that, never overstaying his welcome or lingering when he didn’t need to. There was something enviable about it. What you wouldn’t give to be able to simply say things as they were without an unnecessary sugar coating to save face and spare feelings. It lingered on your mind for the whole half-mile walk to the campus bookstore. Speaking of which...

There was only one place where you might possibly find an English copy of the Epic of Gilgamesh. It wasn’t the big student bookstore, most of the textbooks there had been in Sokovian, Russian, or German and you hadn’t even tried to set foot in their actual book section. No, your only hope was the tiny hole-in-the-wall bookstore you had stumbled upon during move-in. It was only about half a mile away from your dorm from any of your lecture halls, so you often found yourself wandering inside when you had time to kill. They were one of the only stores you’d come across that sold anything in English, magazines included, so despite the fact that the young cashiers rarely spoke your language you often found that the back shelves of that tiny shop kept you from going mad.

Now, they might also be keeping you from ruining your GPA.

You could only hope. If anybody could save you, it was them.

Ducking in through the small doorway, you were greeted by the soft ring of the bell above your head. The attendant at the register simply regarded you with a polite nod. You had seen her there before and she knew you barely spoke a lick of Sokovian, so she didn’t attempt a pleasantry. Instead, she simply let you wander through the entrance and into the towering bookshelves, passing a few other faceless shoppers on your way towards the back. You were grateful for her nonchalance.

If there was anything worse than feeling foolish for not knowing Sokovian, it was being talked down to in perfect English by a Sokovian citizen. Most interactions left you wishing you’d actually taken anything away from your high school French class other than emotional trauma from your teacher and a caffeine addiction. Damn America and its terrible public-school language programs…

The path to the English classics section was one you’d walked many times since discovering the book store. It was right in the very back corner of the shop, tucked away where the city natives wouldn’t have to address or see it. You had snagged a copy of Pride and Prejudice a few weeks back, so you knew exactly where to search. The only problem was slogging through every single book on the shelf in search of the one you were looking for.

Your eyes scanned the wall.

Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh, Gilgamesh…

Gilgamesh!

On the 6th shelf up sat one small copy. Score! You were saved! As you reached up to grab it, though, you were met with yet another roadblock. The shelf it was on was juuuust a little too high for you to reach. Oh, come on…

You hopped a little, extending your hand up as far as it could go, but your fingers just barely brushed the spine. Somewhere behind you, you could hear footsteps. Then someone coughed to suppress laughter. The shame was plain on your face. As your flannel rode up and you stretched up in one last desperate attempt to grab the book when suddenly someone, you assumed the same person who had been laughing at your misfortune, spoke.

“They have stools, you know,” he said, accented voice thick with amusement. The English surprised you, but you assumed they used it for your benefit. You were in front of the English language books after all. Besides, the shame of it all kept your mind from questioning it too much. “For reaching the top shelf,”

Of course they had stools.

If your face hadn’t already been burning with embarrassment it definitely was now.

In a split-second decision, you decided playing dumb was the only way you could walk out of the situation with any dignity left at all, so you plastered on a confused smile and spun around to greet the stranger. “Really? I had no cl-”

You stopped short.

Oh.

Oh no.

You’d know those paint-stained jeans anywhere.

There, with his hands in his pockets and the most self-important, thin-lipped smirk you had ever seen, was easel boy in all of his cocky, intimidating, hot glory. Had you really noticed how hot he truly was before? It didn’t feel like it. Not now that you’d really seen him close up and reveled in the way his dark eyes hypnotized you with their smudged liner that felt borderline obscene. You could smell him too, all charcoal and turpentine and cigarette smoke. If you had it bad before when he was just a blurry ideal out your window, you were completely and utterly smitten now.

He regarded you with a sort of practiced annoyance, and yet there was a strange softness to it that you hadn’t found in many native Sokovians, especially ones that saw you as the stupid, bumbling American wandering blindly around their country.

“Would you like my help?”

“Huh?” You were so lost in his eyes that you couldn’t even focus on his question.

“To reach your book. Would you like my help?”

“Oh!” With a brisk nod, you stepped away from the shelf to make room for easel boy, “yeah, I’m just trying to grab that one there. The, uh, Epic of Gilgamesh,”

In one swift movement, he was stepping right beside you to easily reach up and grab the offending piece of literature. The closeness of it all nearly sent you into a tailspin. That wasn’t even mentioning the way your heart thudded just a little faster when he finally handed the book to you, his calloused fingers brushing against your own. You barely find a grip on your brain strong enough to thank him through the fog of embarrassment and attraction. Eventually, though, you managed to choke out a placation as your eyes explored the cover of the book.

“Thanks for that,”

“It was no problem,” he shrugged. He didn’t move though, still standing just inches away from you. When you looked up from the book you found his eyes were still on you, watching intently as if he expected something from you. The answer to what he actually expected was a mystery but you could tell he wanted something. When you didn’t speak, he spoke for you. “So, The Epic of Gilgamesh? That’s definitely a bold choice,”

You looked up at him sheepishly through heavily lidded eyes. “It’s not a choice at all, actually. I’m only buying it so I can write an essay,”

“Ah,” Something about his tone was almost disappointed as the conversation stalled.

You quickly changed the subject to the first thing you could think of.

“Your hair is really nice!”

“My hair?”

“Yeah… your hair,”

Smooth move, dumbass.

Easel boy’s expression seemed to soften once more as his signature grin crept back onto his face. “Thank you, I grew it myself,” Between his accent and the way he was looking at you like he was going to eat you alive, you weren’t exactly sure how you hadn’t had a heart attack yet. Still, the attention was nice, even if it was bourne out of you repeatedly embarrassing yourself in a never-ending cycle of fuckups. He ran a hand through his loose brown hair. “I like your shirt. Very American,”

Silently, you cursed yourself for not taking a few extra seconds to pick out a better outfit when you woke up. Standing next to him, even while he was dressed in his paint-stained jeans and undone button-up, you looked like a wreck in comparison. He didn’t seem to be speaking from a place of judgment, though.

If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was being nice, but that couldn’t be the case… could it?

“Maybe it’s just that I haven’t met very many Sokovians that are fond of America, but I’m not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or an insult,” You joked. It was a bit sarcastic, the lilt of your voice masking your deep insecurity, and to your surprise easel boy laughed. He really laughed. From your place beside him, you could almost feel the warmth radiating off of him as he shook his head.

“It was definitely a compliment,”

Oh.

Your heart skipped a beat.

That was a new revelation.

You steeled yourself with a deep breath. Fuck it. It was now or never.

“I, uh… I’m Y/N, and you are?”

He regarded you once again with that strange expression of expectation. “What?”

“I asked for your name,” you repeated, and yet he still stood, slightly dumbfounded, staring down at you with that same expectant expression from earlier. For a moment, you almost thought he expected you to know it already. That fact was quickly glossed over when he moved to rub the back of his neck with his hand, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“Sorry,” he chuckled, “I’m not very good with people. My father thought college might help me finally connect with my peers, but I don’t think he expected that I was the problem, nor do I think he expected me to pick a degree in the arts,” Suddenly, he paused and stuck out his hand to you. “I’m Hel. It’s very nice to meet you Y/N,”

With only a moment of hesitation- because wow, your name had never sounded more right on someone’s lips -you took his large calloused hand in your own and shook it gently. His palm was warm, his fingers lingering on your own for just a moment even as he pulled away. It wasn’t much, just a soft brush against your flesh, but it sent a flash of heat and liquid confidence through your chest.

“Is that short for something?” Your eyes met his in the soft yellow glow of the overhead lamps. Seeing him like this, so up close and personal, he looked a lot more human than he had from your window. Sure, he was imposing. Underneath the initial harsh facade, though, was something softer and almost poetic. You weren’t an artist by any means but if you had been, you had no doubt that he’d be your muse.

“It’s short for Helmut, but only my father calls me that, and only when he’s cross, which, unfortunately, is most of the time,” he chuckled, “Besides, it’s an old man’s name. It doesn’t suit me,”

The words left your mouth before you knew what you were saying.

“Well, it’s better than calling you easel boy,”

Shit.

Today really just wasn’t your day, huh?

In the split second where you were mourning your chances with the most stupidly handsome guy who had ever shown any interest in you, you almost missed the way Helmut’s eyes lit up at the admission.

“Easel boy?” His voice was teasing, but not demeaning. That didn’t do much to ease your mortification, though.

“Is there any chance that I can get you to forget I said anything?”

“If you already have a nickname for me when we’ve barely met, I think you already know the answer to that question,”

His knowing smirk was enough to get you pleading. “You can’t just let me off the hook this once?” you begged, scrubbing a hand across your forehead in a desperate attempt to get away from his piercing gaze. The things those brown eyes did to you could be classified as obscene… “I will genuinely do anything if you don’t make me explain myself right now Hel,”

Hel quirked up an eyebrow. “Anything?” The way your stomach turned at just one word from him was both terrifying and extremely exciting. It felt like a promise. Without hesitation, you nodded. That made him smile. “In that case, get coffee with me today?”

Once again, you were rendered speechless.

“My treat,” he added, “unless you’re not interested…”

“No!” Your answer left your lips embarrassingly fast, “Or- yes? No, no, I think I meant no. No; I am very interested. Yes; I would like to get coffee with you,” There was a hint of shame in your words, but only a hint. After the day you’d had already, there wasn’t very much there to be ashamed of. Still, that same pit of dread began to open up in your stomach as you mulled over your choices.

Thankfully, Helmut continued to take it all in stride. “Wonderful! Is there anything else you’d like to do here before we go? It’s best we leave soon if we want to beat the rain,” He offered up his arm as he spoke like some sort of Disney prince. It was, by far, the cutest gesture you had ever been lucky enough to receive.

You linked your arm with his without hesitation. “As soon as I pay we can get going,” He was warm. It radiated off him in waves just like the warm hints of tobacco and wintermint that seemed to seep from his skin and clothes. With that, you made your way to the front desk as Hel shot you a sly smile.

“Who said anything about letting you pay?”

True to his word, he didn’t let you pay for a single thing for the rest of the afternoon.

The two of you made your way up to the cashier together, and Helmut only separated from your side to grab his wallet before you could grab yours. He then spoke in rapid-fire Sokovian to the lady at the register and pulled what could only be described as a wad of Sokovian koronas while you set the book on the counter, and from the looks of it, she seemed more than pleased with the two of you. Who wouldn’t be, especially when Hel seemed to insist that she keep the excess? In the end, after the book had been wrapped nicely in a paper bag and deposited in your backpack, Helmut held the door open for you like some sort of gentleman and followed you out into the grey afternoon.

Then, you were off down the street on Hel’s arm, pushing through the wind and the biting chill that had settled in the air.

“So, you don’t sound like a big fan of your dad,” you asked, half laughing as you attempted to broach conversation once again.

Helmut groaned beside you. “My father is a menace who is unable to understand that some people want more in life than to sit behind a desk all day making phone calls. In fact, most of my family is the same way. The only reason I haven’t completely cut them off and changed my name is the money,”

“I assume you get a lot of it if it’s worth sticking around someone you hate so much,”

“Never ask a man about his net worth,” he chuckled, gently elbowing you in the ribs, “but yes, I’m very comfortable. I have my own apartment just far enough away to be considered off-campus with my own car and as much money as it takes to keep me happy and getting good grades; Daddy makes sure of that,” The word daddy was a deep sneer, barely there in the wind, but something about it sent butterflies through your stomach. Well, that was never something you thought you were into… “Little does he know, I’m not here to make money. I’m here to find inspiration worth my time while out from under his thumb,”

You snorted softly. “Artistic and rich? You’re just ticking all the boxes, Hel,”

“Good for me. Would offering help on that essay of yours endear you to me further?”

“Absolutely,”

The next 5 minutes you spend discussing the Epic of Gilgamesh. Surprisingly, in one of the first stokes of good luck you’d had all day, Helmut seemed to be one of the only people on earth who knew plenty about Enkidu off the top of his head. When he was the one lecturing you in his smooth, heavily accented timbre it was so much easier to pay attention to something so very tedious than when you heard it from your aging and often monotone professor. In fact, you were so enthralled by his retelling of the tale that you barely noticed you’d made it all the way to the cafe that sat across from the international dorm.

If you didn’t consider Hel to be smart as a whip and twice as clever as he was smart, you would have thought it was a coincidence. It couldn’t be though. No, there was no way anything was a coincidence with Helmut around. You shot him a smile when he opened the door for you and ushered you inside.

“You know Hel,” you muttered, “I’m starting to think you might know more about me than you initially let on,”

He shrugged. “You’re American, so it’s unlikely you live anywhere else and I wanted to make the walk home easy. It’s supposed to rain, you know? Besides, despite the… interesting waitstaff, they make the best pastries in town right here in this cafe,”

“Did you mean it when you said you were paying?”

“Absolutely,”

“Then I can’t wait to try one,”

The two of you were seated quickly (you assumed it had to do with the waitress finding Hel as hot as you did, because you caught her looking at him from behind the counter and whispering excitedly in Sokovian to her coworker at least twice over the course of the meal) and the conversation flowed easily as you waited on your coffees and the deserts Helmut insisted on splitting to let you try. Millefeuille, pear tart tatin, chocolate devil’s food cake, and a towering plate of apricot kołaczki awaited you, and they kept you sitting and talking and snacking for over an hour as you really got to know each other. The more you learned, the more you fell in love with the man across from you.

Over the course of the afternoon, you learned that Helmut was majoring in studio art while minoring in psychology just because it interested him, he hated the Beatles almost as much as he hated Freud’s theories on women, his favorite color was purple, and he spent most of his free time reading or getting high off his ass in his massive studio apartment in what you now knew was one of the most expensive areas in the city. He, in return, sat at rapt attention across the table as you gushed about your life in America, your reasons for going to university in Sokovia, your favorite books, and the ridiculousness that was trying to pass college-level classes in a country that seemed to avoid English at all costs.

Eventually, though, you did touch upon his nickname.

“I just thought it was really interesting that you did the same thing every single day, no matter what,” you explained, grabbing one of the last kołaczki from the plate and ignoring the powdered sugar that stuck to your fingers, “and by watching you… I don’t know, I guess it kind of felt like I had another friend who’d share breakfast with me in the morning if that makes sense,”

Hel nodded, swallowing his last bite of chocolate cake. “I understand completely. It can be lonely, coming to a new place without any friends or connections, but you were brave enough to take the leap. I admire that,” He brought his napkin to his lips before crumpling it and setting it one of the now empty plates before him, “But I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed that you didn’t watch me because I’m attractive,”

You nearly choked on your pastry. “Well, I wouldn’t say your pretty face didn’t help…”

The grin that spread across his face was heartstopping. He grabbed a napkin from the little holder next to the two of you and grabbed a pen from one of his pockets as he spoke. “In that case, you should join me tomorrow morning. Bring coffee if you can, I never have enough hands to bring a cup for myself, but even if you can’t bring some, if you want to come and watch me work I’d be more than happy to have a companion for the morning,” he paused for a moment, flustered, “or every morning, for that matter,”

“That sounds like a deal,” Your cheeks were hot, but not from embarrassment this time. No, it was anything but, because here you were across the table from a kind, attractive, intelligent Sokovian boy with money to spend and time to spare for you. You couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud too. He wanted you back, after all. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you just a little longer than he should, and even more plainly in the way he wrote his phone number in bold blue ink on the napkin and signed it with a doodle of a heart before passing it across the table to you.

“I’m going to go pay,” he said quietly while standing, “but I’ll be back in a second to walk you out. Alright?”

“Alright,”

There was something strangely similar to sorrow sitting in your chest when you watched him walk away. The sight of his ass as he went made up for it, though. Once he was obstructed by other patrons, you turned your attention to the napkin in your hands. Hel’s handwriting was neat as far as artists’ handwriting goes, but it still held a sort of looseness in its curves, a freedom in the way the numbers had flowed effortlessly from his pen. You popped the last kołaczki in your mouth as you admired the blue ink before devouring the final bites of pear tart and millefeuille. How had you gotten so lucky to have someone like him giving you his number and buying you pastries? You pondered the bizarre nature of it all until Helmut returned.

You stood quickly, folding the napkin and putting it away in your pocket. “Ready to go?”

“If you are,” he replied. In an instant, you were standing beside him again as he opened the door for you. The wind was even stronger now, strong enough that his loose hair whipped wildly around his forehead from the force of it. You couldn’t help but giggle at his appearance.

He caught you off guard as he walked you across the street. “You have such a pretty laugh,”

It was like you were seeing him again for the first time. You fiddled with the strap of your backpack as you got closer and closer to the door to your dorm. “Thanks. I’m pretty fond of your laugh too,”

Then, you were there, just two college kids standing awkwardly before your first departure.

“So,” you said before you could stop yourself, “when I tell my one friend all about this afternoon after my math class tonight, should I say it was a date?”

Hel’s cheeks flushed pink. “You can call it that, if that’s what you would like it to have been,”

“I think I would,”

“Good, good,” he let out a little chuckle, “I’m glad. Would you… would you consider going on another? I promise I have much more to offer than just small talk and tips on where to buy the best pastries,”

Looking into his brown eyes, so full of uncertainty and hope, you knew you couldn’t have denied him even if you wanted to. Still, you weren’t going to give in to his advances without a little bit of taunting. It made it fun, a game to be played where, hopefully, you both would win big in the end.

“That depends,” you teased, letting your lower lip catch between your teeth, “what do you have in mind?”

Helmut shoved his hands into his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, pensive. “If you want to, we could go to my place and I could actually show you all of the paintings I’ve been working on while you watched me. The view from the rooftop is lovely too. We could have dinner up there while looking out over Novi Grad. I have to warn you, though, it’ll probably be takeout. I’m an atrocious chef,”

Slowly, a brilliant smile spread across your face. “Does Friday work?”

The smile Helmut shot back was as bright as every star in the night sky and even more enthralling. “Friday is perfect. Can I pick you up at 7?”

“As long as you come in that fancy car you were talking about,”

“Then it’s a deal,”

“Well,” you turned away, walking up the steps towards the door before turning back to him, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Hel, and I’ll bring coffee. Have a good night,”

“You too, Y/N. Parting is such sweet sorrow and all that,”

With that, he gave one last short wave before turning on his heel and pulling out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. You watched him walk away until he turned the corner and disappeared from view. Only then did you enter the punch code and race up the stairs to your room.

Your back was pressed to the door of your dorm room the second you had shut it, your hands clutching at your chest in a desperate attempt to keep your heart from beating right out of your ribs. The second you were in the privacy of your own place, your cool facade had melted away to reveal just how much of a wreck you really were.

He had invited you over to his apartment.

He liked you.

Easel boy really, honestly liked you.

No, not easel boy. Helmut. Hel.

Hel liked you, and he invited you over to his apartment, and you had plans to meet him with coffee as he painted the next morning.

You smiled softly under the fluorescent lights and pulled the book that had brought you together from your backpack. It seemed so unassuming now, just a fresh paperback with an unbroken spine, but in reality, it was so much more than that.

Hel.

It was such a nice name. You liked it a lot.

Now you couldn’t wait to see what else you liked about him too.

------

a/n: I have been so excited to start sharing this AU with you guys, and it’s finally here!!! If you liked this fic, I once again will direct you to Bliss by @creme-bruhlee because that’s technically next in chronological order for this AU. I hope you enjoyed!!!

TAGLIST: @tatestripedsweater , @elaineygrace, @multiyfandomgirl40 , @lovelymischief , @rami-malek-trash , @avgravy , @wh0re-4-techno , @forcebros , @sugarsweetkiss , @grandmuffinsharkbailiff , @killsandthrills , @novasstudy , @thnksfr-ptrkstmp , @inmate-marmalade, @alanathedeer , @your-pixels-are-showing , @shit-post-things , @bbarton , @sux-ubus , @halefirewarrior , @janelongxox , @rax-writes , @mossybank , @simsiddy , @xxspqcebunsxx , @be-cautious-around-bri , @metaphorical-love-for-a-car , @frothonthedaydreams

#zemo #helmut zemo #baron zemo #baron helmut zemo #zemo x reader #helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #baron helmut zemo x reader #fanfiction

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bluegarners · 3 years

Text

hiya @viceturtle! I finally got it done! Here is your Bad Things Happen Bingo request with Dick and Jason; you can also read it on ao3

What Have I Done?

It’s a lot. He’s not going to lie.

Dick was dead for eight months. There were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. It was a fact that they were all forced to deal with, all forced to live with. Dick was dead and there was nothing any of them could do about it. And for a time, Jason had held onto the small belief, he’s not going to call it hope, that Dick had somehow managed to pull through. That even despite the beatings, the torture, everything before and after it, Dick had managed to pull through and come out of it all alive.

But he hadn’t. That was the thing, at its core. Dick died.

Jason knows what it is to be dead. To be beaten and left to die. To struggle and still search for a way out of the shit hole you’re suddenly in and cling to that light, that stupid, stupid promise in the back of your head that screams, Help is coming, just hold on a little longer, that forces you to keep struggling, keep surviving, keep hoping for a way out despite the circumstances. Jason knows and it absolutely sucked.

He died and then clawed his way out of his own coffin. One of his fingers is permanently misshapen, wood chips and metal piercing through his stiff and cold skin. He’s got scars all over his body to prove that he died, to prove that he was beaten with a crowbar, messed around with like he was just some dummy, some thing that could take a beating and then some. Up and down and across and lined; the scars are all over him and he died.

And Dick died too.

In those eight months, Jason felt more connected to his deceased older brother than he ever had before. A deep and twisted connection over a shared death, a similar fate so convoluted it makes Jason sick to think about sometimes. His murderer is still out there. Jason has to live with that fact and even though it’s not fine and things would be so much easier without that psychopath, Jason gets it. Sometimes. Gets the moral code, the compass, that shrouds Batman and his little followers.

And he’s trying. He is. He made an effort to try and do the right thing when Dick died because suddenly, the role of older brother had fallen onto him and even though he doesn’t have a good relationship with Tim or the recently resurrected Damian, or anyone for that matter, there was still that recognition that it was all on him now. He was the eldest. He was the one to look towards. Not look up to, no, he will never claim the title of a role model, but now he’s the oldest, the most experienced, the next in line when one just can’t go to Bruce about shit going on.

The point being is that he did try, put in more effort than he probably should have, to stepping up to the plate and taking a swing at being better. At being the eldest of the entire brood and not fucking it up horribly. He switches to rubber bullets and smoke pellets. He keeps his excessive violence reserved for only the worst scum and even then still attempts to steer clear from Batman’s territories. He takes care of the Narrows, rekindles a sort of friendship with Tim, doesn’t fight the literal child that lurks in the Cave, and avoids confrontations with Bruce altogether.

It works and it’s good. He steps up, frankly owns being the eldest, and he’s fine. He’s fine with it. He’s still got his reputation intact, Red Robin isn’t terrified of his presence any longer, and Robin doesn’t pull a sword every time they spot one another. So what if he slips up occasionally and gets carried away? They’re just rubber bullets, weapons all the same, and they’re no different from getting hit with Batman’s fist (which Jason knows, from experience, hurts like hell) or getting swung at with a large knife.

He had a thing going on, is what Jason’s trying to get at, and then Dick showed up.

Dick. Richard Grayson. Who died eight months ago after he was tortured by the Syndicate and had his heart stopped by Lex Luthor. Who they had a funeral for. Who they mourned for. Who Jason had attempted to fill the gaping hole he had left behind.

Who Jason thought had died.

Betrayal is a word Jason feels like he could apply to a majority of his life. Betrayal from his parents, his poor, poor mother who just couldn’t muster up enough fucks. Bruce, Batman, for getting him into the vigilante life, for letting him wear that damn costume and get himself blown up for all his efforts. Talia, for restoring his mind after he was supposed to be dead. Bruce, Batman, again, for letting his murderer walk around like it was another Sunday, any other day, just a nice, normal day for a stroll like he didn’t just kill Bruce’s own son-

Yeah, Jason feels like he has liberal use of betrayal. It’s just an old song he hums sometimes and lets others join in occasionally.

But there was an unspoken code, a silent right-of-passage, when it came to being Robin. A mutual understanding of sorts. You don’t back-stab another Robin. Ever. You don’t lie, cheat out, betray a fellow Robin. There were too many shared experiences when it came to being Batman’s, Bruce’s, Robin and that ultimately revolved all back to trust and knowing that things were still the same despite all these years. Being Robin was both the best thing to ever happen to someone and also the ultimate death sentence. You don’t just get to be Robin either. You’ve got to earn it, to prove yourself, to show that you can take it all on, to keep up with Batman and the ever changing and violent Gotham.

So, when Dick shows up with an apology on his lips and the expectation of being welcomed home after all this time, Jason punches him square in the jaw. It’s surreal, a part of him thinking his fist will just phase right through the man’s face, but his knuckles connect and if the sound of his fist against Dick’s jaw isn’t the most satisfying and cruel thing he’s ever heard, Jason doesn’t know what is.

It’s agony, nearly, to see the red blossom on his older brother’s cheek because, holy hell, that means it’s all real. That Dick is really alive and not still buried in that weed covered yard with decaying roses scattered on top of it. Dick is alive and Jason is furious because he’s supposed to be dead and Jason already tried so hard to fill the other man’s impossibly huge shoes and he was doing a damn good job at it. He likes to think so, at least.

But who cares, right? Who gives a shit when Dick is back now and it was all for nothing? Everyone can just go back to their normal routines now that the star player is back and they don’t need a fill-in like Jason to stick around. All that effort, all that time, all that trying all summing up into one big, Surprise, I’m not dead, from the man of the hour himself.

Jason avoids Dick after that. The man said he wasn’t staying long, just “checking in” with everyone like he was just on some business call for a few months and not dead.

And that’s the root of it, Jason thinks. That’s what really gnaws at him because Dick is treating the whole situation exactly like he was on some extended vacation and just forgot to tell anyone where he was going. Not like his absence literally turned their entire world upside down. Not like the loss, the emptiness, that literally echoed everywhere Jason went was consuming and terrifying. In those eight months, Jason had to toe the line between being the eldest and maintaining his identity as Red Hood, and that’s where Jason truly felt close to Dick. Felt like he finally got what Dick and Bruce’s arguments were about so many years ago, this constant war of wanting to be better, wanting to have freedom, wanting to stay yourself when there was a constant war of others trying to get you to fill a role that you don’t want.

Finally, Jason felt like he had some other important connection to his elusive older brother that had nothing to do with the man that housed them, only for it all to be thrown across the room and into the trash.

To keep it simple, bare-bones, really dumbed down, Dick lied. About being dead, of all things. Jason can get behind needing to lay low after all that, being stripped of your identity on live television wasn’t exactly great for their kind of lifestyle, but to just leave? To go out on some mission and leave the rest of them out to dry like that? No warning, no hints, no notes, nothing? God, at least Jason made an appearance. Granted, not the best sort of re-introduction, but at least he wasn’t trying to hide.

To say the least, Jason is hurting. The anger faded along with any sort of need to prove to Dick that he had stepped up when he left. Now, he just feels… shitty. In a way, this is what he had been half-way expecting. No one stays dead in this business. There is always someone with a back-up or ex-machina to save the day and bring back a fallen hero, villain, whatever. But there had just been something so final, so human in Dick’s death. In that moment, seeing the mask ripped off, seeing his brother’s face on T.V out of context, away from the normal flashiness that was being related to a billionaire, it had scared Jason because that was his brother, Dick Grayson, world’s most annoying man in the universe, on T.V; beaten, bloodied, bruised, and humiliated for everyone to see.

He’s always been jealous of how clean and clear Dick’s eyes looked. Just a simple and rare shade of blue, obnoxiously bright and searching. Jason’s mother used to say he had his father’s eyes, a muddy mix of blue and green. He’s never liked his eyes, but there was always something so attention grabbing with Dick’s. Seeing them on T.V, wide and blood-shot and bruised to hell; the blue was out of place and humanizing in a way that Jason just couldn't describe because it was simply Dick Grayson there. Not Nightwing. Not a hero. It was just Dick Grayson, world’s worst older brother ever, looking lost, defiant, and defeated all at once.

And that hurt.

The man is like some nasty disease that won’t leave him alone though. Their first meeting was two days ago and Jason is trying his best to ignore the knife in his chest, not literally, when Dick shows up. Just outside the Narrows on the roof of a bodega, Dick appears from where ever the fuck he’s been and walks over to Jason. It’s a cue, Jason knows, when thunder rumbles in the distance and if he were a bit more into literature, feeling a bit more melancholy for his freshman year of high school, Jason would say that a storm is coming for the both of them, not just Gotham.

Dick walks with his hands in his pockets, stuffed inside an old brown jacket that looks well-used and well-loved. Jason’s never seen the jacket before. Must’ve gotten it on his extended vacation. A part of Jason knows that Bruce was in on it too, that Bruce probably deserves just as much anger he’s dishing out towards Dick, maybe even more, but Jason’s tired of trying to play nice and get along. Dick is the one in front of him now, right here on a Wednesday night with the glowing, neon advertisement for Coke singing behind their heads and a run down, twenty year old convenience shop beneath their feet.

Dick is here and now when he should be dead.

Just like Jason should be.

“What do you want?” he asks, the metallic tin of his voice modulator diminishing some of the threat. It’s a known fact that Red Hood guards his territory with a viciousness rivaling a rabid dog. Outsiders aren’t welcome. Never welcome.

In contrast, Dick is mask-less. Civilian. Same clear blue eyes from eight months ago that were sealed shut the last time Jason saw them. A dark bruise stains Dick’s right cheekbone, the shape of knuckles and betrayal. It’s a good contrast.

“I came to say goodbye,” the other man answers, stopping just short of six feet in front of Jason, “and that I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner. I really am,” he insists when Jason remains silent. “Things just… happened too fast. It killed me to be away from you all for so long. I wanted to tell you, I did-”

“Really?” Jason interrupts lowly. “It killed you, huh?”

Dick sighs, a hand coming up to brush through his hair. “That’s not what I meant. You know it’s not.”

“I don’t know, Dicky. Times are changing, you know. One minute, you’re the star pupil, and the next I’m your backup. And now,” Jason shrugs, letting his hand come up to rest on the holster he keeps on his hip, “I’m not so sure about that.”

Dick is eyeing Jason like he’s looking at something he doesn’t like. Something that’s leaving a bad taste in his mouth. But that’s just something he’s going to have to deal with, isn’t it? Suck it up buttercup, and all that.

A laugh erupts from Jason as he truly takes it all in. “You know,” he chuckles, nothing humorous causing his mirth, “you really had me there for awhile. I bought you flowers, went to your funeral, dealt with all that shit, and yet here you are. In the flesh.” He laughs again, fingers curving steadily around the grip of his gun. “I think I liked you better dead, Dick.”

The older man frowns, brow dipping into a neat crease. Not a single wrinkle on his perfect, tan, not dead face. “The situation was unavoidable,” he says, like he actually believes a word he utters. “Batman needed a guy on the inside. The, hm, circumstances leading up to that set it up so that I could be that guy. It wasn’t exactly my choice to stay dead, Jay.”

“Names,” Jason snarks, that same anger he felt two days ago rearing its ugly head again. “You know, you say you didn’t have a choice, but I think there’s a clear distinction between dead and alive, don’t you? It might just be me, who knows because fuck if I do, but I think a warning woud’ve sufficed. A fucking warning. ”

Something must click in Dick’s head as his frown deepens. His hands are out of his jacket pockets now. They’re both tense.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says. “Maybe another month. Two at most. When I get back, I’ll try and…” Dick trails off there, as if searching for the right words, but Jason doesn’t have the patience for him to find the right way to say the same bullshit he’s already heard before.

He’s so tired. So, so tired.

“We were fine without you,” he snarls, relishing in the way Dick’s eyes widen at the claim. “The world doesn’t stop turning just because you decide to go off on a little adventure. Newsflash, asshole: None of us need you. You can’t come back here and expect everything to fall back to the way things were just because you decide it’s time to show your face again.”

“I was doing what I thought was right,” Dick snaps back. “Look, I’m sorry you had to step up and be a decent person for once-”

“And there it is,” Jason growls, unholstering his gun. “You think you’re so much better than me. You’re just so goddamn smug you can’t even see your own mistakes. What, is my being here just too inconvenient for you? Can’t make all the little hero-worshipers fall back into line like they used to?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I did what I thought was best for everyone and I paid the price for it.”

Jason lunges, cutting the feet between them into inches. “What was best?” he yells, swinging with one fist and aiming with the other. “Who the hell are you to decide that?”

Dick retaliates, pushing away Jason with a kick that connects to his armored chest. It’s barely a glancing blow though and he’s charging forwards again, squeezing the trigger as a shot rings off into the air, missing Dick’s foot by a few centimetres. Another crack of thunder resounds in the distance and a bolt of lightning cracks open the dark sky. Dick rolls away from Jason’s tackle, on the balls of his feet and ready to jump away again.

“I didn’t come here to fight you,” Dick tries, widening his stance. “I just came to, god, I don’t know, Jay. I didn’t ask for this!”

“Cut the bull,” Jason says, raising his gun again. He’s got it trained on Dick’s mid-section and even though a part of him knows he’s not going to take the shot, another part of him has his finger itching towards the trigger. “None of us asked for any of the fuckery that comes our way, but we deal with it, right? I’m dead, you’re dead, the brat’s dead, we’re all dead!”

There’s another crack of thunder, one that brings the rain with it. It pours, instantly drenching the pair, and a sheet of gray divides them. There’s surely something poetic about it, the divide that surrounds them both, but Jason’s not one to dwell long.

“Well, I’m not dead anymore!” Dick screams through the rain. “I am alive! I’ve been dead for eight months and I don’t want to fucking be anymore! I want to come home, Jay. I am alive. Goddamnit, I am alive!”

“So why didn’t you tell us that? Tell any of us that? All of this, that’s on you , Dick. You want to know why there wasn’t a big fucking parade for you? Why no one was fighting over the chance to be the first one to get to shake your hand? It’s because we don’t trust you anymore. No one fucking wants you near them because that’s how badly you fucked up.”

He must strike a nerve because Jason sees something crumple on Dick’s face.

“I didn’t- I didn’t want to leave you guys, Jay. God, you’ve got to believe me on that. I had no choice. It was either I leave and do this for Batman or-”

That same anger rises up again. Anger from different directions, different thoughts, but ultimately because it’s about Batman. Always, always about Batman. What he wants. What he needs you to do. Because if you don’t do it, and someone dies, it’s your fault. And Dick has always been the suck-up, the one to come when called, because even after all their spats and all these years of silence between them, Dick was still a Robin first and goddamnit if Jason doesn’t understand that. He hates that he understands that need to please Batman, to do what he asks in the hope of just some tiny ounce of praise or acknowledgment, but Dick is a grown adult. He’s not Robin anymore.

None of them are.

Dick takes a step forward and Jason squeezes the trigger, feeling the recoil in his wrist as Dick freezes, the bullet breezing right past his armpit. His eyes are wide, finally taking the weapon in as it is, and there must be some realization going off inside Dick’s head because now he’s the one charging in, stance low and shifty, and Jason’s on the defense now. His finger is still on the trigger, just barely, and he’s raising it to aim again when a flying round-house knocks the gun from his hand and fist drives under his chin. It disorients him a bit because, damn, he didn’t actually expect Dick to fight back, Jason was trying to get him to go away, but now they’re both serious. They’re both dangerous.

It’s a no-weapons brawl, just fists and dirty kicks and the rain is still pounding away against the bodega. The rain has plastered Dick’s hair to his skull and Jason is grateful for his helmet because it’s clear the water is making it difficult for the older man to see. He takes advantage of this, striking down with his elbow on Dick’s trapezius and quickly hooking his left foot around his ankle. It works for a split second, Dick thrown off and unbalanced, before Dick is tumbling down and using his own momentum to pull Jason down with him.

They’re on their backs now, rough and cold cement bleeding through their jackets, and the neon Coke sign flickers in and out as thunder continues to roll and shake the world.

“You should’ve stayed dead,” Jason snarls, taking a jab at his older brother’s face. “You should’ve never come back.”

Dick frees one of his hands from underneath the massive bulk of Jason’s suit, palm striking the sides of his helmet. “Take off the godamn hood and say that to my face,” Dick pants, shoving one of his knees into Jason’s side. “Look me in the eye and tell me you want me dead, Jay. Tell me you want me dead. ”

Another bolt of lightning splits the dark and its image refracts against the many puddles, and for a moment, the light sears into Jason’s eyes. He flinches against the burn and it’s enough hesitation for Dick to take the unguarded moment and flip Jason, crouching with one knee on his chest and the other digging into Jason’s forearm. They’re both breathing heavily, exhausted both physically and mentally, and he doesn’t bother to stop his brother as Dick reaches down and shoves the helmet off of his face.

Their eyes meet and Jason squints up at clear blue. Yeah, he hates that color. Hates it so much it feels like something ugly in his stomach, coiling and clenching. They’re both frowning but Dick just looks resigned. Jason hates that too. Now that he has the chance, he can see new scars on his brother’s face. New, finer lines and white and pink discoloration.

Funny how eight months can make someone look so much older.

“I wish you had stayed dead,” Jason finally says, hating himself all the more for it. “I wish you had never come back.”

Dick stumbles off of him and there’s a thin trail of red leaking from one of his eyebrows that keeps getting washed away. Jason doesn’t even remember hitting him there, but he must’ve been excessive. Must’ve over-done it. Just another thing he’s managed to fuck up. Check it off the list.

He sits up, feeling the ache of a sore back and numerous bruises, and watches as his brother leans heavily against the poles of the advertisement. The rain only seems to come down harder, bouncing off the yellow stained bodega roof. He gets to his feet slowly, careful to keep an eye on the slouching man, and treads over to pick up his helmet. His gun is closer to the bright neon sign and when he gets near enough, Dick looks up, something horribly heavy and sad, settling into his face.

“Okay,” is all he says, nodding once. “Okay, Jay.”

Dick reaches into his jacket pocket once more, fiddling with something, but Jason’s too preoccupied putting his helmet back on to really pay attention to it. They’re done fighting. Done with whatever all of that was. His hair is soaked, his jacket is going to have a layer of mildew on it in the morning, and Jason is tired. Beat. He can’t find the will-power to truly be bothered with anything else.

This is his territory so he’s not technically fleeing, but that’s what it looks like. Tail between his legs, off to lick his wounds, Jason’s sure that’s what Dick is thinking (he knows that’s not true, he knows this, and he’s got a little secret screaming, pounding away in the back of his skull, but Jason’s too burned out to deal with it, to address it). He walks to the edge of the roof with his back turned on his older brother, his alive and breathing, long lost brother, and jumps off, sliding down the fire escape and landing on the grimy streets below. His boots squelch in the rain, and there’s water logged into his socks, but Jason ignores it in favor of staring ahead. Refusing to look back.

Here’s the thing about being a Robin that everyone who’s been one before knows.

You rely on each other. There’s no codependency, not really, but there is a certain degree of reliance on past and current Robins. Robin is the inspiration. Not Batman. Batman doesn’t inspire little kids to go out in the night and get punched in the face and witness cruelty so awful you have nightmares for years after. Batman doesn’t inspire light and forgiveness and mercy; that’s all Robin’s doing. The bright colors, the chatter, the youth. That’s all on Robin, the little child weapons they are, and the shared experience of being that for Batman is a bond that runs so much deeper than blood. Thick and interwoven and relied upon so much more heavily than a simple crest or uniform.

And here’s that screaming secret that vibrates inside Jason’s skull: he’s happy Dick’s back. That Dick’s alive. At the end of the day, Dick was the first Robin, the first light, and having him snuffed out was a world that got three shades darker, bleaker. It was Dick’s Robin that truly gave it the twinge of hope all the Robins after carry with them; he was the model, the mold, they shaped themselves after. Him being dead changed that perspective for the worse because the first Robin made it. That’s what was so important, what tips the scales for the confidence of all Robins after. Dick made it. Survived being Robin, survived past Robin, and became his own hero.

Dick outlived being Robin and that was the ultimate goal. To survive.

So him dying was the last straw but now that he’s back, alive, everything was going to be okay again. Yeah, they’re all still messed up from it, there’s going to be a lot of trust built back up again, but they’re Robins for Christ's sake. Thicker than blood, stronger than a crest, relied on more than Batman. And maybe Jason’s being sentimental, still trying to be more eloquent than his sophomore English education allowed him to be, but God, he’s trying. He’s trying so hard despite the ache that wears down his bones and the fire that consumes his brain.

That’s why he gives in. Turns around. Looks back. Does what he thought he was too stubborn to do, but things change and-

The neon sign is brighter. No, that’s not right. There’s another source of that eerie, glowing light and Jason’s eyes widen as he sees a person step through it. Another figure, broad, muscular, unfamiliar, and they’re heading straight for Dick. His brother. Who is still leaning against the advertisement poles. Who’s not doing a damn thing to avoid the stranger that’s fast approaching.

Soreness and fatigue forgotten, Jason starts sprinting, boots pounding against the pavement as he cranes his neck upwards to watch the stranger continue to advance.

“Dick!” he yells in warning, drowned out with the rain. “Dick, move!”

He slams into the fire escape, hands scraping up the ladder as he hauls himself three steps at a time, chest heaving and heart beating wildly. He slips, losing his footing, and Jason grunts as he feels the pull on his shoulder and his knees bang into the sides of the bodega. He pushes on though, gripping the metal tightly and finally reaching the top.

He’s pulling himself over, gasping and searching, and he sees the man tugging Dick closer to the strange light, what Jason thinks must be some sort of portal, and before he’s even gotten a leg over the edge, his right hand is scrambling for purchase on his gun. He takes aim and fires without a second thought and curses aloud when it jams.

“Dick!” he yells again, throwing the useless weapon away and falling over onto the roof. “Stop! Stop! What’re you doing?”

His brother just trudges on though, bicep gripped by the stranger that continues to drag him closer and closer to the pulsating light, ghoulishly pink and saturating the air with an ominous buzz. Another flash of lightning illuminates the sky and Jason trips over himself in his haste, crashing into the slick cement. He whips his head up, too far away, too late, as the stranger disappears fully into the portal, Dick just a few inches away.

“Wait!” Jason cries, still attempting to rise off of his knees. Damn the rain. Damn the weight of his grief. Damn it all, get up. Get up. “Dick, stop! Stop!”

The rain is loud though and there’s a divide between the two of them, mixes of gray, pink, and red light. His brother half turns, watching as the younger stumbles towards him, and Jason can’t hear anything, can hardly process what’s even happening now, but Dick’s lips move in what Jason thinks is, Goodbye, and Jason screams, lunging as his brother fades into the light.

He falls, smashing into the cement once again as he fails to reach for his brother’s hand, and lands where the portal had just been. He lays there on his chest, heaving and attempting to breathe through his helmet, but it’s too hard, too suffocating, and Jason rips it off and flings it as far away from him as he can. His hands clench into fists and he fights back the urge to cry as he slams his fists into the roof. Bam-Bam-Bam.

Something cracks in his knuckles and Jason stops at the pain, shifting back and hanging his head between his knees. There’s a vicious burn in his eyes, his ugly, muddy green eyes, and Jason swipes at them furiously.

“We just got you back,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “We just got you back, Dick, and you, you just-”

A clap of thunder rattles the thin poles of the Coke advertisement as its lights finally flicker out. The night is dark without its glow and Jason is left in obscurity.

“What have I done?"

#bad things happen bingo #what have i done?#Dick Grayson #Jason Todd #Spyral #Agent 37 #Red Hood #viceturtle #fanfic #my fic

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theyreonlynoodlesmike · 3 years

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It’s Just a Movie: Part 6 (Poly!Lost Boys x Fem!Reader)

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

Warnings: cursing

Word Count: 1890

You had to think for a moment about what you had just said when David asked. You went over your words, realizing what you had just told them. What you had just admitted. You knew what they were. You knew that they were vampires. But you were also fairly sure that it wouldn't make a difference. They had already planned on eating you that night, and, if anything, you had just sealed your fate. So, you didn't hold back.

"I said that you're vampires, David." You looked straight at him, clearly challenging him. Even with the tears in your eyes, you knew that you had managed to give him a cold look. You could hear the venom in your own voice, and you gaze didn't waver when he stared back. Why should it? They were going to kill you anyways. Being afraid now wasn't going to change anything. "You, Marko, Paul, Dwayne," You paused for a moment, before you decided to really throw all caution to the wind. "Max." You said the name, and you watched as something, something too quick to place, flickered across Davids face. Some of the other boys were a bit more obvious. Pauls breath had hitched at the mention of their sires name, and Marko's grin had fallen from his face completely. Instead, he hid his mouth behind his hand and seemed to be half-way towards chewing his thumb off. Dwayne frowned, and his gaze was so intense. But it wasn't a glare. The boys had been laughing before, but they weren't laughing now. Neither were you. Your eyes never left Davids, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. He stood, and he was in front of you in a second. You couldn't help how you flinched back, taking the smallest of steps backwards to steady yourself. David grabbed you by the shoulders, but he didn't laugh. He didn't smile. Instead, he asked,

"How do you know all of this?" And it felt strange. To be a step ahead of David. To know something that David didn't know. He always seemed so in control, and, perhaps, that's the only reason you were still alive. In a moment, you realized this was the only way to stay alive. You were going to have to stay ahead of him and play your cards right. As bitter as you felt towards him and the others at that moment, you still had a chance. And you weren't going to throw it away. You stared at him, and said,

"Give me my phone and I'll show you."

You made a decision that you knew you wouldn't have made if they hadn't been such assholes before. You had bought and downloaded the movie for a car trip a few months before, and you set your phone up on the table across from the couch. The five of you squeezed onto the couch, the little screen less than three feet away as the opening sequence started. You sat at the far end of the couch, with Paul next to you, Dwayne in the middle, Marko besides him, and David on the other far end. You didn't know why, but you had a feeling that David didn't want to be near you at the moment. You knew too much. More than he could control. And he wouldn't know just how much you knew unless he did what you wanted. In other words, David was stuck not being the one in charge of the situation. Marko, however, seemed to be the most skeptical of the bunch. He was still calling bullshit on the whole thing, and it seemed he would be thinking that way until he saw the movie with his own eyes. He made that fairly clear by saying,

"This is all a bunch of bullshit- I'm fucking starving." He said, and you tried not to think about just what he planned on eating. Paul, without prompting, passed him a half-eaten bag of chips, and you looked over to see him grumpily snacking. Dwayne seemed completely neutral, and hadn't spoken a word since you'd revealed what you knew. He seemed to be waiting to see how things went, and you didn't fault him for that. However, Paul seemed to be the easiest to convince. Or, perhaps, he simply didn't care and was just excited to have you sit next to him. He did still think that you were hot. You weren't surprised when he had his arm around the couch behind you before the title had even shown up and you quickly told him,

"Watch the movie." When you saw him looking at you. And then the boys watched as the carousel scene started.

The camera panned up, and the boys stilled before they even saw who it was. First, his boots, then the tail end of his jacket and then- David. There he was clear as day. There was no denying it. The boys had probably expected a different beginning to the movie, to meet the main characters and their assumed victims before they saw themselves. But each of the boys watched as they appeared on the screen. David, Dwayne, Paul, and then, finally, Marko. You couldn't help but be smug as you looked at all their surprised faces.

"Holy shit." Paul said, and you couldn't help but smile. Finally, now you were getting somewhere. "I'm fucking hot." He continued, and you rolled your eyes. Of course, that would be the first thing he'd think. But, he did admit that it was him. The other boys shushed him, with Dwayne telling him to,

"Shut up." But you were too busy thinking about how you had succeeded. This had to convince them. There was no other way to go about it. They couldn't just deny what they were seeing with their very own eyes. You grinned, leaning past him to look at the other boys.

"I'm sorry, who's crazy?" You asked, and looked at Marko specifically. While you hadn't wanted to admit it at first, his comment had cut the deepest. Marko rolled his eyes. He shooed you off, but it didn't stop the feeling of triumph you felt. Dwayne and David were too busy staring at the screen, watching the scene on the carousel unfold. They watched as the surf-nazi's attempted to fight them and how the security guard broke it up. You looked over at David, seeing how he squinted his eyes. When the next scene appeared, David wore a grin as they watched the security guard be ripped up into the air. Along with his car door.

When the Emersons appeared, the boys all let out a collective groan. Apparently, none of them cared about them, and they just wanted to see their scenes. You took this as a good time to talk, and you moved in your seat so you'd be partially facing the boys.

"Convinced?" You asked them, and you watched as all of the boys tore their eyes from the screen. They were quiet for a moment, and they even paused to look at one another. Even though you were positive they couldn't be anything else, you still felt a bit nervous. Finally, after a moment, David said,

"Maybe you're not crazy." And you felt a wave of relief wash through you. Honestly, you couldn't have expected a better response from the boy. You knew not to expect an apology, at least a real one, and at least they were admitting that they had been wrong. It made you completely relax, and a large grin dawned your face. It was one of the first real smiles you had that night. Even if you'd been more relaxed at certain points of the night, you'd always had nerves at the edge of your subconscious. Always had to monitor how you acted, how you talked. Make sure that you didn't say anything that would let it slip that you weren't from this time, or this dimension. But now? You let yourself slump completely back into the couch, and let out a long, heavy sigh. You had succeeded. No ifs, ands, or buts. You went back to watching the movie, and you missed how the boys seemed to notice your sudden change.

Paul had gotten up to grab some more snacks, and everyone except David was chewing on something that wasn't a cigarette by the time the sax man came onto the screen. You couldn't help yourself. You had seen the movie and listened to the soundtrack so many times that you knew all the words, and you had to at least hum it to yourself. That lasted for about five seconds before you were singing along with him. Marko, already having decided that he didn't care very much for Michael, threw some cheesy popcorn at your phone when he blatantly stared at Star.

"Jesus, man. Creep alert." But Dwayne was quick to take the bag from him and pass it to you instead. If only for the sake of your phone. Paul dug his hand into the bag, and, around a mouthful of popcorn, he said,

"Yeah, and who is that chick anyways?" He asked, and you gave a small laugh. Mimicking her voice and tossing your hair over your shoulder you said,

"That's Star. She's the main love interest." And Paul gave a small laugh while Marko smiled. To your surprise, even Dwayne gave you a look and a small quirk of his lips. While you had been petty before, you were quickly starting to go back to- well, normal wasn't the right word. But, it was getting easier to joke with them again and to be a little less angry at them. The only one who seemed not in a joking mood was David, who was keeping his comments, surprisingly, to himself. Until, Max came onto the screen. They all let out a collective groan at the sight of their sire, and you snickered at their reaction. Though, the boys' moods quickly turned around when they saw themselves again. They watched the movie, spending most of the time making comments here or there. They decidedly didn't like the Frogs, but none of them considered them that much of a threat. You refused to tell them anything when prompted, and you almost regretted having agreed to show them the movie. Regret began to eat you up inside, and it was the main thing clouding your thoughts until Marko let out a loud,

"Ha! Star's with David!" And he leaned his head back to let out a loud cackle. Paul laughed along, and David even let a smile dawn his face when he watched how disappointed Michael became. Especially when Sam had little sympathy for his brother. Paul and Marko were quick to begin teasing the platinum blonde, and Paul even leaned over to make kissy faces at him. Completely missing the sight of the little kid, which they didn’t notice until Dwayne asked. You noticed how they seemed to enjoy the killing scene of the two surf-nazi's a little too much, and you tried not to let it make you uncomfortable when one of the boys besides you stomachs growled. It didn't take you long to guess what they really needed to eat, but none of them had made a move to eat you yet.

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys david #david the lost boys #the lost boys marko #marko the lost boys #the lost boys paul #paul the lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #the lost boys dwayne #the lost boys x reader #the lost boys imagines

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winchest09 · 4 years

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Life for Rent - Chapter Twenty Seven

Pairing: Mobster!Dean Winchester x Escort!Reader

Universe: AU

Summary: Y/N can be anyone for a price. Her life is ruled by contracts, men and money. It’s all she knows; countless identities, seedy clients, and strict regulations. She has to obey the rules, but her past is full of secrets and her future is resting in the wrong hands. But will her next client be the same as the rest?

Rating: 18+ W/C: 5216

Warnings: (spoilers) Angst, violence, threats, death threats, talks of death, imprisonment, suicidal thoughts, violent outbreak, swearing, blackmail, deceit, double crossing, guns, trafficking.

PLEASE HEED THESE. IF ANY OF THEM ARE TRIGGERS, DO NOT READ.

A/N: So...three chapters left after this one...are you ready? ;)

Special thanks to this absolute babe @katehuntington <3 My worldie, my bestie, my beta whose reaction to this always has me beaming, without her, i’d go insane. She’s my cheerleader <3

I hope you guys enjoy this add! Thanks everyone for sticking with me and this fic <3

Love you all.

xox

– I absolutely adore your reactions to this, so please if you do read, reblog, comment or send me an ask and let me know how you feel! It means the world to me.

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<– Chapter Twenty Six

——————————————–

Do it.

Those words echoed around Dean’s head as he stared down at the woman who had managed to fool him entirely. Not again, not her, not Y/N. After everything they had been through, after what he had done for her; what he felt for her. He didn’t understand how she could do this to him. He’d given her everything, he’d allowed her to be a part of his family and yet here she was, on her knees waiting for him to end it all. Never in his life had he come across someone that was so accepting of death. She wasn’t pleading her case or begging to be spared. Neither was she making excuses for what she had done.

His hand shook as he felt the weight of her forehead pressed against the muzzle of his gun. Her eyes closed as she waited for him to pull the trigger. Dean had always been so collected in these situations, taking the shot without hesitation, but staring down at the woman who had invaded his heart, he lost that impulse. Turmoil rolled through his mind as he fought with his instinct, with the way he had been raised. A traitor’s life is ended. No ifs, no buts, no maybes.

Dean didn’t move to swipe at the tears of regret that stained his cheeks, he didn’t blink away the pain that was captured in his green orbs; he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the escort who had threatened his entire family. She had pulled the wool over his eyes, had been the wolf in sheep's clothing this entire time. He’d let her into his home, into his bed; he’d allowed her to fill his head with an endless stream of unachievable dreams through her sweet words. Dean thought she was different, that he could finally break down the wall around his heart and allow himself to be happy. He was a fool.

There was no excusing what she had done, not now his family was in danger, their lives threatened. She was a traitor, and traitors needed to be put down. His lips curled in a slight snarl as his jaw clenched, tears of frustration coming together at the end of his chin. His thumb steadily made its way to the hammer of the gun, pulling it slowly back, hearing the chilling click of the readed shot. The pad of his forefinger twitched over the trigger, the tip pressing harder against the metal ring as he made his decision.

No ifs, no buts, no maybes.

With a loud echo, his shot rang out. The noise ringing through his ears as fresh tears caraded down his cheeks, his weapon hot in his hand. He didn’t make a sound, his eyes now hazy with unshed sadness as a vice gripped at his heart. He really wished it hadn’t come to this, maybe it had just proved to him that he wasn’t allowed to give himself to anyone, that he would be better off on his own. With a short sniff, he moved to tuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans. The sight in front of him was getting too much for him to bear, he needed to get out, he had more important matters to attend too.

The broken Winchester marched out of his room, slamming the door shut behind him before he turned to lock it with his key. Shutting out his darkness, his shame and the woman who had been the cause of it all. He frustratedly slammed his fist against the wood, his angered roar tearing from his throat before he pushed himself to storm down the hall, trying somehow to formulate a plan in his mind to protect the people he cares for most.

Hurriedly pulling his phone from his pocket, Dean’s shaking thumb quickly dialled Sam’s number as he put his cell to his ear. He paced down the hall, one hand combing through his hair as time seemed to slow.

“Pick up, dammit,” Dean growled down the line, his heart pounding in his chest as the dial tone echoed in his ear. Each ring longer than the last. “Pick the fuck up, Sammy.”

“Dean?”

The relief that flooded his being at the sound of his brother’s voice felt like ice on fire.

“Turn around, get home. Now!” he barked, rushing down the stairs towards the foyer, his eyes scanning every doorway in case of a possible ambush.

“What’s happened?”

“Just do it, Sam,” Dean snapped, “It’s a trap.” As soon as the words left his lips he felt the anger surge through his veins.

The older Winchester made his way to the windows next to the front door, gingerly using his fingers to peel back the voils in the windows, peering to see if anyone was coming for him.

“We know.” Those two words that Sam uttered made Dean frown, his gaze breaking away from the outside, “Charlie figured out it was a ruse a few moments ago, we’re setting up a diversion so they don’t follow us home.”

“Good,” a silent sigh of relief left him, his eyes squeezing shut briefly as he was thankful for his brother's safety. Dean strode into the living room, his mind trying to formulate any kind of strategy to keep his family safe from harm. “Watch your backs, go the long way home, keep your hand on your gun at all times.”

“What’s going on?”

Dean bit his bottom lip, his tongue running over his teeth as he resisted the urge to spill everything there and then. “Just get back in one piece,” he instructed, “both of you.”

Immediately ending the call, his next thoughts were on Benny and Cas, the two of the best soldiers he had in this raging war of dominating gangs. With his phone back to his ear, he listened to the agonisingly slow dial tone as he walked around to the pool table, his fingers running slowly along the wooden frame.

“Come on,” he muttered under his breath, another long ring echoing in his ears. “Come fuckin’ on,” he growled, his eyes pinched closed as he tapped his digits against the wood. “Dammit Benny.”

He couldn’t prevent the worry that ate away at his stomach, the way his heart thumped harder in his chest and the panic that tightened his torso. Dean needed to keep a rational head, his friend may have not heard his phone plus there was always Cas. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he dialled another number and waited impatiently for him to answer.

“Answer the phone, answer the phone,” he chanted, his fist curling into a tight ball tighter at the sound of each ring.

I’m sorry, this caller is unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone.

Before he could react, his phone pinged with the sound of an incoming message, one that his thumb was quick to open when he saw it was from Benny. Even though he thought he was prepared for whatever was in the message, he still felt like he had been punched in the gut when he opened the text. There, tied to two chairs, blindfolded and gagged were his men, his best friends. Their faces were beaten and bloody, their shirts stained with crimson.

“NO!” Dean screamed, throwing his phone to the floor in a blast of rage. He was too late, Nick and Alistair had gotten to his family and he didn’t know how long he had until they were dead.

He couldn’t contain his anger as his torment roared from his chest, his hands breaking and destroying everything in their reach. Picture frames; shelves were ripped from the walls, Dean was on a destructive warpath and nothing was safe. He surrounded himself in glass, in broken porcelain and tainted memories, the noises that left his lips were nothing short of animalistic. He didn’t stop to take a breath, he didn’t falter as he tipped over a bookcase and sent many works of fiction scattering across the floor. He spotted the rows of pool cues resting against the wall, and one by one tore them from their fixtures and beat them against the table, splinters of wood flying through the air. He broke every single one of them, leaving his bloody hands holding nothing but the broken remains of his rampage. His eyes burned embers as his face wore a snarl, his nose flared as he looked for the next perfect thing to destroy. Because that was all he was good for.

“What the hell happened here?!” Sam’s voice cut through the red mist that had descended over him, his head snapping over to where his sibling and Charlie were standing, visibly confused.

With his chest heaving, Dean dropped the broken pieces of wood to the floor as he walked over to where the two were standing, pulling his little brother into a crushing hug. He could feel Sam hesitate for a moment before he returned the embrace, the action calming his enraged spirit, relief flooding the fire. Thank god he was safe.

After a few drawn out seconds, he pulled back, clapping the shoulder of the taller Winchester before he headed towards the one thing he didn’t destroy, his alcohol. He needed the burn of whiskey in his throat for the news he was about to tell them, the liquor in his system to numb the sting of the past hour.

Dean’s bedroom was still. The dust had settled on the broken scene; on the shattered glass, the split wood and the broken body that was still rooted to the spot. There was not a sound to be heard, the screams were long gone and so were the uneven sobs from the woman who had torn his world down around him.

It was then that Y/N heaved in a shaky breath, her eyes still clenched tightly shut as she hadn’t dared to open them. She had never expected to still be kneeling in this spot with air in her lungs and a beat to her heart, yet here she was. Her ears ringing with the sound of the gunshot, her body tense with fear as she didn’t know whether she should be grateful that she was still alive, or dreadful because of it. When she had heard Dean pull back the hammer of the gun, she was at peace. She accepted that this was the end of her story, but he chose not to finish it. He chose to aim the gun and shoot it in another direction, leaving her in dismay.

Y/N didn’t understand his actions. She deserved the bullet that Dean was going to shoot into her head. As far as the escort was concerned, she shouldn’t be here right now, she should be long gone and away from this world, away from the torment and this horrendous life. She hadn’t expected him to keep her alive and she would never forget the look he gave her when she fed him the truth. The way his eyes grew cold upon the realisation that she had betrayed him; it solidified her view that there was no coming back from this. Her thoughts were chasing their metaphorical tail as she went around in circles. There was nowhere to run, no way to forget what she had done.

Her body was still shaking as she gained the courage to open her eyes, bracing herself to cast her gaze over the damage she had caused. The room was a mess, his belongings destroyed and it was all because of her. Her lips trembled as a warm tear dropped onto her pale cheek. It was then that she looked upon his bedroom door, the barrier she heard him lock with a faint click as she was dazed on her knees. Y/N knew there was no point in trying to escape, she wouldn’t get very far even if she tried. Dean would most certainly see her leaving his manor and if on the slightest chance she did get away, The Master would find her.

The Master.

She couldn’t leave this house, she didn’t want to subject herself to the hours of torment she was going to face in isolation. The humiliation, the beatings, the assault. Her body was fractured enough as it was, her wings had been snapped and her spirit had been broken long before Dean had found the light in her again. But like a long burning candle, her flame had burned out, she simply had nothing left to give.

With quaking legs she stood, her cheeks still warm from the overflowing shame she felt, as she turned around in the spot she was standing. On the floor she spotted Dean’s clothes from which he had changed out of, the clothes in which he was teaching her how to defend herself from the horrors of the world. If only he had known then, he wouldn’t have wasted his time or energy on her. Taking a sharp breath, the defeated woman took an unbalanced step towards the mobster’s bed, her forehead slightly creasing as her mind plagued her with a question. Where did the bullet go?

She knew it didn’t matter, it was just a piece of metal to anybody else, but to her it meant something, to her that was the thing that was meant to end her life. So, with curious eyes and a determined head, she calculated the shot. Casting her vision over the room as she scanned every possible place it could be. It was then that she saw it, the small, circular entrance that had been created on the side of Dean’s luxury mattress.

Y/N took a deep breath, her feet taking her the small distance needed to clamber onto his bed, eyes fixated on the hole that was meant to be in her. With slim fingers and a bit of patience, she located the small metal casing and pulled it out. Bringing it up to her eye level, she rolled it between her forefinger and thumb. She could just throw it to one side and be done with it yet, instead, she allowed it to fall into her palm as she curled her hand around it, squeezing tightly. It was a stark reminder of what her life had led too.

As the day bled into nightfall, Y/N was going under fast when she was desperate for somebody to hear her. But she came to realise that there was no one left to change the course of action. She didn’t mean for any of this to happen, she didn’t want to break his trust or his heart, she was just so terrified of any consequences. For a month, the escort had been living a life that she had longed for since she was six years old, a life without rules or chains, a life where she was free to breathe. Dean eased her suffering, yet he could only mask her agony for so long.

Flickers of faint moonlight caught her attention, her face slightly angling towards the broken glass on the floor next to the bed. Y/N almost felt as though they were calling to her, one shattered object to another. She gracefully bent down, her fingers tracing the shards that were scattered amongst photo frames. It was then she saw Dean’s warm smile staring up at her, his eyes crinkled and light as he stood next to his family. Her hand hovered above it, the pads of her fingertips gently caressing his face on the picture. He had already given her so much more than she could have dreamed and for that she would be ever thankful. Now, it was about time she took matters into her own hands. If he couldn’t stop the horror that she had been living, then she would.

It was bound to end in blood and tears.

“Sammy, sit down.” Deans instruction was calm, one finger lifting off the glass of his whiskey filled tumbler to point at the couch. “You gonna join him, Charlie?”

“I think I should leave you guys to it,” the redhead mumbled, hooking her laptop bag over her shoulder before turning to move out of the room. “I’ll be in the dining room if you need me.”

“I need you to look into The Hemlock, Alistair and Nick. I need everything that you can find. Surveillance, movements, birthdays, I don’t give a fuck. I want it all.” Dean didn’t bark his orders but the authority in his tone made Charlie instantly nod in submission.

“I’ll get right on it.”

Sam scoffed as he watched their technical right hand walk away, his head shaking causing his brunette locks to frame his face. He was visibly perplexed by his brother’s sudden change in demeanour.

“What the hell is going on, Dean?” he questioned, one large hand gesturing to the rest of the room. “You’ve snapped every single pool cue we own, the room is a complete mess and where the hell is Y/N?!”

His voice rose at the end of his burning question, one that made the older Winchester’s burning eyes snap to his. With a shake of his head, the defeated mobster took down the rest of his liquor in one hit, hissing as it stung his throat.

“Benny and Cas have been captured and Y/N... She’s locked away,” was his simple response as he turned to grab for the whiskey bottle, the remainder of the alcohol calling to him.

“How?!” Sam's brow knitted together. “And what the fuck do you mean ‘locked away’?!”

The news Dean was about to share felt like a hard pill to swallow. He still couldn’t believe it, he didn’t want to, but it was the bitter truth. “She betrayed us, Sammy. betrayed me...that’s how.”

He scoffed harshly as he brought the liquor with him, sitting opposite his little brother on the couch. “Lied to our faces, just like fucking Cassie.”

Sam watched as Dean refilled his glass before placing the bottle on the still intact table, the gears turning in his head as he tried to understand. “You’re not making any sense. Wh--”

“- You were right, okay?!” the mobster snapped, rubbing at his forehead frustratingly with his palm. “I shouldn’t have hired her, I should have never stepped foot in that bastard’s place.” With a deep breath, he took a moment to calm the rage that was flowing through his veins like molten lava. “Nick, Y/N... They have been working together to bring us to our knees.”

“What?” Sam urged, not quite believing what he was hearing. She was part of The Hemlock, how could she be working for the enemy?

“That’s right, she told me, Sam,” Dean disclosed, a disapproving tone laced in his words. “Judging from what she said, I can only assume that the plan for today was meant to be our undoing.”

It was that statement that caught the younger Winchester’s attention, “What did she say?”

“What does it matter? Benny and Cas are in danger, Sam. That’s our priority right now,” the mobster stressed, his voice gruff with emotion.

“We have other men, we’ll send them ahead to scope the place out but we don’t even know what we’re walking into right now. We’ve got to be smart about this.”

Dean knew his sibling was right, yet the feeling of losing his blood brothers because of one stupid mistake was more than he could bare. “I can’t lose more family, Sammy. I just can’t.”

“And we won’t, not if we play this smart,” his little brother advised, sincerity lacing his tone. “Now I need to know what Y/N said. Her exact words.”

“I helped plan it,” Dean fired back, shaking his head as he clicked his tongue against his teeth. “That it wasn’t just her but The Master and Nick.”

“Wait,” Sam held up his hand, “The Master?”

Dean threw his head back against the couch and sighed deeply, his forefinger and thumb pinching across his eyes and nose. He still felt like his head was swimming with information, that he couldn’t focus on one particular thing. When he woke up that morning, he was happy and was ready to take on the world. Now he was back to square one, on the break of losing the family who he loves yet again by his own stupid actions.

“Alistair,” Dean sighed, his focus on the ceiling. “That’s the name his girls call him.”

“That’s seriously messed up.” Sam grimaced, shaking his head as he stared at his brother.

“So he’s into pet names,” Dean shrugged while he lifted his head off the couch with annoyance. “You’re missing the entire point of this.”

Sam just huffed, his tongue poking in his cheek as he looked over at his older brother. It didn’t take him long to look at the bigger picture here. Unlike the man in front of him, he could see the situation clearly as he wasn’t being driven by his raw emotion like Dean was. There was a lot more to this situation, it went a lot deeper than just Y/N double crossing them. Sam had suspicions about her behavior since he had spoken to her after playing pool, and especially after the previous night when a phone call had interrupted them, but his doubtful thoughts were never about her dedication to her job and his family, it was about her past and what she had been experiencing.

“I don’t think I am, Dean,” Sam announced, lacing his fingers together in front of him as he rested his arms against his knees.

“Y/N betrayed us all.” Dean’s face turned into one of exasperation, his mind not fathoming how he couldn’t understand exactly what the escort had done to them.

“How?” Sam questioned, his tone still steady and reasonable. “By saving us?”

“She sent you to your death, Sam!” the mobster snapped, his deep voice bellowing off of the walls as he stood from his seat brashly, his right hand throwing his glass against the wall. His green eyes darkened, his lips twitching as he held back a snarl. “I was the one that pulled you out of there!”

“Because she told you too,” came the younger Winchester’s reply, not even flinching at Dean’s actions, which he had gotten used to by now. He raised his eyebrows as he watched the pacing man in front of him, sucking in a deep breath as he ran a hand through his long hair. “Look, calm down for a minute and let’s talk this out, yeah?”

“Why are you on her side in this?!” Dean fumed, his hands running through his hair as he continued to pace the broken mess of the room.

“Dean, I’m not. Believe me, if I’m wrong in all this, I’ll be handing you a loaded gun,” Sam assured, his dark eyes that were trained on his big brother full of conviction and promise.

It was then that the frustrated man stopped in his tracks, angling his body to look down at the voice of reason. “You wanted me to murder Cassie the first chance I got, hell you still do. So what’s changed?”

“She’s not Cassie,” Sam’s reply was almost instant and it basically winded the head of the family, the darkness in his gaze fading as he collapsed back onto the couch. “Dean, Cassie did what she did maliciously, off her own back. Y/N’s held her hands up and told you before it got too far,” he began to explain, his hand rubbing at his jaw. “Look, when I brought Azazel back here, and I kept Y/N company whilst you did your thing, she opened up to me slightly. I didn’t like what I had to hear.”

At that, Dean frowned, his anger subsiding slightly to make way for the uneasiness in his stomach to break through. “Which was?”

He watched his little brother, how he rubbed his hands together before he spoke. It did nothing to settle the anxious feeling that was resonating in his chest.

“She said that you were the first man that had treated her like a person and not an asset,” Sam began to explain, his voice soft and compassionate as he judged for a reaction. “She tried to cover up her words but I know how to read body language, Dean. She was uncomfortable, she was lying to me. Even when I challenged her about it, she couldn’t tell me the truth, so what does that tell you?”

“That she’s a liar,” the mobster seethed, pulling in his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Or that she’s trapped in a corner with nowhere to run,” Sam implored, causing the older to halt his actions, the words resonating through him.

His anger faded, the red fog clearing slightly, causing him to think carefully over his brother’s comments. Maybe he was right; all the evidence that he had gathered so far had already pointed to a not so normal life. So could it be that she was forced into this situation? That she was truly trapped, or was that an easy excuse to make?

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean sighed, shaking his head slightly as he pursed his lips. “But you don’t know everything.”

“What do you mean?” Sam enquired.

“Charlie found some information. I asked her to look into Y/N and report back to me,” the mobster admitted, rubbing at his chin as he edged closer to the edge of his seat. “Her records were dodgy, Sam. There was nothing past the age of six. It was like her life had ended there. I was convinced she had taken on someone else’s life as an alias.”

“But that’s not true?” His little brother's question made Dean shake his head slightly, his lips pursing.

“No. She told me a bit about her past, she confided in me and the woman I saw was so damn vulnerable. But Hell, that could have been an act too right?” A scoff past his pink lips as he reached for the bottle of whiskey that was on the table in front of him. “I don’t know, Sammy. Something isn’t sitting right. The woman I returned to The Hemlock yesterday morning was not the same one I got back. Something changed in her while she was there and then I noticed a tattoo on her neck.”

“A tattoo?”

Dean nodded, walking over to where he’d thrown his phone earlier. “I don’t just think it’s just any kind of ink, Sam,” he doubted, picking the device off the floor and hoping it still worked. A slight wave of relief washed over him when he noticed that all his cell had suffered was a partially cracked screen.

He pulled up the picture that he took, zooming in slightly on the detail before handing it over to the younger Winchester. “I just need to work out the numbers.”

Sam took a moment to study the photograph, the image fanning the flames of his suspicions with a heavy heart. “That’s because it isn’t normal ink, Dean,” he started, swallowing hard as his gaze went back to the awaiting green orbs. “I think she’s been a victim of trafficking.”

Dean’s face changed, his expression slack as his eyebrows twitched. “What?”

“It makes sense, right? The way she acts, the fake personas, the change of personality, the way her walls fell down around you when you took her to do perfectly normal things.”

Did his brother have a point? The mobster took another long gulp from the glass bottle in his hands, his mind racing as he tried to pinpoint his thoughts. Surely he would have noticed it, he’s a mob boss for fuck’s sake, surely he would have seen something. How could he not know? But then even if he did, would it change how he felt about her now? Y/N had still deceived him, lulled him into a false sense of security before aiding the capture of two of his men. If Sam had been caught too...

“I still can’t trust her. Not now, not after this,” Dean admitted, the morbid thoughts of losing his family taunting him.

“She’s just been a pawn in this war, Dean,” Sam tried to reason, sliding his phone back over the table. “And the fact that you’ve left her alive in your bedroom speaks volumes for itself. You need to talk to her.”

The older Winchester huffed a breath before he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “And what is that going to solve, huh?”

“I know what she means to you, and she means more to you now than Cassie ever did,” Sam spoke truthfully, his eyes full of empathy as he stared at the stubborn man across from him. “You need to speak with her, maybe now she’s in a position to tell you the full truth.”

“But Benny and Cas--”

“- I’ll deal with that. You need to do this, Dean. You need answers.”

There was a brief moment of silence between the pair, neither of them breaking their gaze on the other, a psychological standoff.

“Fine,” Dean relented, closing his eyes briefly as he took a deep breath, pushing himself back off of the coach. His legs felt heavy as he made his way towards the staircase, his palms sweating, his throat dry, even though he tried to drown his thirst with liquor. He hadn’t got the time he needed to process the series of events that turned his world upside down, Benny and Cas were in danger, the woman who had captured his soul laid on his bedroom floor. A possible victim of trafficking. Could she have really been forced into this? Why couldn’t she have just told him the truth? Did she not trust him?

Making his way along the long corridor towards his room, he brought the bottle of whiskey back to his lips, his eyes slightly glassy as he thought about how he had left her. Broken, defeated, at his complete mercy on the floor. She was so accepting of punishment, so willing to welcome any harm that was coming her way. Casting his mind back to the first time he truly spent time with her, he remembered her not knowing how to shop. That memory bled into the one where he told her she could keep the dress he had made for her; the look of childish glee when she tried pizza for the first time, the eyes full of wonder when she tasted chocolate covered strawberries. It was all flashing in front of him like it was a damn show. The need to do well continuously, to be the best of the best. The fear in her eyes when she thought she’d failed him. It all made sense now.

With a partially shaking hand, he pulled the key to his room from his jeans pocket, the metal shaking in the lock as he slowly turned it to open. The click echoed through his soul, causing him to inhale deeply as he readied himself to face Y/N once again. With a forceful push, he opened his door, words spilling from his lips before an unexpected sight greeted him.

“You need to explain yourself.”

——————————————– Chapter Twenty Eight --> ——————————————– A/N: *screams* Guys...three more chapters...that’s it! *sobs into a pillow* We’re so close to the end of this story. I hope you’re enjoying these last few stops.

I love you guys so much for reading this…so thank you from the bottom of my heart.

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aajjks · 2 years

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hey! so i’m no longer a muslim myself (as of like a year ago) but i am raised in a traditional muslim family and if i may i’d like to chime in on some of their religious beliefs/aspects and culture!

so as far as it was in my community (1st gen bengali-americans who are raised in muslim families) we started ‘fasting’ in a non-sequential way as soon as we were old enough to understand why and say we wanted to! so i started(sorta,, lemme explain) at around 9(?) basically i’d go as many days as i could following ramadan but i could not fast on days when i didn’t feel like i could/wanted to. as i grew older i grew more tolerant and patient (a key factor in ramadan as i was taught) and by 12 i could fast the full 30 days! soon after i started attending the usual after-eftar prayer (tarabi)

ok so the whole multiple wives thing is a bit more complex so i asked my parents about it (both full bengalis and have been muslim their whole lives…literally) so back in the day, when islam was first created, islamic people had to fight for this religion as most religions do. in that ear many men died and women most definitely did not have the rights or means to be single mothers to the children now left fatherless. so Mohammad said to take rose woken and make them your wife. because at that time the word ‘wife’ was much different than what it was 100 years ago and now. ‘wife’ was a highly respected title. if you were a wife, in the culture it meant you would be protected, nurtured and respected. also to be noted!! in most asian/middle eastern cultures, dating is not a thing. boyfriend/girlfriend is not a thing. it’s just husband and wife. so that’s how it started. but as it grew the scripture was more clear, if a man had a wife already, and wished to take another, he would have to have the consent of both women. there were no ifs and or buts. nowadays, while it is still practiced, it’s more as of a polyamorous relationship. it is also, heavily looked down upon for the last 100+ years. it is now believed that faithful muslims shall remain on faithful marriages with their only significant other.

so that whole situation is not actually written about in the Qur’an (or as my parents have told me and have been raised as) but was said by the prophet. it was stemmed from a time of patriarchy, and cultural times, and when speaking of these there is so much history. there’s much more to be said of it and if there are ever any wishes to know more please just ask! muslims (and former muslims) would love to speak of the religion, as there have been many assumptions made over time without ever asking.

whilst i left the religion, it was for no other reason than i just did not fully feel that spiritual connection to it, as is important in any religion.

ah also want to speak on this! : lgbtqia muslims!!

so as with any older generation it’s not that the Qur’an looks down on LGBTQ+ people, it’s just that culturally it’s not as accepted?? here in my community i, and a lot of others have come out as LGBT+ and have been eagerly accepted, and the religion has not changed but i cannot speak on other areas of islamic dominance. however i do believe that islam itself has no superior dislike of LGBT+. i feel as though it may be a cultural/generational fear/dislike as many people are. as we can see not only are muslim dominated countries repressed of LGBT+ members, it’s still very much a working movement around the world.

(i hope that made sense!)

Thanks, dear Rosie for always coming to help me explain things better. You’ve really explained everything super well! anon L, look! She said it better.

English’s my weakness damn 💔 and Rosie I hope you find your happiness one day! 💕

#asks #islam ‼️

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spectrumed · 3 years

Text

5. sleep

It hardly gets dark in the Swedish summers. Between dusk to dawn, you’ve got about an hour to fall asleep before the sun rises again. If you struggle to fall asleep that fast, you can invest in some good window blinds. Or you can do as I do and place one big pillow over your face. Then the birds start singing around three o’clock in the morning. You can practically hear the sounds of Edvard Grieg’s Morning Mood playing at around four o’clock in the morning. Around five o’clock in the morning, it is as bright as midday. Did you have a good time sleeping? Or did you pace around in a circle having one hell of a panic attack? I thought you took some of those sleeping pills you got prescribed, they should have helped you fall asleep… wait, you did take them? They didn’t work? Oh, they did work, you just felt your body falling asleep while your mind stayed awake? That sounds terrible, real terrible. Very well. It’s morning now. Want some coffee?

You could form a religion out of sleeping. Let’s have sermons where we fill a whole auditorium full of beds and have our congregates take a big collective nap. Sleep for the sleep god! Pillows for the pillow throne! Sleep is a billion-dollar industry, there’s a plethora of handy products you can buy that promise to send you on a luxury liner to dreamland. Pills, mattresses, dreamcatchers, whatever your snoozy heart desires. You can go to a proper doctor and they might help you, or you can settle for the placebo effect and go to some fraudulent quack, instead. He might make you swallow some pills that contain arsenic, but hey, arsenic is a naturally occurring element. It can’t be all that bad for you if it is natural. And you do want to sleep, don’t you? If you take this pill in your mouth and swallow it with a glass of water, I promise you, you will sleep for a very long time.

The esteemed former president of the United States of America, Donald Trump, claims that he only needs four to five hours of sleep every night. While Mr. Trump is well-known to be a paragon of honesty, I do doubt he’s telling the truth. No, I actually do believe him when says that he only gets about four or five hours of sleep each night, I just don’t believe him when he says that is all he needs. He doesn’t look very well-rested, does he? And Margaret Thatcher, the similarly adored former prime minister of the United Kingdom, claimed that she also only needed about four hours of sleep every night. Yes, while researching the sleeping habits of famous monsters, I’ve come to the conclusion that amongst powerful individuals, not getting enough sleep has become a proper badge of honour. The belief is that if you don’t get enough sleep, that must be because you are living such a vibrantly successful life, and are so career-driven, that you simply haven’t got enough time to sleep for the full eight hours. People who sleep for more than four hours are lazy liberals. Go-getters like Trump has got to be out there, working, making decisions, raping women, and showing daddy what a good boy he is. Sleep is for the weak. But maybe I am weak. I sure like sleeping.

It’s the cultural hangover our society has had since the 80’s. Back when the yuppies wearing jackets with obscenely padded shoulders would happily chuck down eight to ten espressos in one go while A Flock of Seagulls was playing on the radio encouraging everyone to go running. And to be fair to them, with the constant fear of the doomsday clock hitting midnight, they really had no reason to think that they’d survive the decade. The new millennia, it seemed, would have no cities, no nature, no humans, only radiated mutants scouring the rubble that remains of civilization for cans of preserved something edible. Self-destructive behaviour was in. It was fashionable. Doubt people got enough sleep back then, between snorting coke and wondering if the next pandemic that hits the night clubs would start killing as many straight folks as gay folks. Well, here we are in the new 20’s, and we’ve got a pandemic that does appear to kill people regardless of sexual orientation. Sure, the looming threat of nuclear obliteration has been lessened dramatically, but we’ve largely come to exchange that anxiety for the fear of total environmental collapse, instead. No wonder 80’s nostalgia is a big thing right now. History doesn't repeat itself, but It often rhymes, said Mark Twain (supposedly.) I wonder how much coke Mark Twain would snort if he lived in the 80’s.

I notice a palpable difference in my mood and mental state when I’ve been getting good amounts of sleep. Lack of sleep results in lack of clear thinking. Caffeine, though it is something I am chronically addicted to, does not help fix a sleep-deprived mind. There are no tricks of revolutionary “life hacks” one can employ to get out of sleeping. To recover from depression, one has to sleep. Sleep often and sleep well. I cannot understate the importance of being well-rested. You cannot process information if you are tired. I am reminded of my teenage years seeing friends of mine who’d stay up all night, then come into school shuffling like agonised zombies. They got so frustrated when the teachers reprimanded them for snoozing in class. Well, dummies, it is your fault for drinking several dozen cans of Red Bull every day! I know that sleep does not always come easy. I know the terror of insomnia. But, c’mon! At some point, you’ve got to realise that sleep is essential. Maybe most of your problems stem from the fact that you refuse to get enough of it? Here’s where the tough love comes in. If you wanna get better, kiddo, then listen to me. It’s bedtime. Yes, I know you’d rather stay up late playing monopoly with your friends, but I’m confiscating your dice and I’ll only give it back to you when you’ve gotten some good sleep. Okay? You hear me, missy? You listen to your daddy now, and go to bed. No ifs or buts about it, princess, I’ve made myself clear. I know what is best for you, and you know that I am right. I’m your daddy.

But what if I can’t seem to fall asleep? Normally, it takes a long time for me to fall asleep. It is not uncommon for me to stay awake for two hours, maybe more, before I finally begin to sleep. Fearing that I won’t fall asleep gives me anxiety. That anxiety keeps me awake. I turn my body. I try lying on my side. First my left side, then my right side. I then try to lie on my back. I’ve got a song stuck playing in my head. Not even the whole song, just a ten-second segment of it. It’s playing over and over. I’m worried about the future, will I ever find security, will I ever find a wife, will I get to grow old? I worry about death. I keep hearing the music playing, it’s grating. I rearrange the pillows, in hopes that will make me feel more comfortable. But no, I keep tossing and turning like a fish caught on land. I’m getting frustrated. If only I could shut off my brain. I’m constantly thinking. I turn to my side again, but now I notice I’ve moved arounds so much that now the bed has shifted away from its position next to the wall. There’s now a gap between the bed and the wall. I almost fall down that gap. I get up and I push the bed back against the wall. I lay down in bed. The song is still playing.

How am I ever going to become a successful businessman if I am wasting so many hours just trying to get to sleep? This is the time I should be spending on the phone, yelling at people and making inappropriate sexual comments to my female employees. That is what good executives do. I need to get my life in order. I need to exercise more. I should practice mindfulness. I should get a life coach, a personal trainer, a stylist, an accountant, an assistant, a trophy wife, and a mistress. I need people in my life to take care of me. It’s funny how rich people create the sort of environment around them where people will take care of all their needs, effectively infantilising them. These people don’t even get to decide how to dress themselves. They’ve got fancy apartments, but they don’t choose any of the furniture. They’ve got art on the walls that they don’t like, but the art looks expensive, and that is all that matters. They’ve got kids, but they don’t raise them. Their spouses are cheating on them, but in fairness, they are cheating on their spouses. They don’t really even know what their jobs entails, as they’ve gotten promoted so many times that they’ve ended up in a position that is totally outside their realm of expertise. But they’re so powerful that no-one is able to fire them over their pretty blatant incompetence. They’re successful. They’ve made it. But they still can’t sleep at night. They only manage to successfully fall asleep at night after swallowing a fistful of pills along with a swig of vodka.

It must be easy being a self-help guru. Well, what I mean to say is that all you really need is charisma, which is something you need to be born with. But you don’t need to do any actual studying, any real research, or any kind of soul-searching or deliberation. All you need is to state what is obvious. You go on stage in front of an anxious audience, mostly composed of middle-class salesmen and miscellaneous white collar ghosts. You smile, show off your eerily bright teeth, and they clap. You tell them to go take care of themselves, to eat more healthily, to take walks, or go swimming, and love their partners. You tell them to drink less, or maybe, if they feel like it, they could drink more. I am sure you could spin alcohol as a positive or a negative, depending on what crowd you’re talking to. Tell them to appreciate family. Tell them to appreciate others. Live, laugh, but most of all, love. Tell them to go clean their rooms. Tell them to remember that if they’re on an airplane that is about to crash land, they need to put their own oxygen mask on before they can help others put theirs on. If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else? Now, go to bed!

You know all this stuff. Me telling you that you should sleep more doesn’t really help you. You know that you should sleep more. It’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that. And it’s not like as if you’re too dumb to realise that it is better to drink in moderation, and that you should smoke less weed. There are many small little things you can do to improve your life, to stop being a terminally unemployed slacker. It’s like your grandpa who tells you stories about life after the war when you could walk into the biggest building in town, slam your fist against the table and demand to be given a job and a house and a wife and a couple of kids, and that was all you needed to do. He can’t comprehend the fact that society doesn’t work like that, any more. Most people my generation have given up hope of ever owning a home, at least if they happen to live in the vicinity of a larger city. It seems that, no matter where you live, the cost of homes has risen to an impenetrable degree. It seems just as likely that you will be able to afford your very own genetically-engineered pet dragon before you will get to be a house-owner. It’s the fault of those damn boomers, why bother changing your ways, when the boomers are still in charge? Others may accuse you of wallowing in your own depression, but you are perfectly aware that this is exactly what you are doing. You are self-aware. But self-awareness on its own is not enough to motivate anyone. You still can’t see the point in doing anything constructive with your life. Life just feels so aimless. It’s easier to sit, smoke weed, and watch cartoons.

Pop psychology is problematic. To say the least. Take all those self-help gurus suffering from their messiah complexes and put them through the shredder. Don’t buy books thinking that they’ll offer you the kind of treatment you would get from an actual psychiatrist. I know that, depending on where you are in the world, treatment can get very expensive, but you’re not going to get better reading the book of some self-aggrandising narcissist’s collection of wishy-washy platitudes. Dr. Phil has done great evil pretending to be a therapist on the TV, and Jordan Peterson (despite having once been an esteemed scholar) has turned a generation of young internet-savvy zoomers into proto-fascists obsessed with the monogamy of lobsters. Pop psychology has become a guise for cult leaders to reap new followers. Getting treatment should not feel like joining a new religious movement. Maybe I’m just one of those annoying atheists, but I dare say, psychiatry works at its best when it's secular. You should not look at your psychiatrist as a prophet speaking to God. They’re just a doctor, and you need treatment.

I do not aspire to create a self-help blog. I do not promise that reading this blog will help you in any way. I would be overjoyed if someone came up to me and told me that I had inspired them to seek help. You may tell me that reading my words have made you feel less alone, knowing that others have gone through all these things that you are going through. When I felt at my worst, I remember reading the memoirs of people I admired who had similarly struggled in their lives, and I felt less alone. But none of those books pretended to exist principally to help others. Those books did help me, through the candid descriptions of struggles that I thought I was alone in experiencing. Knowing that some people had pulled through, managed to find a light at the end of the tunnel, it made me think I could one day be like them. The books didn’t seek to fix me, but they offered me a perspective that came to be very valuable later on, when I started going to therapy, and when I later started taking medication. Sometimes that is all you need. Not someone standing over you and telling you to go to bed, or to clean your room, or to stop drinking. You know all that, already. What you really need is the reassurance that things can indeed get better. Sleep will come.

#neurodiversity #neurodivergent #autism spectrum disorder #autism #aspergers #mental health

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kim-ruzek · 3 years

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Day two

Written for onechicago week, day two, prompt: "if we don't get out of here" "we will"

I don't know how much I'm participating in this week, but this prompt just Spoke to me and I Had to write it.

It is 1.9k words long, and as a warning, it talks about death. Like it's a pretty central theme so if that's not something you can read, please do not read this. This is probably the most angstiest thing I've wrote for Burzek and I'm so, so sorry. The ending is, technically, hopeful but like also not.

All that could be heard is the drip, drip, drip of a leak somewhere—where, Kim doesn’t know, the room being too dark to locate it—and the ragged breathing of herself and Adam.

Kim has never been one to be afraid of the dark. As a child, she only loved the night light that sat by her bedside because of the pretty patterns and lights it made, not because it helped keep away the dark.

But it had been—well, Kim doesn’t know how long it’s been. It feels like hours, like forever has gone by, but she has no way to tell for certain. But it had been long enough, and the darkness—or rather, the lack of light—has begun to get to her.

The quiet—or the near silence—isn’t helping, either. The darkness is already fucking with her mind, her eyes craving light, craving being able to see something, her mind scrambling desperately to make sure she remembers what the room looked like.

Kim had only got a few moments in the room, when the light was still here, and she hadn’t exactly been using the time to etch every detail of it into her memory; no, she was too busy trying to fight for her—and Adam’s—life.

And, of course, the rather hard bash she got to the back of her head hasn’t exactly helped everything stay razor sharp in her mind.

Kim had read somewhere—where, she’s struggling to remember; be it because it wasn’t important to or because of the fuzziness in her brain, she doesn’t know—then sensory deprivation is the worst form of torture. That it fucks with your mind psychologically more than anything, the lack of anything mentally tiring you.

She can see why. They are surrounded by darkness, the only sound that drip, drip, drip. It’s both annoying and a lifeline; the only thing that helps her at least attempt to keep track of the passing time, the only thing that helps her not loose the last scrap of her hope remaining, that they’ll be found.

The only thing that helps her try not to focus too much on how weak she’s starting to feel, on how she must be dying, creeping closer and closer to death the more it drips, drips, drips.

On how that Adam is also dying, that his flannel may be wrapped around his leg injury, and the gash on his head—the only one they know about because he felt the blood dripping down his face—may keep getting dabbed at, but without medical attention he’s going to die.

Or on how that she’s going to die before Adam does, that Adam will have to be alone, in this dark room, with her corpse lying beside him, with only the drip, drip, drip for company.

That at least she’ll die knowing he is with her, but he’ll have to be alone.

Death is something that Kim has always been scared of, even with her job being what it is. She pushes it aside when she’s facing a gun to her head, or in any of the situations she’s previously found herself in, but it’s always there, always lingering.

But now, as she faces the very real possibility that she’s going to die, that her death is imminent, it’s not what she’s most afraid of.

No, what claws at her, what grips at her heart with it’s iron cold grasp is not the fear of dying, but the fear of having to leave Adam all alone.

Of not being by his side to comfort him, to be able to squeeze his hand, to have him die in her arms, warm and loved. Kim doesn’t want Adam to die, but her hope that they’ll survive is so nearly gone, so all she can think is that if they must die, she wants him to die first.

The knowledge that she’s in a worse shape clings to her, and she hates it, hates it that she’s going to have to leave him, and there’s a—perhaps sadistic—part of her that wants to tear the flannel off his injury, make it worse, just so that he won’t have to face death alone.

Kim’s a little masochistic, she knows this. There’s always been something oddly romantic, to her, about people in love dying at the same time. It’s sick of her, to feel that way, but that doesn’t stop her from doing so.

But this, them, her and Adam, they’re inching towards death together, but they will not die at the same time. And that’s not romantic, or anything she wants. It hurts her, hurts her more than her injuries, that Adam will be alone.

Ever since, all those years ago, Kim was shot and nearly died, she has known that Adam has been afraid of her dying. That he doesn’t ever want to loose her, that he never wants to know the pain of her being gone, gone in such a final way.

But he’s going to. And he’s going to be in pain, dying himself, as he knows that pain.

Kim’s Nona always tried her hardest to get Kim to believe in heaven. She pretended, when she stopped, but her Nona was a clever and intuitive woman. And she knew, she knew that her granddaughter only pretended for her own peace of mind.

Now, Kim wishes that she did. That she could believe in the afterlife her Nona always talked about, that Kim could believe that even though she’ll die, they’ll be a heaven waiting.

Not for her, but for Adam. That he might have to die a mortal death alone, but at least she’ll—and their baby, Kim adds on—be waiting for him. That she can nurse the pain of him having to be alone, dying, with her soulless corpse lying next to him, away, after the fact.

She loves him.

Kim knows this. She’s known this forever, even when she ended things. Even when she rejected his proposals to get back together. Her heart has always loved him, has always been his ever since she gave it him; this has been true even when logic dictated that they should not be together.

Logic that now seems so trivial to her.

But it’s now, as she’s dying, as he’s dying, as they’re cuddling together wishing for their unit to—somehow—find them, and dreaming up an afterlife she can’t even make herself believe in even now, it hits her with such a definitive fury.

She loves Adam.

There’s been so many ifs and buts in her mind ever since she called off the engagement. So many reasons and obstacles that seemed reasonable and rational and logical at the time, and maybe they were, maybe they still are. But now the sand is finally running out, now she no longer has her life in front of her, they seem so illogical, so trivial.

Kim supposes this is what people mean when they say death brings clarity. That all she can think is about is just how much she loves him, just how much her heart aches for him, just how much he is her soulmate, that them being in love is the only reason necessary to be together.

That all she can think about is just how much time she’s wasted, how much time she’s spent denying what will make her life fulfilled, how much time she’s spent denying herself happiness—and how much time she’s spent denying Adam happiness.

It hits her like a ton of bricks, and maybe it’s because how weak she’s starting to feel, because of how the fuzziness is slowly encroaching more and more, because of how she’s no longer feeling the pain if her injuries, but desperation claws at her, filling her with a desperate need, a desperation she’s never quite felt before, to tell Adam this.

That it might be too late to do anything about it, to undo the time wasted, and that he might already know—because of course he does; there’s always this understanding between them, a silent communication even when they’re muting each other—but that she needs to say this.

That it may be the last thing she ever says, but she can’t die without not saying it one more, final time. Maybe for her own sense of comfort, or maybe because she can’t stand the thought of Adam being alone, dying, and that the last time he heard her say it was when she was still pregnant.

“Adam, if we don’t get out of here—” Kim’s voice is ragged, breathy, each word agony to her ribs to get out.

“We will.” Adam’s voice isn’t much better, but there’s this firmness, this certainty, to his words. Kim’s hope is in tatters, but Adam’s is still stronger. It’ll be comforting, if it wasn’t stopping her doing what she so desperately wants to do.

“Adam,” Her barely-there, ragged whisper of a voice is full of the desperation that she is feeling. “Adam, I need... I need to.”

Kim’s breath keeps catching, the words getting harder and harder, but stubbornness has always been one of her key characteristics, so she continues.

Or she would, if Adam would let her.

“They’re coming for us, Kim. We’ll be alright.” Adam interrupts her again, and she almost cries, moaning, just needing to get the words out, just one last time.

“But if they.. don’t. Adam, I need to... tell... you. I—”

“Don’t. Please,” Adam’s voice breaks at that, and Kim knows him so well, knows that if she could see him, his face would be contorted with pain, maybe even tears in his eyes.

“Just—please. I need to believe that we’re gonna be okay. And if you—if you say that, I’m gonna give up. So, please, darlin’?” He sounds desperate himself, and it tugs on Kim’s heartstrings. But she’s loosing the fighting battle to stay awake, and she’s not sure if she agrees to keep the words to herself because he asked or because she no longer has the strength to.

Kim can’t keep her eyes open, not that it makes much difference, darkness is darkness. And she feels herself resting against Adam more, unable to keep herself in the slightly upright position she’s been sitting in.

Time gets even more distorted then, Kim accepting that her death is more than imminent as she feels more and more of herself slip away.

She doesn’t know when it is that Adam adjusts himself so he’s cuddling her to him more. She doesn’t know when the drip, drip, drip stops, or even if it it’s still dripping, and it’s just her ears that have stopped working.

Kim doesn’t know when the last of her consciousness is slipping away. The last thing she knows is that her eyelids are lit up by light, and deep voices are calling out Chicago pd.

And that then, after the deep voice of—Kevin? She’s too tired to know—calling out what she thinks is their names, the last thing she hears is Adam, Adam telling her that they’ve been found, that they’re going to be okay.

Kim doesn’t think that she will, that it must be too late for her, but all she can think is that now she can say it.

“I love you,”

She doesn’t know if her mumble is even coherent, or even if she manages to get out even the sound, but right before she fades completely out of consciousness, she tells him this one, final time, so at least he can live knowing that she loved him until her dying breath.

#ocweek2021 #burzek #kim burgess #adam ruzek #kim burgess x adam ruzek #chicago pd #burzek whump #ree writes #ree's.writing

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yourkimjaejin · 3 years

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Moxy with the NCT 127

The long awaited post for me!!!! Here is a closer look at Moxy’s relationships with the members of 127. Enjoy!!! ~ Author Izzy

Moxy x Taeil

Taeil was always nice Moxy. Treating her kindness and respect but never getting to close. Anytime he wanted to, it seemed like Johnny and Doyoung had everything under control

So Taeil decided to be her silent support. During her first two promotions with 127, Taeil would always keep a close eye on her. Eventually, he began to be able to tell when Moxy needed someone. And when she did he was there.

Taeil became her emotional support oppa. Whenever she needed quiet cuddle time, she went to him. Mainly because he never told anyone. The real reason: Haechan was right. Taeil is a perfect cuddle buddy.

As she got more comfortable with her position within 127, Moxy visited Taeil a little less but she knew that her oppa’s arms were open for her always

These two constantly trade edm songs with each other. When the rest of the members are out, they’ll blast music and have their own party in the dorms.

He knows Moxy doesn’t like chocolate so if he makes a dessert with chocolate in it, he’ll make a special one for her with white chocolate

Moxy x Johnny

Johnny is Moxy’s dad. No ifs, ands or buts. He is her father.

With Moxy having her own room, Johnny makes a habit out of coming in and checking on her. He also drags her out to get sunlight every couple of days.

Johnny: You will not sit here and become a vampire. Let’s go!

Moxy: But I’m allergic to sun..

When Johnny was doing NCT Night Night, Moxy came to watch in studio. Usually falling asleep to Johnny and Jaehyun’s voices

Whenever he buys her clothes, he refuses to buy her any black clothing. Claiming she need to expand her color palette

Johnny has a job a Moxy’s Bodyguard #1. He sits or stands one place down from her to keep an eye on her. In airports, she remains in his eyesight's at all times.

Moxy x Taeyong

For some time, Taeyong and Moxy didn’t have a relationship. She didn’t get to know him. He didn’t get to know her. In an effort to take care of the other (at the time) nine members, Moxy just flew under the radar.

After an interview gone wrong, Taeyong made the decision to pay more attention to the younger girl

Taeyong was impressed by her talent, all aspects of it. So he began to help with her rapping and dancing.

Taeyong was the first member to notice her non-eating habits. To rectify that, he started keeping small snacks he knew she liked with him

Taeyong loves to run his fingers thru her hair. During vlives, he’ll pull her in front of him and start twisting and tangling her hair

These two are always bouncing ideas off of each other. Moxy’s very in touch with her feelings she knows exactly what she needs to do to express those feelings in a song and that really helps Taeyong when he gets stuck with lyrics.

Moxy x Yuta

Yuta is the second member of the silent supporters. Yuta keeps Moxy safe using his body. If the group is walking thru a crown, Yuta keeps Moxy in his sights at all times. If they’re on a sidewalk, Yuta makes sure she walks on the inside even if she’s not walking with him

These two love to watch anime together. As of right now, they are in the midst of a Fairy Tail rewatch. Whenever they have time, they catch a couple episodes

He is the only person Moxy could do no wrong with. The only hyung who will let Moxy do what she wants. If Moxy sneaks out to get some fries, Yuta causes the distraction

Yuta always encourages Moxy to dress in more girly clothing. He knows how much she enjoys it but never feels confident enough to wear it. So he’s tries to help her overcome that

Moxy x Doyoung

(I love this gif!!)

If Johnny is the dad, Doyoung is the mom.

He looks after her all the time. Doyoung was always scolding both her and the other members for not really getting to know each other.

Doyoung helped her a lot to break out of her shell. He even accompanied her to practice her gymnastics in Korea for the first time

Doyoung found out about Moxy’s terrible eating habits in the worst way possible. From then on, he made it his personal mission to make sure she eats

During Doyoung and Moxy’s early time with NCT, Moxy would have a hard time sleeping so Doyoung left his door open to her. Most of the time, She ended up in his room before morning

Doyoung does not like for Moxy to show a lot of skin around other male idols outside of NCT. There are plenty of clips where Doyoung will cover Moxy’s legs and shoulders with the closest blanket or jacket

If Doyoung is having trouble with dance moves, he’ll pull her aside for help

Moxy x Jaehyun

Jaehyun is the third silent supporter Moxy has. Fans can catch him fixing her clothes, moving her hair into the correct place and softly catching her attention to check on her.

Moxy has a tendency to space out. During those moments, Jaehyun usually grabs her hand and rubs his thumb on the top of her hand in small circle until she snaps out of it

Jaehyun always guides her off stage. He’s a tensy bit scared of her walking in heels and possibly slipping and falling

Moxy likes singing with Jaehyun. Around the dorm, the two will start singing and (without talking) harmonizing

Moxy x Jungwoo

Jungwoo and Moxy were close from the get-go. Moxy helped Jungwoo find his place within 127 and he’s always thankful to her. The other members of 127 are just a bit jealous of how close the two became in such a short time

Moxy and Jungwoo flirt.....alot! There is literally no boundaries between them. When Moxy lived in the 127 dorm she would steal his clothes all the time.

When on stage, they might as well be attached at the hip. Fans will see them gravitating towards each other like magnets. At fansigns, Jungwoo will tell the fans to checkup on his girl two spaces down

Jungwoo is the only person who will ever see Moxy freak over other kpop groups. She would rather appear indifferent to everyone else. Jungwoo was only other member to figure out Moxy had a crush on Mark from Got7

Moxy x Mark

M squared didn’t have any sort of relationship until recently. For most of their shared career, they were just members in the same band.

Early on, K-fans made many comparisons between the two 99 liners. Both were from countries outside of Korea. Both were exceptional at rap, dance and singing. In most title tracks, you can bet Mark and Moxy are gonna have a rap verse where they go line for line

Many fans called Moxy a mixture of Taeyong and Mark. Those comments got to him. And because Mark didn’t talk to her, she didn’t talk to him. This all came to a head when SuperM was just starting.

Mark should have been happy. Happy to have his raps all to himself. But he found himself missing Moxy’s energy. Her hype affected him so much stage. It made go even harder with every word.

When Mark finally got back for Superhuman promotions, Mark finally started to make a effort to befriend Moxy. While the two are getting closer, Mark is still at the bottom of her relationships within 127

Moxy x Haechan

Different from Mark, Haechan and Moxy grew close fast. At first, he saw her like Haechan see’s Taeil. The quiet member who just the right person to break them out of their shell. And that he did

Haechan would always crash into her room like a hurricane, kick everyone out and steal Moxy for the rest of the day

They love learning old and new kpop dances together. These two are a walking random play dance challenge.

During the summer fight, Donghyuck would stow away in Moxy’s room. The hyungs wouldn’t hear any noise coming so they would check on them almost every thirty minutes just to make sure the two were ok.

Moxy is one of the only members who is privy to Donghyuck in a down mood. “You never have to front with me. You got me?”

Moxy and NCT Dream

Moxy is their noona and don’t you forget it.

Moxy adores Renjun’s energy. His aura never fails to make her feel safe and calm. Moxy and Renjun have little dates where they just sit in his room and watch YouTube theory videos

Jeno likes to workout with Moxy but she will only join if he’s going to a gym. Moxy refuses to ride bikes across half of Korea

Just like Johnny does with Moxy, she drags Jaemin out of his room for some outside time whenever its been awhile since they’ve seen the sun

Every third Thursday of the month, mochenji get together at chenle’s house and have a sleepover. Private time between the maknae’s and their favorite noona

Moxy and WayV

Hendery, Xiaojun and Yangyang love to tease Moxy about her bias on Ten. They flood her text message with pictures of him. They make little comments that make her blush in front of him.

Ten thinks its Moxy’s crush is adorable. He found out a while ago (I mean Moxy isn’t subtle.....). The only person Ten told was Kun. Ten loves to buy things for her just to see her eyes light up

You can’t put Moxy in the same room as Lucas cause she will literally pass out from laughing too much

Back in their trainee days, Kun would accompany Moxy to the train station to get home. One time, it was really late and Kun walked her all the way home. Kun became her grandmother favorite NCT member that day.

Winwin and Moxy found common ground in the tricking Winwin did (i.e. the front flip in fire truck) Winwin loved going to her gymnastics practice and practicing flips with her.

Moxy and NCT U

Shotaro is her shy Japanese child and if anything hurts him, Moxy would burn Korea to the ground.

Other SM trainees tried to scare him by warning him about Moxy’s “Bad Attitude”. Telling him that he would never get her help or advice. Shotaro not knowing any better steered clear.

One day, Moxy found him struggling with his Korean lessons and She immediately sat down with and helps him. Breaking everything down slowly. She even called Yuta to help because she only knew a tiny bit of Japanese. Ever since, Moxy has protected Shotaro.

Sungchan loves to flirt with his Noona but all he gets in return is a swat on the arm. Truly, Sungchan loves being around Moxy. She took the time to introduce him to the other members and let him cling to her while he was getting used to being thrown into such a well known group

Moxy loves to take care of Sungchan and Shotaro. She’ll buy them food and The members of 12 were shocked to see how easy it was for the new members to drag Moxy out of the house

#nct #nct 127 #nct dream #wayv #NCT AG #NCT AG.Moxy #NCT AG.Info #nct female member #nct female unit #nct female addition #kpop addition #kpop!au #kpop!oc #kpop!addition #kpop!fakegroup

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jack-is-lost · 3 years

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PATCHES & PINS (CH 2)

A/N: This story revolves around a transgender, female to male, original character. LGBTQ+ topics are a given within this story. Gender and body dysphoria will come up as well since he is not out to his family — only close friends. If you dislike such a story premise please understand you do not have to interact with it at all. Leaving hate comments will be removed. Of course, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Pairing: Eventually Marko x OTMC Story is still in progress and updates will be slow Eventually it will be posted on A03 once I’m a few chapters in

Chapter one | Currently on Chapter two | Chapter 3 coming soon.

Chapter two

“Stayed up late again, didn’t you?” Jay groaned into the couch cushions as Tyler braced his weight on the back of it to peer down at his gremlin of a sister. “With a sleep schedule like this, you might be able to snag an overnight job at the store.”

Tyler received another mumbling mess for a response, but he knew the telltale answer. It was always the same; ‘Don’t wanna’ or ‘No time’.

“C’mon, Jay,” he shook the couch, the motion of it getting her to roll over at least and look up at him. “You know it’s a good idea. You’ll be turning eighteen soon, and you have no job history under your belt.”

“Ty…” Jay sighed out, searching for strength. “I know that, of course. It’s just—”

“—No, no, none of the ifs, ands, and buts, Jay.” He cut his sister off, arms crossing. Sometimes it was like Tyler was trying to be the father figure. Not that they were missing one by any means. “It is the summer. A good time to work a temporary job, at least.” Jay sat up and ran fingers through unruly hair, trying to calm it down. “Fine, I’ll walk around a bit and put applications in, okay?” Anything to get you off my ass, Jay added silently. “Head over to the market.” Came the simple reply, but a smile was there nonetheless. They both knew the store was always looking for overnight stockers. It was the job Tyler worked at for the longest time before getting a spot at the town's mechanic shop. “Will do. Now, let me lay here in peace, please, or make a pot of coffee.” Tyler rolled his eyes dramatically but didn’t say anything snide. Instead, he headed for the kitchen to wash the pot out and start a new batch. Their parents wouldn’t be home for a few more hours, both working afternoon shifts, and Jay could lay about till then. “Oh, by the way,” Tyler called out from the kitchen. “I changed the laundry over to the dryer while you were napping.” Jay peered over the couch at the words and into the adjacent room, staring at his back with big eyes. “And you might want to hide your newly bought jeans from mom.” Oh, yeah, he definitely saw the giant tear in the knee. Jay slid down into the cushions face first, groaning once more.

Shit. . . . “Edgar!” he hollered out while stepping into the comic shop from the cooling night air. A rustling noise, a sound of a box hitting the ground, greeted Jay before a head popped up over the counter. “What’s the deal, man,” Edgar grumbled out before ducking back down. Obviously startled by the sudden outburst and now irritated at picking up inventory from the floor. “The deal?” Jay stopped at the counter, plopping his bag there to unzip it. “You left my ass at the cemetery, and—” he pulled out the jeans, “— my pants tore because of you.” Edgar stood up straight to look at the clothing, quickly noticing a nice long gash in the overall pristine trousers. “I wasn’t wearing them so how is it my fault?”

“Don’t,” Jay glared and was ready to explain the reasoning when Alan walked out from the back. He looked equally exhausted. “I’ll fix them.” He spoke up while coming to a stop next to his brother. “Why? It adds character.” “Shut up, Ed.” Alan grabbed the clothing and slung it over his shoulder. It was clear to him that Jay was avoiding trouble. They looked new, and Alan knew how much their parents were strikingly different. If any of their clothes tore, it was no problem — hardly even noticed by their stoned-out mom and dad. Jay’s parents, however, that was another story. “Thanks, man.” “Wear something more worn out next time,” Edgar muttered while bending down to pick up the box to continue his work. “Next time?” Jay followed the brother along the counter, stepping up behind Edgar as he walked into an aisle. “I’m not doing a ‘next time’.”

One time was enough. “Look,” the boy turned to face him, a scowl already present, but when wasn't it? “You made it out with no trouble, right? Didn’t get caught, right?” Jay eyed him, not sure where this was going. “...Yeah?” “Then why stop? You need the practice to become a proper hunter.” “Ed—” “—Edgar.” Jay rolled his head along his shoulders, “Point is," he breathed out. "I never wanted to be a hunter.” This made Edgar’s brows lift with speculation. “Then why read so much about monster-bashing?”

“I…” Jay started then shoved his hands into his jacket, turning away, “Forget it. I’ll be back tomorrow to grab my jeans.” He needed a break from these two. Jay headed outside of the establishment, almost scrapping shoulders with a customer while storming out, but he didn't care. It was hard for Jay to explain his mere interest in folklore. It wasn’t to go on make-believe hunting sprees, not at all. Supernatural shit didn’t even exist — it was all made up for entertainment, nothing else. Blindly Jay walked down the boardwalk, heading out toward the shopping district further into town. His gaze was more on the ground or sky than straight ahead of him, asking any deities up there to give him some internal strength. He really needed it. Jay hated job hunting, avoided it even. It was just another group of people calling him female pronouns and using his full name — where legal paperwork spoke volumes over him. And the uniforms — they would no doubt show off what little curves Jay constantly made a point to hide, and he hated it. A bump against his shoulder went unaddressed. Jay could care less and didn’t even look back to apologize. It wasn’t until the person spoke up that he even gave pause. “What?” Jay asked while turning around, catching the sight of a genuine smile. “I said, ‘you look better with no mud’.” It was the guy from the cemetery. ( Marko’s POV )

“Thanks?” the voice was soft, if not a little uneasy. Marko shrugged, “No problem. Where were you headin’?” “Oh,” Marko watched the other turn back toward their previous destination. Off in the distance, the shopping district lit up the night sky. If one squinted, they could even see the big, bold neon sign for the market. “Was about to, um,” Marko lifted his brow while waiting. “Put in an application?” “You don’t seem so sure about that?” He asked while holding back a smirk. “Because I’m not?” Again it was said like a question. “Let me guess,” Marko chuckled. “You’d prefer not to work? What are you, a party animal or something?” That received a good laugh. “Fuck, no. Do I look like a frat boy to you?” Marko took the question like an invitation and openly swept his gaze over the one standing before him. Short hair with the sides faded, a hoodie beneath a jacket — how many layers does one need during summer nights — faded jeans, and sneakers. “Ah, nope.” He popped the ‘P’ sound after a second of staring. “I’d say you look more like a guy who…” he hummed in thought, really trying to find the right words. “—Like someone who’d probably fall asleep at a movie theater?” Marko feigned shock, a hand grabbing at his chest. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?” “Nope,” this time he popped the ‘P’ sound. “With all that loud sound effects and shit?” Marko received a nod without hesitation. “Okay,” he drew out the sound, ”How ‘bout horror movies? You cannot tell me you’d sleep through all that noise?” Boring romance movies and dry comedy was one thing, but slasher flicks was another — surely. It took a moment to reply, and Marko watched as the other’s face scrunched up in thought. The answer came in the form of a shrug, “Can’t say I’ve tried that, exactly.” Without a second thought, Marko grabbed the teen’s wrist — like he did last night, and headed in an entirely new direction. “Whoa— whoa, where’s the rush, my dude?” “Child’s Play just came out, and I am taking your ass to the movies.” “You are what?” The voice behind him laughed. “I don’t even know your name, and you’re taking me on a date?” Marko looked over his shoulder with a wicked smirk. “The names Marko.”

( Jay’s POV ) Jay stared at the back of his head while being guided toward The Sash Mill Cinema. Was this normal? Everything felt natural around this guy, and it left Jay feeling a little baffled. Marko didn’t even bat an eye at the lame joke. He didn’t think I was serious about it, did he? He stood beside the other while Marko paid for tickets. He didn’t even comment about it when the other ordered a large bucket of popcorn and two fat sodas. It wasn’t until they plopped down inside the semi-lit room, waiting for the movie even to start, when Marko spoke up again. He looked completely at home, too, with boots resting upon the seat in front of him. “So, do I get the courtesy of your name too?” “Oh, uh, it’s Jay.” His gaze fell to the popcorn in his lap, where Marko had placed it once sitting down. “I could have pitched in some, y’know?” “Don’t worry about it, man. Besides,” he reached for a handful of popcorn, a boot resituating to lean across the other. “How could I expect a jobless teen to pay for something?” The words didn’t have any heat to them, but Jay still gave a side-eye-glare. “I had some cash on me.” “Then you get to pay for dinner afterwards.” The comeback was quick. Does he even think before speaking, Jay wondered. “If that’s the plan then I hope you dig pizza.” “Pizza’s good, yeah.” Marko agreed as the room around them dimmed, the movie starting. “Shh — don’t want to piss off paid customers.” he snickered. Jay looked around the theater and noticed a handful of people here and there. It wasn’t overly crowded, which was surprising for a Saturday, but still full enough. With that in mind, Jay didn’t make any comments as the screen lit up and began playing, fingers blindly grabbing some popcorn. It wasn’t even three minutes into the film when Marko chuckled under his breath. Jay glanced at him then back at the screen, trying to figure out how getting shot in the chest was meant to be funny. He didn’t have to wonder long as Marko leaned closer to him, voice quiet. “You’d think he would have ducked after shooting. He did it multiple times before that. And the blood, what did he do? Stick his hand into paint?” Marko leaned away again to sip his soda. Jay smiled a little. He guessed it could be kind of funny when thinking outside of the movie. “Did he just blow up the entire shop by chanting?” “Holy shit, he did!” “Shhh!” A couple a few seats behind them grumbled. Marko simply flipped them off without even looking. And that’s how the whole film went. Marko, trying to keep his laughter to a minimum as a toy doll went on a murdering spree and Jay, almost choking on popcorn from it all. Not once did he feel bored enough to pass out. . . . As they walked out of the theater, Jay bumped against Marko’s shoulder, glad that their height wasn’t much different. Being short always bugged Jay since most men seemed tall, bulky. It was another image he couldn’t be or attain. The motion of being bumped was answered with an arm draped across Jay’s shoulder. “You didn’t fall asleep even once. I’d say that is a point for me, zero for you.” Marko smirked as they shuffled together near the closest pizza establishment, a little family-owned gig near the theater. “Are we keeping points here, really?” Jay smiled back. “Remind me next time.” Marko chuckled lightly as his hand slid down to give a slap to Jay’s back before dropping altogether. “Oh, next time you say?” he pulled open the door wide enough a family of four could have walked through. “You think you’re lucky enough to get a second date?” Jay rolled his eyes as he stepped inside the shop, the smell of breadsticks and pizza hitting his senses like a brick wall. “Still on about the whole date comment, aren't you?” “I don’t see why not,” he simply said while stopping at the cashier, “Or you saying I’m not hot enough to date?” Again his words held no real malice to them, just a light inquisitive tone. Jay eyed him for a moment before the girl behind the counter spoke up, drawing him to make a decision. At the mention of the buffet being half off, Marko boastfully announced his opinion before already hitting the line of food. It left little room to argue, and Jay paid for the price, pocketing the remaining bills in his back pocket. He grabbed the cups offered by her as she popped her gum. “How’d you snag a hottie like him, gal?” her hand propped up her chin as she leaned against the counter, gaze not even on Jay as she asked. Who, at the pronoun, bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t tell if her words were honest wonderment or layered with less positivity than her brightly colored wristbands. “None of your business.” “Sheesh, snobby much?” She rolled her eyes nice and slow before turning her attention to the staff working in the backroom. Jay didn’t see a reason to correct her. Not for implying his gender or calling him a snob. It didn’t matter much, anyway. Family, teachers — they all used them. It was an uphill battle that Jay stalled by sitting at the bottom. The Frog brothers were different, and Sam figured it out without any help by tagging along with them. It was a safe little corner for Jay to be in, even if a little crazy. He walked the buffet, grabbing a slice of pepperoni and some garlic sticks, even after Marko grabbed a booth — plate stacked. Jay gradually took his time to pace through the small selection as his eyes wandered over to the curly-haired boy. Not once did he ever mention female nouns the entire night. He, overall, treated Jay like any other dude. Did he know any different? Jay sat down and laughed as Marko bluntly commented on his plate. Apparently, pepperoni was too plain, and Jay needed to live a little and try it with olives. He watched Marko stuff his face and lick salt off fingers, nonplussed by the display of eating, and he couldn’t help but think this guy just didn’t care — didn’t care about Jay’s appearance or title in life. Something that often weighed him down. It was a relief, in a sense — to not care. “C’mon, Jay, seriously try it.”

The pizza drooped in front of his face, and Jay reluctantly leaned forward for a bite. “Fuck—” he wiped at his mouth instantly. “— that is WAY too much jalapeno, man.” Marko laughed at the expression across the teen’s face. “Nah,” he breathed out. “Your tongue is just a fuckin’ wuss, is all.” Jay gulped down his soda before wiping at his mouth again. “Are you sure it isn’t your tongue that has long since left the planet?” What did they do to that pizza? Let it marinate in jalapeno juice? “I can guarantee you that my palate is top-notch.” “Sure, sure.” “Hey,” the girl from before stood by their booth, hand on hip. “We’re closing up in twenty-minutes.” “What time is it?” Jay asked as he looked outside the nearest window, noting that the parking lot was practically empty. Was it that late already? “Almost ten,” she simply stated before openly checking out Marko, gaze fanning over his open black coat that showed a white tank. Not surprisingly, Marko gave her an equal amount of attention with his gaze. Jay stood up, “Think we should head out.” he grabbed the last breadstick and headed for the exit, stepping out into the cooling air. It took another minute before Marko emerged with a cheeky smile, a folded paper between his fingers. “Got her digits, huh?” “Easily,” Marko slid it into his coat pocket. “Must be my charm.” Jay stepped off in the direction of his street. The walk home was going to take a good thirty-minutes, but he didn’t mind. All the walking around kept him in shape. And so what if Marko nabbed the girl’s number. It wasn’t like they were on a serious date — just two guys having a good time, and jealousy was not about to ruin the good mood. “Where are we heading next?” Marko asked while easily getting in step next to Jay. “The boardwalk stays open later during summer hours. I’m sure we can snag a few spots on some rides before they shut down.” Jay kept walking away from the boardwalk, hands in his coat. “I’m heading home.” “Already?” Marko placed a hand on the other's shoulder, causing them both to pause. “The night’s still young.” “My parents will start to worry if I am not back by eleven.” “But you were out roaming the graveyard way past midnight yesterday?” Jay cut his gaze away, fingers fiddling with the seam inside his pocket where a string had come loose months ago. “I snuck out last night to help some friends, is all.” It would be hard to explain everything, wouldn’t it? The valid reason he was out there among tombstones. Even if Jay explained it, what would stop Marko from instantly labeling him off as a weirdo? “Besides,” Jay spoke up before Marko could ask for further details. “Why were you even out there? Are you a grave robber or something?” He didn’t know anything about this guy, not really.

Marko must have noticed the way Jay’s tone had shifted, and the uneasy tension was back. He placed his hands up in the way of surrender, pale fingers a stark difference to the gloves covering everything else. “No grave robbing by my hands, promise.” They stared at one another for a second before Marko’s hands dropped, his voice filling in the thick silence around them. “If you don’t want to elaborate, I get it — all’s good, but let me at least walk you home.” Jay shook his head without even considering the notion. “Just hit me up later or something. I’d rather walk home alone.” “Okay, okay.” Marko stepped away, hands in his own coat and looking relaxed. It seemed like nothing could sour his mood despite how their night was ending. “I’ll chat with you later, Jay.” “Yeah, see ya’.” And Jay turned around without looking back, bag slung over one shoulder and drawing his hood up. So what if their night ended off on an odd note, and Jay didn’t apply for any jobs? His sneakers scrapped along the cracked pavement, thoughts turning inside his head like a storm. For the most part Jay enjoyed the night. It went from shitty to fun, and that’s what really counts, right? “Tyler is going to be pissed at me.”

#My writing #Patches & Pins #the lost boys #fanfiction #LGBTQ+ story #Transmale OC #Marko x OTMC

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cookie-cutter-communications · 3 years

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The world became no more than a blur for the thief, who simply thrashed about in Borg’s grip. And, though it was a fruitless effort, they did attempt to get the mitten off from around their neck. “L-Let me go!!!” Well, that was surely different... A cry of fright? “They...They’re going to fix me, leave me be!!! I will not succumb to you!” “...Huh? I already told you that they can’t do th-” “They will! Th-They will, if not Aloe, then the rest of them will! G-Get off!!!” Their eyes aimlessly shot about, trying to make sense of this...anomaly. This was...This was incorrect, again, again, it was incorrect!!! “Your nonsense knows no bounds, doesn’t it???” “Eh, consider it something I picked up.” The half-bot muttered. “If I let you go, you will stay here, okay?” “I’m not supposed to listen to anyone, let alone someone as childish as yourse-” “Do you want a limb blasted off or not?!” And they were lucky the new face was shut up on the spot with what was no more than a bluff. A shiver was sent through the taller figure, clearly in a panic about this. “Look,” Borg continued with a huff, “It’s not gonna be that bad. Yeah, you’re the first one that’s broken free other than me! And it probably seems uber scary, but!! That’s okay!!!” “How is it okay?? You could be put through terrible pain at any given moment!” “And that’s why you have to do...different stuff! The dummies around here are predi...uh... shallow minded, and you kinda were too! I mean...why would you come back to the same place 20 times...?” Such a question made the captive thief squint at Borg, and they couldn’t help but giggle. “You look kinda funny when you do that...” “I’m not the type for humor.” “Welllll!!! Now you are, congra-...tulaton......grtal...Good for you!!!” “I hope you know that’s not how it wo-” “ANYWAYS!!! You!!! You. You! You? You. You should really take the offer if you don’t wanna get hurt.” “What a one-sided deal...” “I can make it more than one-sided if you would actually listen instead of turning everything down...uh...uhhhhh.....oh, that’s not my memory being bad, I really didn’t ask you for your name! Soooo, what’s you-” “Roguefort.” “Oh! Answered my question for me! Neat, husks don’t normally do that, R-...uh...Rogf.....gfo....” “It’s Roguefort.” “Roge.....fuck.” “That’s not how you pronounce it.” “Then....I’ll give you a nickname!! Sometime, I think! Woah, I think!” They giggled at their own stupidity, thinking of something to call them that wasn’t as taxing to try and speak. “Uhhhhhh, how about Roguey? Seems neat!” “I-” “Cool, that’s your nickname now! I’m Cyborg, by the way!” “You didn’t even let me finish...” “Mm, doesn’t matter now! What matters is that you’re not resisting me, which means you don’t mind people that think!” “I mind it very much, but resisting you would be a bit of a death wish, now wouldn’t it?” “Hahaha, you bet! Now, you can get up! Remember, if you run, you will not get far!”

Slowly, the mitten was removed from the phantom’s neck. Slowly, they would pick themself back up, the events transpiring shortly before having knocked the wind right out of them. “What are you planning to do as a means to ruin my name further?” “Oh, a lot of things!!! A lot, I tell you!!! Because your head is a mile thick and still husky as can be, I’m gonna take you somewhere to steal things!” “A place of fine arts, I presume?” “What? No! Those weird pictures are stupid and invaluable compared to what you could be stealing instead.” “I’m not following. I’m supposed to answer to calls of theft for that, and that alone.” “Don’t you get it?! You don’t have to do what you’re....supposed to!” Once that was said, there was a scoff from Roguefort, folding their arms and glancing away. “Oh, come on!!! It’ll be fun!!!” “I’m not going wherever you think you’ll take me, Cyborg.” “Y-yes you will!” “Pfft, you have no means to force me.” And, like that, an arm grabbed them around the waist and held on tight, Borg’s boots lighting up once more. “A-Ah...?” “I guess you haven’t learned much about me, Rougey!! I like going fast, so you better hope you don’t fall off!!” And there they went, the new acquaintance forced to cling to the smaller. ... It wouldn’t be long before the semi-organic being to find someplace, landing right in front of a fancy looking museum...full of glittering gems. “Aaaaand, we’re here!!!” “But it’s past midnight, I cannot take anything past that ti-” “Shhhshshshshshshshhhhh!!!! Shut!!!! Shut. We’re gonna go in there and take whatever’s in there that looks neat!” “W-We are not! You can, if you’d like!” And, as if they didn’t even hear what the thief had said, Borg had already busted a window out! “We are going in!!! No ifs, ands, or buts!!!” And like that, they would drag the other in.

Within the dim lights that creeped in from the windows, the gems cast in deep navy hues still retained some of the shine that they had in broad daylight. Soft glints of the rainbow would seep out just as much, and yet... it failed to attract Roguefort’s gaze. There was a huff from the metallic one, glancing around. “Why won’t you take any of this?” “I’m not supposed to.” “But doesn’t it look nice?” “...That is not for me to discern.” “UGH!! Stop being so...husk-y!” They would’ve thrown their hands up in the air in frustration, but their blaster arm hit a glass casing, shattering it at once. It made the thief perk up, their gaze darting to the loud noise. Seeing the glass falling to pieces, they remained motionless until all was still again. Borg glanced at the open case, taking what was inside. Not like themself, so it was just another thing to add to the list!! “See? It’s neat! And they all look nice, as well!” They held one of the gems in their mitten, offering it to the phantom, only to realize they had already turned away. Well... If they were going to be so stubborn, they would remain here! They would remain until Roguefort took something of value!! And until then, the half-bot would indulge in breaking whatever they could! One, after another, after another, again, again!!! So many loud noises that got the taller to at least look at all there was. So much destruction, so much to gain, and... and yet, they couldn’t!! They couldn’t just take any of them...could they?

Yet, at one particular encasement, they couldn’t carry themself another step without gazing through it, straight at the tiny...tiny rocks. So insignificant, yet... They still felt drawn in...why? “Gems are a lot more expensive than paintings, Y’know...” The suddenness of Borg’s voice startled them, a soft “eep” garnered from them. “Ah...they are?” “Always have been!” They giggled, gently pushing the thief towards the glass. “Look at them!! I told you, they’re so neat!!! Wouldn’t you like some?” “They...They’re not art.” “Yeah they are! Someone had to take the time to cut them properly so they look like teenie pieces of art! The rarity of them just makes them that much more valuable! It’s not that bad of a thing to take, huh?” Borg watched the phantom simply stare at what was before them...conflicted. This... This couldn’t be correct...but then...why did they have such an urge to take them...?? Roguefort felt themself tense up, clenching a hand into a fist. There...There was no reason for them to have such conflicting thoughts, so why...? “Are you certain they’re art?” “Mhm!! Yep! But!!! You need to learn to do things only if you like it enough! If you don’t... you’ll never truly know what fun is!” “Fun...?” What a childish way to phrase it, but... yet... it was that concept that allowed them to reel that arm back, and in a fluid motion, shattered the glass into thousands of glittering shards, their eyes glued to how pretty the scene before them looked... and the fact their hand trembled as they registered the wounds opened from the just as equally sharp objects. H-Hah...such pain was something they’ve never felt... it made them feel oddly alive... “Rougey? Are you alright?” “...I’m just fine, a few scrapes would never hurt a thief.” And, with the smallest of smiles, several jewels would slip right into Fort’s hands.

#cookie run au #cookie run #Written by Yours Truly #Rogue.fort #cy.borg #Why aren't they acting PROPERLY? UGHHHH #What an annoyance!!! A.loe will be upon you both soo-#...hm...? What's this...?

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chickensarentcheap · 4 years

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Best Part of Me- Chapter 40

WARNINGS: SMUT. NSFW

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007, @ocfairygodmother

He wakes to the sound of rain and rolling thunder and the crashing of the waves as they pummel the shore. The storm has brought much cooler conditions; a much needed break from the oppressive heat and humidity that has blanketed Australia for weeks. The wind is strong; bringing with it the heavy smell of salt, the sound of rustling trees and the fluttering of curtains and the shuddering of windows. For several minutes he stays where he is; comfortable and content, flat on his back with his closed and a forearm resting across his forehead. Listening to the sounds of the storm and the soft, slow breathing coming from the warm, sleeping figure beside him. On her stomach with the comforter pulled up to the tops of her ears and and her feet sticking up at the bottom; her face turned towards him and her hair messy and falling over her eyes.

Last night had been one of his better nights for sleep. Drifting off shortly after they’d made love for a second time; not hampered by pain in the shoulder or knee and waking up only once with the baby for a middle of the night feed. There’d been no dreams, thankfully. No vivid recollections of being a kid hiding in his bedroom closet, listening to his father beat on his mother. No visions of Austin -as a child or an adult- and Millie on the beach. No sounds of gunfire and explosions or the feel of a sniper’s bullet ripping through his back. Just a peaceful, deep sleep the likes of which he hasn’t experienced in years. At least not without the aid of a lot of booze and a handful of Oxy.

Esme stirs beside him; mumbling in her sleep and then rubbing her cheek against her pillow; a hand blindly reaching out for him and coming to rest on his collarbone. Counting the five days in Dhaka -and not including the months he’d spent in the hospital- they’ve been sharing a bed for seven years, yet he still spends a handful of minutes every morning watching as she sleeps. There’s something different about her beauty when she’s at rest; when her features are softer and no worry creases her brow and there’s always a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She seems more innocent. Fragile, even. As if the purity and the youthfulness returns with the temporary banishment of stress and turmoil.

He moves onto his side, the movement causing her hand to slip from his collarbone and down onto his chest. Her eyes never opening or even twitching when he uses a fingertip to clear the hair away from her forehead, gently tucking it behind her ear. He’d always struggled with moments like these; even after it had become clear that he was in love with her and they’d gotten married and started a family. Always anxious...even self conscious...about allowing him to show that level of affection. To let his guard down and be vulnerable. Emotional, even. Years of having it drilled into his head that that isn’t how a man -a real man- behaves; they don’t allow themselves to be ‘soft’. Slowly she’d chipped away at the particular wall he’d built around himself, and over the course of their first year together he’d changed considerably; realizing it was okay to allow him to ‘feel’. That sometimes it was okay to think -and react- with just your heart.

Millie’s birth had been the tipping point; breaking down in front of the doctor and nurses when his baby girl was placed in his arms for the first time. After that he’d no longer felt the need to hold back; comfortable with both saying -and showing- what he’s feeling. His wife is the only one he truly trusts. Without question or hesitation. Not just with his life, but his heart. Knowing that she won’t judge him for his weaker moments; not seeing him as ‘less of a man’ if he shows even the slightest bit of vulnerability. And not once causing him to question her faithfulness. Sarah had fucked him up; the constant lying and cheating. And he’s never thought he’d ever put that kind of trust and loyalty into another woman again.

He leans in to place his lips on her brow, then presses a series of feathery kisses against her face; over her eyebrows and against both eyes, down the bridge of her nose, across her cheeks and along her jaw. Their talk last night has unnerved him; forcing him to think about all the time he’s taking HER presence for granted. Those night he didn’t kiss her goodnight because she’d pissed him off about something stupid and trivial, the times he’d left the house following an argument and didn’t tell her that he loved her. Or when he’d let physical pain and and his PTSD issues get the better of him and he’d been irritable and off hand with her. And there’s so many little things that he’d miss if they suddenly ceased to exist. Her laugh and the sound of her voice and the little she gives when he wakes her up after she’s fallen asleep on the couch with her head in his lap. The familiar scent that clings to her hair and how soft and warm her hands always feel against his body; the way she always stands on the top of his feet to hug him because she truly believes that even that little bit of extra height makes a difference. And he can’t help but wonder if she ever feels that he’s taken her for granted; if he’s ever given her a reason to doubt just how much he appreciates her.

How much he loves her.

There’s so much uncertainty now; knowing there’s targets on their backs -more so his- and that legitimate threats have already been made. Even he can’t stop thinking about the ‘what ifs’. If something does go horribly wrong and he doesn’t make it home., Or worse yet, if Mahajan’s people do manage to get close enough that he loses her. He knows he wouldn’t be able to do it; raise five kids on his own. He’d be a broken man; turning back to alcohol and pain meds to numb the overwhelming pain and the agony of tremendous loss. He’d been broken; nothing more than a shell of his former self. And then he’d lose his kids too.

His lips press against hers and he feels her smile against her mouth; her hand sliding up his chest and over the side of his head and up onto the back of his head; fingers in his hair as she responds to the kiss. Long and slow and soft, followed by several light pecks and the exchange of sleepy smiles.

“I’m cold,” she murmurs, and slides closer to him; chest pressed against his and her head tucked under his chin.

“I got you,” he says, draping a leg over hers and then wrapping both arms around her; as tight as she can possibly stand.

“That’s better,” she says, and he can feel her smile against his throat.

“You good?”

“Yeah…” she gives a content sigh. “...you’re so warm and you smell so good.”

“Haven’t showered since last night.”

“You smell like you. Like Tyler. And there’s no better smell in the world than that. You smell like a man. MY man.”

“All yours baby. I’m all yours.”

She smiles again and he feels the tickle of her lashes against his skin when she closes her eyes. Her hand settling briefly on his hip before sliding up over his rib cage and around to his back. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Pretty early, I think. Kids are still asleep.”

“Did you get up with the baby last night?”

“Just once. Around two. She’s been sleeping since.”

“She’s growing up.”

He grins. “She’s not even a month old yet and six pounds soaking wet.”

“She’s starting to change. She’s only getting up once a night now. And she’s getting longer and heavier. Maybe the newborn clothes will actually fit soon.”

“Maybe. She’s still a tiny little thing. I’m still afraid of hurting her when I pick her up. I’m not used to one THAT small.”

“You’re a good daddy. A VERY good daddy. You know what you’re doing. Did you sleep good?”

“I did, actually, No dreams.”

“That’s good,” she presses a kiss to his Adam’s apple. “I had a dream.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

Tyler grins. “Oh really…”

“Not THAT kind of dream. And not a Dhaka dream, either. Just a nice, somewhat normal dream.”

“Somewhat normal?”

“We met in a grocery store. In the produce section. And you had your old haircut and you were barefoot and you had on these low riding shorts and no shirt. I was buying cantaloupe and I had one in each hand and you said ‘nice melons’.”

He can’t but laugh at that, which in turn has her bursting into giggles.

“It was so cheesy but so charming at the same time. Because you said in that voice and with your accent and that makes everything that comes out of your mouth sound so sexy. So yeah...you said ‘nice melons’...and I gave you my phone number and that was it. We would have had crazy hot sex but you woke me up before things could get that far.”

“Why just dream about it when you can actually do it?”

“We had crazy hot sex twice last night.” She reminds him.

“There’s a rule we can’t have it in the morning too?”

“There’s no rule. But….”

“No buts. I don’t want to hear any buts. Only but I care about is this one..” his hands tightly grip her ass, fingers digging through the fabric of her pajama bottoms and into the soft, supple flesh. Pulling the bottom half of her body against his and letting her feel the state of his morning arousal.

She grins. “Almost forty one and you still wake up like that.”

“I’m a guy. I’ll wake up like this ‘til the day I die.”

“The kids are going to be up soon,” she says, but doesn’t protest when he reaches between them to undo the drawstring at the waist of her cotton bottoms..

“I’ll be quick,” he promises, as he sits back on his heels and yanks the pants down and off her legs, leaving them at the bottom of the bed.

“If I was to suggest that, you'd be offended.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do, yeah?”

“You’re very needy lately,” she teases.

“I have my reasons..”

He doesn’t want to tell her how scared he is. That he’s ’s fully aware of just HOW dangerous and complicated it will be going into Mumbai. Mahajan has placed an enormous bounty on his head, and his reach and influence extend far beyond what Amir Asif had had in Dhaka. He may be able to get away with killing off two of three of Mahajan’s ‘people’, but after that it would be open season on him; Mahajan will know exactly who is behind the kills and in turn will order for things to escalate. It will be hard to get around Mumbai without being spotted. And it won’t matter how many people he brings with him. The target on his back will only grow bigger.

“And what reasons are those?” she asks.

“Ever thought maybe I just love you? That I like having sex with my wife?”

“I think you’re very lucky to have a wife that loves you back and also likes having sex with you. And puts out as much as she does.”

“I definitely don’t take any of that for granted, trust me.”

He places a kiss to the inside of one thigh, then the other; palms on her knees as he pushes her legs further apart. Lips pressing against each juncture of where thigh meets hip, then moving up her body; hands lifting the bottom of her t-shirt. Pace quicker than the night before as he kisses, licks, and sucks all the way to her mouth. Tongue impatiently pushing past her teeth; calloused palms cupping and massaging her breasts, strong fingers plucking and toying with the painfully hard nipples.

“Get on top,” Tyler gently orders, gripping her hips as he rolls onto his back; one hand moving down to her ass while the other slips up the front of her t-shirt to fondle her breasts.

“You giving up control?” Esme grins, as she kneels between his splayed thighs. “This doesn’t happen often.”

“You better enjoy it while you can. Might be another seven years before it happens again.”

“We’ll see about that.” Her fingers hook in the waistband of his boxers, tips soft and teasing as they glide against his skin as she pulls them down. Grinning..almost victoriously...as a hiss escapes his lips when her nails dig painfully into the cheeks of his ass. “What?” she teases. “All of a sudden Tyler Rake can’t handle a little bit of pain? You of all people?”

“I’m about five seconds away from throwing you down and spanking your ass.”

“Promises, promises.” She leans down to place a trail of kisses along his pubic bone and then lower; lips grazing against the inside of one thigh before sucking and biting at the flesh. “You’re so beautiful,” she breathes, and bite down particularly hard on one spot, causing him to flinch. “...so...so...so beautiful…” She speaks between kisses to the juncture between hip and thigh, tips of her fingers skimming along one side of his cock. A sly grin on her face and her eyes locked on his when she swipes her thumb across the head and proceeds to lick off the precum.

“Get up here.” he breathlessly demands.

“You don’t want me to..”

“I said get up here,” he orders, pushing a hand through her hair and dripping tightly, gently yanking at it and urging her to do as she’s told.

“You’re very bossy this morning.” she chides, her eyes focused on his wide, dilated pupils and flushed cheeks and the sweat that glistens on his forehead. Her top teeth digging into her bottom lip as his fingers bite into her hips as he assists her in straddling him; sighing as she feels his length running along her slick folds.

“Just shut up and fuck me,” he growls, a low groan rumbling deep within his chest when her hand wraps around his cock to position it at her entrance. Hands moving from her hips to her ass; tightly gripping it as she lowers herself onto him, both of her hands on his chest for support. His eyes closing and his head tipping back at the sensation; her tightness and her moist heat. It’s so familiar yet still feels incredible each and every time he gets the chance to be inside of her.

“So good…” she whimpers, his face in her hands as she leans down to kiss him; breasts flattened against him, one of his hands sliding over her ass and up underneath the back of her shirt. “..you feel so good, Tyler. You’ve always felt so good.”

He grips her ass painfully tight and his short nails rake against her back as he slips his tongue past her teeth; the kiss hungry and aggressive as his hips lift off the bed, pushing further inside of her. And she gasps into his mouth, the feeling of him being so deep inside of her is almost overwhelming and too much to take; filling her like no man before him ever had. He moves his hands from her back to her front; palms cradling and fondling her breasts and fingers teasing and playing with her nipples as she begins to move. Slowly and patiently rocking into him at first; eyes never leaving us, her hands planted firmly on his chest. Tyler can’t stop watching her; transfixed by those hooded eyes and her flushed cheeks and the way her hands tumbles down the sides of her face and over her shoulders. And he groans when she allows his cock to slip completely out of her, only for her to sink back down again in one quick movement. His hands becoming rougher as her movements pick up pace; squeezing and pawing at her breasts, pinching and pulling at the sensitive nipples. Knowing exactly what she needs...what she wants..to bring her closer to the edge.

“Tyler…” she whispers, head falling onto his shoulder, nails dragging down his side. “...make me come...please make me come.”

“Look at me,” he manages through harsh, ragged breaths. “I want you to look at me. I want to watch you come.”

Her head lifts and her eyes flicker open; a slight blush creeps into her already flushed cheeks.

“Don’t be embarrassed, babe,” he says. “Never be embarrassed with me. Keep your eyes open and look at me the whole time.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. It’s okay. I love you and there’s no reason for you to ever be embarrassed with me.” He reaches up to cradle the side of her face in his palm, lifting his hips to encourage her to keep moving. “It’s okay, Esme,” his tone is gentle. Soothing. “I got you.”

His confidence in her sparks her own. Her chest heaving and soft, breathy sighs and moans begin to tumble from her lips as she rides him harder and faster. His one hand still on the side of her face; soft and loving, his thumb caressing her cheek and under her eyes and brushes over her lips and chin. A startling contrast to his other hand; rough and aggressive against her skin.

“You close?” he asks, and when she manages a feeble nod, he removes his hand from under her shirt and places his palm against her lower stomach; thumb pushing through her folds and finding her clit. Pressing against it and firmly rubbing at it until she’s coming undone. Her eyes dark and wild and her face flushed, entire body trembling; his name leaving her lips in a strangle cry as she struggles to keep the volume down. “You’re so beautiful,” he praises. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come.”

He gathers her in both arms and pulls her down into him; kissing her deeply as his body takes over; those few trusts rough and punishing as he loses control. Her name and a slew of profanities slipping from his mouth as he empties himself deep inside of her. And her body goes completely slack against his; her face buried in the space between his neck and shoulder. His heavy, uneven breath tickling her skin and fluttering her hair.

“I love you,” he breathes. “I love you so much and I don’t want to lose you.”

“I love you, Tyler,” she says in return, lips against the side of his neck. “Tell me it’s going to be okay. That WE’RE going to be okay.”

“We’re going to be fine.” he assures her, and presses a kiss to her sweaty forehead. “I promise.”

****

Addie is the first to wake; her incessant crying filtering through the baby monitor speaker that’s kept in the nightstand next to his side of the bed. Groaning loudly, he untangles himself from a mixture of sweaty limbs and sweat dampened sheets. Careful not to wake his wife as he gingerly removes both her arm and head from his chest; gently placing the latter upon her pillow before sliding out of bed. Wincing when the simple act of pulling on a pair of sweats causes immediate pain in the small of his back. The arthritis is getting worse; a deep ache that seems to travel straight through into the bone. No amount of over the counter medication takes the edge off anymore, and he briefly considers trying to hunt down someone...anyone..that can get him something strong. Not necessarily Oxy; he’s determined to NOT go down that road again. But something at least equivalent to it. The doctor will be of no help; his addiction no secret.

All thoughts of pain meds and other vices disappear when he hears the rustling of sheets and Esme's soft voice behind him.

“Tyler…” she lifts her head from her pillow; so cute when her hair is messy and she’s completely disoriented. “...do you want me to get her?”

“I’m already on it. Go back to sleep, baby.”

He waits by the side of the bed until she settles and proceeds to draw the comforter up past her shoulders; tucking it tightly around her and then placing a kiss to her cheek before leaving the room.

***

Ovi sits at the kitchen table; hair mussed and eyes blurry, a massive bowl of Lucky Charms cereal and a glass of orange juice in front of him. And he manages a smile that comes across as pained and miserable.

Tyler knows a wicked hangover when he sees it.

“You look like shit,'' he comments, Addie laying stomach down along one of his forearms as he grabs a bottle of formula from the fridge. It’s been almost six years of daddy duty and things are routine now; able to do them in his sleep if he had to. Boiling water in the kettle and pouring it into a measuring cup and letting the bottle sit in it for no less than a minute.

Even at three weeks she’s incredibly picky. And demanding. Already taking after her older sister.

“I FEEL like shit,” Ovi grumbles.

“You were already pretty trashed when I stopped by. Did you give up after that or…”

“Drank until I puked. Then drank some more.”

“I remember those days,” Tyler smirks. “Trust me when I say no pussy is worth that.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if Esme left you,” Ovi counters. “You’d probably go on a week-long bender.”

“Probably a month. If not more. But there’s a huge difference. That’s my wife. Not just some girl I’m playing house with. Little worse I think if my wife and mother of my kids took off.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. She’s never going to leave you. No matter how bad you fuck up. All the times you messed up and she still sticks around. She even took you back when shit got really bad. For some reason.”

“Maybe because she’s a grown ass woman and not some little girl. Maybe because she actually loves me. And maybe because three years and three kids with one another means a hell of a lot more than the six months you spent with Chloe. Don’t even compare the two, mate. They’re not even close. Alright, calm down,” he addresses Addie now, as he plucks the bottle from the boiled water and vigorously shakes it; dripping some of the formula into his mouth to test the temperature. “It’s coming, I promise, Don’t freak out now. Don’t be such a drama queen. You’re not gonna starve. You’re getting more like Millie every day.”

“Knee?” Ovi asks, noticing the wince and the sharp intake of breath when Tyler sinks into the chair across from him.

“Knee. Back. My whole fucking body.” He adjusts Addie’s position on his arm; laying her on her back with her head tucked into the crook of his elbow, then offering her the bottle. A smile curving his lips as he looks down at her; those huge dark eyes focused intently on him, her hand coming up to rest on his and her entire fist closing around one of his fingers. It’s been three weeks and he still can’t get over just how small she is; much daintier and more fragile than all the others had been.

“Daddy’s girl already,” Ovi remarks.

“I think so. Her big sister must be rubbing off on her.”

“It’s always a little weird when I see you doing dad things,” Ovi admits. “Even after all this time. Because I still remember what you were like in Dhaka. And then I see you like this...with a baby...especially a little girl..and it doesn’t seem like those two guys are even the same person.”

“‘Cause they’re not. I’m not the same person I was back then. Far from it.”

“Maybe not in some ways. But in other ways you still are. You’re still Tyler.”

“Old Tyler, new Tyler,” he muses. “That’s what Esme calls them. I like to think I’m more new Tyler, but to be honest, these days I’m not so sure anymore. I’m starting to feel more and more like the old one again. And I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

“Getting back into the job, you mean?”

“It’s gone way past just getting back into the job and starting my own business. We’re so far past that.”

Ovi’s head cocks to the side, a quizzical look on his face.

“When were you going to tell me about your old man?” Tyler asks. “That you’ve been talking to him?”

The younger man’s eyes widen in surprise. Maybe even a little fear.

“You weren't going to tell me, were you. You had no intention of telling me.”

“I thought I could handle things,” Ovi feebly explains.

“On your own?”

He nods.

“Didn’t handle things so well seven years ago, did you? When you were so scared you pissed your pants. When you shot Gaspar and cried to me about wanting me to go home. You know who put you in that mess? Who put ME in it? Who got Esme mixed up in it? Your old man. That’s how much he loves you and respects you. Couldn’t even stay on the straight and narrow for his own kid.”

“I know that. I know ALL of that. I know what kind of person he is.”

“Wouldn’t take no for an answer, would he. No matter how many times you said it. He can’t handle the fact that you want nothing to do with him or his business.”

“I DON’T want anything to do with it. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I want to be.”

Tyler’s eyes remained focused on the baby happily feeding; her gaze still on him, her fist holding his finger as tightly as it can. He knows he can stay calm if he just looks at her; at that dark hair and the look of trust and adoration she has for him. Even the purple, pink, and yellow stripes on her sleeper. If he concentrates on all of that, he knows he can keep it together.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

“I didn’t want you getting involved,” Ovi replies. “There were so many other things going on. Esme was just getting ready to have the baby and things were stressful and you were worried about them and…”

“You should have told me,” Tyler insists. “We could have stopped it before it got as far as it has. Did he threaten me too? Did he say anything? About me? About my wife and my kids?”

“How do you know all of this? How…?”

“Did he? Mention my wife and kids?”

“He was angry, That I wouldn't go back to Mumbai and take things over. He blamed it on you. Said that you had brainwashed me into into hating him. Into disrespecting him. And that if you weren't careful, you’d pay for it. Because he knows how to hurt a man where it hurts the most.”

“He say anything else about them? About my family?”

“Just that if you didn’t watch your step, they’d be the ones to pay the price.”

Tyler gives a derisive snort and shakes his head. “And you didn’t think it was a good idea to tell me this? That he was threatening my wife and my kids?”

“I thought I could handle it another way. That I could get into the job and then I’d be able to protect myself. And you guys, My family.”

“That is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. You’re a kid.”

“I’m twenty,” Ovi argues.

“You’re a kid,” Tyler stresses. “That is my wife and my kids your old man is threatening. And I would do anything to protect them. No question asked. And you didn’t think it was a good idea to tell me about all of this?”

“I thought I could handle it. Especially once Nik got on board and…”

“Oh fuck Nik,” Tyler snarls. “Who gives a shit about Nik. This is my family your father’s threatening. Not Nik’s. And you should have told me. Not her. Because now the shit is really hitting the fan and things are fucked up and if anyone gets near Esme and my kid because of your old man…”

“I think it’s just threats. Harmless one. To scare you.”

“There’s nothing harmless about them. They’re legit. They’re the real deal. You know the next door neighbour?”

“Salena? What about her? What…?”

“Her name isn’t Salena. It’s Allison. Allison Rav.”

Ovi frowns. “She’s related to Saju? How?”

“She was married to his youngest brother. They started a private security company. To honour Saju and the absolute fucking disaster he got dragged into. Your father threatened his family, too. Did you know that?”

Ovi nods.

“Seems to be his thing. Threatening a man’s family. Seven years later and he’s still after Neysa and Aarav.”

“What? Why?”

“Revenge. Saju didn’t complete his mission. Not all of it, anyway. And now her and the kid are in hiding and your old man’s people can’t find them. They’re pissed. So guess who they’re going to take it out on?”

“You?”

“Not just me, mate. Esme, The kids. It could be today, it could be tomorrow. Could be a week. Maybe even a month from now. I’ve got a big fucking target on my back and they’re going to come for my family first. Because they know that will break me. They know my family is my weakness. And they won’t stop until my wife and my kids are dead.”

“So what are you going to do?” Ovi asks. “What…?”

“It’s what WE’RE going to do. Me and you and Nathan. That ex Marine I told you about. We’re going to Mumbai.”

“No,” Ovi vigorously shakes his head. “No. I’m not going there. I’m not going back. I won’t go there.”

“You ARE going. Even if I have to drag your ass onto the plane. You let things get this far. It didn’t need to get worse. If you'd told me right from the start, I could have stopped things before they got worse. But now it’s a regular goddamn dumpster fire. You got me into this mess, you’re going to help get me out of it. Understand me?”

“I can’t,” Ovi insists. “I can’t go there. I can’t.”

“You’re going. There’s no way out of this. You fucked up. You put my wife and my kids in danger. You put this target on my back. Now you’re going to help straighten this shit out. You think I’m just going to sit back and let these people come here? Think I’m just going to wait for them? Fuck that. I’m going to hunt them down. Every single last one. And I’m going to put a bullet in each of their heads. And your old man is the last one on my list.”

Ovi blinks. “You’re going to kill him?”

“You going to stand in my way?” Tyler retorts. “Because if you even try to stop me…”

His voice trails off at the sound of little feet rushing down the stairs. Accompanied by boisterous chattering and giggling from the three oldest and Declan’s broken speech and ear piercing shrieks; a tired sounding Esme begging them ‘turn it down a notch,” And soon they’re flooding into the kitchen; little arms wrapping around his neck and kisses being pressed to his cheeks and their ‘good morning daddy’ in those tiny voices. Always happy to see him. Even if it’s only been ten hours since he tucked them into bed. Always trusting that he’ll be there. Never worrying they’ll come downstairs and find his chair empty.

“Good morning.” Esme places her hands on his shoulder and kisses his temple. “Everything okay? You guys look pretty serious.”

“Just having a little chat,” Tyler says. “About what we talked about last night.”

“Not right now, please, Not with the kids here. They don’t know about any of this. Normal, remember? We need to keep things normal for them.”

He nods in agreement, and she pecks his cheek and tousles his hair before heading to help the kids with preparing the Sunday morning family breakfast.

“You won’t stop me,” Tyler says to Ovi. Voice low. Menacing. “You CAN’T stop me. And if you know what’s good for you, you won’t even try.”

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction #best part of me #chris hemsworth character

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