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divine-mistake · 3 years

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this is our last stop, love — one.

Everyone knows you don’t leave the Organization. No one wants to anyway—until they do. Assassin AU.

Characters: Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), mentions of death, guns, violence, mentions of suicide

Word Count: 3408

A/N: It's finally here! My baby is finally here!

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3 | PLAYLIST

the place you exist you never call home, did you know that?

"More than anything, I want you to know that I love you. And I’m sorry."

The only beautiful thing about Neon City is that it’s lawless.

I’ve seen Neon City from the highest floor of the tallest skyscraper and I’ve seen it from the sewers so far underground you think you’ll suffocate, and this city looks the same from every single angle.

Fluorescent and dirty and lawless.

From up here, on the darkened roof of a crumbling hostel that’s been abandoned by everyone but the squatters ‘cause the walls have sucked up so many blood stains and bullet holes they’re threatening to collapse, the city looks exactly like that. The bright lights of Upperside pulse with every single color the universe could have created, tinting the darkness of the night like a kaleidoscope. Even on the eighteenth story, the thumping bass from the strip of clubs just a street over shakes the foundation underneath my feet.

Peering through the scope of the sniper positioned on the roof’s ledge, I zoom in on the street corner at the left-hand side of my vision with a lazy twist of my wrist. Two women, one with hair as dark as night that streams down her back like a river, the other with a short, platinum-dyed spiky cut, smoke rolled cigarettes. They’re dressed to the Neon City nines: a leather corset underneath a metallic jumpsuit unzipped below her belly button and a slinky dress paired with a buckled harness and knee-high platform boots. Leaning against a grimy street lamp with a busted bulb, it isn’t long before a man dressed in a white fur coat shows up, throws his arms around them, and walks them toward the nearest club.

When he adjusts his coat, it lifts just enough to reveal the assault rifle hanging from a shoulder strap. There’s a pistol just above the hem of the dark-haired girl’s dress, strapped to her thigh, only visible by the faint outline in the silk. I don’t even want to guess how much heat the other chick is packing; that hideous jumpsuit she’s got on is loose enough to hide an arsenal without suspicion.

In the distance, all the way from the Kill Zone, a rapture of gunshots goes off just louder than the EDM pouring from the strip. Or maybe it’s quieter down on the streets, air hazy with cloven smoke and threat of death. Maybe no one gives a fuck.

The ugly thing about Neon City is that it only has one law.

No one leaves Neon City. At least not alive.

A weak vibration against the inside of my left wrist, right above my pulse point, steals my eye from the scope. Fifteen minutes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing this?” I sit back on my haunches to glance at my partner.

“Why?” He’s laying flat on the roof, boots crossed at the ankle and an arm thrown over his eyes, not a care in the world. A prickling of annoyance makes its presence known at the back of my neck—not the first of the evening and certainly, definitely, unfortunately not the last.

“‘Cause you’re the sniper?” I hiss, but he only laughs quietly in response. The sleek black cuff that bumps against my radius flickers to life with one tap of my finger, an interface made of light projecting itself upon my forearm to show the countdown. Thirteen minutes.

“The World’s Best Sniper,” he corrects, sitting up with a grunt. His legs are sprawled over the dirty ground, black combat pants picking up a coating of dust that’s collected on the roof for what must’ve been ages.

I purse my lips. “World’s Laziest Sniper, you mean.”

“Hey, I resent that.” The heavy soles of his boots crunch gravel and grit beneath them, a grating sound, as he shifts over and bumps me out of the way. “Move.”

“Oh, now you want to do your job?”

Bucky doesn’t reply and it should make me feel better, but it only serves to annoy me further. I fold my legs underneath me and sit back to stare at the building across from us, the one he’s busy scoping out now, letting the irritation simmer through my veins as the cool air of the night rolls over my skin like toxic gas. The black stealth suit glued to my skin does nothing to keep the freezing air from chilling my bones. I envy Bucky’s tactical suit, the combat vest hugging his chest with all its bulletproof padding.

Not that it’s cold enough outside to hurt. Neon City is so alive with masses of squirming, sweaty bodies and drugs and guns and lights and music that I swear the air is always ten degrees hotter than it should be. I don’t even think the dead bodies stick around long enough to grow cold.

The buzz on the inside of my wrist alerts me.

“Ten minutes,” I say.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“How long have you known that?” I pick grit out from underneath my fingernails idly.

“Since the day I met you,” he mutters back. “When they told me you were my new partner, I almost choked one of the Exec’s out.”

I snort. “Which Executive?”

He doesn’t even glance over at me. “Not tellin’ you, snitch.”

My teeth grind together. He’s said it so easy, nonchalantly, like a joke, but it strikes a nerve in me that turns those prickles of annoyance into something more aggressive. Something that heats my blood. I’m not a snitch.

But everyone thinks I’m a little goody-two-shoes just ‘cause I’m on Pierce’s good side.

I take a deep breath and ignore him. “The mark is coming from Black Mamba—he’ll be here soon.” With a quick turn of my wrist, I check the time. “Eight minutes.”

“He own the place?” Bucky asks, twisting the scope and centering it on the fourteenth floor of the apartment building in front of us. The mark will arrive from the left side of the complex, just off the elevator, where the landing is lit with a soft yellow light. The glass windows give Bucky a perfect shot.

“Dunno,” I tell him honestly. “I didn’t read the file.”

Bucky’s head snaps back to look at me. “What?”

I recoil, eyes narrowing. “What?” I mimic. “What’s your problem?”

“You didn’t read the file? And you’re calling me lazy?”

“Calm down.” I wave him off, but he doesn’t turn away from staring at me, his eyes narrowed into a glare. “I read enough of his file to know when and where and how he’s arriving, as usual, so don’t get your panties in a twist. You do your job, I’ll do mine. As usual.”

It’s like I can hear the blood vessels in his neck pop and burst as his jaw tightens.

“Your job is to read the dossier,” he grits through clenched teeth. “The whole dossier. On every single mark.”

A new surge of anger rushes through me, drowning out the loud cacophony of the city beneath us. My fingers twitch and flex, heat pooling in my palms like an itch that needs scratching. Bucky Barnes, out of all people, shouldn’t be sitting here treating me like a goddamn child. Calling me annoying, calling me a snitch, calling me out for not wanting to read a full case file on a man who deserves to die.

I have to twist my fingers in the thin material of my stealth suit to keep my hands busy.

“I don’t need to know a single thing about these marks besides how to kill them,” I say, voice low, and Bucky presses his lips together. “He’s on our list for a reason. I don’t need, nor want, to know why.”

Bucky scoffs, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “You really don’t want to know what he’s done to get the Org’s attention? To get a contract?”

The image of the stacks of files piling up on Pierce’s desk, threatening to fall over and collapse, worms its way into my head. Only a week ago I had seen the brown folders collecting in his office, strewn about his shelves, all filled with names and numbers and photos of people who need to be eliminated.

They’re all bad. I’m not going to sit around and read a dossier about what they’ve done; whose blood stains their hands for money or for fame or for shits and giggles and fucks. If Bucky wants his reading material to be covered in a thorough coating of Neon City squick, then by all means, he can read their files.

Not me, though. I just need to know how to kill them.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t want to know.”

He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in me, and his eyes fall on the apartment complex again. “Part of our job is reading those dossiers, y’know.”

Embarrassment spreads through me, the heat of an anger that threatens to boil over flooding my synapses. It’s like he’s scolding me. Like he’s insinuating that I can’t—that I’m not doing my job right. It makes my palms start itching again so bad that I curl my fingers into a tight, shaking fist.

“The only people who read the full files are the ones who don’t trust the Organization,” I snap, and Bucky’s neck nearly breaks from the speed at which he turns to look at me.

Like you, I let go unsaid.

From far away, but still close enough to send a shiver up my spine, the rattle of Neon City’s train tracks hits me as the cars speed past Upperside, never slowing, never stopping. If I look off into the distance, peer down past the rest of the skyscrapers blocking the view, I bet I could see it making its rounds, a black bullet rocketing through the brightly-lit city night, its horn never braying.

The black band on my wrist vibrates. “Three minutes.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, and stares at me. His eyes look black tonight. With another shake of his head—in disappointment or frustration, I’m not sure—he pulls his goggles down from his hairline and sets them in place as he looks away from me. He palms his sniper rifle, back to adjusting the scope, and my hands are still shaky with a fury I didn’t think would rupture from inside me tonight.

“I don’t get how we’ve worked together for years and I never knew you didn’t read the files,” he grunts.

“‘Cause we’re killers,” I spit, “not Birdies. I don’t need to sit and read a dossier to know how to kill a man.”

He snorts. “Not Birdies,” Bucky mutters sardonically. “As if we don’t skirt the law the same way they all do.”

That’s the problem with being lawless. All the gray. Bucky might think we’re like the Birdies—the cops and the corpos and the politicians who walk around like they’re untouchable, like they’ve got a Get Out of Jail Free card in their pocket—but Neon City doesn’t have laws for people like us. All Neon City’s got is a morality scale weighted by cash. Neon City doesn’t care about the Organization.

‘Cause the Organization is who’s really in charge of this city. We’re the ones who keep the streets clean of Birdies, like tonight’s mark, for the right price.

“That’s him,” I say, nodding my head at the black car that just pulled up to the front of the apartment complex, disappearing around the corner we can’t see from our angle. “One minute.”

“Damn, you’re annoying,” Bucky says again, and he pulls his mask up from where it hangs around his neck, covering the rest of his face.

“Shut up and do your fucking job.”

Everything goes quiet and I shift forward, laying flat on my stomach beside Bucky. About the only time that he ever goes quiet is when he’s behind a scope—my favorite place to have him. In the darkness, Bucky looks like nothing more than a shadow. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark mask. But in the artificial highlights of Neon City, I could almost paint him as a god, with streaks of bright, holocene colors slicking through his hair like an oil spill.

He looks like a killer. A Neon City native.

But I guess I am too, since I’m right here next to him.

There’s only the slight squeak of the scope that Bucky adjusts and adjusts and fucking adjusts, whether in nervousness or in necessity, and the hammering of my heart as we watch the apartment complex from our vantage point. Bucky can probably see the numbers on the elevator as they light up, signaling our mark’s arrival. I don’t get much special equipment like he does with his sniper’s visor. All I have is my C-Link wrapped tight around my wrist as it buzzes with alerts. Infiltrators never get much—occupational hazards and all that. The Org never knows how long an infiltrator will last.

And even after a decade of doing this, of lying prone on rooftops watching Bucky aim for a mark’s forehead, of dressing in a disguise that isn’t my own to sit on the lap of a greasy-haired gang leader with rings on each finger, of slipping poison in my own drink and hoping its effects won’t just take my target—

Even after all these years, I still get nervous before the kill.

“Thirty seconds,” I murmur under the cacophony of Neon city and the twisting of Bucky’s scope, more for myself than for him.

“Can you stop staring at me?” he answers back, and a spark of irritation shoots up my arms like my nerves are on fire.

“I’m not staring at you anymore,” I hiss. “Please, for the love of god, concentrate.”

His voice is smug. “So you admit you were staring at me?”

“God no.”

Then, suddenly silence drapes itself upon us like a cold, tense air as the mark steps off the elevator Bucky has been watching. The bodyguard who flanks him is too relaxed, moving too languidly, and I can tell, even from a distance, that he barely glances out the big glass windows that we use to peek into their lives like a little kid pressing their face to a fishbowl.

A mistake like that is fatal.

“Count me in, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and I can’t help but scoff.

“A second ago you were telling me that it was annoying.” My eyes track the position of the mark as he speaks to someone—another one of his guards—on the landing just outside his apartment.

“I changed my mind. C’mon, doll, for good luck.”

“Yeah, alright Barnes. Like you need any luck.”

The countdown is quiet, breathy, and feels like a rollercoaster crashing straight into my stomach as Bucky squeezes the trigger and the shot rings out, deafening, the glass shattering upon impact, blood spilling all over the white tiling beneath the mark’s feet as he staggers back into the arms of his closest bodyguard, yellow light illuminating his dying face from so far away.

Easy. Quick.

Always so quick.

Then Bucky’s hand, a little warm from his hold on his rifle, is pressing down on my head and forcing me to duck down. We lay there for a few seconds, with only his gun between us, listening carefully for the sounds of someone rushing the building. My cheek is pressed against the cold, dirty surface of the roof, staring at Bucky as we wait the last few minutes.

When he’s sure that no one is coming after us, Bucky pulls his mask back down and shoves his goggles up through his hair, catching some of the chestnut strands in the straps.

His blue eyes flick up to meet mine and he flashes me a smug grin. “See?”

I snort. “Yeah, okay. So you did need the extra luck.”

“Hey.” He frowns dramatically, and I almost crack a smile.

“World’s Best Sniper my ass.”

Bucky breaks into a laugh at that, chuckling softly as he shifts onto his knees and grabs his rifle. A giggle nearly slips through my lips in tune with his own. He props himself up on his elbows to peer over the ledge of the roof one more time. I turn my wrist inward to check my C-Link, swiping past the map of our area to scroll over to the mark’s file. His bio-feedback uploads directly to my Link and a red word projects over the dark sleeve covering my forearm, blinking brightly.

DECEASED.

“Clear,” Bucky declares and I nod my head in agreement, the interface of my Link disappearing as I twist my arm.

Good job, I want to tell him. My lips feel sewn shut and my tongue is dry.

Instead, I watch as he takes apart the pieces of his rifle, slowly, carefully, fluidly. The hands that know where to shove a knife to neutralize a target, that know how to keep still in order to pull a hair trigger and still take the recoil, those hands know how to take apart each intricate section of his gun without hesitation. As if he’s on autopilot, Bucky unscrews each part and packs them in a padded case with a delicacy I only ever see him exert on firearms.

Maybe he uses such care when handling his weapons because he wishes someone would use such care when handling him.

Bucky’s always said he’s just a weapon, too.

In the background, the rattling of the train tracks bursts through the stagnant air of Neon City yet again. This will be its last circuit through Upperside for a while, making its way down to the Lowerside to loop around the gutters of the city instead. And by the time it comes back our way, we’ll be far enough away that the rumbles of the cars won’t vibrate through the concrete. In fact, on the top floor of the Org’s high rise, the black train is but a speck of speeding lights, nearly invisible.

I roll onto my back, the roof hard on my spine, cold seeping through the thin fabric of my stealth suit. The faint clink of fiberglass fades and is replaced by a snap of metal and the click of a lock as Bucky presumably closes the case to his rifle. Above me, the sky is as black as the train that rockets through the city, dark and unending.

“You haven’t always lived in Neon City,” I mention, hearing Bucky’s combat boots shuffle toward me.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something hesitant in his voice. He doesn’t offer anything more, and I breathe in the smoky, dusty air, my eyes searching every corner of the sky that I can see for something—for anything.

But there’s nothing there.

“What do the stars look like?” I ask him quietly. On the edges of my vision, the glowing lights of the nightclubs below us tint everything in red and blue and pink and purple, so bright, so sickening, and it drowns everything in the vicinity. I wonder if there’s a sky out there, somewhere, that can’t be drowned.

‘Cause Bucky might not truly be a Neon City native—and fuck him for that—but he’ll never leave it now.

And I’ll never know why Bucky traded a sky filled with stars for a city born of blood.

He never answers, and I never expect him to. Instead, Bucky’s hand appears in front of my eyes, his calloused fingers reaching out for me. And when I put my cold hand in his warm grasp, he locks our fingers together tightly, and a spark ignites when our palms meet as if my mind is still asking to see the sky light up, electric.

As easy as he pulls a trigger, Bucky pulls me up from where I lay on the roof. His arm slips around my waist to hold me as I gain my footing, and he’s so fucking warm it makes me shiver in response, but when I look up to meet his gaze, he tugs his hand out of mine and drifts away. Without a word, Bucky grabs his weapon case and nods toward the open hatch where a ladder leads us back down to the eighteenth floor.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

No one leaves Neon City alive—and that’s usually why no one chooses to arrive.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes series #enemies to lovers #bucky barnes angst #assassin au #assassin!reader #this is our last stop love #thanks for supporting me!

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silversatoru · 3 years

Note

hi!! me again, saw that you want some bnha requests and hoo boy do i fuckin got one for ya

im a hardcore member of the fuck bakugo 🖕🏼 squad but i also wanna fuck bakugo ya know?

therefore i would like to request a smut fic where bakugo is so painfully angry at the fact that he has a crush on the reader that he ends up getting caught stealing their panties and chaos ensues 😌

anyway love you bye ❤️

compulsion

touch-starved bakugou katsuki x f!reader

tags/warnings: nsfw, oral sex (male receiving), mild obsession, dom?reader, characters aged up

w/c: 1.9k

katsuki bakugo hates a lot things.

he hates hero training, he hates his annoying classmates, and he hates the fact that it rained today. he hates living in the UA dorms and he fucking hates the overly salted bowl of ramen he was forcing down his throat right now.

bakugo katsuki hates almost everything, but he doesn’t hate you — and he hates that doesn’t.

having a distaste for the world made things easier, because if he always assumed the worse than he’d never be disappointed. he’d gotten pretty far with that logic — that was up until you waltzed into his life and fucked it all up, sending his logic hurling out the window.

when he looked at you he didn’t feel the same hate that he felt for the world around him — in fact when he looked at you he felt a disgusting urge of optimism. he liked the way your hair fell around your shoulders, the way your lips curled when you smiled, and the way your skirt rode up your thighs. he didn’t hate anything about you and that’s what he hated most.

see ya later, katsuki! you’d called to him after hero training today, your round glossy lips pronouncing his name in a way that made his heart flicker and his blood boil over. why did everything about you have to be so fucking perfect? he couldn’t find a single flaw on your annoyingly pristine body no matter how hard he searched for one.

your voice consumed his mind — everything you said to him today replaying on repeat at the center stage of his brain:

come eat lunch with us, katsuki!

hey katsuki, did you finish the math homework? number seven makes like- no fucking sense.

have you seen those chips i like, katsuki? i swear if denki ate them all again i’m gonna kill him

your voice was precious, a terribly sensual melody in his sullen ears. and the way you clung to the ends of your words for just a little too long was repulsively adorable too.

katsuki needed something, anything, to get you off his mind. sitting here and daydreaming about you was making him irate with himself — forcing intrusively irrational thoughts through his thick head. something, anything, he needed to stop thinking about you.

he tossed what was left of his shitty ramen into the trash can and exited the kitchen. the common area was filled with students right now, you included, and it was much too crowded and annoying for his liking. you were sitting with hanta, laughing at some shitty fucking joke he was spouting off.

not that he enjoyed watching that lanky scotch-tape dispenser flirt with you — but it was keeping you busy. your dorm room would be empty right now, wouldn’t it?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

katsuki’s not sure how he ended up here, seething with anger and digging fervently through your drawer of panties. surely you wouldn’t mind if he took just one pair, right? you have to understand that he wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t absolutely need them. he wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t make him so fucking angry — this is your fault, not his.

he lifted the lacy material closer to his face for further inspection, unable to prevent his mind from wandering to how it would look wrapped around your body. fuck, they even smelled good — not that he was smelling them intentionally or anything, don't get the wrong idea. he just so happened to get close enough that the soft aroma of cherry blossom fabric softener wafted into his nostrils.

simmering with anger and foggy with unwanted lust, katsuki pocketed the panties for later and turned back towards the door — the same door that you were now standing in front of with immense confusion in your eyes. fuck.

“uh... hey katsuki, whatcha doin?” you stepped into the room and closed the door behind you, cocking your head to the side.

“i- uh- it’s fucking none of your business,” he snarled at you, face flushing as he tried to figure out how long you’ve been standing there and how much you saw.

“you’re in my room dude, it’s totally my business,” you raised an eyebrow at him, “and that pair of panties you took is one of my favorites, maybe you could pocket one of the uglier pairs?”

“god, fucking dumbass, this is your fault! i wouldn’t be here right now if you weren’t so fucking infuriating,” his face was so angry and flushed you could have sworn there was steam sizzling off his skin.

“me? it’s my fault you’re standing in my room with a pair of my underwear in your pocket and an obvious boner in your pants?”

katsuki grimaced, faltering for just a second as he awkwardly shifted his sweatshirt and pulled it down to cover his swollen erection, “yeah shithead, that’s what i just said. weren’t you fucking listening?”

“this is horribly desperate, katsuki, you could have just asked. i’m more than willing to help you out with this,” you stepped forward and began to shorten the distance between the two of you.

“willing to help me? are you insane? i don’t need your fucking help!” he tried to retaliate, but you were already inches from him, reaching down and dragging a hard palm over the lump in his jeans.

“quit screaming like a lunatic and let me help you, i know this is what you think about,” you pressed harder and gave him an icy stare, the boy using everything in his power not to crumble under your touch.

he’d never been touched like this by anyone, and he was so caught off guard by your sudden movements that he simply stared back at you, frozen in place. no arguments, no insults, no deflective blaming — his brain could barely compute his own name now that your hand was prodding at his bulge.

“that’s what i thought,” you cracked a small smile, “poor katsuki, always pushing everyone away and never getting any action. come sit down”.

katsuki failed to wrap his brain around the current events, wondering how his failed attempt at stealing a pair of panties had led to him sitting on the edge of your bed while you stripped him of his trousers. you were sinking to your knees now, head perfectly level with his cock that was standing flush against his abdomen.

he almost flinched when you reached out and brushed your delicate fingers over the red, swollen head of his dick. his cheeks were flushed with a deep red, and he wanted nothing more than to yell you, to tell you how much of a freak you were. but he didn’t, because as much as he hated to admit it, your touch was the best thing he’d ever felt.

your fingers were wrapped around his shaft now, pumping slow strokes as you warmed him up. he hissed and squirmed under your brand new touch — eyes squeezing shut and hands grabbing fistfuls of your comforter. katsuki had touched himself plenty of times, most of them while thinking of you, but your hand felt so much better than his ever did.

“you’ve never been touched like this, have you?” you pouted up at him, your fingers squeezing a little tighter and pumping a little faster, “poor baby”.

“i- fuck- ah,” he choked out a pitiful cluster of sounds that didn’t actually form any words but still gave you the answer to your question.

you were terribly amused, the typically angry boy was a twitching mess under your touch and you’d barely even started yet. you could only imagine how quickly he’d melt when your lips were around his cock — you were dying to find out.

you leaned forward and began slowly flicking your tongue over the puffy tip, still pumping the shaft with one of your hands. katsuki let out strings of sounds that could only be described as mewls and whimpers, his thighs shaking and his knuckles turning white. poor poor baby, you continued to think, i’m gonna make you feel better than you ever have before.

your head dipped low, the first few inches of his cock sliding across your tongue and into the back of your mouth. the blonde boy whined and bucked his hips, his eyes shooting open at the sudden burst of hot, wet pleasure.

“hng- fuck- fucking sh-shit,” his curses came out as pitiful gasps for air as he stared down at you with wide eyes.

you gradually took more and more of his length into the depths of your throat — his extensive length, by the way. for someone so blessed with such a big, pretty cock, you couldn’t believe he didn’t put it to use more often.

katsuki was cussing you out like it was his job, but each word was accompanied by a gasp or a humiliating whimper. he was so fucking embarrassed, but he felt much too good to care right now. your wet, sticky mouth was enveloping his cock in the most perfect way, jolts of euphoria spiking through his veins and fogging his head.

there was a pressure quickly building in his stomach, a tight wam feeling that signified he was going to come all too soon. but of course you expected this — honestly he’d lasted a few minutes longer than you thought he would.

when his orgasm finally racked through him, his entire body twitched and convulsed, his hips bucking wildly as strings of white liquid sprung from his cock and lined the walls of your tight throat. you milked every drop of cum from him, swallowing it down and then pulling your head back. as much as you wanted to push him and overstimulate him you decided to play nice for his first time.

“so good, katsuki. did you like that?”

his shoulders caved in and his head hung low as he finally came down from his high — the realization of all of the transpiring events finally catching up to him. he mumbled the quietest: yeah, it felt fucking good in response to your question, but refused to meet your eyes.

“we could do this more often, what you think?” you reached up and placed your hand under his chin, coaxing him to look at you.

“fuck- fine, yeah whatever, but don’t fucking tell anyone about this,” he growled, his angry eyes and twisted eyebrows finally meeting yours.

“of course,” you smiled, standing and tossing him his pants to put back on, “i just came here to grab a sweatshirt, so i better go before anyone comes looking for me. i’ll come find you later though, promise”.

and with that you were walking through the door, wiping your sticky lips on the sleeve of your sweatshirt and heading for the elevators. katsuki sat on the edge of your bed for a few minutes longer, mind blown by the curves of your mouth and the skill of your tongue.

katsuki didn’t hate you before, and he really doesn’t hate you now, but he’s coming to terms with it this time. letting his walls down for you doesn’t sound all that bad if it means you’ll keep making him feel like this.

#bnha bakugou #bnha smut #bnha x reader #mha x reader #mha smut #bakugou smut #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katuski x reader #bnha imagines #boku no hero smut #my hero academi smut #boku no hero x reader #my hero academia x reader

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babbushka · 3 years

Text

A December To Remember

Lawyer!Kylo Ren x Reader

4.1k, cw: Possessive behavior; name-calling; unwanted advances from another man; NSFW (Rivals/rival relationship/enemy lovers, PIV, fingering, semi-public sex/office sex)

Available on AO3

------------------------

When the elevator doors open, Kylo has to physically brace himself. He had heard the music blasting from seven floors away, his discomfort only growing bigger and bigger as the elevator ticked up up up to Gwen’s lobby. His hands clench into fists in his leather gloves, refusing to take them off.

He wasn’t going to be here long, he promises himself as a conga line of santa hats nearly steps on his Allen-Edmonds; he just needed to show his face, have a drink, and get out. The office is all geared up for Christmas, Kylo walks through the winter wonderland of flocked trees decorated in white and gold, garland wrapped around support poles, big faux presents arranged nicely. There’s a live band and although they played well, the music is a bit much, as are the people singing along. Kylo tunes it out to the best of his ability, on a mission, a hunt.

One thing he can at least appreciate, was that this was a cocktail party, which meant everyone was dressed up nicely. Kylo loves an excuse to bring out his expensive suits, Burberry sitting nicely on his broad shoulders. No one could say he didn’t try to be festive – he had put on a black tuxedo made of soft mohair wool, that happened to have a saucy lapel of black satin for some holiday flair.

As he walks through the crowds of attorneys who Kylo has never seen laugh and smile so much in his career, someone hands him a peppermintini. It’s not long before he feels a tap on his shoulder, and he nearly spills the cocktail by whirling around, thinking that at last, he’s found you.

He has half a mind to smile, but whatever he had thought of saying goes out the window when he sees it is not you, but rather it’s his friend Gwen. She’s gorgeous in a silver slinky number that dips down her muscled back very low, and Kylo leans in to press his cheek against hers in greeting.

“Well well well, look who actually decided to show up.” Gwen nearly has to shout to be heard over the volume of the party.

He rolls his eyes at her teasing, takes a sip of the offending holiday cocktail – where the fuck could a guy get some whiskey around here?

“I was invited, wasn’t I?” Kylo replies, even though he’s not really looking at her. Gwen is probably the only person he knows who is as tall as him, and tonight she’s wearing heels which make her actually a few inches taller.

“Yes, but I’ve seen the stack of unopened invitations sitting on your desk.” She snaps her fingers in front of his face, drawing his attention back to her for the time being as she raises a platinum blonde brow, “Let’s not you and I pretend that you’re here because you want to enjoy the cheer of the holiday.”

The both of them exchange a little huff of laughter, because really she was right. Kylo is here because he had heard through the grapevine that you had RSVP’d, and there was nothing that could have prevented Kylo coming to see you if that were true.

“I’ve been informed that it is appropriate to make appearances now and again, even brief ones.” He sighs into his drink, nose crinkling at the sheer minty-ness of it.

“You can’t leave you just got here!” Gwen groans, “Stay for a little while, there’s some people who want to talk to you.”

“Whether or not I stay is contingent to one thing.” He shakes his head with a grimace, and at this Gwen’s sharp eyes sparkle with the light of knowing his secret.

“I last saw her over by the buffet.” Gwen sips her own cocktail, speaking lowly enough so that only he can hear, not like anyone is listening.

“I don’t know who you mean.” Kylo’s palms immediately begin to sweat inside his gloves, and he fixes the wall a hard stare to avoid that knowing look in her eye.

“Between you and me, I’m surprised she showed up just as much as I am that you did.” Gwen scoffs, and that at the very least was something Kylo understood.

As difficult as it was trying to pin Kylo down for something as unsavory as a Christmas party, you were notoriously hard to convince to come to anything for the holidays if you didn’t feel like it. It was one of the things that Kylo appreciated about you – not that Kylo liked you, or anything.

He shakes the thought away from his head.

“But you’re sure she’s here?” Kylo asks, an intensity to his question that has Gwen laughing.

“Yes – and do try not to make a scene.” She pats him on the back, before sauntering away to go entertain.

“What’s a Christmas party without a little scandal?” Kylo mutters to himself, trying to figure out which way the food was.

He recognizes people from six or seven different law firms as he tries to cut his way through the party. Gwen hadn’t been joking, about a dozen men in suits shake his hand and introduce themselves, congratulating him on winning his most recent case. Interns have stars in their eyes when he passes, and Kylo tries his best not to be such a grinch to their faces.

At this rate, he’s starting to get frustrated and irritated, he still hasn’t found you. The peppermintini was long finished, and he didn’t ask for a refill when he passed the bar. The entire outing was shaping up to be a waste, and Kylo is about ready to give up when he finally catches a whiff of your perfume.

“…That’s nice.” He hears your disinterested voice pipe up from a spot on the other end of the lobby where he has wandered, and Kylo lets himself be led to you, using his height to search for you in the jovial crowd.

Some schmuck is trying to herd you in the direction of where a big sprig of mistletoe has been tied under a doorframe, and the minute Kylo sees it happening, jealousy and rage simmer up straight up his spine.

“Isn’t it? I got the sonofabitch off a ten-year sentence. He was absolutely guilty but, that’s not my problem anymore.” A handsome pretty boy with perfectly straight teeth that are practically fluorescent from how white they are tries dazzling you.

“Uh huh.” You sound like you could not care less, and that for some reason only makes Kylo angrier – couldn’t this boy see that you weren’t interested?

Kylo tries to say his excuse me and his pardon mes, as he winds through the lobby on his mission to you. It’s difficult, because you won’t stay still for fucks sake, so every time Kylo thinks he’s just about gotten to you, you take a sharp turn to try and lose the boy’s unwanted attention.

“So anyway I was thinking to celebrate, maybe you can come back to mine after this shindig gets wrapped up.” He says, slipping an arm around your waist.

Kylo’s blood boils.

“Excuse me?” Your tone shifts dramatically, from uninterested to offended at his presumptions. Your body stiffens up at once, and that arm drops from your waist like he’s been electrocuted.

“I brought my own car and everything, we don’t even have to take the subway.” The boy tries to impress you, but you’re having none of it.

“I don’t think so, I have no intentions on going anywhere with you.” You shut his advances down, “Tonight, or any night.”

This angers the boy, which in turn makes Kylo see red, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s literally shoving himself in between happy couples and groups of cheerful friends to close that last bit of distance between you and him.

“Well then what the hell have you been doing this entire time, leading me on like this?” The boy reaches out to grasp harshly around your wrist when you try and make your leave, “Hey – !”

“She said no.” Kylo’s voice is dark and dangerous as he appears behind the boy, who drops your wrist at once.

“Kylo?” The sound of his name on your lips is enough to keep him from killing this boy in a blind rage, and his eyes flick to you in a very curt greeting.

“Listen to me -- and listen to me carefully.” Kylo looms over this lesser attorney, casting a shadow over the boy’s face from the sheer breadth of him, “I am going to close my eyes and count to three. If you are still here bothering this woman when I open them again, I will reach down your throat and rip your lungs out through your mouth and I will make it look like an accident. Understand?”

“Y-yes.” The boy stammers out, nearly chokes.

“Yes what?” Kylo sneers, jaw clenched.

“Yes sir!” He squeaks in terror -- Kylo doesn’t even have to close his eyes before the boy is scrambling away, and everyone around you is snickering at how he’s gone bright red in the face as he leaves the party entirely.

Now that that was taken care of, Kylo holds a hand out for you, which you take automatically. He would never admit to it, but the feeling of your palm against his has him calm almost at once.

“You have to stop doing that, you know.” You say, as Kylo leads you away from the crowded party of the lobby, and out towards the big balcony.

It’s cold outside, the past few days bringing a light dusting of snow, but you don’t seem to mind. You’ve got a fur stole wrapped around your shoulders to keep you warm. Even out here has been decorated to match the Christmas spirit, with twinkling lights covering every available surface.

“Oh but it’s so fun to watch them squirm.” He smiles, pulling you close to him as the two of you rest against the railing.

“No, not that,” You shake your head, “I mean rescuing me. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, but again, where would be the fun in that?” Kylo only winks, and you lightly smack his arm.

You’re about to say something, when you notice that dangling above both of your heads is a bit of mistletoe, tied together with a red velvet ribbon. It spins ever so gently in the slight breeze from being so high up, and you nudge Kylo’s hand on the railing with your own.

“Look.” You whisper, and Kylo looks up too.

“Now who put that there…?” He grins smooth as ever, as he ducks his head down and kisses you.

Kissing you was rapidly becoming one of Kylo’s favorite pastimes. It was too bad you were such a fucking pain in his side most of the time, if you weren’t so stubborn and difficult, he’s sure you’d spend a lot more time kissing each other.

But then again, you are stubborn and difficult, and you have no intention of stopping. Kylo hates that about you, hates how upset it makes him. No one gets under his skin the way you do, and so he pays you back by giving you the best kiss of your life – that’ll show you.

Your mouth parts for his, eyes closed. Your breaths come out in little sighs, and Kylo feels his body reacting to it. He hasn’t been able to get a good look at you all evening, but when he does, he loves what he sees. You’re wearing a dress in a color that perfectly compliments your skin, in a shape that fits your body exactly how you like it to.

His hands grasp at your hips a little too tightly, making you nip at his lower lip with a teasing smirk.

Christmas has never been something Kylo cared remotely about, but he’s big enough to admit that the lights really do wonders for making you look like a goddamned movie star. You both pull away enough just in case someone were to look out the window or come onto the balcony and see – neither of you could really have that, it was bad enough that there were bets about you through the different firms, the last thing you needed was to let any one side win.

“It’s criminal, how good you look.” Kylo tugs on the fabric of your neckline, “Someone ought to do something about it.”

“Hmm, like what?” You play along, your hand reaching down down down and grasping a hold of Kylo’s cock, ever so briefly, giving in a squeeze.

“Bend you over and fuck you hard, just the way you deserve.” He presses his mouth against your ear, he can practically hear your heartbeat picking up.

“Too bad you scared off poor Mike,” You say with a tsk of your tongue against the roof of your mouth, “I bet he would’ve loved to do the honors.”

Mike, that was the schmucks name? Kylo had almost forgotten entirely about him, about the way he had put his hands on you without your permission. He would make a couple calls, get the kid fired.

Or demoted, at the very least.

He wasn’t sure yet.

“You want to get me mad, is that it? And here we were having such a nice time.” Kylo looks around again, makes sure no one is seeing anything that’s happening out there on the balcony as he snakes a hand up up up your thigh.

“Maybe I like it when you’re mad, maybe I know you’re going to show me a real good time.” You smirk, and Kylo is reminded why he hates you so much, you’re so spoiled, getting whatever you want whenever you want it.

“Such a fucking brat.” He snaps, hand reaching for your and tugging you back through the doors with a, “Come with me.”

Kylo is faced with the party once again and is trying to find the best way to get the fuck out of there, when you pull him in a different direction.

“No – I know a spot, this way.” You bite back a pleased grin, and Kylo has to roll his eyes, letting you lead the way.

Deep deep deep in the bowels of the office, far away from the lobby and all the festivities, the music sounds a million miles away. You’ve tugged Kylo into a conference room with big glass walls and a glass door, like a little zoo enclosure. It’s nearly pitch black, none of the lights are turned on. The only illumination is from the city outside, the ambient glow of New York beginning their celebration of Christmas. The Rockefeller tree shines brightly a few blocks down the road, a perfect view from this conference room.

Fleetingly, Kylo has half a mind to ask you to go ice skating, but then you’re hopping up on the table and spreading your legs, the skirt of your dress hiked up around your hips. You’re not wearing any panties, a pair of thigh garters holding up your stockings – and Kylo’s mind goes blank.

“Aren’t you cold?” He asks, immediately pushing you farther up the table, wanting a better view of your pussy as your thighs rub together from being so exposed.

“Yes,” You admit licking your lips, “But you’ll warm me up, won’t you?”

Kylo groans, bites off his gloves with his teeth, wastes no time in trailing his fingertips through your folds. You squirm at the touch, wanting to be filled by him, any way you could get it. He dips them deeper between your legs, nothing but the sound of your breathing filling the quiet of the room.

“Slut, god what a fucking slut you are – look at you, pussy already wet for me.” Kylo grits out between his teeth, his cock filling out in his expensive trousers, straining against his briefs.

His fingers seek the wet heat of your cunt, and he pumps them in and out slowly while he tries undoing the buckle of his belt. Your hands help him, your legs falling open farther as his fingers bury themselves in your pussy. The stretch is beautiful, and you moan, leaning back until you’re resting on the table fully.

“Are you going to talk? Or are you going to fuck me?” You challenge from your spot on the table, your hands rubbing up and down your stomach, hips lifting so he can finger you a little faster.

“Both, I can do both, fuck you’re sexy.” He huffs, unbuttons his suit jacket, shucks down his trousers and briefs enough to pull his cock out and give it a good few strokes with the hand that’s not thrusting in and out of your cunt, blunt nails dragging against your walls.

“I know.” You’re full of yourself – full of Kylo – and you moan from the thought, “Hurry up, someone could catch us.”

“No they can’t, I locked the door. It’s just you and me sweetheart – thaaaat’s it.” Kylo replaces his fingers with his cock, your folds swallowing him down, oozing and dripping slick all over your thighs.

He shoves in roughly once he’s got the head in, pushes into you in one fluid motion that has your back arching. Kylo grabs at your legs, is careful of your heels as he pins your ankles together and tucks them against his shoulder, your body pressed together as he begins to thrust in earnest.

“Yes! Fucking finally,” Your palms smear sweat on the polished wood of the conference table, and before he knows it, you’re pulling one hand up to lightly smack at his arm. “You know I’ve been waiting here for you for two fucking hours, you asshole.”

Only you could give him such an icy glare while also pushing your tits up for him to play with. Kylo reaches out to pinch hard at one of your nipples, and you whine, your thighs trembling just a little from being held up like this.

Kylo’s big fat cock stuffs you full, your pussy even tighter from having your legs pressed together like this. Normally he likes to look down and watch his dick disappear into you, but he can barely see your face as it is in the dark of the room, so he doesn’t mind. Besides, he can feel you – can feel the way you throb and pulse around him, how you flutter and clench, and it’s enough.

“If I had known – damn you’re tight – you’d be here – fuck (Y/N) – I would’ve come earlier.” Kylo latches himself to your neck, bending you nearly in half as his hips speed up, his balls smacking against your ass as he pushes you up up up the table.

“I – ah Kylo be careful,” You warn him when one of your shoes falls right off your foot and lands on the wood with a thud. He rips the other one off and throws it to the floor, leaving your legs in nothing but the stockings and garters. Your hand tangles in his hair as you press him back down to your throat, where he sucks and bites at your skin. “I don’t know why you couldn’t just fucking call me back. We – oh yes, yes harder come on – we could’ve avoided all this bullshit.”

“You’re the one who hung up on me last time!” Kylo pulls himself more upright, scowling down at you as he grabs your face, gives your jaw a little shake.

“Oh!!” Your body tenses up unexpectedly, his cock accidentally slipping out and pushing back in wrong.

Kylo fumbles just a little bit in the dark, lets your legs fall as he tries to fix the angle, tries to get himself back inside your pussy as quickly as he can. It just feels wrong to not fuck you, it feels wrong to not be joined with you as completely as possible. Even when you’re scowling at him and he’s glowering right back at you – maybe especially then.

“Relax for me?” Kylo strokes your hip with his thumb, and your body gives way for him once again, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pushes back in and continues fucking you exactly like you like it, “There we go, anyway you wouldn’t have answered me.”

“Could’ve – faster Kylo, you could’ve left a voicemail.” You hiccup, and he hates that you’re right.

He hates it as your body opens up for him, takes him, takes the fucking. You’re such a fucking princess you make him do all the work with a big smug grin on your face before he shifts his hips just right in a way that’s got your eyes rolled back into your head, mouth dropped open. He grabs your jaw again and makes out with you, wants his tongue on yours, wants your teeth scraping against his.

“Sure – fuck you, ugh fuck, I’m – ” Kylo can barely get the words out, kissing you and fucking you in the dark and quiet like this, while everyone enjoys the party just beyond the locked door of the open floor plan of cubicles.

“Me too,” You nod, desperate for him, wanting to come so badly that you twine your fingers into his hair and tug sharply, voice breathy and high and panting as you demand, “Kylo more – !”

He gives it to you, plows his cock into you so hard that he pushes the table askew, makes the chairs on their rolling wheels move all over the place from the effort of it. He bites down hard onto your neck and rubs your clit, rolls it between his fingers while his cock forces itself as deep as it can go, shallow thrusts to fill you up all the way, pushing right up against your cervix, making you yelp out your orgasm.

Feeling your cunt throb and gush for him, Kylo comes soon after, pumping himself in and out mindlessly, the both of you reveling in your pleasure. With a weak shaking hand, you tug down the sleeves of the bodice of your dress, let it fall away from your breasts. Like a moth to flame, Kylo is drawn to your cleavage, and he wastes no time pulling one of your tits out of the pretty lacy bra you’ve got on.

He sucks and kisses at your flesh as his cock pulses and spills more come into you, the both of you trying to catch your breath. He spares a glance up to you, pleased to see you’re fucked out nicely, eyes closed, lips parted and drooling just a little onto your cheek as you’ve got your face turned to one side. Kylo lets his eyes close too, mouths at your nipple until he’s sure he’s emptied himself inside of your wanting cunt.

Then, when he pulls you to sit upright on the table, instead of helping you with your clothes or even cleaning up the mess between your thighs, he stays buried inside of you and fishes his phone out from the inside of his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” You ask with a nosy frown, trying to lean around his big hand and see what he’s pulling up on his phone.

Kylo just kisses you quiet, dials the phone and puts it up to his ear while it rings.

“Calling the car to come pick us up and take us back to my place,” He murmurs against the corner of your mouth, before cracking the joints in his neck and grumbling, “Unless you’d rather mingle with a hundred boring nobodies like Mike instead.”

You just scrub a hand down your face with a smile, try to start fixing your hair back to something less mussed.

“I’m starving, can we pick up takeout on the way?” You stretch, wincing when Kylo finally does pull out of you, the feeling of being empty making you grimace just a bit.

He chuckles and kisses you again, lets your arms slip around his neck without any protest.

“Whatever you want.” Kylo kisses your cheek, diverting his attention to the phone call once his driver picks up.

Though the holidays had you at one another’s throats like rabid vicious dogs most days, Kylo wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Because for all the bitching and bickering, there were moments like these. Moments in the dark where you both let yourselves have what it was that you wanted.

And who knew, maybe the new year would bring about a whole new set of opportunities and possibilities, you’d just have to wait and see. One thing was for sure though, Kylo thinks as he helps you off the table and you both search for some tissues or something to wipe up the mess you’ve made, it certainly was a December to remember.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren/reader #kylo ren/you #kylo ren smut #kylo ren fanfiction #adam driver fanfic #adcu #my writing #modern kylo ren #lawyer au #lawyer!kylo ren

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draconic-ichor · 3 years

Text

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 28: The Pot Boils Over

Warnings:” strong language, sexual themes

Summar: Juniper finally comes clean to Heisenberg…

Feedback appreciated. 18+

Their interactions for the following days didn’t fare better. Juniper was touchy and moody, almost bursting into tears at some of Heisenberg’s comments. He was at a loss, used to her being a bantering partner.

She’d started avoiding the workshop, from a mixture of the smell and her recent lack of patience for his joking. At night Heisenberg would frequently hear her crying softly when she thought he’d fallen asleep or while she hid away in the bathroom.

It broke his heart.

He knew she was suffering, but wouldn’t talk to him. When he would attempt to get answers from her it seemed to push her father away.

So he started focusing on work more, spending more time away from the apartment.

His worry worked its way into a sharp blade, slicing into him when his mind would wander.

Was it his fault? It must be. That’s why she wouldn’t speak to him…

The thought swam darkly around his brain.

How did he fuck up?

The worry was blanketed with anger and annoyance, his usual response to hard to process emotions. He knew what being angry felt like, it was normal. It was easier to handle, he thought.

But it made him simmer like a kettle, ready to boil over every second. The deeper he sunk into worry and self-loathing without any type of answers, the higher the heat rose on the kettle.

After their most recent spout, it finally did boil over…

Heisenberg sat reading at the table, smoking a cigar quietly. Juniper bruised herself with cleaning up the dishes after their most recent meal. The smoke hit her face, making her wrinkle her nose. For some odd reason it sent a sharp bolt of annoyance through her.

“Do you have to do that?” She grumbled as she wiped down the table with a damp rag.

“What??” Heisenberg looked up sharply, confused.

“Smoke at the table while I’m cleaning.”

“And? It never bothered you before.”

“It’s bothering me now!” She snapped.

Heisenberg dropped the cigar in the ashtray, fixing her with a narrow gaze. “Just deciding to be a complete bitch to me or does it just come naturally?” He barked, leaning back in the chair.

“Excuse me?” Juniper threw down the rag, turning to meet his gaze.

They stared down at each other for a long, tense moment. Juniper was the first to break, looking away with glassy eyes.

“You are such an asshole.” She began to walk away, hiding her face.

“Me?” Heisenberg stood, anger rising, “You’ve been treating me like shit.” He went after her, grabbing her wrist in a strong hold. Juniper stopped dead but didn’t look back at him.

“Why have you been acting so damn weird?”Heisenberg asked, his brows knotting together. His voice was rough and accusing.

“Getting all buddy-buddy with Donna?” He walked towards her, “Being quiet as hell around me? Acting like I’m going to bite, what’s going on?”

Juniper’s shoulders shook a bit, refusing to turn toward him. He didn’t take the silence well, grabbing her arm and forcing her to face him.

“Juniper, fucking talk to me!” He almost begged, “If I fucked up just tell me.”

He saw tears start to fall from her eyes, her lips trembling. Heisenberg heard the cups and plates in the cabinets begin to shake and clink together.

He took a breath, trying to calm his voice a bit, realizing she was much more distressed then she was letting on.

“Buttercup?” He wiped a tear away, “What did I do?”

Juniper pushed him away a bit, “W-we messed up Karl.” On the chairs fell away from the table with a loud clatter, papers swirled around them.

Confusion clouded his eyes.

“K-Karl,” she stammered through tears, “I’m pregnant!”

His grip fell from her, his face losing color. In the wake of his silence she started to blurt everything out.

“I've been asking Donna to teach me how to sew and make clothes so I c-could maybe make things later.” Her hands covered her face, “And I've been trying to c-collect things that wouldn’t be suspicious.”

Heisenberg stumbled back a bit, his lips a thin line. His mind was a garbled mess, stomach totally flipping as he almost lost his footing. The floor felt like jelly under his legs and thought hammered through his brain. So much made sense now but damn…it was a lot to take in.

“I didn’t know how to tell you!” Juniper cried, “I thought you would hate me.” The papers and small bits of metal began to fly erratically around them, silverware rattled in the drawers as the kitchen knives threatened to pull free from the block.

She gulped, looking up at him, “Please say something. Say anything!”

She almost begged, “Just yell at me Karl, please!”

Heisenberg looked almost dumbfounded, eyes wide, as he asked in a low voice, “Buttercup, you’re pregnant?”

“Haven’t you been listening?”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so…I took a test.” She looked down, “And my stomach feels different…”

“Fuck.” Heisenberg whispered, crumpling into the kitchen chair. His hands balled into his hair.

Juniper stood still for a moment, trying to control her breathing. Everything in the room started to slow until the debris around them fell to the floor. The cabinets grew silent as the soft hum died. Juniper wiped her eyes with a shaking hand.

“How long?” Heisenberg’s voice was hardly auditable.

“About a month.” She admitted, padded closer.

He put his face into his hands, his thoughts a storm in his head.

“D-Do you want me to leave?” Juniper asked, her voice wavering.

He looked up suddenly at her, “Of course not! Just give me a fucking second ok.”

She nodded, worrying her hands.

It was a while before they had a real conversation about the matter, eventually sitting down to talk.

Shocked couldn’t begin to describe how he felt.

He shifted between bewilderment and fear.

“Heis…” Juniper knocked on the side of the doorway to the shop.

Heisenberg didn’t move, his chin resting on his folded hands, “Hm?”

“Can…can we talk?” Juniper’s voice was heavy, almost pleading.

“…sure.” He answered, his voice was not tinged with any ill.

She came forward, pulling up a chair to sit close to him. They sat in silence for a long moment before words tugged at her lips.

“You haven’t broken anything.” She observed, almost surprised.

“I’m not angry.” He said frankly, not moving his head to look at her.

“Then…what are you?” She ventured.

He mulled over his answer, not truthfully sure himself.

“Confused.” He finally admitted.

Juniper nodded in understanding, even though she had time to process everything.

“And a bit upset.” He went on, “That you waited so long to tell me.” Juniper opened her mouth but he continued, “We’re in this together…you shouldn’t feel like you have to hide shit from me.”

His words stung a bit but she understood his hurt.

“I’m sorry.” She reached out a hand, fingers finding his coat sleeve.

He gave a little rumble of acknowledgment.

“This also makes our lives a lot more complicated…everything is fucked.”

“Does it have to be?”

“Well it sure as hell puts me on a tight time limit on the whole ‘revolution’ thing.” He snorted.

When she didn’t speak he rattled on, “Your in danger…so much more than before. I’m not losing you again.”

His voice was determined, almost breaking under the weight of his promise to himself.

“And about…about the baby?” She held onto his sleeve even tighter, worry making her tremble a bit.

His lips were a thin line, eyes clouded. “We’ll figure it out…” he sighed, “Won’t let that bitch have it either.”

His words gave her a bit of relief; hearing his want to protect not only her but the baby quelled her fears of him rejecting the child altogether

“…you said you took a test?” He ventured, words breaking the silence that had blanked the room.

Juniper nodded, “I bought one from the Duke.”

“Where is it now?” He asked.

Juniper shifted uncomfortably.

“What did you do with it, Doll?”

“I…panicked.”

“Where?”

Her eyes teared up a bit, “I-I threw it off the balcony…into the scrapyard.”

Heisenberg gave a heavy, exasperated sigh. There was a silence between them for a moment before Heisenberg stood, “I have to find it.”

He paused, “What does it look like?”

“A little pink and white stick…made out of plastic.” She admitted.

“Of course it fucking is…”

It took him three days of sifting through scrap to find the test. When he found it he burned it until it was unrecognizable then disposed of it in the deepest reaches of the factory. Now that it was gone it gave him a small semblance of relief.

Even now Juniper acted like more of a mother then Miranda had: speaking fondly about the growing life and in the soft tones of her voice. The very fact she strove to learn new skills for the future child’s benefit spoke volumes to him.

He was still on the fence with how he felt, a mixture of fear and confusion. But seeing her be the thing he never had brought hope to flutter about his chest like a young bird.

Neither of them knew, or could recall, their true parents, no memories to guide them now. But they had each other and a dug in desire to keep this child safe.

The most important thing now was secrecy.

Heisenberg knew it couldn’t have just been a miracle of nature. It had to be the work of Mother Miranda, some sick scheme to breed a vessel from her strongest subject.

But fuck all of that.

This was his, his blood, his baby.

And he would do everything in his power not to let her sink her golden claws into it.

That night as they got ready for bed together Heisenberg practically scooped Juniper up and took her to the bed. She made little sounds of protest but he was persistent. Now that the immediate threats were sorted out he just craved comfort.

He flopped onto the bed, nuzzling into her. She wiggled into a more comfortable position on him, cupping a hand over his strong jaw.

“What’s all this for?” She smiled.

“You’ve been so worked up recently that you’ve been a prickly bitch to me for weeks…I just want to hold you ok.” He huffed out.

Juniper looked away, the guilt flooding back into her. She blinked away the threatening salt water, her heart clenching. She hugged onto him, “I’m sorry.” She sniffed.

He accepted the hug, nuzzling into her hair and huffing out deeply. “I know…” he murmured.

They lay there for what felt like hours, just enjoying each other’s heartbeat and warmth. Tension seemed to flow from them, the comfort washing away weeks of stress.

“I love you.” Juniper murmured into his chest.

“I love you too, buttercup.” He whispered back, dropping a kiss onto the crown of her head.

Heisenberg was still concerned for her and their situation beyond words, but the heaviness of the world could wait. He lay back, holding Juniper to his chest as he thought. The fact she carried his baby at that very moment still baffled him. Something deep in his heart sparked to life, burning brighter and hotter the more it all settled into reality in his mind.

He squeezed her softly, earning a little mewl.

Fuck…he was going to be a Father.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #heisenberg x oc #re8 oc #heisenberg #in the steel steeds heart #resident evil

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firebrands · 3 years

Text

the square root of infinity | stevetony

2.7k, established relationship, first fight angst | on ao3 | for @maguna-stxrk

***

Tony finds out with his hands deep in JARVIS’ code. Former-JARVIS, actual-JARVIS, he hasn’t really decided on what to refer to the mess of numbers of letters that formed his former AI, and now, well—Vision, too. It’s all a mess, really, and Tony wanted something simple to do with his hands, minimal focus, low-risk.

He should have known better, really. Nothing about him, his work, his life, has ever been low-risk.

It’s a command from Steve with a privacy protocol. Search, identify, and surveil Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, also known as The Winter Soldier. Missing, found, and missing again as of six months ago. Tony frowns at the monitor. He knows he hasn’t read it wrong, but can’t believe it; he reads it again.

Somehow, in the span of time of Steve coming back from Washington, of them settling in together, he’d done this. He’d asked JARVIS to do this for him, and keep it from Tony.

Tony leans back against his chair. “FRI,” he says.

His new AI chirps to life. “Boss?”

“Gimme everything JARVIS found on this.”

“It’s on your phone now, boss.” In front of him, a hologram materializes as well, displaying hundreds of photos, grainy and filtered, and copies of reports on sightings. Tony stands up, takes a step back and frowns some more. He opens his mouth a few times, borne of his need to verbalize even without anyone listening; he’s angry. He’s more shocked than angry, but the anger is there, low and simmering.

Beneath it, though, is a grain of doubt: Why? Why did he keep it hidden? Especially now—after all the truth came spilling out of them, crystallizing into something Tony held dear. And after all Steve had said, about keeping secrets, about trust. He briefly considers asking FRIDAY to print it all out, just so he can throw the sheaf of paper in front of Steve and demand: what the fuck, but he’s better now, more mature. Or so he likes to tell himself.

So instead, he walks to the penthouse and finds Steve reading.

Tony clears his throat.

Steve looks up. “Hey,” he says, setting his book down. “You done working?”

Tony smiles, pained and tight. “So,” he says, sitting at the foot of the bed. “Bucky.”

Steve’s eyebrows meet, looking concerned. “What about him?”

Tony shuts his eyes and counts backward from five. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Steve inches closer to him and rests his hand on Tony’s knee. Tony doesn’t open his eyes.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Steve says very quietly.

Tony’s eyes fly open, the anger now boiling over. “Oh is that it?” He asks sarcastically. “So you decided to use JARVIS—without my permission, to look for him?”

Steve’s mouth works, and he looks genuinely shocked. “You said I could talk to JARVIS.”

“That’s not the point!” He pushes Steve’s hand off him and stands. “Why would you keep that a secret?”

“I—I didn’t,” Steve says haltingly. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to know if JARVIS could find him, but I knew it was almost impossible anyway, so there was no real point—”

“If there was no point,” Tony says, voice lowering, “then why’d you do it?”

“Tony,” Steve stands now, too, tries to reach out and touch Tony’s elbow, to disentangle Tony’s arms that have crossed over his chest on their own volition. “He’s my best friend. I’m worried about him. I just thought it was something I should do myself.”

Tony nods, not really listening. His head is swimming with what he thinks could be actual reasons why Steve had kept this from him. A tangled mess of fear and insecurity, then shock at his ability to be aware of it. Is this maturity? He doesn’t like it much. Better if it stayed Steve’s fault—and it is Steve’s fault, it is. But maybe Tony doesn’t need to work himself up like this. But then again, Tony’s already worked up. “Stop,” Tony grinds out.

So Steve stops, a foot away from Tony, looking more scared than Tony’s ever seen him.

“I’m going to go.”

“Don’t.”

Tony looks up at Steve. He hadn’t even realized he’d looked away. Steve takes a deep breath, closes the space between them, and takes Tony’s hands in his.

Tony sighs.

Steve threads their fingers together, squeezes Tony’s palms. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Want to say more than one syllable, maybe?”

A joke? Now? Tony feels his frown deepen.

“No.”

“Is this a fight?”

Tony looks up at him. “A fight means you don’t think you should be sorry.”

“Now, hold on a second,” Steve says, a small frown beginning to form on his face. Barely perceptible, if you didn’t know the signs. “I already explained why—”

“And that’s supposed to make it okay?”

“Where is this coming from?” Steve asks, letting go of Tony’s hands, which means he’s mad too, which drives Tony insane.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“There’s no need to raise your tone—”

“Don’t fucking use your de-escalation tactics on me.” Tony hisses, turns on his heel, and walks out the door. He gives himself the satisfaction of slamming it shut.

***

The next few days are filled with small acts of penitence: a cup of coffee on the bedside table when Tony wakes, a sandwich in the workshop, a completed report for a day-old mishap. It’s on Thursday that Tony’s heart finally softens. Over nothing, really, just a small doodle on his desk. He realizes, in that moment, that of all his achievements, perhaps learning to understand Steve Rogers should rank highest. Right up there with being understood by him, too.

Tony’s lying in bed, reading a report on his tablet, when Steve peeks in.

“Hey.” He sounds tentative.

Tony sighs, sets his tablet aside, and takes off his glasses. “Well, come in.”

Steve’s barely able to hide his grin, and nearly bowls Tony over when he hugs him. “Hi,” Steve says, burying his nose against Tony’s neck.

“Hello to you too, you overgrown labrador,” Tony laughs, pushing Steve away a little lest he be crushed under all combined weight of supersoldier and three bowls of pasta that Clint prepared for dinner.

“I missed you,” Steve says, hugging Tony closer to him. He looks up at Tony, resting his chin right on Tony’s sternum. “Was that our first fight?”

Tony snorts. “Unlikely to be our last,” he says.

“Hey,” Steve chides, leaning up and brushing Tony’s nose with his. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. Anyway,” Tony leans closer, brushes their lips together. “Make it up to me.”

Steve arches an eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” Tony warns.

Steve huffs out a laugh, tips them over until they’re lying down, and makes it up to him.

***

As a man of science, it behooves Tony to conduct experiments and to test hypotheses.

First, identify the problem.

Second, conduct research.

Third, develop a hypothesis: follow if / then structure.

Fourth, test through experiments: ensure factors are varied one at a time.

Fifth and final, draw a conclusion.

Tony’s tapping the tip of a screwdriver against his bottom lip as he thinks, and then two strong arms wrap around his waist and just like that, the problem has identified itself.

(One frustrating blind spot in Tony’s life: relationships. Which isn’t to say he hasn’t tried to make sense of them, sped read through self-help books and trawled through Reddit. Unlike everything else, research pales in comparison to experience, and there’s only so much he can do to make sure this one precious thing in his life is perfect.)

“Busy?” Steve presses a small kiss on the back of Tony’s neck. Tony can barely suppress a shiver.

He wants to say, I was, until you showed up. It doesn’t just apply to this moment. That fact shouldn’t hurt.

Instead, Tony says: “Yeah, kinda.”

“Okay,” Steve says easily, pulling away. He comes back to press a quick kiss to Tony’s cheek. “See you later?”

“Yup,” Tony says, and okay. Maybe he needs to spend a day or two really figuring out who the problem is, here. (It’s him. He knows this. He’s always the problem.)

Two days later, Tony settles on having to review related literature. In this case, this means sitting alone in the workshop as he relives every moment when Steve was distracted. Was that a sign? In a brief moment of clarity, Tony asks: “Fri, am I crazy?”

“Signs point to no, boss. But I can pull up recent results on the search engines?”

“I’d rather not hear what the general public thinks, thanks,” Tony says, sighing. He rests his face in his hands. It’s not like he meant to think of this—what is wrong with his brain, that the intrusive thoughts come in the form of the few moments he’d asked Steve what was on his mind, only to be brushed off?

What did that mean?

Did it matter?

Step three: if that was a sign, then there was a problem.

If that wasn’t a sign, then there wasn’t a problem.

If Tony didn’t figure this out, then there would definitely be a problem.

This isn’t how a hypothesis is meant to sound. Tony’s a terrible scientist.

“Fri, call Bruce.”

“Tony?” Bruce’s voice is rough. He sounds annoyed.

“Hey, seven PhDs, how do I form a proper hypothesis?”

“Fuck you, Stark.” The line clicks off.

Tony turns his wrist, checks his watch. Three AM? Figures.

He stretches out his back. “Friday,” he says, standing up. “The search functions for Barnes.”

“On it, boss.”

“Atta girl.”

***

Try as Tony might—and he’s trying, which in itself feels like a failure, because Tony stark does or does not and there is no need to attempt—he feels like something has shifted between them, and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

Maybe he’s just making it all up in his head. That’s the easy solution, isn’t it? And that’s usually the answer: start with the easiest answer and work your way up. He can already see Natasha rolling her eyes at him. Maybe the solution is to stop treating your relationship like it’s quantum theory.

Steve’s hand is on his lower back, steering him inside a restaurant. He thinks only of what Steve said, all those weeks ago: I had to do it myself.

Tony wants to argue, right this moment. But how can he? It’s awful that they can be so alike. The only reason he keeps his mouth shut is because he knows that Tony’s used that argument before. Maybe this is growth, to know when to back down from a fight. Or to avoid one totally.

Steve reaches over the table, brushes his fingers over Tony’s wrist. “You okay?”

There are a lot of answers to that. Tony settles on the truth. “Not really.”

Steve’s brow creases with worry. “What’s wrong?”

Again: an infinite multiverse of answers to answer a question that simple. With this, Tony does struggle for a moment, and the next words are much harder to say—they almost feel caught in his throat, like a lump of meat. “I don’t know.”

“You can tell me anything, you know,” Steve says gently. So gentle, it almost breaks him; Tony doesn’t deserve this. Steve doesn’t deserve this.

“I know,” Tony says, and this is him lying through his teeth, and this is what he’s good at, and maybe this is why he’ll never know how relationships are. It’s a trust issue, probably. He doesn’t know if the issue is with Steve, or with himself. “Don’t worry about it.”

Tony tries harder, now: smiles more, eats with gusto. He knocks Steve’s thigh with his knee, looks up at him from under his lashes. This is what life is like for Tony Stark: it’s acting. He knows the approximations to get his point across. As their evening goes on, the small wrinkle on Steve’s forehead smooths out, and maybe Tony wishes he wasn’t so good at pretending.

Maybe he wishes that Steve read him better.

***

The moment of epiphany is often described as transcendental.

This one hits like a ton of bricks—literally, because Tony does know what that feels like, and the suit is shock proof, sure, but that shit still fucking hurts, and even in moments of epiphany, somehow he still manages to go off on a tangent. The point remains: Steve’s hand is on his hip, and they’re in bed, and epiphanies usually equate clarity, peace.

Tony freezes up.

“Tony?” Steve murmurs, sliding his hand up Tony’s side.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, sitting up. “I know I’m being difficult.”

“I didn’t say you were.” Steve sits up beside him, rests his hand on Tony’s shoulder, and turns Tony to look at him. “Who said you were being difficult?”

“Me, I’m saying it,” Tony says. Panic is beginning to bubble in his belly, slowly rising up his throat. Typical of him to mistake a eureka moment with a panic attack. Par for the fucking course for Tony Stark. “I’m being difficult right now.”

“No you’re not,” Steve says, rubbing up and down his arms. “Tony. Look at me.”

Tony breathes out through his mouth, then in through his nose. Steve tips his chin up and meets his gaze.

“Here are the variables,” Tony breathes out, is afraid of what he’ll say next, his brain is fogged over and full of static. “I love you, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

Steve takes a deep breath, takes Tony’s face in his hands. “Here’s a constant,” he whispers, breath warm on Tony’s cheek. “I love you. I love you. You, Tony Stark. I love you.” He kisses Tony, hard and close lipped, more aggressive reminder than affection.

“Okay,” Tony says, because there’s a wild part of him that still thinks—there was a problem, there was a problem and if this is love, then what comes next? If this is constant, then what variable will arrive to change all of that?

Steve kisses Tony again, almost desperate, this time. “Is this about Bucky?” Tony sucks in a breath at the question, horrified at being discovered. Steve hums, then he runs one hand down Tony’s back, up his arm, down his side. A reminder of his presence. Tony is suddenly grateful for it.

“And if it is?” he murmurs.

“Tony,” and somehow, Steve sounds fond, which throws a wrench in this whole debacle, and deep in the recesses of Tony’s brain, rationality begins to take root. “He’s my best friend. You’re the love of my life.”

Tony breathes.

“Did you hear me? You. You’re the love of my life. Please don’t make me compare,” Steve huffs out a small laugh, and it warms Tony all over, like sunshine peeking through the clouds after a strong rain. “And maybe you don’t believe me just yet,” Steve touches their foreheads together, then rubs his nose against Tony’s, the affection plain and chaste. It makes Tony feel more loved than he’s ever felt in his life—not that there were many moments to compare against, but still.

“I feel a little crazy,” Tony says, finding it in himself to smile up at Steve.

“A little crazy in love?” Steve asks, grinning.

“I can’t believe you just made a Beyonce reference. In the middle of my panic attack.”

Steve bites his bottom lip, a poor attempt at stopping himself from laughing. Tony flicks his forehead. “Say it again,” Tony says, and his smile still feels a little wobbly, but it’s a step.

“Crazy in Love?” Steve asks, pulling Tony close and wrapping his arms around Tony’s waist.

It’s an odd angle, and eventually Steve shifts to lift Tony up onto his lap. “Ass,” Tony says. “You know what I meant.”

Steve smiles again, right before pressing a kiss to Tony’s shoulder. “Step one,” he says. “The problem is you’re afraid I don’t love you. Step two: find out how to show you that I do.” He pauses, and Tony feels breathless as he presses another kiss to Tony’s bare skin. “Step three. Hypothesis? If I show Tony I love him all the time, then eventually he’ll believe me.”

“Sounds like a shaky hypothesis,” Tony says, but his voice quivers a little as he says it. He can’t explain how he feels, other than warm in Steve’s embrace.

Steve tuts. “Step four, experimentation. Small gestures, date nights.” Steve rubs Tony’s back as he speaks, and stops to tilt Tony’s head up to face him. “Am I getting this right?”

Tony smiles. “I don’t know, what’s the conclusion?”

Steve wraps his arms around Tony’s waist once more. “You’re here. I’m here. I love you.” He leans up, brushes their lips together. “Is that enough?”

#stony #steve rogers #tony stark #stevetony #(well hello) (sometimes you just want to write something warm and familiar. i thought i'd forgotten how.)#things i write

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sylvain-writes · 3 years

Text

A Little Understanding (Leonardo x Reader)

Rated: T Gender Neutral reader, stutter, anger, feelings of being misunderstood/left out, loneliness, studying abroad, understanding, comfort, established relationship

You’re tired of ‘friends’ thinking it’s cute and/or funny when you misspell or misspeak words, when you get stuck in your stutter, and when you miss cultural references. All you’re asking for is to be heard. And for a little understanding. (This can be read as a companion piece to To Be Seen but is a stand alone fic.) for @whygz

Winter’s chill stung your eyes as you dropped from street level to the sewer below, but you barely felt a thing. At least on the outside. The snow-dusted cars, the holiday window displays, none of it caught your attention while your thoughts simmered and raged inside.

You seethed and your blood boiled. The events of the day swirled and raged like an animal caged. Your chest ached as your frustrations clawed to get out.

The Lair, that place of safety and understanding, was almost within reach. You longed to see your real friends, and put the bullshit of university life behind you - even if only for a few hours.

It grated at your nerves to know you’d have to see your classmates again tomorrow. Even now, those people who you thought were your friends, were still blowing up your phone wondering why you left the library in such a rush.

They couldn't see what they'd done. They didn't hear the way they spoke to you. They didn't really know you and they didn't seem to care.

You couldn’t speak to them. Not when they didn’t understand. No, not when they pretended not to understand.

If you can listen hard enough for context clues, and you can sort through their in-jokes and memes and every little cultural reference… then they can take five seconds to wait for you to sort your thoughts. They can take a moment to listen to what you’re actually saying and wait for it to sink in. You work so hard to ‘not have an accent’, to find the right words, while it seems like they don’t try at all.

But sticking up for yourself is a losing battle. You’ve tried. You’re tired of going beet red in front of them, telling them to stop and hearing them tell you how cute it is when you’re upset. You’re tired of stumbling and stammering and falling into the stutter you’ve worked so hard to train out of your speech. But that only makes them giggle and coo and treat you like you’re a child. As if only a child is sweet and innocent enough to trip over their words.

You stomp through the tunnels, your feet knowing exactly which turns to take even while your mind is focused elsewhere. You don’t even realize you’ve made your way into the Pit until you’re walking into Michelangelo’s chest.

You both step back, you apologizing, him looking down at you with a curled lip and annoyed frown. It seems neither of you were paying attention to where you were going. But he's set to blame you.

“Hey!” He says, his New York accent almost as thick as Raphael’s tonight. “I’m walkin’ here!”

At first you’re surprised. You’ve never seen Michelangelo angry. Certainly, he’s never been angry at you. Then he throws up his arms in exasperation and repeats himself. "I'm walkin' here!"

Heart pounding, you’re mid-apology when he starts laughing.

“Dustin Hoffman, Midnight Cowboy!” He shakes his head as he walks past you, still laughing as he goes.

And the anger in you vibrates from your chest through your throat until it’s pushing past your lips in fiery words, “Cala a boca!”

And he does. Michelangelo, king of pranks and jokes and laughter, snaps his mouth shut in an instant. His voice drops low, all hints of exaggerated accent gone as he gently asks, “What? What’d I do?”

“You don’t get to laugh at me!” You’re still shouting. You hear it. You see the shock in his big blue eyes as your voice gets louder instead of softer. And you wish you could take it back. This anger isn’t for him. But he’s safe and he’s here and he’s getting it all. “Just because I didn’t understand doesn’t make it funny!”

You’re so wrapped up in your own anger at everyone and everything, and shame at yelling at Mikey who’s trying desperately to listen and understand, that you don’t notice Leo step into the room behind you.

“Hey, what-”

You spin on your heel to face him. “Leo.”

Seeing him standing there, head tilted in confusion, your face flushes so hot your eyes start to burn.

“Baby," he asks sweetly, "what’s going on?”

“No, don’t-” you start, while Mikey holds his hands up in peace.

“Leo, it’s OK," Mikey tries.

“It’s not,” you argue.

“Baby, talk to me.”

“Don’t do that!" The shouting scrapes your throat raw as your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Don’t… don’t… don’t talk to me like I’m… don’t call me baby when…” Your fingernails dig into your palms as you struggle.

Donatello is already theorizing as he comes down from his work station. “I believe you’re objecting to Leo’s use of the endearment ‘baby’ whilst you are in crisis. Perhaps it comes across as patronizing? Infantilizing?”

Your eyes blink owlishly at Donnie. With all that’s running through your head, you can't keep up. He speaks too quickly and too strangely for you to translate it all.

You close your eyes to block out the world, lean your head back, and finally it all comes out in a shout, “I’m not stupid!”

The crash of heavy dumbbells hitting the floor is the only sound as the voices of the turtles fall silent.

“I’m not stupid. And… I’m not a baby. I’m not cute. I’m not funny.” Your chin falls to your chest and you dig your hands deep into the pockets of your hooded sweatshirt. Tears slide down your cheeks and over your lips as you mumble. “Eu só sou eu. I’m me. Just me.”

"Leo," it's Raph speaking now, "maybe we should…"

He's hushed and you release a broken sigh.

You don’t even notice your shoulders are trembling until you feel Leo’s hands rest atop of them to hold you steady.

“I know you,” Leo says so quietly you almost missed it. “I see you, remember?”

“It’s hard!” you whimper as the tears continue to fall.

“What is?”

You shrug and sniff and wrap your arms around yourself before you answer. “This. All of it.”

You’ve been away from your family for eight months. And keeping the turtles a secret for more than half that time. Even with the friends you’ve made, it so often feels like you’re alone in this crazy city in a foreign country. You want to tell Leo just how alone and lost and angry you feel by the way people take you for granted, but he pulls you into his arms and the intensity of it all starts to fade away.

Leo holds you for a minute and when he pulls back a bit you notice you’re the only ones left in the room. He leads you over to the couch in the Pit and sits you down.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, but you aren't ready to let him go. He kisses your hand before releasing it. “Right back, I promise.”

When he returns, there are steaming mugs in his hands and a blanket slung over his shoulder. It’s sweet and he looks all kinds of cute and cozy as he plays the part of a gentleman. But a cup of cocoa and a cuddle isn’t going to solve anything. However, maybe, you think, it can help you get through the night without ripping another unsuspecting sweetheart’s head off.

“I really have to apologize to Mikey.” You’re embarrassed for losing your cool with him

Leo gives a little nod, but doesn’t push anything but a warm mug into your hands. He slides into the space between you and the armrest of the couch, snuggles close to your side and brings his own cup of cocoa to his lips. "I take it things at study group didn't go so well."

Your tears start up again, but you have no more words. It feels like you've been allotted only so many words in a day and you used them all up before getting to your boyfriend. That breaks your heart and makes you cry harder. Even then, they're silent tears.

"I used to feel alone all the time."

You raise your head at Leo's confession. He's had sensei and his brothers, April and Casey. But, you realize, that's an awfully small circle of people to know and to trust.

"They didn't really understand me. They didn't get me."

You lean into Leo's side remembering what a struggle it was for him the first time he opened up to you. And you've seen how hard he works to lead his brothers, to hold the family together. To find their strengths and make use of those in balance.

But his brothers so often think he's too hard on them, too serious, too focused on training.

"I got left out and made fun of… it was lonely. Until I met you. You listen. You take time to get to know me, to understand."

With Leo's presence a solid comfort beside you, his words coming steady and smooth, you calm down enough to find words. You shift your body toward him before you speak.

"You were quiet, in the beginning. Had to listen really hard to get to know you."

"Pff," Leo turns away with an almost laugh. "First time I heard I was quiet. The guys complain I'm always barking orders and-"

You lean in and kiss his lips. A simple thing. Chaste. Barely a touch. "I'm not the guys," you remind him. "You can always talk to me."

Leo snuggles in closer. You take your mugs and set them on the coffee table so your hands are free. But before you can wrap your arms around him, he pulls you into a hug.

In his arms it's safe and quiet and warm. "It really sucks," you whisper.

Leo hums as he brings his lips to the crown of your head. "It really does." He lifts you into his lap and the blanket comes with you.

Soon his hand is in your hair, his fingers running through it. And he swears a little when his fingers catch on your curls. It doesn't hurt, but hearing him swear has you burying your face in his neck. It’s mostly to hide and muffle your giggling. Judging by the way Leo takes your face in his hands and peppers you with kisses after, he doesn’t mind the bit of laughter. You know he’s happy to have helped you find your smile.

#tmnt x reader #leonardo x reader #tmnt leonardo #gender neutral reader #tmnt x gender neutral reader #Leonardo x Gender Neutral Reader #my writing

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lluvguts · 3 years

Text

Cool Blue ; Chapter Ten

⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚۰˚☽˚⤹⋆⸙͎۪۫｡˚

waiting for stars to intertwine

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☽ a/n: totally forgot to add this to the masterpost. if you've read ch ten on ao3 already than ignore this update!! there's gonna be a wip coming yall's way soon too, so be on the look out for that!! <3 love you guys

☽ warnings: blood, self-harm mention, angst

☽ fic masterlist

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Luca's heart hammered in his chest, the pain resurfacing, and no matter how hard he hugged his sides, trying to squeeze the heat from inside of him like slippery seaweed, nothing worked. He swam past the island, to cooler, harsher waters, to his home--his actual home. Not whatever he was feeling when he was around Alberto; whatever sort of home that was.

He told Alberto. A monster. That was what he was. He wasn't human, and Alberto made quick use of that information by shoving him off his knees in one swift motion, and leaving his dried-out beach towel as a reminder of it. He told him. So why did he...let it get the best of him?

His head swam, a thick heat-haze clouding his thoughts as he neared the mossy structure, blinking in the darkening waters. Luca touched the edge of the cave entrance, and winced hearing his mother's sharp intake of breath at his presence outside the house. She appeared, followed by Lorenzo, glaring down at him.

"Uh..." Luca mumbled, his words slurred. The throbbing in his gut hadn't dissipated yet, and neither had the phantom-like trembling between his shorts. "...Hey mom? Can - Can I come in?"

Daniela assessed her son before her, the shine, the sweat from Alberto's dark skin had crept beneath his scales and made a home there in the crevices, like old sand. He breathed, and the older boy's (the human's, he corrected himself) smell came rushing back with full force. Immediate. Filling his lungs sweetly but enough that he spluttered on the bubbles slipping under his tongue.

"I told you," Daniela said sternly to Luca's father. "When am I ever wrong?"

"What are you talking about?" Luca's mind began to wander without any direction, aggressively going back to the one time when he was younger and would often forget his curfew at sunset, and Daniela had joked (or had she?) she'd send Luca to The Deep with his uncle if he didn't come home at a reasonable hour. "I know it's late, I'm sorry! I just caught up in something, I swear it won't happen again Mom!"

Lorenzo frowned from behind his wife and placed his webbed hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. It was an unspoken discussion translated between the tense water.

"No, 'Renzo! Don't start with this now! You smell it too!" Daniela growled, taking her son's arm and lifting him up in the water, sniffing his crown of blue fins. "So strong, it's a damned sailor's lighthouse beam!"

"And it's land monster too..." Lorenzo commented softly, scenting the air. Daniela's eyes widened in her anger and her grip on Luca tightened.

Her tone was dangerous, venom. "You went to the land monster town? Where there's humans? In your heat??"

"Mom, no--" Luca protested, her claws beginning to hurt from where they were grasping his shoulder.

"Don't interrupt!" She snapped back. Her tail thrashed in the water, making Luca tense even though his body was already on-edge. "You...You're gonna have to wait this out someplace else! We'll send for Ugo. I can't know that my baby was out there...doing things...with some filthy land monster girl."

"Boy."

Luca and Daniela turned to see Lorenzo, who flushed in embarrassment at getting noticed.

"What?"

"It's clearly a boy, Daniela," Lorenza swam closer and examined the fevered pink scales on Luca's waist and chest. "Smell it. It's...I don't know, hun. It's stronger, I guess. I know when there's a man on those land monster boats, and that," He pointed to Luca. "Is definitely a boy. Land monster. A boy-human, whatever."

Monster. A monster. That was what he was. Luca hovered above the long sea grass of their home, in awe. He could get all of that, just by smelling him?

Daniela's flashing yellow eyes brightened and she clamped her mouth shut, words coming out quick and held back. "That...That. Doesn't. Help."

She released Luca's arm and went to Lorenzo. Luca's tail curled protectively around his leg, trying to soothe himself.

"W-Wait! You can't just leave me out here!"

"We're not leaving you," Lorenzo replied simply. "But until your heat is over, you can't be around the other kids, Lu. It's better if you stay with your uncle Ugo until the Summer season is over."

They had gone. Luca watched, but didn't truly see his parents' figures fade into the darkness of the house, where they slept, and he remained awake.

"Stupid heat! I - I hate being like this!" Luca curled in on himself, claws raking his belly, long rutted cuts chasing his fingertips. The pain burned, deeper now with the thin streams of blood billowing up above his line of vision in watery red ribbons. He averted his wavering gaze, but the blood was everywhere, seeping into his very scales. Everything simmered, a constant feeling of dread and want that was unreachable, had no low point but only one shattering crescendo all throughout his body. Constantly. Searching for relief Luca dug his claws into the pink scales deeper, stronger...

"Luca!"

"...Alberto?"

It was just a dream--or a memory. The clean tile walls of Alberto's bathroom came into focus, half-blurred from where he was lying, curled in a ball along the water in the bathtub. Alberto rose sleepily from the floor, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. At some point in the night bath towels were placed in the water for Luca, and though he didn't remember when it had happened, sifting through the weird reoccurrences of the day before, Luca knew Alberto had done it. He looked around in the stagnant bath water, to his abdomen, and the flakes of dry blood that floated across the shiny film of the surface like autumn leaves. He shivered.

The memories were short, hardly a scratch on Luca's conscious mind. Alberto had carried him all this way, from the boat into the house. A tiny serving dish once had peaches on it, but only smelled faintly of them now. Giulia's voice (what he could recall of it, trying to think back made his head hurt, everything hurt, really. He hardly remembered much of Giulia, except for her wild eyes and equally brazen red hair) was tender behind the door the night before, whispering and giggling to Alberto. She left to sleep, and Alberto stayed. He really, truly stayed. And the pain. The pain, the stupid sea-folk problems he couldn't just wait out or buddy up for--

"Are you okay?" Alberto put one cautious hand on the lip of the bathtub, eyeing him. Luca shook his head, as if to chase away the feeling, then realizing it actually translated as a no, Alberto I am anything but okay right now, he nodded his head with more urgency. He shifted in the water, the bath towels huddled around his body made a sort of nest, Luca noticed, even if he had been the one to do this. A nest, making a home for a mate, for love...even out of instinct. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did he even--

"If you say so," Alberto yawned and fell back onto the pillow he'd brought from his room, and tugged the blanket closer around his chest.

"You..." Luca tried, scanning the faded paint on the bathroom walls, the chipped mirror, the little smudge in ink over the medicine cabinet. He avoided looking at the crumpled blue tarp cast over by the toilet. "You stayed here? With me?"

"W-Well," Alberto spluttered, laughing a bit, not glancing at him. "I kinda had to. Cause, you know, no one knows you're here. And - and, my Papa had work today. Well he doesn't, not really. It's too early in the day for anyone to be open after yesterday, but he likes to be in the town with his buddies sometimes, when everyone else is asleep."

I kinda had to. Like he was...liable. He was just a...what was the word Giulia used? A little pet.

"Oh. Right, okay," Luca said absently, tracing his claw on the edge of the tub. Monster. Stupid monster. Dumb heat. Animal. Stupid, horrible, disgusting--

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Where's Giulia?" Luca asked finally, maybe a little too quickly.

"Oh! She's uh...probably still sleeping."

"I'm sorry, Alberto."

"Do you maybe want to, um...talk about it?"

Luca put his chin on the edge of the bathtub. "About what?"

"The uh...back at the island--" Alberto wrinkled his nose and stared at his knees.

"Not yet." He felt Alberto's green eyes on his scales, whispering, prodding ever so softly. But he just wasn't ready.

"Hey, it's okay," Alberto leaned down and put his head at eye-level with Luca. "It's a sea monster thing, right?"

Luca nodded, wiping his flushed face. He couldn't cry, sea-folk weren't designed for something like that, but the burning in his eyes sure felt like he was.

"We have things like that, too. For humans, I mean." Luca hated that Alberto used that word, it was...a barrier. Human. Alberto blushed and looked away. "It's pretty embarrassing, actually. But, we go through it too, you don't have to feel so alone...It's normal."

"But..." Luca mumbled, his hands clenched beneath the water. But what I did...It was gross. Why haven't you left yet? Why aren't you turning me in? I'd be worth a lot of money above the water, I'm sure. Alberto? Are you even listening? Take me away! Send me to The Deep--

"Don't be sad."

"I'm not." He muttered.

"We can do something else," Alberto said back, sitting up now to straighten out his blankets. "And if you want to talk about it later, then you can. Since you're...uh...sounding a bit more present now.

"Okay...What is it?"

He watched him rise off the floor and gather the blanket and pillow to his chest, and head for the door. Alberto looked back over his shoulder, smiling now.

"As long as you don't eat it...We can paint?"

#luberto #luca paguro #luca movie #luca fanfic #luca x alberto #alberto scofano #luca2021 #luberto fanfiction #luca fanfiction #gay fish movie #luberto fanfic #luca fandom #luca pixar #luca 2021 #luberto luca #alberluca

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newbornwhumperfly · 3 years

Text

however the hour may call…

CW: fantasy racism, self-hatred, self-harm, low self-worth

a small ficlet for @much-ado-about-whumping’s d&d character - lander krusk lackman, a self-hating half-orc with the worst self-worth (he needs therapy yestersay but will he get it? why would he when blatant abnegation works just as well!)

title insp. by “staying alive” by mary oliver

(“there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet.”)

Lander doesn’t drink - never amongst company, anyway.

He swallows back his flicker of desire for some mulled beer or even a little ale to shave off the edge of his nerves, singing like a sharpened blade. He’d never compromise his control like that, especially not now: not when the needling eyes feel like flies crawling over his body, when whispers trail him like shadows.

He fights the urge to rub at his eyes lest he draw attention to his weariness, blinks rapidly against the wavering lines of bodies, narrowing his focus to a tapestry, some sprawling orchard sewn in crimson and gold thread. Lovely human figures gather fruit prettily, a delicate dance as he sees here in this grand ballroom.

Not an orc in sight, of course. No sooty stitches cast a figure like him in such a fairytale scene. He sips at the cold water in his goblet, washing back bitter taste in his mouth - his body runs warmer than most humans to the restrictive brocade itches against his skin.

The cut is too small for him but the tunic was a gift waiting in his room - he strains the material, hulking shoulders and arms pulling at the seams. It is made for a different body than his own but he knows better than to complain. It’s not anyone else’s fault that his bones are too bulky. That the delicate, embroidered periwinkle (when he favors dark palettes) is garish on him.

He steadfastly ignores the ridiculous sensation of being strangled when the collar shifts against his throat. He needs to focus on his duties. He must travel to some nearby country tomorrow, at dawn. A dispute amongst local merchants has halted cider production and his father’s business associate is...displeased. Solving this will fall to Lander.

His throat tightening - as does his hand around his goblet - has nothing to do with his neckline, stomach twisting when he thinks of how...delicately he’ll have to persuade here, with those who won’t take kindly to...someone like him showing up. Some are angered by his family crest and fine armor, others by his inhuman appearance, many by the marriage of the two he represents wherever he sets foot.

Hopefully, the graces of the local lord will reap him favor enough to smooth his visit over with the locals. The slender, haughty man had seemed amiable enough - had grasped Lander’s hand with more than merely the tips of his fingers, had bestowed him with a cordial smile that had loosened the knot in Lander’s chest a fraction. The man had even said - though he was likely to...“forget” the arrangement - he would pencil Lander in for a dance later that night.

It was a gesture that warmed Lander - most did not show such courtesy to him. Lander swallowed against the sting of memory where the host had deigned to practically shun his presence altogether.

Lander will need to set things back on schedule sooner rather than later (by which is meant, as soon as Lander can accomplish it). His pulse pounds in his temples when he recalls the missives he has left to pen, left piled neatly on his desk. In his preparations for the party, he’d forgotten- He squeezes the cup and the gemstones dig grooves into his palms, little aches which pin his mind back in place.

They’ll all have to be written and sent out by page tomorrow - Lander will perhaps be able to retire a little early so he can get an hour or two of sleep. Unless he skips his morning regimen of strict exercise, he might get more chance of rest.

He has been...tired, lately. If he finessed negotiations quicker, more efficiently, then he might have more time to sleep. His duties should always improve, of course...even for selfish reasons.

If he wants to sleep more, he should focus on getting sharper, working smarter (not harder, as his father once reprimanded, but to him smarter has always been harder), getting more results, before he lazes about.

But he doesn’t want to think tonight of papers, of orchards full of apples unplucked, of lips curling or fists gripping sword pommels firmly in his presence.

Lander’s bleary gaze is drawn, a lodestone to the gleaming gold silhouette of his host. Every tongue of flame in the room dapples Lord Ambrose - the elegant gestures of his slim, beringed fingers as they lift a palm to his rosebud mouth for a kiss or gesture with a glimmer of jewels in the telling of a tale. His slight, willowy frame carries the lace and ribbon and velvet of fine breeding on his form like he was swaddled in it. He tosses his head back elegantly at some joke, a soft tinkle,silverware on china, and his gilt waves of hair ripples around his delicate shoulders.

Lander thinks of his unwieldy palm, large and heavy, with the tapering nails bluntly trimmed to stave off claws. He thinks of Ambrose’s fingers within that palm - a flat gray stone pressing a blossom.

His gaze blurs.

He is seized suddenly by the brief, mad longing that he could be like these others, if only in looks. Beautiful. Light. Those with silky locks coiffed with fine oil that has never made his coarse black hair turn sleek, he will never have a head that shimmers like a raven’s wing under firelight.

Like bristles on a coal brush, a hairdresser sighed, her disappointment spiking through Lander’s teenaged heart. She couldn’t do anything with his hair, just shore it down flat against his scalp, as usual. Can’t do anything pretty with this mess, I’m afraid...

He knows he will never hang on anyone’s arm, too heavy, too…much. Certainly not with the whispers that chase him around the room, his tapered ears echoing every little murmur as clearly as if spoken aloud to his face.

Looks like a half-drowned corpse...

They should keep it on a leash, for heaven’s sake...

Keep your swords close, lads, don’t wanna see what happens when he’s on his liquor-

A sharp crunch snaps his attention away from the tension coiling through his veins and when he raises his eyes, he catches a shadowed glimpse of himself in the firelit panes. A few nearby guests are staring at his back, their warped expressions of wariness, haughty contempt, and bemusement reflected alongside his own visage.

His breath snags in his throat.

The glass breaks of his face between wrought-silver lattice, where he sees the separate pieces of himself shining back. The hoary skin, dull as ash, darkened like storm clouds with a flush around his neck and cheeks, the points of his devilish ears now going nearly cobalt. His jet-dark eyes are narrowed into a glare,black brows furrowed, mouth twisted. And- and the cup in his hand is dented, gone concave, little fissures splitting across the silver engraved flowers, torn up, ruined-

Lander’s stomach drops out. He’s frozen, gone sick, cold, tendrils of ice flooding through his chest, his legs and arms, heart a thudding frigid fist against his ribs. He wants to explain himself, to plead that he’s not angry, he truly isn’t, he knows how to behave properly-

But his tongue sticks to the roof of his bone-dry mouth, limbs stuck in place, and the guests turn demurely away from him, leaving him staring at himself.

His hands are shaking, he realizes, his breath threading thin and shallow from his lungs, fire in his flesh, ice in his blood, he- he needs to get control of himself. He can’t cause a scene.

In a daze, he sets the damaged cup on the table, slipping from the room, near the walls, like a rat, some pest sneaking away from where it’s not wanted, from light and cheer and polite, decent company. His feet lead him to a narrow corridor, private, tucked away behind columns.

Breathing heavily, Lander’s hands fumbled - graceless, foolish, meat-handed oaf - with the laces of his trousers, slipping them down to his knees.

In the dim torchlight, he gazed down at the strap, thick coarse leather studded with rows upon rows of spikes snugly cinched around his upper left thigh. The tight embrace had helped hold him in check - in his proper place - for years now. Nights like this one...rattled that restraint. Required fresh application. Discipline requires constant attention, after all. And he’s nearly slipped tonight - he cannot afford to slip.

He’s ashamed when his hands fumble once, twice when working the buckle open. He hurries with peeling the belt free, hissing, nearly a growl, at the throbbing ripple and the cool air of the corridor licking at the marks, it hurts, his small cry of pain was too near a growl, he needs to get the belt back on before he allows his hurt to be stoked to a fury-

Looping the device around his unmarked right thigh, he tightened the belt with a savage twist, buckling it shut before he could falter.

Agony stabbed through Lander’s leg and he bites his inner cheek to smother a cry. Copper floods his tongue as the jagged edges of his shaved tusk snags the flesh and the metal taste is bright, a spark against the dull, welcome throb when the dull spikes dig into the tender flesh.

He knows the grey skin will swell, color black and violet, rage restrained beneath the pinpoints of bruise, where his wrongness can bleed beneath the skin. Where it doesn’t make a mess of things.

He’d been too indulgent - allowed his emotions to swell too close to the surface. Shame simmered in his belly, a useful burn, cleaning away the other useless feelings that threatens to flood his body and drown him, smother anything worthwhile.

He fights the belt another notch, as close as he can make it without risking limb damage, and drags his pants up around his hips, laces them with brisk efficiency.

Lander sets his jaw rigid, his shoulders and spine as straight as a sword, and slips back into the gathering. He does not limp. He does not wince, despite the flares of fires spiking to his very bones. He is polite and diplomatic and lets the throb find a rythm with his heartbeat, the ache just as natural, just as innate.

Lord Ambrose does not dance with him after all, curtains his gaze with golden fringe but does not touch Lander throughout the night. That is fine - the belt would make him a poor dancer.

Just one more prevention on a thing he has not earned and shouldn’t have wanted in the first place - but when he slips, such steps keep him in line.

Just as well, Lander thinks, the burn in his legs dragging his mind away from the wrench of his heart. It is just as well.

~ wow, this was so much fun and i wrote it in a day so! be kind please xppp

#just a little thing! *throws it into the void*#lander lackman #lander #much-ado-about-whumping #whump #whumpee #my writing #non-human whumpee #creature whumpee #self-hatred #low self worth #low self esteem #fantasy racism #panic #social whump #angst

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loora · 3 years

Text

act three

pairing — matsukawa issei x reader

genre — angst, fluff

warning(s) — none

“Hey.”

“Mmmmm?”

“Do you think you can be anaemic if you’re tan?”

“What? That’s not how that works at all.”

“No, but hear me out! If-”

You roll onto your side, squinting at him in the dark. He jokes around a lot, but there's a desperation in his tone that has you worried he actually believes it.

“Issei. That’s not how blood works.”

“But anaemic people are pale right? So how can you be anaemic if you’re tan?”

“Issei-”

“Like see, I black out whenever I stand up, and sometimes I get dizzy too, but I don’t have anaemia.”

“I- no. Just no.”

His head flops towards you, eyebrows lifted, unimpressed. “How would you know? You’re not a doctor.”

“No, but I work at a pharmaceutical company, I certainly know more about it than you.”

“Hey! People die from anaemia, right? I could totally know more than you.”

You level him with an exasperated stare, though it has no effect on the frowning idiot beside you.

“Issei.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

He climbs into bed later that night, and you feel the dip of the mattress as he slides in behind you. You’re turned to the wall, reluctant to face him with anger still simmering just below the surface.

The silence from before continues to stretch on, and you may be only centimetres apart but it feels like there’s a gulf between the two of you, stretching for miles and miles until you can’t tell what he's thinking or how he’s feeling anymore.

You can feel Issei inching towards you until your backs are pressed firmly against one another. It used to be a way to bridge the gap, a line to draw you back together. But the warmth he radiates just doesn’t seem to feel like home anymore, only causing your skin to crawl with discomfort as you resist the urge to shift away from him.

“Did you mean it?” His voice is low, raspy. It sounds like he had been crying. You stiffen up at the question, your eyes clenching shut involuntarily at how broken he sounds. The words that you had planned out in your head now seem to have flown out of the open window, leaving your mouth dry as you search for words that won’t drive you even further apart.

But there isn’t anything you can say. There’s nothing left in the world that could fix the shattered remains of your relationship, too much time spent battering the seemingly unbreakable bond between you two. It was time that had worn down your love for him into mere tolerance, and your love was only a few more waves away from dissolving into oblivion.

As out of sync as you are with him, he’s still able to read your silences. He crumples against your back, all the breath leaving him in a long, shaky exhale filled with pain.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you tell him. Your voice doesn't shake like you expected it to. The words don’t hurt as much as you had hoped they would. Nothing felt real, like this was all just some rehearsed play unfolding according to the script. All you had to do was follow the lines written for you.

And yet the play being written before your eyes was turning into a tragedy, and you weren’t completely sure that you would be unhappy with the outcome. Tragedies were just as loved as the comedies, weren't they? Maybe your story was only meant to have a happy middle.

“Tell me you still love me, that we can still fix this.” His voice is raw, filled with so much desperation that it had the back of your eyes burning. “Tell me that you don’t regret us.”

“I don’t regret us.” It is the only truth that you can offer him, and no matter how much you’ve fallen out of love with him, you would never, you could never, lie to him.

And that's why you can’t tell him you still love him.

He hears the unspoken words that trail after your spoken ones, and you hope that somewhere, through everything that chains him down and chafes at him, that he understands your honesty. That one day he might even be able to appreciate it. But now, as you pull the blanket tighter over you, you know that he’ll need time and space. The small action has you pulling away from him just a bit, and it’s a minuscule distance, but the separation speaks volumes of your thoughts.

Despite your clear drawing of the line, you feel the bed shift as Issei turns over and pressed his forehead into your neck. The lack of emotion towards the familiar action only serves to finalize your thoughts, even as he stays in that position for a long moment.

He presses a kiss onto your shoulder, and you can feel him mouth words that you can’t quite seem to catch before he slips out of bed, the soft rustling of clothes filling your ears before he pads out of the room.

The door doesn't slam on his way out, but it's gentle click cuts through the final strands of the fraying thread that has been holding you two together. The tears that finally slip out aren’t ones of heartbreak and misery, but a sickening relief has your empathetic side cringing in disgust. As much as you want to feel guilty, the part of you that’s been hurting for too long whispers that it’s okay. You deserve to be honest with yourself too.

#matsukawa issei #matsukawa x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu matsukawa

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martellthemandalor · 4 years

Text

Fight or Flight - Part 2

Pairing: Frankie ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader

Warnings: langauge, guns, blood, violence, alcohol, angst

Rating: T (teen)

Word Count: 4.2K+

A/N: Part 2!! Here we are after two weeks, which I’m impressed with becuase uni has been kicking my ass lately. Just a PSA that I mildly hate myself for writing this becuase I hate hurting Frankie. Thank you to @mylifeliterally for beta reading this! As always likes are appreciated, reblogs encouraged and comments are adored :)

If you haven’t already, read part 1 here!

Masterlist

GIF credit: @conveniently-available

Staying away from Frankie was working so far, the atmosphere between the two of you softening as your anger faded slowly with the distance. Everyone was happy with this, the boys starting to properly relax again in your presence and your relief at that knew no bounds.

Things were starting to feel like normal again.

Benny’s fight had gone… well you weren’t entirely sure how it had gone, but he was insisting that he had won and that was a good enough cause for celebration in the group.

The old squad had retired to Benny’s favourite haunt, a small Irish themed pub a few streets from the gym. There you were now sat, favourite beverages in hand, talking as if the last god-knows how many years hadn’t passed at all.

Ben had insisted that you weren’t paying for own drinks tonight, overjoyed that your good luck kiss had worked its magic on him. You certainly weren’t complaining, even if you did start to feel a little guilty as the other boys insisted that they pay for a few too.

Fish didn’t say anything to you but you clocked him slip his own contribution into Will’s hand, muttering something to him. Next thing you knew another bottle had been handed to you by the blonde.

A tiny wave of guilt washed over your stomach as you stared at the drink, offering your thanks to Will who simply gave your shoulder a squeeze in return. He knew it wasn’t meant for him.

The feeling quickly washed away though, replaced with that warm fuzz alcohol provided.

While it was true you had planned to lightly flirt with Benny at the start of the evening, you hadn’t expected it to be as enticing as it was to just… keep going. So, you did.

“So Benny, since when I was your good luck charm, hmm?” You queried lightly, nudging him with your elbow.

“You always were Athena, though honestly you’re more of a good looking charm than anything else.” He winked at you. It caused you, Will and Santi to groan in response.

“Come on Ben that was awful, surely you have better lines that from your other good luck charms,” You said.

“Ain’t ever been any other charm but you Ath. You gave us all our luck on missions and it continued into the ring. Wouldn’t want anyone else,” Benny confessed, all the boys nodding their agreement.

The sincerity of his words sent heat flaring to your cheeks. The boys had often joked that you were some kind of blessed, always knowing the best route out of a sticky situation, knowing when shit was about to hit the fan, knowing how to get everyone to safety even if they weren’t with you. You always said it was just paranoia and a lot of experience, but they insisted it was no joking matter how many times it had saved all your skins. All except… once.

“He’s right you know,” A quiet voice caused your head to snap from where you had been staring at your drink. “I know you don’t always believe it, but he’s right. You saved all our asses more times than I can count.”

Frankie. You stared at him, the heat from your cheeks now shifting to blaze a firefight behind your eyes.

“And yet the one time I needed you to save mine, my luck ran out? Is that it?” You snapped.

Frankie shrank under your gaze, refusing to meet your eyes. You watched his hands fidget with his bottle, fingertip skimming the rim. Then, calmly, in a move that you’d never seen before, he placed his hands flat on the table, keeping them still.

“Do you want to do this now?” He asked, his voice low, level, considered. “It’s been killing the guys to find out what happened to us, so do you want to do this now?”

They all were watching you now, four pairs of highly trained eyes bearing into your soul.

“Is that true?” You asked the group. The blaze in you never softening, the bite in your words not held back.

The answering silence told you everything, very clearly.

“You guys want to know what happened, huh? Is your curiosity finally getting the better of you now that we’re both here?” You sniped. It was all of them avoiding your eyes now, heads ducked away from your firing line.

“Hermana, you don’t have to-” Santiago started, cut off abruptly when you threw up a closed fist.

“No, I think it’s time we got it out there. I’m ready to talk. Frankie, honey, do you want to tell them? Or should I?” Fish squared his shoulders somewhat, but still couldn’t look at you. One hand had closed around his bottle again, knuckles white, gripping it so tight it looked as though it could shatter at any moment.

“Fine. Fish left me to die.” You let the words hang. And for a moment, nothing happened. Like the grace period between releasing the trigger on a hand grenade and the moment of devastation. There was silence.

The once light atmosphere instantly thickened as the words hit each of the boys in turn. It felt like smoke had filled the air around your table, swirling around you and choking up the boys before any of them had even thought of a response.

You pushed through.

“It was my last mission, before I was forced out of our company. We were out in the Rainforest, targeting some base camp. Shit went sideways. We all scattered and that was my call. Me and Fish ended up together, you know we always did. I kne- I thought, that he would always have my back.”

It was true. Frankie had always watched your six, more vigilantly than any of the other boys combined. A natural response, you thought, to being hopelessly in love with someone. It had certainly been the case for you. Your usual sharp surveillance turned up to eleven whenever he was near you on a mission.

“But on that day? That day he didn’t. We were being pursued, shots taken on us at every opportunity. I took out three of the guys behind us. Nine shots. Clean kills. No struggle.” You took a breath.

The squad was hyper focused on you, practically unblinking as you conjured the past into their minds. Even Frankie was staring at you now, mouth pressed into a firm line as he forced himself to pay attention.

He owed you that much.

“We’d made it to the hillside, one of our landmarks for tracking the distance back to the rendezvous. Things got real quiet behind us and I thought, stupidly, that we had somehow out maneuvered them. And then the rock-fall happened.” Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment. The memory of the gut wrenching fear so vivid you could practically feel it again, twisting and writhing deep in your belly.

“There were too few and they were too close together to be anything natural. I looked up and there the bastards were. I didn’t even think, just pushed Frankie off the path, down the shallow slope into the undergrowth. I just, wasn’t fast enough for myself I guess.”

You pulled up the left side of your shirt, showing the very obvious bullet wound scar that resided under your ribs. Benny’s mouth fell open, his hand moving towards you, only to swiftly clench into a fist on his thigh.

“I fell. Fell back off the ledge and into the undergrowth with him. Initially it was scrambled calls for med-evac and checking me over and telling me to keep pressure on it. My hearing started to go. Things got distant, but I could make out muffled shouting from above us. Then Fish called into his comm and gave me a look, I had no clue of why he was looking at me that way. Until he left. Left me there, bleeding out on the ground. Dying on the cold, damp earth.”

You cracked then, no longer being able to just play narrator, retelling it from some unfeeling perspective. It was becoming too real, too sharp in your mind as you replayed the event in four-D. You tried to quell the aching urge in your chest to gasp for breath by taking a long swig of your drink.

“I don’t know how long I lay there, in pain and on the verge of giving up, before med-evac showed up and saved me.”

Tears were threatening to roll down your cheeks, your head starting to spin as you battled to keep them at bay.

“Excuse me,” You muttered quietly, flying from the table and into the restroom.

The glass of the mirror was a glacier against your forehead, the smooth edge of the sink below you gliding under your thumbs as you anxiously stroked them across the surface. Your breathing was starting to even out as you used the sensations to ground yourself.

You thought you had been ready to talk about this, especially with the boys. Maybe it was because you had gone about it in a rather hostile way.

That was probably it.

You leant back from the cool glass, watching as your reflection shook her head at you.

“Get yourself together,” You firmly told yourself, “Go out there, apologise and finish the night on a high. Okay?”

The table had gone back to its normally bubbly ambience, the boys talking animatedly amongst themselves.

Your gut did a somersault. They all looked so happy, so carefree, even Frankie was talking happily with them.

You couldn’t stop observing him. The way he smiled and how his shoulders shake slightly when he laughs. His hands were gesticulating wildly when he spoke, the alcohol freeing them from their usual firmly crossed position.

Something flipped in you. The simmering anger that had flowed through your veins at the sight of him evaporated into lingering guilt.

All the tension, everything that had been off about the evening, it had all been your fault.

You took a breath and checked that you still had your phone and wallet in your pocket. You were just going to leave, let the boys have the carefree reunion they deserve.

Shit. Your coat.

Your coat was hanging off the back of the chair that your really didn’t have the stomach to approach right now. You considered making a run for it, just walking past and nabbing it. The problem with that is the boys would instantly notice.

No. Easier to leave it, you can just drop a text to Pope and tell him to drop it at your hotel room later.

You exited the bar quickly, hoping none of the guys saw, and started walking back to your room.

“You left your coat you know.”

Fuck.

Of course Santiago had noticed you slipping away. You stilled, and took a deep breath.

“I- I’m sorry Pope, I just… had to go.”

“You don’t have to apologise, Athena,” Santi spoke softly as he approached you. His arm looped into yours, and as you started walking the two of you fell instantly in step. “It couldn’t have been easy for you to tell us that.”

“No, I do. Not just for unloading that onto you about Frankie, but for being an asshole all evening. I put so much tension-”

“Ath, I promise you that there has been very little tension, things have been great this evening. Anything between you and Fish is between you two alone,” Pope gently squeezed your arm. “Will, Benny and I all knew that things wouldn’t be easy for you two tonight, so I promise you that any ‘tension’ you think you’ve caused was fully anticipated and did not ruin the night.”

The glow of the hotel drew closer with every step and 5 minutes ago the warmth and comfort would’ve been calling to you. Instead, all the warmth and comfort you needed was radiating from your best friend, his words gentle and reassuring in their very nature.

You looked over at him, at the face that had always greeted you on your worse days, and smiled with genuine affection filling your features.

“Thank you, Santiago,” You gave his arm a gentle squeeze, returning the one he had given before. “You always know what to say to me don’t you?”

“I’ve had years of practice, hermana,” He responded kindly.

Pope walked you to the door of your hotel room, even after you insisted that you were more than fine, and left you with a firm hug and a gentle kiss on your cheek. You believed that would be the last you’d see of any of the boys until tomorrow.

Settling in for the night, you were moments away from turning on the TV when a soft rapping at the door was about to prove you wrong.

You padded over to the door and peered through the peephole.

Fuck.

The latch on the door clicked as you opened it for your ex.

“We need to talk.” The words rushed from Frankie’s mouth before you even had chance to take a breath.

Standing for a moment, you studied the man standing patiently in the hallway. His hands were shoved in his pockets, cap pulled low over his face. His stance told you he was nervous, but his eyes betrayed a confidence that you weren’t even sure he realised he had.

“Okay.”

Standing aside, you held the door open and let him slip past you. You shut the door behind him, leaning against it as the lock engaged.

Fish stood in the centre of the room, smoothing down his shirt before taking off his cap and slowly rotating it in his hands. His eyes were steady on your face, waiting for you to make the first move.

The air between you was thick and heavy. The bed suddenly looked like the most inviting place in the room, so you moved to sit on it, positioning yourself at the headboard. You leant forward and patted the space of mattress at your feet, a quiet signal for Frankie to get comfortable.

There was no hesitation his part, swiftly moving to settle cross-legged at the foot of the mattress. Even now, when you both knew that this was going to bare more of your souls to each other than you ever had before, he was still giving you all the space he could.

“Where do you want to start?” You asked, your voice calm and almost, almost, soft.

“You first. Just, tell me everything, whatever you feel or have felt. Me and you, we were… we were never good at that, we repressed and tried to forget. Especially with this and it broke us. So please, please I want to know, I want to understand.” He was almost pleading with you.

Of everything Frankie had ever asked you, this was the most terrifying of them all.

He was patient. Sitting quietly while you gathered your thoughts, he gave no indication of wanting to rush you. He was right. The two of you had never been good at talking out your feelings. You both tended to bottle them up until they exploded in moments of anger or were thrown into sex.

After a few minutes of quiet searching, you finally formulated a script of your thoughts.

“I loved you with everything, Frankie,” You began, taking a deep breath before continuing. “My entire heart and soul, and do you know where it went? With every passing minute after you abandoned me, every second that I lost more and more hope of you circling back to get me, all my love for you bled out.”

Your hands curled into fists on your thighs, the gentle pinch of your nails digging at your palm grounding you from the rise of unbridled emotion. Frankie kept still, attentively listening to your every word.

“My heart shattered away, piece by piece, with every weakening beat and gushed from my wounds. Its out there, somewhere, Frankie. My love for you is stained blood red onto the jungle floor.” Your voice was starting to crack, the tremors in it impossible to ignore.

Frankie’s mouth fell open a little at that. You could see in his face that he was desperate to say something, but he chose to draw himself back, to keep listening to you.

“I thought getting shot hurt, but it was nothing, nothing, compared to the pain of you leaving me to die alone,” You croaked, your throat constricted with the effort of holding back the rolling tears. Tears which were starting to drip down your face regardless.

“You broke me, Frankie. I can’t date, can’t connect with anyone else. Even if I want to I can’t, because I have this constant fear that they will get up and leave me in the dark,” Your breath hitched as the script changed, a dangerous realisation fighting its way to the front line of your thoughts. “And I can’t date them because none of them are you.”

The reaction in Frankie was instant. Choking on air, his eyes frantically searched your face for any sign of a lie. When he found none, you watched as he forced himself to relax, a shaky breath leaving his lungs.

Your own body slumped against the headboard, the admission winding you completely. All your composure was gone. The puppet string that you forced yourself to follow had been severed. There was no room for acting alright anymore. Not tonight. Not with him.

“My turn.”

Frankie shifted on the bed, looking as though he was going to crawl up to you. Instead, he merely turned a little in order to face you head on.

“You deserve to know the truth. I deserve for you to let me do that. Okay?” He was coaxing you, gently.

Even now, after everything, he was still asking your consent.

Your consent to let him talk. Your consent to let him change your memories. Your consent to finally let yourself feel.

“Okay,” You said quietly, a nod accompanying the small sound.

“When you fell beside me, your clothes slowly darkening before my eyes, my first instinct was to call for Med-Evac. I followed our training, trying to stop the bleeding and giving our location over the comms. But, I… they…” Frankie paused for a second, an unsteady hand dragging down his face.

You leant forward, closing the chasm that lay between you and the man you loved just a fraction.

“I heard them shouting above us. Kill all survivors. It wasn’t good enough that they’d shot you, they wanted us, you, dead. I just knew, that if I stayed there, if I called in Medics, if I showed even one sign that either you or I were still alive down there,” He closed his eyes, squeezing them tight for a moment. His fists were closed too, scrunched up in the sheets that lay beneath the two of you.

You shuffled forward. Just a little.

“Dios. (“God”) They would have killed both of us. In those seconds between hearing them and calling off Med-Evac, my mind ran through every single possibility of how I could get you out there alive. I couldn’t lose you. I couldn’t ever lose you, mi petardo.” (“My firecracker”)

You tried to speak, but Frankie cut you off with a shake of his head.

“I made the only decision that I thought could possibly save you. Let them think you were dead. Leave you and make you seem like a lost cause and maybe, just maybe, you would survive this. It was the hardest decision of my entire life. I tried to tell you what I was doing, but I think shock had set in and you couldn’t hear me at all.”

The tears were escaping down his face now, all attempts at staying stoic failing as the tell-tale droplets fell. Your heart constricted at the sight, the urge to fly to him and wipe them away blooming deep in your chest.

“The look in your eyes broke my heart. You were so afraid and I knew you were about to become infinitely more so. Leaving you there was the worst thing I have ever done, in the whole of my life. If I could ever reverse it, if I could ever switch places. I would do in a heartbeat.”

Frankie’s face was glistening, but he made no attempts to wipe away the continuous stream of tears. It drew your attention to the fact that you too were still crying, unregistered droplets falling down your own cheeks.

Fuck. You wanted to reach for him. To pull him safely into your arms and apologise a million times over for how fucking selfish you had been.

The silence was becoming deafening, echoing in the cavern between you, ricocheting back and forth in a plight to be broken.

Then it was like the gaping space between you vanished. A lifeline was strung across, attached to both your hearts as you both opened your mouths and…

“I’m sorry.”

The words were spoken in complete unison. So much more than just an apology, it was an acknowledgment. Of what, you weren’t quite sure yet.

You tried to speak again, but Frankie spoke over you.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you the truth earlier. I should’ve fought harder to see you when you were so set on not seeing me. Not talking to me. I didn’t want to force myself onto you, into your space. I wanted to give you time to heal. But I- I left it too long. It wasn’t much later that I decided the best thing for both of us was to just let you go.”

Frankie’s silent sobbing was becoming more and more physical, deep, shaking breaths starting to wrack his speech. You found your heart starting to shatter all over again.

Fuck giving each other space.

You practically pounced on him, arms and legs wrapping round him as you buried your head in his shoulder. You told yourself it was because you were trying to hide your own tears. In reality you knew it was because right there is where you felt safest.

It was where you always were safest.

It took a moment for Frankie. It was like his brain stopped working for a few seconds. But once it fully registered that it was you in his lap, his arms circled your body, holding you tight to him.

You felt his face nuzzle into your hair, his tears beginning to dampen the soft strands.

“I was wrong, I was so, so wrong,” Frankie sobbed against you.

“No, shhh, no you weren’t,” You hushed, your hand coming up to smooth over his unruly curls. “I was. I was stubborn and hurting and unwilling to listen to anyone.”

“You were hurting because of me,” He murmured.

“No Frankie, I was hurting because of me. It was my decision to push you first, my decision to not let you see me.”

You pulled back from his neck, moving to rest your forehead against his. Your hands cupped his face, thumbs sweeping over the rosy apples of his cheeks.

“We… we both made mistakes. We both fucked us up. It’s like you said, neither of us were any good at talking out our feelings. This was just the culmination of that,” You breathed it out, the words fanning over his lips that hovered mere inches away.

“I still love you.”

The words were whispered. Barely audible if not for how close you were. A confession so short, yet still held the weight of a thousand bullets.

“I still love you too.”

The parroted words broke down every single one of the walls that you and he had built up over the years. All the heartache, the hating, the yearning, the supressed loving, it all disintegrated in a moment. None of it mattered right now, not now you both knew you had felt it all together.

“Can I kiss you?” Frankie asked. His now words bolder and more assured.

You nodded, momentarily biting you lip before pressing them to the familiar shape of Frankie.

Everything melted away, the room, the world, the past, all with the gentle brush of his lips against your own. It was unhurried, long presses of lips that slowly turned to languid passing of tongues. Relearning what the other felt like, tasted like.

When you finally broke apart, you spent a few minutes in comfortable silence. Your hands glided over each other’s body in the quiet, using feather-light and comforting touch.

“Can we try again?” You spoke the question with firmly shut eyes, afraid that his answer wouldn’t match the one you were longer for.

You felt his hand your chin, gently tilting your head up and encouraging you to open your eyes.

When you did, you found yourself looking into his dark chocolate orbs. The corners of his eyes crinkled just slightly in a way that let you know the smile he wore was genuine.

“Cariño, I want nothing more. But,” Frankie paused, the smiling falling from his face. He pressed his forehead to yours, rocking his head to the side slightly as he did. “We need to be better. Better for each other. We… we need to learn to talk shit out.”

You brought your hands up to move his head, bringing it down to rest in the crook of your neck, cradling it there.

“We will,” You promised. “We’ll be better. We’ll work this out.”

And as you sat there, holding your world in your arms, you knew that you and he finally had the second chance you didn’t know you had been craving.

TAGLIST

@din-damn-djarin

@phoenixhalliwell

@legili-mens

@jeeperky

@autumnleaves1991-blog

@arabellathorne

#Frankie morales #frankie 'catfish' morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago pope garcia #frankie catfish morales #benny miller #will miller #will ironhead miller #i killed myself a little with this i wont lie

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absentlyabbie · 3 years

Photo

a family and (mis)fortune fic

on ao3

moments growing up in the life of tommy merlyn, part-time wayne foster child. (seven)

—————

The morning of Tommy’s eighth day in Gotham, Bruce came downstairs in the morning at his usual 6AM, heading to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Dick would be down shortly, still half-asleep and grouchy from their late night, and Alfred wouldn’t be far behind. Bruce had scored a rare victory in their years-long argument that Alfred should take a late morning after manning the Batcave well into the small hours of the night.

What Bruce had not expected to find when he went into the kitchen was Tommy, seated at the small kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and the funny pages from yesterday’s paper spread out on the tabletop, spotted with milk and orange juice. Tommy had slept til nearly 8 every day of the last week, and Bruce had seen no reason not to let him.

Seeing that Tommy had clearly risen before everyone else was a surprise and a concerning break in pattern. To add to the concern, Tommy looked just as startled to see him.

“Good morning,” Bruce tested slowly. “You’re up early.”

Tommy tensed and looked away, one shoulder jerking in a dismissive shrug as he shoveled a too-large spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

Hoping he wasn’t messing this up, Bruce asked carefully, “Bad dreams?”

Tommy ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken and Bruce winced discreetly, certain he shouldn’t have asked. Clearing his throat, he let it drop and went to the coffee maker. He left Tommy to his quiet, thinking on how tired he’d been of people trying to make him talk about what he’d felt and how he was coping when he was that age.

Minutes later, Dick shambled into the kitchen like a zombie in a blue pajama set, hair a wild mess and eyes only barely open. He grumbled a hello at Bruce and snatched Bruce’s mug from under the finishing drip, taking a long sip and hissing even as it scalded his lips and tongue.

Reprovingly, Bruce reclaimed his mug. “You are fourteen. Follow Tommy’s example. Orange juice.”

Scowling melodramatically, Dick dragged his feet to the fridge and grunted, “OJ’s not caffeinated.”

“That’s the point.”

Dick grumbled through pulling down a glass and pouring his juice, and Bruce hid a smirk in his coffee mug as he rounded the large center island. Normally, they took breakfast in the dining room, even when it was just toast and eggs or Pop Tarts for Dick. But since Tommy was already seated, Bruce decided to take a seat opposite him at the little eat-in as if this was as normal and routine as anything else.

Tommy didn’t even look up from his funnies.

Despite his grumbling, Dick was already far more awake and more his normal self by the time he headed over to them with orange juice and a silver foil packet in hand. He perched in the chair nearest Tommy’s and craned across the table with a playful curl to his mouth, “Whatcha got there? Ooh, is that—?”

Bruce looked up sharply at the loud smack of palms on tabletop, his brows arching high in surprise. Dick had tried to pull the comics pages towards him and Tommy had reacted with a swift, hard slap of his palms down on the paper, pinning it to the tabletop where it was.

But what drew Bruce up short was the venomous glare Tommy was pinning Dick with.

Dick had sat back sharp in his seat, eyes wide, shocked and a little hurt judging by the slight inward quirk of his brows. “Geez. Sorry.”

Tommy said nothing, just glared until Dick raised his hands from the newspaper pages and held them up in surrender. Bruce frowned as Tommy pulled the pages closer, hunched over them, and went back to his soggy cereal without a word.

Bruce and Dick exchanged a worried glance. For a moment, Bruce considered saying something about Tommy’s behavior, making him apologize to Dick. But he didn’t feel he’d made enough progress with him yet to practice amateur parenting on him. So he said nothing, and Dick slouched back in his chair to unwrap his Pop Tart and cast furtive, watchful glances at Tommy, who ignored them both steadily.

It only got worse as the morning went on. Not even Alfred got an acknowledgement when he joined them in the kitchen. Tommy looked at no one, spoke to no one, just folded up his funnies, put them in the recyclables bin, rinsed his bowl and glass and set them in the sink, and walked out of the kitchen without so much as a backwards glance for any of them.

Bruce felt he’d somehow not only lost all the progress he’d made with Tommy in his first week, but somehow regressed even further.

All of a sudden, he was quiet to the point of silent treatment, and though Bruce had noticed many times that Tommy carried in him an anger mostly hidden, it was closer to the surface than ever, a pot hissing and simmering and threatening to boil over any moment.

Only he never boiled over.

He kept up that spitting low boil for almost two days, spending as much time alone as possible, speaking as little as he could get away with. Two days of no smiles and no laughter, just clenched tight as a fist and ticking like a bomb that refused to go off.

Bruce was at a loss. Alfred was concerned, watchful, but insisted on being hands off.

“Perhaps he needs to get something out of his system, Master Bruce. We must let him talk to us when he is ready,” Alfred had suggested gently, and as much as it chafed at Bruce, he saw no other approach that didn’t look like it might make things worse.

Dick, on the other hand, was absolutely determined to recover the kid he’d started to befriend, the one who liked his puns and his comics and video games and talked to him.

It was perhaps unsurprising that it was Dick’s persistence that eventually paid off. He needled and nagged and dogged Tommy at every turn the two days of silent treatment, cracking jokes and performing outlandish stunts and gags and being generally annoying, whatever he thought might get a reaction.

And he did get a reaction, though Bruce wasn’t sure it was the one he ought to have been aiming for.

Tommy broke not with giggles or grins, but with a fed-up howl of “Will you quit it!!”

There had followed a cackling laugh—Dick—and a growling shout—Tommy—and a loud thump.

Bruce had hurried to the library to find the boys wrestling on the floor between two shelves, pulling at fingers and hair and shoving feet in faces. Bruce stared, stunned, from the doorway, struck by how unfair a fight it was with Dick almost five years older and regularly training in martial arts.

But Dick didn’t pull any of his advantages other than size, letting Tommy get on top of him twice and think he had him pinned before bucking the smaller boy or wriggling out from under him to turn the tables all over again.

Eventually Tommy got fed up, kicking Dick off of him with both feet to the chest—almost impressive, admittedly—and jumping to his feet with an aggravated huff and face red. He glanced to the door and did a wincing doubletake on spotting Bruce. Reddening even more, he shoved past Bruce to run stomping down the hall.

Watching him go until he turned a corner, Bruce shifted his attention to Dick with arms crossed and one eyebrow arched. “Was that the wisest approach, Dick?”

Dick, for his part, snorted and rolled nimbly onto his toes with a grin. Rubbing his sternum lightly in appreciation, he gave Bruce a twinkling look and a shake of his head. “You so obviously didn’t grow up around other kids.”

Bruce frowned as Dick danced breezily past him, hands in pockets. “I had friends.”

“Uh huh,” Dick drawled.

“I wasn’t a child hermit, Dick.”

He spun on his heel in the middle of the hallway to look Bruce in the eye with deep solemnity. “I believe you.” Sarcastic brat. “Trust me, this was good. It’s only up from here.”

Bruce hummed skeptically as Dick strolled whistling down the hall.

But really, he hoped Dick was right.

—————

@memcjo @klaus-hargreeves-katz @its-a-pygmy-puffle @keabbs @princesssarcastia @obscure-sentimentalist @icannotbelieveiamhere @p0cketw0tch @andyouweremine @storiesofimagination @acheaptrickandacheesyoneline @cronusamporaofficial @batsonthebrain @adeusminhacolombina @nothinglikeweplanned

#tommy merlyn #bruce wayne #dick grayson #arrow #arrow fic #batfam #alfred pennyworth #family and (mis)fortune au #fam au

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shadow--writer · 3 years

Text

When You're all Alone I will Reach for you, When You're Feeling low I will be There too

title

Maeve x Lucas. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. 4.6k

TW: heat exhaustion, passing out, a bit of blood, a lecture.

@dela-png

Lucas was stumbling a lot. Dizzy in a way. He had to keep pausing what he was doing to hold his head and lean against something.

Checking in on him had become a habit, one he kept waving off. With a smile, a shrug, and then him getting back to work. His brows furrowing a little as he focused on something.

She was starting to worry about him. He looked a bit more...gaunt. Okay, sure, gaunt Lucas still looked healthier than gaunt Maeve, but he looked so...pale.

And that was odd.

She tore her gaze away from Lucas for the fourth time in ten minutes. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but they were both working in some way. The others he was working with didn’t seem to notice so maybe he was fine. Maybe the sun was just washing him out.

But now even Will looked worried.

She was currently trying to work on a new spell, taking a break from the clinic. It was so fucking hot outside and inside it was miserable. She wished it would rain already or at least be cooler out.

Now she wasn’t as focused on her spellwork, and more focused on Lucas. His brows were deeply creased as he focused on walking right.

Something was wrong, but she didn’t know what.

She sighed, looking back at her notes and the old book she found in a back alley bookstore. The spell work was fascinating, but she just couldn’t...bring herself to keep reading.

Lucas caught her eye again, her eyes softened with a question and he only smiled in return.

A weak smile.

His cheeks were redder now. She pushed herself to her feet. The fact she could see how bright his face was from here was concerning.

Not a cloud in the sky.

He turned away from her as she closed her book.

Then slowly, he began to fall.

It all felt...so dreamlike. So unreal.

Her chair fell as she ran to him, the things he was holding spilling out on the dock as his fever got the better of him.

It was like her world was falling down around her as her blood ran hot through her veins, the snap of him passing out enough to make her eyes and body glow like she was on fire.

The chatter of the other workers went dead silent as she skidded to a stop.

She knelt down, pushing his hair back from his face. His skin was hot under her hands. Goosebumps erupted along her arms as the panic started to set in.

“Lucas please,” she whispered, pushing his shoulders back so he’d be laying on his back. His face was red and he was burning up.

She guessed heat exhaustion.

But something else.

She didn’t have time to figure it out, she needed to get him inside and out of the sun.

Her eyes watered. “Please help me,” she whispered, to anyone who was listening. To no one listening. A few tears slipped down her cheeks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He just…he just…”

She clenched her jaw. “I’m a doctor for goddess sake! Why can’t I help him? I can’t…I can’t get him home.”

She needed to get him out of the sun, but with him on his back she couldn’t very well carry him. She was strong for someone her size, yes, but she wasn’t that strong.

But she had to try.

Trying to keep her breathing calm, she pushed him to sit upright, and she swung him over her shoulders.

She breathed in, holding her breath as she slowly stood up. Gods, stars and spirits he was heavy. And warm. He was almost too warm.

Huffing, she stumbled forward. She isn’t going to make it back. She knew she wouldn’t make it.

But she had to try.

“I…hate you,” she wheezed, new tears falling down her face. “I can’t get you home.” She let out a tiny sob, stumbling again.

“I just want you to let me help you,” she snapped, it was useless she was talking to nothing.

Then suddenly he wasn’t as heavy anymore.

And then he wasn’t on her shoulders.

Her hands grew hot as she whirled around, but the person standing next to her only adjusted Lucas on their back.

“You’ll pass out too at this rate,” they said, voice gruff. “You won’t be any help if you are.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, wiping her eyes. “I wouldn’t have made it home.”

They smiled at her, it was a nervous fluttery smile, as they shifted Lucas again. “It’s no trouble. I’m surprised you managed to make it to the end of the dock with him on your shoulders.”

“I left my book and notes.”

“I can bring those by later, if you’d like.”

“Thank you.”

“If it gets me out of work for a little while,” they joked weakly.

She only grimaced back, the air crackling with an almost palpable nervousness. They were only helping in a distant way. Not because they really cared about him. She appreciated the help, but they were so skittish.

“Can I ask why you chose to help?” she whispered. Their head snapped up as she met their eyes. “You just...look like you want to be anywhere but here.”

“He’s a hard worker.” It sounded like they believed it, it was true. But they wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Shy as the devil, but a hard worker. And if someone passes out and you watch this tiny lady try and carry them off, no offense, wouldn’t anyone help?”

“Only you did,” she said softly.

They sighed. Everyone who worked at the dock was so...tall. None as tall as Lucas as far as she could tell.

But she was just...almost like nothing.

She really was more of a burden than a help. She wondered why Lucas liked her so much. She was useless.

She blinked back tears.

“Its rumours is all. He’s nice but people are scared of guys who have the resting face of a guy who wants to kill ya.”

“He does?”

They looked at her funny. “Well, have you seen him?”

She wilted. “He’s just...a sweetheart though.”

“I’m sure he is but that face is something most people don’t get past. Paired with the rumours it’s no wonder people are skittish of him.”

Rumours?

She stared at Lucas, he had a sunburn on the back of his neck and his breathing was a bit huffy. She needed to make something for him to eat and get him water.

But there was so much he wasn’t telling her. She knew that.

She knew it from the day he paled at her mentioning the blue paint.

Her eyes narrowed and she walked ahead. It didn’t take long for them to get Lucas home and inside. The person helping her from the dock only nodded and left.

Leaving her alone.

In the stifling silence of his home, with the curtains drawn shut to cool the house down as much as she could.

Working quickly she filled a basin with water and tucked it under the bed where he was asleep. Wringing out a cloth over the basin, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Fever. She was right about the heat exhaustion.

The way he was shaking...something else was happening as well.

Judging by the lack of...activity in the kitchen, he wasn’t eating right as well.

Blinking back more tears, she stared into the empty kitchen. She hated this. She hated it so much. He left her no choice but to try and cook for him. He needed to eat something, even if it was her shitty cooking.

Letting out a deep inhale, she got to work.

“Fuck!” she screamed, hurling the spoon she held at the wall. Her latest attempt at making something edible fell through. Latest attempt out of what? Five? Six?

“Fuck,” she whispered, pressing her palm to her eye. She felt her nose burn as she teared up. She hated this. She hated not being able to help him. She was useless.

She sunk to the floor, crying softly as she watched the spoon slide off the wall and leave behind a smear of failed soup.

“I can’t do anything right,” she sobbed to herself. His home was eerily quiet with him asleep. It felt eerily quiet with her there alone.

Eerily quiet with no talk to fill the space.

She scrubbed at her eyes, drawing her knees up to her chin to make herself smaller. What was she going to do? It was too late now to go to the market to get something, and she didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want him to wake up alone in the dead silent house while she just...failed to be of any use.

She couldn’t even make soup right.

She slowly got to her feet, sniffling and rubbing her tears away. She could do this. She had to try.

She just couldn't do anything fancy. She couldn’t do anything he might do. She could...make one thing. Terribly, but she could try.

He was going to get the talking to of the century when he woke up.

She looked around in his ice box, thankfully she hadn’t tried to use any of the meat yet. Her vision was blurred with a never ending stream of tears.

She was just so...angry. Angry and upset and...scared. She could feel the deep fear curdling in her gut as she seasoned and prepared the meat, cutting it up slowly.

She sliced her finger again, spewing curses through sobs. “Fucking idiot,” she yelled, kicking the cabinet with her bare foot. The sound echoed through the silent house as her toes throbbed from the pain.

Blood slid down her finger as she popped it into her mouth, looking for something to bandage it.

She dug through her bag by the door, sticking an adhesive bandage on the cut.

Dejectedly, she made her way back into the kitchen.

She took her anger out on vegetables. Also taking out her fingers as she cut, but she wasn’t paying attention, trying to quiet her sobs.

After many. Many. Many, tries of cutting vegetables up and then bandaging most of her fingers, the stew was simmering.

Finally something that she’s made hasn't failed.

She shuffled over to the couch. There were so many things cluttered on it. Books, papers and other trinkets. They looked like they were moved recently, but the build up of dust on the couch was...not a good sign.

Her body trembled as she just grew colder and colder. Why did he have to be such an idiot?

And why did she have to be so in love with him?

She bit her lip so hard it started to bleed as she carefully moved the books and papers off the couch and onto the floor. She coughed as she kicked up dust, swiping angrily at her tears. Fuck him. Fuck this all. She hated it so much. She hated how depressed his house felt. She hated how terrible he was to himself.

She hated how much she cared.

Why did she have to care about it so much? Why did he just have to be...such an idiot. An idiot who was self sacrificial and stupid.

And she had to go out and fall in love with him.

She flopped onto the couch, sneezing so hard her body shook as she curled up. She needed to wait for the stew to simmer for a bit.

And she was just…tired.

Breathing softly, she fell asleep.

It was the smell that first dragged her from her bleariness.

Dadí must be cooking then. But it was their beef carrot potato stew. Only made for a special occasion. What...was he making it for…?

She opened her eyes and the events of the last day hit her at full force.

Lucas. Exhaustion. Overworking. He passed out. She cooked.

She was alone.

She looked down at her hands. They hurt. They hurt a lot. Blood beaded up as she curled her hands into fists.

Pushing herself off the couch, she rubbed her arms. The house was cold. It was cold without him laughing. It was cold without his voice.

It was cold without him.

She walked into the kitchen, checking on the stew. It should be ready. She peaked out the window by the countertop, the world bathed in starlight and old street lamps. The daylight world was asleep now.

She scooped a little of her misshapen creation into a bowl, digging around his kitchen for another one and some spoons. She didn’t have the stuff needed for the broth, so she had to improvise.

Finding two spoons from two different silverware sets and an old clay bowl, she dropped them on the counter by the stove. She grabbed a spoon for herself, and tried some of her stew, wallowing in self pity.

It...wasn’t the most terrible thing she had ever made. It was a far cry from what Lucas or hell, even what Aislin could make, but it would do.

It didn’t inspire the joy it did when her dad made it, but the familiar taste brought a little comfort to her as she felt her stomach warm.

She scooped more into a bowl, her footsteps soft against the worn wood flooring as she made her way to Lucas’ room. He was still asleep, but she didn’t care. He had to eat something. Along the way she swiped his canteen, feeling the water inside swish with her movements.

Her anger made her hands shake.

She set the bowl on his bedside table, grabbing a chair from the kitchen and bringing that in as well.

She tapped his cheek once, and he let out a low whine.

“Wake up,” she said. Her tone was flat and empty. Just like the house.

She poked his cheek again and he cracked one eye open. He looked around blearily as she grabbed the bowl of stew.

“You’re an idiot, you know,” she said, the anger barely being contained in her tone. She scooped some beef and a carrot onto the spoon, blowing on it softly. “And you scared me.”

She held the spoon to his face, helping him eat it. She wiped the excess broth from his chin with the corner of her dress, repeating the motion.

He only watched her, silently eating what she fed him. The way his face twisted let her know how bad it tasted. Sure it was fine to her.

But he had a…refined sense of taste.

But he didn’t say anything, probably to spare her feelings. She didn’t want her feelings spared, and the sparks at her fingertips made her flinch.

She gripped the spoon tightly, trying to calm her erratic breathing. She would not hurt him in an outburst. She wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she did.

“You...you have the gall to lecture me on my eating habits and then you turn around and pull- pull this bullshit!”

She was going to cry again. She didn’t want to cry in front of him but she didn’t know if it could be avoided.

“You’ll work yourself to death at this rate,” she whispered softly, brushing his lower lip with her thumb. “You need to eat. And you need to take care of yourself.”

“I do eat.” His voice was rough and hoarse, breathing softly. His cheeks were still red but his fever had gone down a little. “Too much.”

“And then not at all.” He refused the spoon. She pressed it against his mouth. “You are going to finish this whole bowl,” she ordered. “You are going to finish this whole bowl and then you and I will map out an eating plan.”

He opened his mouth to protest, she shoved the spoon inside, her expression making it clear she was not in the mood for arguing.

“We’ll make an eating plan,” she continued, scraping the bottom of the bowl. “And I’ll leave little reminders for you. If you want I can help you make meals to keep in your ice box so you have those ready if you don’t want to cook.”

She held the spoon to him again. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, taking the bite. “It’s not like I’ve done much for you.”

She chased the last bit of beef with the spoon, blinking away tears. “Yes, you have,” she said softly.

“Yeah, sure.”

She held the spoon up to him. “Last bite.”

“What have I done to help you anyways? Feels like you’ve been-”

“Last bite,” she said firmly, cleaning the broth off his chin again. He took the bite and she set the bowl down, grabbing the canteen. She held it up to him and watched him drink for a moment.

“You’ve done plenty,” she started, brushing his hair out of his face. “You’ve brought me flowers. Made me lunch.”

“Well I make lunch for everyone.”

“And the flowers?”

He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Just...for you.”

She let out a harsh breath. “You helped the kids make my new handkerchief. You helped me when my…my clinic was robbed. Lucas, you don’t have to do much for me at all.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t. I like spending time with you because I like you, isn’t that enough?” Her eyes snapped up to meet his.

“But you...you’re always helping me. Taking care of me like you are now.”

She curled his hair around one of her fingers. “Well I’m a doctor, that’s my job.”

He wouldn’t meet her eye. “Maeve why can’t I...why can’t I do the same for you?”

“Currently because you overworked yourself on no food, with heat exhaustion, collapsed, forcing me to face my mortal enemy in the kitchen and destroy my hands,” she said, letting go of his hair.

He looked at her bloodied bandaged fingers, eyes widening. “Oh Maeve I am-”

“Don’t you apologize,” she hissed, her eyes flashing. Her anger coiled in her gut and then she exploded. “Don’t you dare fucking apologize to me. I want to see you do better. I want to see you take care of yourself like an actual fucking human! Not like you’re...you’re...a working machine!”

She was crying now. Tears slid down her cheeks as she pressed her fists into the sheets beside him. “I want you to do better because I care about you. Isn’t that enough?”

“Maeve don’t cry…” she swatted his hand away. He let it drop.

She was seething. “You listen here to me, Batsaikhan Karimov,” she hissed, jutting a finger at his nose. He flinched at the use of his name. “I will cry if I goddamn want to! I will cry all the fucking time if I so see it fit! You have no right to tell me not to cry after the BULLSHIT you just put me through with your shitty fucking work and eating habits!”

He was shocked into silence. She was going on a tirade but she didn’t care.

“You’re going to listen to me, and listen to me good,” she growled. “We are going to figure something out for you. And if it means putting me on an eating plan as well because goddess knows I fucking need it so be it.” She was yelling. She probably sounded hysterical. “And for the love of all the stars and spirits you need to clean up your house. Sentimental value does not mean catching some sort of sinus infection!”

His eyes widened again, and he looked ashamed. “But-”

“No,” she snarled. “No buts. I will help you clean. We will find a place for everything in this house, we will dust this house. We will clean, sweep and mop. You sir, are now stuck with me. And guess what? It means I’m not going to coddle you at every turn and I'm gonna help you get your shit together. You hear that? No more fucking moping!”

He blinked rapidly, her chest heaved.

“You...done?”

“Yes thank you.”

“Maeve I haven’t cleaned since the last of my family died. I don’t want to.” His eyes were hard as he looked at her. “It’s what I have left of my family.”

“Too fucking bad.” He flinched at the venom and weight of her tone. She ran her hands through her hair, shaking as she grew colder. “We…we aren’t going to throw anything out, but we are going to make this place livable again so I don’t break my fucking arm every time I decide to visit!”

“What...what do you mean by that?”

“Guess what, shitface! You’re now stuck with me! Like it or not I’m going to be stuck to you like a leech.” She scrubbed at her eyes, she just needed to stop crying.

“But what if you leave?! Where does that leave me then?” he snapped.

“Well if you ever decide to kick me to the fucking curb you’ll bounce back. I will make sure of it.”

“Kick you to the curb?”

“Yeah, like every other fucking person I know,” she groused. “Even if I do go, you’ll wallow for a bit but your house will be clean, there won’t be dust, and you’ll have hopefully started healthier eating habits.”

“What if I don’t want you to go?” he asked softly.

“I’d say ‘good’ because I’m not planning on leaving anytime soon. I’m not here to fix you but the way you’re living now terrifies me. It scares me because I see myself in it. I see how I acted in you and I don’t want you to go down the same path,” she sniffed, balling the sheets up in her hands as she trembled.

“Same path?”

“I almost fucking killed myself in the plague due to not eating right. My house was a mess and I was depressed. I am not going to watch you spiral the same way.”

“What if I have?”

“Then I’ll drag your ass back kicking and screaming if I have to. I’m not going to fix you. I can’t do that, and I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to date you only to become your nanny. But I’ll be here to at least help you and be someone you can depend on.”

“Maeve-”

“Don't ‘Maeve’ me, asshole.” She glared at him, his eyes were open in shock. She let out a frustrated scream before smashing her lips against his. He made a startled noise at the kiss, hand coming up to tuck against the back of her head as he kissed her back with the same passion.

She pulled away after a moment, the angry press of lips making hers tingle. She rubbed her lips with the back of her head, looking away from him. “Don’t get a big head about it,” she sniffed, brushing his hair back and checking his temperature again. “I’ll go...clean up the mess I made.”

She turned away, trying to calm her erratic heart. Her skin was warm still, she fought to cool off and fight her magic off. Evil. It was all evil.

His hand wrapped around her wrist. “Stay,” he whispered.

She stopped. That one word sent her spiraling again. The one word made her love for him come bubbling to the surface. It was too much.

She looked at her feet, turning around to look at him. His hand trailed down her arm and he gently intertwined their fingers.

“But you need to cool down,” she murmured, moving closer to brush his hair back. The cloth on his forehead was still cool.

“I don’t care.” The look in his eye was stubborn as he tugged on her hand. The force had her leaning into the touch. “Stay. Please.”

She was still mad at him. Furious.

She brushed his hair back, kissing his forehead. He was cooler under her touch now. “Okay.”

His arm immediately wrapped around her as she climbed over him and tucked herself into his side.

She buried her face in his side. “I’m still mad at you though,” she muttered. All this time she thought she was the self sacrificing idiot. But nooo she just had to fall in love with one who was almost worse. “But I don’t want to leave the dumbass who passed out while working. Big idiot is my big idiot and he worries me.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

“You better be.”

He chuckled softly, shifting over so she was buried in his chest. He was comforting, strong, and warm. She felt new hot tears fall down her face as she shivered. A fresh wave of cold washed over her body, eating her from the inside out. He was warm and he was okay. He was okay now. He was safe now. She helped him. She was still here. He was still here.

She sneezed into the silence.

He broke it, inhaling softly. “Did...you mean what you said?”

“About what?” she sniffed, rubbing at her eyes. She was starting to feel the effects of inhaling too much dust. “I said a lot of things.”

“About not leaving.”

“You’d have to drag me away.”

His hands tightened around her as she moved to take her socks off, throwing them to some corner of the room. She lifted the covers up and snuggled under them, her hair fanning out on the pillow behind her. She was starting to shiver violently.

He brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Your freckles dimmed.”

“They do that when I’m upset.”

He kissed both of her cheeks gently, his breath warm against her skin. “I think they’re beautiful.”

She moved away from him. She didn’t want him to get any sicker. Lucas, she loved him, but he had other ideas, wrapping her up and keeping her close. She couldn’t fight it, he’d sulk. She knew it. So she gripped the fabric of his shirt like if she let go he’d fade away. “Don’t say sappy things. I’m still mad.”

His arms relaxed around her when he realized she wasn’t going to fight to leave. He played with her hair. “Mad mad?”

“Extremely mad mad. We start cleaning tomorrow. In the kitchen. I kind of made a mess.”

He laughed, it made his chest vibrate. His heart was a steady thump under her ear. “Of course you did.”

“You left me no other choice, dipshit,” she muttered to his chest.

“You’re very creative with those insults.”

“Yeah yeah whatever you say, mo grá.”

“And what does that mean?”

She would never tell him. No. She couldn’t tell him. Not with the idea of him leaving hanging over her. She needed to give it time.

So she lied.

“Moronic idiot.”

He chuckled again, kissing the top of her head. “Whatever you say, Thumbelina. Get some sleep now, you look like you could sleep through a hurricane.”

“Oh wow that was very nice of you.”

“You just spent the last ten minutes insulting me.”

“Well you deserved it. Scared the shit outta me.”

He rubbed her back gently as she settled into his hold. He was warm. It was one of the only things she could focus on with how cold she was becoming. He tilted her head up to kiss her softly. When they parted she buried her face in his neck, waiting for his breathing to slow and become rhythmic.

“Grá geal mo chroí,” she whispered, kissing the crook of his neck. His breathing was so soft, his heart steady. She blinked away more tears. “I love you.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #maeve #lucas #maeve x lucas #maevas #my writing #ah #two idiots in love #and im dying #soft #lmao I don’t like some of this BUT IM POSTING IT ANYWAY BECAUSE [insert profanity that will get me shadow banned from the tags here] THAT #if I didn’t post everything I wasn’t quite happy with #I would be posting NOTHING #anyways here’s some angst

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kumeko · 3 years

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A/N: for the @quarantinefanzine! I wanted to do a little compare and contrast for Tanjirou and Yushiro in a modern au

…

Tanjirou loved his home. A two-bedroom apartment, it was a small, cozy place, barely big enough for three people let alone his family of eight. Books, clothes, and knick-knacks claimed every inch of space, cluttering the modest place. Things were precariously stacked on one another, one loud sound away from crashing to the ground.

His classmates found it claustrophobic. He found their bedrooms lonely in comparison. Tanjirou woke up surrounded by a mess of limbs, ate to the sound of a dozen conversations, and laughed every minute of his life. His home was a messy, disorganized place, but it was home and it was his and he’d never needed anything more than that.

However, he had greatly underestimated just how much he relied on his school as a buffer zone to get things done. Thanks to covid, Tanjirou was stuck inside his apartment with all five of his siblings twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week. Hopefully not 365 days a year.

It was like babysitting, except it never stopped. Tanjirou had managed all of his siblings before; as the oldest two, he and Nezuko had spent most of their weekday evenings juggling school and siblings. A few hours at most, until his parents dragged themselves home, tired and worn.

Now the hours rolled into days rolled into months. Spring had turned into fall and he wasn’t sure what happened to summer. School had started again. His table was cluttered with textbooks and lined papers and increasingly tiny pencils. Tanjirou had never been a good student on the best of days. Now? Impossible. The numbers swam as he stared at the desktop computer, trying to make sense of it all.

“Tanjirou.” A little hand tugged his sleeve and Tanjirou glanced down to find Rokuta staring up at him, his eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, concerned. He ducked down slightly so they were on the same eye level. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Rokuta nodded. He fiddled with his thumbs nervously, looking down at his feet as he asked, “Could you play with me?”

“Play?” Tanjirou resisted the urge to wince. At just five, Rokuta didn’t really have ‘school’ to attend. His teachers held his attention for maybe an hour or two before releasing him. The only other solution was the TV.

Unfortunately, their walls were paper thin. If it was hard to study now, it would be impossible with Baby Shark running through his head. Rubbing his neck, Tanjirou ran through the checklist Nezuko came up with, “Did you read your book?”

Rokuta nodded. “Two times.”

“Your dolls?”

“They had a fight.”

“Your puppets?”

“They’re under the couch.”

“Oh.” Tanjirou bit his cheek. Just what did they have left for him to do? “What about the paper cup castle?”

Once more, his brother nodded, though this time he rocked back and forth on his feet excitedly. “It’s so big!” He spread his arms to indicate just how big his castle was. “Can we smash it?”

He peeked at his computer’s time. Ten thirty. Tanjirou had barely scratched his homework. After a long play before they’d started school, he’d hoped Rokuta would have been fine till lunch, but clearly that wasn’t the case today. Ruffling his brother’s hair, Tanjirou asked, “Can we play in thirty minutes?”

“Huh?” Rokuta trembled, his eyes watery.

“You can get things set up,” he hastily suggested. As the youngest, Tanjirou was never certain if Rokuta’s tears were real or if he’d realized all too quickly how powerful they were, but he didn’t want to find out. “We need your cars.”

Considering how quickly Rokuta beamed at him after, it was probably the latter. “Okay!”

With a sigh, Tanjirou watched as his brother scampered off to their shared bedroom, no doubt having to unearth his cars from under the multiple piles of laundry. Which was yet another to-do item he had to finish later. Running a hand through his hair, he glanced around the living room to see what the rest of his siblings were doing.

Shigeru was nowhere in sight; he was probably in the bathroom or taking a nap somewhere. Seated around a low table, Hanako hesitantly answered her homework while a frustrated Takeo glared at his. Nezuko sat between the two, checking from page to the other as she corrected them.

Catching his stare, she smiled apologetically and mouthed, Sorry.

Tanjirou shook his head sympathetically, mouthing back, It’s fine.

It wasn’t like it was her fault that their mother had to work two jobs, leaving them to take care of the house. It wasn’t like it was her fault their father was in the hospital, battling for his life. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really, that they had four siblings and one computer and had to somehow balance school and babysitting between the two of them.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and somehow that made it harder. There was no one to blame, to direct this helpless anger at. Instead, it simmered within him, trapped. It was hard to stay positive, to act strong, when fear and rage boiled within.

“You want the blue car?” Rokuta shouted, his voice piercing through Tanjirou’s gloomy thoughts.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Tanjirou replied, “Yeah!”

“Awesome!”

They’d done this everyday now, and somehow Rokuta still managed to sound enthusiastic about it all. He had to be bored of it by now, yet he always found a new way to play the same game. In the face of that, how could Tanjirou do any less? He squashed down his feelings, pushing them aside. It wasn’t like everything was bad, after all.

He still had his mother. His siblings. A place to live and food to eat. Despite it all, he had almost everything that was important to him. Tanjirou could handle anything else life threw his way.

Even this confusing homework.

“Alright.” Tanjirou slapped his cheeks, pumping himself up. He could do this. It was just a bunch of numbers that had to follow some silly rules. Stretching his arms above him, he cracked his knuckles before hunching over the computer once more.

-x-

Yushiro loved his home. Or rather, he loved Tamayo and since they lived together, he loved her home too. It was a big house, maybe too big for just the two of them; there were studies and guestrooms that had a fine layer of dust after being forgotten for a week. Still, it was her house, with every room soaked in her essence, and he never wanted to move. Even on the days when she had to go to the hospital, he never felt too alone. All it took was a glance at the living room to picture her elegant pose as she ate, or the kitchen to see her confused frown as she tried to cook. A single memory and the house felt full as he waited impatiently for her shift to finish.

Well, not that he was alone in the first place; there was Chachamaru, their cat. Sometimes, he was certain Chachamaru knew more than she let on, but that was a silly thought. She was just a cat. Cats didn’t know anything. Like right now, the fact that she was sitting on his laptop was because she found it warm, and not because she was getting revenge for this morning.

“I’m sorry I forgot your breakfast,” he apologized, just in case. “Now get off, my class is starting.”

Chachamaru gave him a blank look and yawned, revealing all of her sharp teeth. Was that a threat? He wasn’t certain. While she always got along with Tamayo, she seemed to only barely tolerate him.

“There’s other rooms,” he pointed out, feeling a little ridiculous as he argued with her. Yushiro gestured behind him at the hallway. “We live in a big house. You can pick literally any other room. Do you need me to list them to you? Take you to them? I’ll do it.”

She still looked utterly unimpressed, before laying her head flat on his laptop.

Time to bring out the big guns. Yushiro glared at her one last time. Chachamaru didn’t so much as stir. His killing intent just wasn’t strong enough. With a sigh, he left the room and padded down the hallway toward the kitchen. There was only one way to ensure he’d get his laptop back, and that was his secret stash of catnip.

The house was quiet as he walked through it. One time, he’d brought his classmates over for a project, and Tanjirou couldn’t get over how silent it was. Apparently his home was a zoo, filled with shouts and crying. Hoards of ugly children ran through it, taking over the tiny apartment. Anywhere without Tamayo was a desolate, dark place, but Tanjirou’s home especially so. Yushiro wouldn’t be able to handle it.

He preferred the quiet—it was warm and comfortable. There was nothing better than the evenings he and Tamayo spent together, reading a book or filling out forms. The only sounds were the rustling of paper, the scraping of a pencil, the soft purring of Chachamaru. Even without words, they understood each other, and sometimes he and Tamayo would exchange smiles, like they were sharing a private joke.

Yushiro flipped the lights on as he stepped into the kitchen. Tamayo’s hastily discarded apron lay messily on the table and he chuckled as he hung it back on its proper hook.

“You overslept this morning,” he murmured, staring at the flower patterns. He’d bought it as a gift years ago, and the fabric was now covered in soya sauce and oil stains.

Tamayo didn’t reply. She couldn’t, not until her shift finished, not until she was forced to take a break from the hospital.

He preferred the quiet, but not the emptiness. Stuck inside the house, he was alone more often than not, with Tamayo taking longer and longer hours as she tried to save just one more person. It was frightening. It was terrifying. The scars on her face only deepened as each day passed and he wondered how long it would be before they were permanent.

How long it would be before she stopped coming home.

A shiver ran through his spine at that last thought, and he hugged himself. Rubbing his arms, he tried to warm up, but the chill persisted. Yushiro wasn’t naïve; he’d watched the news. He’d heard the stories. Tamayo doused herself in sanitizers and soap and even then she made sure to stay a safe distance from him whenever they ate.

Even the memory of her hugs were fading now.

Something warm circled his feet and he looked down to find Chachamaru brushing her head against his ankles with a soft meow. “Finally bored of my laptop?” he asked, his voice cracking.

She meowed again, rubbing against him insistently. When he crouched, she jumped into his arms and nuzzled his neck. Her whiskers tickled his throat.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he mumbled, pressing his face into her warm fur as he sat on the cold kitchen tiles. She purred in response. “Is that a yes?”

Chachamaru was a pain in the ass and would sit on his laptop tomorrow. She’d scratch him when he didn’t wake up in time for breakfast or nip at his ankles when she was annoyed at him.

But she was also a part of his family, however reluctant he was to admit that, and maybe it wasn’t all that bad to have someone other than Tamayo in his life. To have someone he could cry to and share his fears and not have to worry about adding to Tamayo’s already heavy shoulders.

“Can we stay like this? For a little while?” he asked.

Chachamaru licked his tears in response.

When he finally sat down for class, she stayed on his lap like a portable heater. It was hard to feel scared with her constant purring. Hard to feel alone with her weight on his thighs.

“Hey, Yushiro,” Tanjirou asked on Zoom, his hands clasped in front of him. “Could you help me?”

“Sure,” he replied charitably.

He didn’t mind the company for once.

#nezuko kamado #tanjiro kamado #chachamaru #yushiro #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #tamayo #kamado tanjirō #fanfic

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min-youngis · 4 years

Text

i just wish that one of us would go away

gif not mine

~ Pairing : Jung Hoseok x Reader

~ Genre : Angst, Eventual Fluff

~ Rating : PG-13

~ Summary/Excerpt : It’s unconscious, the way you pick two forks, how he takes down two plates. But there’s no underlying playfulness, no jumping over extended legs, no pouted demands for kisses in exchange for cutlery, no back hugs accompanied by only half-joking whines for a bigger portion of the food.

Established Relationship

~ Word Count : 1,899

~ Warnings : swearing, sadness

~ A/N : i feel like me writing an angst fic at some point was unavoidable, is anybody really surprised?

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masterlist in my description.

~~~

Hobi : Are you still mad at me?

A little bit. You?

Hobi : Same.

Wanna get lunch?

Hobi : Meet at the kitchen in 5.

Clicking your phone off, you close the novel you’ve been attempting to read in vain for the last hour, sighing as you place a worried palm on its hardcover front. The living room alcove you’re currently curled up in is usually the perfect spot for you to get lost in the pages of a book, your preferred place to forget about people and things and problems and...fights, but it’s proving to be ineffective today.

Not that you’ve had much experience with fights. Not fights with Hoseok at least. Until now.

Why can’t you be fucking sensible about this?

The backdoor creaks gently as the man in question enters the house, rubber boots in hand dripping mud on the hardwood floors, looking deep in thought but with that warm glow that follows satisfying work. Gardening does that to him. It may not fix all the issues, but it clears his head enough to think through things logically. You hope he’s managed to come up with something truly spectacular, because at this point, you don’t really see anything working.

He hasn’t noticed you sitting where you are as he distractedly places the shoes on top of some newspapers and takes off his dirty gardening gloves, laying them on the shelf.

“Hey,” you say, softly so he doesn’t startle.

Still, his shoulders give a little shake and he lets out a tiny yelp before calming down again and turning to face your still sat down form.

You’re the one being a dick right now!

He has a smudge of mud on his left cheek, and in his hands, he’s holding a small bouquet of colourful zinnias and marigolds. In a different scenario, in a familiar scenario, this is when you would get up and walk towards him, gently rubbing off the dirt on his face as he gives you the flowers with a cheeky wink and a sweet kiss. But nothing feels normal about this. You have no idea how to navigate this negativity, this post-argument stillness, this constant uncertainty and confusion about whether this is actually really serious or if you’ve just blown it up in your head by thinking and analysing too much.

He attempts a grin, but it comes out more as a grimace. Taking in your furrowed eyebrows, your worried pout and your chapped lips from all the chewing, he gives a little sigh before slowly making his way towards you, hesitantly, like he doesn’t want to scare you off. Or scare himself off.

But you’re too tired to have an adverse reaction, drained from all the feelings of the past twenty four hours. If anything, there’s a tiny glimmer of reassurance, that you both may have screamed yourselves hoarse but you’re still able to be in the same room. It’s with relief that you move your legs up further towards your chest, book and phone cradled in the nook in between, making some space for Hobi to sit on the other side of the alcove.

Been wanting to pick a fight for a while, haven’t you?

You don’t take your eyes off of him, fingers itching to reach up and wipe off the brown spot on his face, now that his body is so close to yours, but obstinately not touching. With a shrug of his shoulders, he holds out the bouquet towards you, not meeting your eyes.

“Thanks,” you mumble, knowing that this is more a perfunctory gesture than anything as you accept it from him, careful not to brush his fingers in the process. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

The silence is stifling, but welcome in the aftermath of tension and heavy emotion. You’re sure that breaking it would be worse. You continue to stare at the mud on his cheek, hands absentmindedly fiddling with the flowers as his gaze remains fixed on a spot only he knows on the floor.

“What do we do for lunch?”

“We have leftovers from last night,” you reply, tone equally blank but throat momentarily catching when you say the last two words.

Fuck off! I don’t want to talk to you anymore.

“Great,” he replies, in a voice that suggests the exact opposite, and you know he’s remembering how the mixed up dinner order started the confrontation in the first place. Deep down, you know that it’s been simmering, that spending so much time away from each other could only go one way. All it took was a small misunderstanding and suddenly, pent up frustrations from weeks were being hurled around like grenades, each one more vicious, more vile, more damaging, completely transforming what was supposed to be the first dinner the two of you were having together at home in a month into a bloodbath.

“I’ll go heat it up, then,” he says unsurely, uncertain about whether you’re going to agree with him or if he’s managed to set off another explosion.

Nodding, you turn to let the bottom of your feet graze the floor and push yourself off of the cushions without looking at Hoseok. You assume he’ll follow you. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t.

As you’re taking the boxes out of the fridge, you hear him turn on the microwave, stepping as far away from you as he can in the kitchen as you keep them for reheating. It’s unconscious, the way you pick two forks, how he takes down two plates. But there’s no underlying playfulness, no jumping over extended legs, no pouted demands for kisses in exchange for cutlery, no back hugs accompanied by only half-joking whines for a bigger portion of the food. Distantly, as you place your plate down on the table opposite his already seated form, you realise that there hasn’t been in a while.

I’m tired of doing this! I’m tired of you!

You both eat in silence, concentration entirely on the plates in front of you. It’s an easier alternative than opening the can of worms that’s conversation. You try to remember the last time the two of had had a talk that lasted more than two minutes, in the gaps between waking up and rushing to his studio and to your office.

You can’t contain the scoff at the thought of the first day off that you both have in common being spent in suffocating awkwardness.

“What?”

You take in his suspicious eyes, his confusedly tilted head.

“Nothing,” you reply shortly, unable to keep the clipped tone from your voice at his accusatory manner, busying yourself with the food in front of you once again.

“You don't have to hold back. Spit it out, why don’t you?”

You feel yourself starting to get annoyed again. “If I said it was nothing, why can’t you just drop it?”

He lets the fork land on his plate with a clang of metal against porcelain, eyes beginning to shift with an anger that you’re sure is reflecting your own. “It very obviously wasn’t nothing.”

Your cutlery falls to the table too, and vaguely, you remember being in the exact same position last night, annoyed and vindictive and ready to lash out. “What’s your fucking problem?”

“I don’t have a bloody problem – God, fuck, forget it. We’re doing it again.”

You bite back the words that were about to slip from your tongue, an angry rebuttal that would have been the same regardless of his reply.

“We’re doing it again,” he repeats, softer this time, shoulders dropping from their previous fighting stance, his eyes closing wearily as he falls limp against the back of his chair emitting a long sigh.

You hiss out a deep, frustrated breath, willing the acrimony to leave your tired mind, fresh waves of exhaustion wracking your body.

“We’re some fucking pair, aren’t we?” you say through a bitter chuckle, vexed at how difficult it is to have a civil conversation between two people who have problems with everybody but each other.

His low, humourless laugh is a far cry from the guffaws he used to let out when the two of you would eat together, when you pulled a funny face or when he used to tell you the latest Bangtan shenanigans to your eager, excited ears. It’s been a while.

“Should we...should we take a break?” you ask, hesitantly, terrified of his answer. Under the table, you pluck at your finger nails.

Your heart veritably stops for a second as he nods, but you let out an internal sigh of relief when he follows it up by saying, “I think so. We should cool down a bit before dinner.”

Swallowing in simultaneous relief at how he didn’t pick up on what you were implying and apprehension that now you have to spell it out, you meet his burnt out gaze with your own trepidation filled one before slowly, mutedly saying, “I meant a little longer than a few hours, Hobi.”

He still doesn’t seem to understand what you’re hinting at, only cocking his head to the side quizzically and asking, “A few days, then?”

“If that’s how long it takes.”

In the heavy silence that follows, with you looking at Hobi, waiting with bated breath for which answer, you don’t know, his face runs through shock, aggravation and sadness, finally settling on the hard, blank mask that you’ve had the pleasure of witnessing for the last twenty four hours. It doesn’t have the usual annoyance, though. It’s just...empty. Concealed behind the façade that he normally reserves for red carpets that he has to attend even if he doesn’t want to and rude interview questions. It’s unsettling, how you can’t read him, and more than a little concerning.

“Do you want to break up?” he asks, and in that one moment, there’s a tiny crack in the statue and you catch a glimpse of the fear, the disquietude, the anxiety in his eyes before the mask is back on.

But the damage is done.

Immediately, you’re out of your seat and rounding the table, tugging one of his willing hands so he’s standing up and you’re hugging him, squeezing the very life out of him, and hoping it’s enough to hold together the hearts you very nearly just broke.

His arms wind around your waist just as insistently, and now he’s whispering things into your hair and you missed this, missed him and his love and comfort and laughter.

“It'll be fine,” you mutter, over and over into his neck, not exactly clear about whom you’re trying to reassure. “We just need to talk more, and stop sniping at each other every chance we get. It’s okay, we know the theory, we’ll be alright.”

He nods against your head as he mumbles, “I’m sorry I was a dick. It’s been stressful trying to get this album done in time and I took it out on you.”

“I'm sorry, too,” you reply, pulling away slightly so you can look him in the eye. “Next time we both have a shit time at work, we'll spend a whole weekend bitching about it, okay? No more festering.”

And at his agreeing watery snort and shaky exhale, you bring your thumb up to his face and finally, finally wipe off the damp, brown mud from his left cheek.

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