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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 years

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A Deafened Bard (Stephen Strange x Female!Reader)

I can explain.

Please don't come at me for starting a new project before finishing Cult Girl Doctorate. I hit a wall and needed to take a break. I am trying not to let this one take up too much time.

Y/n is a sorceress-in-training who’s known for being hard to teach. Sensing her potential, Doctor Strange takes her on as an apprentice.

You firmly believed that shattering the urn of Fei-Amie was the best thing that ever happened to you.

It happened a year ago, but it still replayed in your head over and over again. You made a conscious effort to remember it vividly.

Sure, it was terrifying, Stephen Strange's initial look of anger when he heard the ceramic shatter. It softened when he saw that the culprit was just a clumsy sorceress-in-training who looked on the verge of tears with remorse. Still, it was a face you never wanted to see again: his teeth bared, his already sharp features accentuated under the constraints of anger.

It diluted into silent, simmering frustration that revealed itself to you in short sarcastic jabs and body language.

"Just, stop." He cut you off after a string of profuse sorries. With no disarming smile in sight, you could tell he was tense. "Artifacts get broken all the time. Don't cry. It was an accident."

His tone indicated that he was trying to convince himself more than he was you. You were a closed-off person and could hardly stand the idea that anyone out there didn't like you. The idea of the Sorcerer Supreme being mad at you, personally, made you briefly consider ritual suicide. You lowered your head. "Yes, Master Strange."

"Hey, butterfingers." He called out after you as you tried to make a painless exit. You looked back at him and he gestured to the pile of broken ceramic pieces. "You gonna fix what you broke?"

It hadn't dawned on you that an ancient relic could be fixed. Especially one that once contained the ashes of the ancient necromancer Fei-Amie. You were embarrassed to say that your knowledge of manipulating time was surface-level at best, and couldn't think of any other solution.

You wordlessly gathered the pieces up in your skirt and carried them off, striking out any plans to go into town that evening. Instead, you poured through book after book for any instruction whatsoever on repairing broken artifacts. You ran out of desk space, so books were just floating in the air, suspended on pages that briefly mentioned relic breakage.

You started to believe you were given an impossible task. Or perhaps all the resources you needed, he was withholding. Even so, you didn't want to go back to him empty-handed. You changed into your street clothes and opened a portal to the local craft store.

You returned with two types of extra-strong superglue and got to work. First, you made all the pieces come together and had them hover over the desk. Unconsciously, you began to sing as you pieced the urn back together.

Cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudels

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

Brown paper packages tied up with strings

These are a few of my favorite things

"Haven't heard that song in years."

You dropped the tube of glue and the few remaining pieces fell back to the desk. "Master Strange!"

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." He said, though his apology was undercut by his smug tone. "Carry on."

You picked up a piece and began to line the edges with glue.

"Aren't you going to finish the song?"

You looked up to see that he hadn't been just passing by. He was leaning against the threshold, watching you.

"I don't usually sing for an audience." You laughed, uncomfortably. "Just me."

"A man and his sentient cape should not count as an audience," he scoffed. "But, if you insist, I guess I'll have to just listen to Julie Andrews instead."

"What's wrong with her?" You raised your eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh, nothing. She's a treasure." He put his hands up. "But everyone gets to hear her sing. And I take it that only a very select few get to hear your rendition of my favorite things. I just have to be one of them."

You blushed, suddenly forgetting all the words to my favorite things.

"Girls in white dresses..." he offered, an impatient edge to it.

You swallowed. "Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes-"

"Hey, butterfingers." He interrupted again. Before you could object, he pointed to the way that the pieces floated gracefully overhead at the sound of your voice.

"I'd like to see Julie Andrews do that." He said with a wink.

"Looks alright," Master Strange said, running his finger along the tight seams that showed where cracks once were.

"Will it still work?" You asked. That was really all you were worried about.

"Beats the hell out of me." He shrugged. "I didn't know how to use it to begin with."

"What?!" You spat back. "Are you kidding?"

"I'm afraid not." He said, taking the urn and placing it back on its pedestal. "Don't worry, you did a good job. I'm not mad at you anymore."

That was really all you needed to hear. "Thank you, sir."

"You're an apprentice, right?" He asked.

"I'm..." Your voice trailed off in embarrassment. "Between masters right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "If I were to ask around, would I receive glowing reviews from your last masters?"

You admitted it point-blank. "No."

"Let me guess," he folded his arms. "Something didn't make sense to you and instead of giving you the space to question it, they insisted you follow blindly."

You wanted to throw your head back and shout in relief; finally, someone understood!

"Bingo, bullseye." You put your hands up in surrender after being read so easily. "Right on the money."

"I see." He said, tucking that thought away for later. "Could I trouble you for one more odd job before you go?"

"That depends." You folded your arms. "What is it?"

He looked over his shoulder at his cape. "How are you with sewing?"

‘Sewing' was not the verb you would use to describe repairing the tears in the Cloak of Levitation. It was taller and stronger than you and it did not want to be repaired. It was closer to performing surgery on a fully grown mountain lion that could rip your head off at any minute.

"Like putting eyeshadow on a cat," Master Strange said. It flicked its edge contemptuously, while still clinging to his shoulders for dear life. "I'm a licensed surgeon and it won't let me within 20 feet of it with a needle."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." You said, thoroughly discouraged. All he'd given you to work with was a spool of thread and a pack of needles.

He tried with sincere force to remove the cloak, but it wouldn't budge. "Of course, now it knows you're coming at it with the sewing kit and it won't leave my shoulders."

"Maybe I can work with that?" You shrugged. You threaded the needle and hid it in your hand.

You approached the cloak, only for it to shove Master Strange in your way like a human shield.

"Listen, you naughty little blanket." He scolded, turning around to face it as if it were a puppy that had just wrecked the living room. "If you don't let her fix you, you're going in the washing machine. Extra spin."

It shuddered, and, for a moment, you thought it was going to comply. You slowly took a step forward, only for it to dart as soon as your foot hit the ground. It made its escape with a large crash through the heavy wooden doors of the library.

"Hey!" You shouted, chasing after it. "Get back here!"

You caught a glimpse of it headed towards the relic room, so, without thinking, you opened a portal to make it there first. You reached it only seconds before the cloak breached the threshold, with only enough time to grab it by the edge.

"Come here!" You exclaimed, giving it a full force tug. It tugged back, overpowering you to the tenth degree. It dragged you across the room and into the foyer. You yanked on it, only for it to escape from your grip and send you flying back into the wall. You wondered for a second how such a sturdy piece of fabric could possibly be in need of maintenance.

"Bastard." You mumbled, rubbing the spot where your head collided with the wall. The pain didn't stop you, though. You were on your feet within seconds, pursuing the naughty blanket all over again.

You heard the words of one of your many, many masters ringing in your ears; "never outrun what you can outsmart". Or maybe that was from a Garfield comic. Either way, whether or not you could outsmart the cloak was still unknown, but you had to at least try.

You took a second to catch your breath and tried to remember where you saw it heading next. Downstairs, you thought. To the laundry room. The one place you would never look.

You slowly but deliberately descended the stairs to the basement where the laundry was. You turned the light on and saw overturned baskets of towels, clothes, and sheets everywhere. And then a washing machine door slammed shut. You turned your head and saw a twinge of dark red hiding in the washing machine.

You removed your shoes and socks to minimize noise, then picked up a fitted sheet that had been thrown on the ground. You mounted the washing machine and affixed the sheet to the front. The cloak would have to come shooting out the door, and you would ambush it.

You forced the door open with your heel, holding the sheet like a giant net. As predicted, the cloak shot out like a bullet from a gun, getting caught in the sheet. It thrashed around aimlessly, trying to escape, but you had a tight grip and it wasn't going anywhere.

"It's curtains for you!" You said, then laughed at your own joke. "Stop struggling!"

It flailed and fought, but eventually ran out of energy and sunk to the ground. Not trusting it quite yet, you pinned it down with your whole body weight before releasing it from the sheet. As expected, it tried to fly away, but couldn't get anywhere.

"The less you fight, the faster this will go." You said, examining the fabric for any visible tears. The rip presented itself right away. About as long as your hand, right in the center.

"What did Strange do to you?" You asked, pulling the threaded needle from your pocket. "Hold still, I'm going to fix it."

Once the needle hit fabric, the cloak stopped trying to fly away and instead writhed about on the floor like it was about to die. You fixed the tear with as many stitches as you could make, then pulled it shut. Once you knew the thread was secure, you rolled off the cloak and let it fly free.

It shot up, but froze, noticing something was different. It swished itself around, unaccustomed to the feeling of air not blowing right through its center.

"You're welcome." You said with a shrug. "It's not like I had to chase you all around the sanctum to make it happen."

Without any warning, the cloak scooped you up and squeezed you. Your initial reaction was that this was its revenge and you were taking your final breaths, but you could tell it was gratitude by the way it gently set you down on the ground.

"Happy to help." You gasped for air. "Just remember this feeling if I ever have to do this again."

"Not bad, butterfingers." Master Strange told you, though the tone of his voice conveyed he was impressed beyond a simple 'not bad'.

"Not bad?" You protested. "I absolutely crushed it."

He ran his finger down the uneven but sturdy stitching. When his face met yours again, he was smiling with genuine enthusiasm that managed to eek through his dry, sarcastic exterior. It came out as an admittedly very handsome sideways smirk as his eyes scanned you up and down.

“If you don’t need anything else, I’ll get out of your hair now.” You said, heading towards the open doors.

“Wait.” The doors slammed shut before you could reach them. You turned around to see Master Strange still examining the stitching. "You wouldn't leave without tea, would you?"

A pot of chai tea sat between you, filling the air with an aroma of spicy vanilla. You held the teacup in both hands, determined to never give him a reason to reinforce the "butterfingers" nickname he'd become so fond of.

"Chai is my favorite." You said, letting the scent waft into your nose. "Yerba mate used to be my favorite, but if I drink more than two pots of it I get sick."

"Yeah, definitely don't do that." He chuckled, bobbing his teabag up and down in the cup. "Out of curiosity, are you wondering at all why I invited you to tea?"

"Oh, definitely." You nodded. "I was just wondering about that."

"Would you believe it's just because I find you interesting?" He raised an eyebrow. "Good company, perhaps?"

"Interesting? Absolutely." You agreed. "Good company is debatable."

"I can't believe I never thought to trap the cloak in the washing machine." He rested his chin in his hand. "It seems so obvious now."

"If it makes you feel any better," you shrugged. "It was mostly dumb luck and reckless disregard for my own life, considering it almost threw me off the balcony.”

He glared at the cloak. “What did I tell you about trying to kill our guests?”

It lowered its collar shamefully in his direction.

“Don’t apologize to me!” He scolded. “Apologize to her.”

It turned to face you and repeated the somber motion.

“It’s okay.” You shrugged. “My family adopted a retired army German Shepherd growing up. I’m used to high-strung creatures that could end my life at any second.”

“Well, rest assured, butterfingers,” He said, leaning back in his chair. “This will never happen again.”

“I, uh-” You opened your mouth before you could even really pick up on the implication he was putting down. “Wasn’t aware that there would be a chance for it to happen again?”

“I suppose we should get down to brass tax, then.” He folded his hands in his lap. “How would you like to stay here?”

“Well-” You said, not wanting to come off as too enthusiastic, which you certainly were. “Not if it’s going to kill me-”

“If I could promise you that your life won’t be in constant danger, I would.” He cut you off. “But if you wanted safety, you wouldn’t have started studying the Mystic Arts.”

“Got me there.” You conceded, your made-up objection withering away. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch.” He shook his head. “I’ll help you train and in return, you help me preserve the integrity of the sanctum.”

“So an apprenticeship?” Your eyes widened. "Are you saying you want to take me on as an apprentice?"

“I know you’ve got bad associations with that title, but yes.” He answered. “If it brings back memories of your previous masters treating you like garbage, we can call it a ‘partnership’, if you’d like.”

Partners with the Sorcerer Supreme? You thought, butterflies materializing in your stomach.

"That sounds great, but-" You broke eye contact and fidgeted with your fingers. "I feel like I should disclose that it wasn't really all that one-sided. I am… notoriously hard to teach."

"And who told you that?" He tilted his head. "The ones who refused to teach you?"

You hadn't thought about it that way. "I guess."

"The way I see it, you've repaid your debt and are free to leave," he began. "But seeing how dutifully you reassembled that urn, wrangled my favorite piece of defiant outerwear, and how desperately this place is in need of some life, it might be a good idea to keep you around."

You put your hand over your chest to still your heart. "It would be an honor."

"Excellent." He nodded. "That saves me the trouble of having to convince you."

He brought you to a small but comfortable room with a bed and connected bathroom.

"There's plenty of closet space for all your clothes." He said, gesturing to an antique looking bureau set.

You dumped your duffel bag out on the bed, revealing the extent of your possessions. "Thanks, but this is all I've got."

"Travel light, huh?" He asked.

"Yeah, I moved around a lot growing up." You admitted. "Got no real roots and all that jazz."

"That changes now." He told you. "This is your home now so I want it to feel like it. Make the space your own."

“I don’t know how I can thank you for this.” You lowered your head, still feeling undeserving.

“Don’t thank me yet, butterfingers.” He chuckled. “I’ve been told I tend to be a little on the egotistical side. That I don’t work well with others.”

"It's actually [F/N], if you were curious." You said, sitting on the bed and folding your hands in your lap.

"Okay, [F/N]." he smiled. "You've been in and out of enough apprenticeships to know the drill. Early mornings, late nights. And I've got a laundry list of odd jobs for you that I'm too important to do."

"Naturally." You nodded. His dry self-awareness inspired a little confidence that he wouldn't be a complete tyrant.

"You did a good job today." He said, bluntly. "Thank you for your help. Keep it up and you'll make an invaluable addition to the sanctum."

You smiled downwards. "Thank you."

"Do you often sing when you're trying to focus?" He posited. "Just, as an aside."

You could tell the gears in his neurosurgeon's head were turning, undoubtedly trying to pin some kind of diagnosis on you as doctors were known to do.

“I guess it’s just a force of habit.” You admitted. “I used to play piano, so when I’m working with my hands, it just kind of happens. My last master was not happy about that.”

"Oh, screw him." He waved his hand dismissively. "He pissed away an opportunity to nurture a sorceress with a special gift for the sake of tradition. That's a mistake I won't make."

Special gift? You thought. Nobody who practiced the Mystic Arts had ever referred to anything you'd ever done as a 'gift'. Annoyance? sure. A symptom of ADHD? All the time. But 'gift'? That made it sound useful.

#stephen strange x reader #doctor strange #doctor strange x reader #stephen strange #doctor stephen strange #what if #what if marvel #doctor strange supreme

184 notes · View notes

palbabor-writes · 3 years

Note

OK so please consider typical Shig/reader where theres unspoken mutual attraction and they're not quite together but it's Post-kamino Shig, like IMMEDIATE post-kamino where he's still processing and incredibly vulnerable from just losing his sensei. I've had this in my head for a while but IDK how it would go and I think you'd do it justice (just ignore this if u don't wanna i just needed to put it out there 😌)

ugh, i loved this idea. where do you find them lydia? they just live in your mind rent free and i want to go to there. gosh, thank you for the ask.

Pairing: Shigaraki Tomura x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Adult language, SMUT, NSFW/18+ only, mild angst, pivotal life moments, TW: drinking/drug use, masturbation, blow jobs, face fucking, spanking/mild pain play, vaginal fingering, cunniliginus, overstimulation, switching, dirty talk, loss of virginity (if you squint), dominance, vaginal sex

Word Count: 11,800

Notes: oh man. so, if the word count didn’t give it away, this is plot, with a hefty dose of porn. in my mind, this is all part of the grieving process for shigaraki and he’s having a rough time coming to terms with what he’s needing to do. yeah, AFO supported him and enabled him to build a following, but he also hid all of the major pieces from him (i.e. the doctor & gigantomachia) so i can see him mourning for AFO as a teacher & as a psudo loved one, after all, at the end of that chapter he’s clutching those hands to him like he’ll fall apart without them.

Edited by the lovely Lydia: @kugutsuu. she is the best and if you’re not reading her works, all I have to say is: YOU SHOULD BE.

Mise en Place

/mē-ˌzäⁿ-ˈpläs/ noun or verb a French culinary phrase which means "putting in place" or "everything in its place.”

This has got to be the strangest, hole in the wall, bar you’ve ever worked at.

The patrons are touchy and most seem downright dangerous. The whole lot of them are more like mid level criminals than the usual haggard, overworked, regular, citizens you find in local watering holes. Meanwhile, the gentleman who runs the day to day operations shares more similarities with a will o’ the wisp than a man, and the bar itself is smack dab in one of the seediest parts of town.

The liquor selection, however, is top of the line. Some of the labels you haven’t seen outside of posh hotels or high class country clubs, and many of the older bottles are rarities. Honestly, there are so many of the high brow bottles that you’re not sure who to ask about the rail selection. There’s no real order to the place and it’s the most free reign you’ve ever been given with your mixology experiments. There’s not even a listing of drinks to go off of. But, if the disgruntled evening crowd is happy, then so is the upper management. All they ask is that you lock up before you leave.

No, nothing about this place makes sense. But, it does pay well and, right now, that’s the only thing you need to worry about.

There’s one other barkeep, a stogy man named Akio. He usually works the day shift, but late yesterday afternoon, he’d given you a call and asked if the two of you could swap for the duration of next week. At first, you’d balked, worried you’d need to schmooze with an unfamiliar bunch of regulars, who’d then decline to tip simply because you were new. But, Akio had sweetened the pot with the promise of $20,000 yen, so, you’d agreed.

“It’s fairly quiet in the afternoon,” Akio reassured you. “It’s really just putting away shipment and serving the odd customer who happens to pass by. The only thing...well, I’m sure you’ve met him. You’ve been working there for over a month, no way you could miss him.”

“Who?” you ask, twirling your spoon in your mid-morning coffee, curious, but not wanting to seem overly eager in your questioning. You like your night shift and you’re not wanting this to become a regular swap. You detest having to lug heavy boxes to and fro, pulling liquor and checking lot numbers, ick. Plus, if it really is that slow in the afternoons, it would only be a matter of time before Kurogiri would come after you with a duster and ask you to clean the upper shelves. Yeah, no, thanks. This would be a one week deal, ONLY.

“His name is Shigaraki. He’s, er, different. I suppose you’ll meet him soon, if you haven’t already.”

“Shigaraki? No, that name doesn’t ring a bell. Is he--”

“I have to go, my son is here. Thanks again for the swap and talk soon, (Y/N).”

The line clicks and you let your phone fall from your ear, clattering the metal and plastic along your kitchen table. Shigaraki, you think, taking a scalding sip of your coffee, no, that’s not a name you’ve heard before. Wonder what it is about him that has Akio so on edge. It’s not like him to give you, er, whatever that strange heads-up had been. Either way, it would take more than a vague descriptor like different, to spook you off.

******

Akio was right, on all counts, about the haze of monotony that permeated the afternoon shift at the bar.

Well, right on everything except a sighting of that elusive Shigaraki guy. No, the whole afternoon it’s just been you, Kurogiri, and one, rather sloshed old man, who you’ve long since cut off, and propped at the far end of the bartop. It’s been a dull, slow, day. Thank God you’d taken that extra cash from Akio, or this might not even turn out to be worth your while.

You’re slipping another bottle of whiskey on the lower shelf when you hear a barstool scrape back. You turn at the sound, your head already lifted and a small, friendly, smile lingering on your lips. There’s a lanky guy, dressed all in black with a mop of wavy white hair, working himself onto the small seat. His head is lowered and he hasn’t bothered to look up at you, not yet, anyway. He looks, not really young, but you can’t tell and you’re not about to let some underaged kid worm his way in here. You’ve had enough of those punks sneaking in in the evening, thank you.

“Gimme a shot of scotch,” the man says, his voice low, with a quiet rasp racing along the tone. It’s a strange timbre and it makes you pause, your eyes scanning those pearlescent strands of hair that are hiding his face from view.

“Hmph,” you snort, arching a brow at his attempts at concealment. He must be underage, who comes up to a barkeep with a ducked head and demands a scotch?

“Let me give you a piece of advice, don’t come into a bar and immediately refuse to make eye contact with the bartender. We’re like animals at the zoo, we startle easily and don’t like surprises. And, with your face tucked like that, I can’t gauge your age. So, before I get you that unnamed and unbranded scotch, I’m gonna to need to see some ID.”

The man lifts his head at your preamble and you feel your breath catch at the raw annoyance that’s etched across his scarred and cracked face. His eyes are a rich red, closer to ruby and they latch onto yours, insistent and sharp. It’s a deeply intense stare and you can’t seem to pull yourself away, your brow furrowing at his sudden shift in demeanor.

“I don’t have an ID,” he snaps, his lips lifting into a snarl, showing you the vivid whiteness of his teeth.

You lick your lips and his gaze follows the motion, eyes lowering, freeing you from that uneasy imprisonment he’d abruptly ensnared you in.

Your heart is beating rapidly against your throat and you shake your head, refocusing your bewildering reaction to this guy's presence. “I-I haven’t heard that one before,” you say, taking a few steadying breaths and tossing a dirty glass in the dishwasher, looking for any task that will let you step away from this strange interaction.

“You must be new,” he says, leaning back and hunching those dark shoulders. You watch him out of the corner of your eye and shut the dishwasher door, hitting the button to run a cycle.

“Nope,” you correct him, pulling out two fresh glasses and lining them up on the bartop, reaching for the rail scotch. “I’ve worked here for over a month.”

“Never seen you before.”

“That makes two of us,” you reply, flipping the bottle up and filling both glasses with four counts of the dark liquor. You press one to him and lift the other for yourself. The man narrows his eyes at you and looks pointedly at the glass in your hands.

“You supposed to drink on the clock?”

You laugh and he shifts back at the sound, his head bowing forward, another scowl lifting his lips. Realizing you must have made him uncomfortable, you step toward him and clumsily clink your glass against his, tilting your head at the surrealness of this whole conversation. “They don’t really care what I do. Come on, stranger who has no ID, bottoms up.”

He looks from you to the shot a few times before finally relenting and taking the vessel in a strange four fingered grip, his middle finger arched carefully away. Once you’re sure he’s actually going to toast with you, you sling your shot back, enjoying the sharp burn of the rich liquor.

You’re about to ask your new drinking companion another question when you hear his chair scrape back. By the time you’re stepping toward him, he’s already pacing down a back hallway, blending into the darkness and disappearing from your sight.

“Um! You can’t...I don’t think you can go back there. And you gotta pay, dude! Hey--”

“He doesn’t need to pay.”

You always hear Kurogiri before you see him and today is no exception. He’s standing at the entrance to the back of the bartop and he’s watching the path the strange young man took, his shifting face turned from you. You cock your head at his assertion and swiftly place your empty glass into the soapy water of the filled sink. He likely saw you take the shot, but you’re not about to leave evidence behind.

“What do you mean?” You ask, watching as the wisp like man turns and steps toward you, his amber slits watchful. It’s like he’s sizing you up and you shift on your feet, uncomfortable at the frank, open, assessment.

“He’s Tomura Shigaraki, and he owns this bar.”

******

You’re off for the next two days and the wait, the silence, is abjectly harrowing. You can’t sit down, can’t relax, can’t focus. The one time you decide to get overly familiar, of fucking course, it would be with the owner. But no one has called, and no one has sent you any messages. The empty static of your job's reticence doesn’t alleviate your nerves.

Who knows, they might want to act out the sick power play of having you show up for your shift, only be fired as soon as you darken the doorway.

The next afternoon, you take a familiar route to the bar, your feet tapping hollowly along the steps and alleyways that wind to the rusty entrance. You come in the front, blinking against the darkness, and lock the door behind you. Everything is quiet. But, in forty minutes, the open sign will switch on and you need to get your bar set up, plus slap on a little bit of makeup. You’re so lost in thought that you’re almost to the long bartop when you spot him.

It’s Tomura Shigaraki. He’s sitting at the same bar stool and his head turns as you approach, those unearthly red eyes lingering over you. It’s a different look, very, very removed from that harsh glare he’d given you the other day. He looks less hostile and more, well, curious.

You give him a cursory nod and pad behind the high counter, taking the final glasses out of the dishwasher and removing the stoppers from all the open liquor bottles. He’s still watching you and you can feel his gaze as it bores into your back, your side, your front. You attempt to ignore him, but the constant threat of those insistent red eyes is beginning to frustrate you. Finally, once you’ve replaced the cash drawer, you lift your gaze to his.

“What is it?” Your voice sounds waspish, but you don’t care.

“Nothing,” he replies, leaning forward and propping his chin on his palm, not breaking that unsettling leer.

“So stop staring at me,” you bristle, unsure why your heart is starting to beat a rapid tattoo against your ribs. You don’t know this guy. Sure, he’s mysterious and almost handsome, in a dark horse kinda way, but there’s no reason for him to give you this odd staredown. You’ve done absolutely nothing to warrant this attention, well, besides drinking on the job, but he could just fire you for that, if it was so troublesome. Either way, he should either speak up, or knock it off.

He smirks at your impudence and murmurs a raspy, “No,” back, his head tilting, waiting for your next move.

“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” You scoff, crossing your arms and jutting your chin defiantly.

“Whatever you say,” he breathes, that smile of his deepening, making his vermillion eyes shine. And, just like that, the two of you wander into a stilted game of give and take.

For the first few days, he makes sure he’s there before you arrive for the last of your afternoon shifts, his dark back already perched over the bartop as you shut the door behind you. Then, when you transition back to the evening shifts, he’s there too, sitting at that familiar perch, his eyes always, always watching, observing. You continue to ignore him and he seems to relish your agitated silence, flashing you dark smirks and quiet laughs.

Finally, two weeks into this stagnated stalemate, you make a point to strike up a real conversation with him. He’s obviously taken aback by your first few questions, his eyes wide and jaw tense, but he plays along.

Over time, the two of you carefully erect a haphazard friendship. And that chair of his? That center barstool? He used to not mind if another person was sitting in it when he arrived late, but recently that’s all changed. Now he guards it ferociously. Snapping and glaring at anyone who is stupid enough to drift into it.

Along with the lingering looks and burgeoning, almost flirty, dialogue you’ve pushed him into, he’s also gotten very demanding of your attention. If you spend too much time talking with another customer, or with Kurogiri, he pouts and darkens until you return, his tense form losing that sharpness. It's almost like he’s got a crush on you, but he’s not sure what to do with the newfound sensation, lost and confounded by your teases and grins.

Most people, you notice, give him a wide berth, but not you. No, you like his keen wit and heated musings. He’s fascinating and you want to see more. And in his flustered confusion, he lets you lean in, blinking and wide eyed at your open, flagrant interest in him.

******

As the weeks drift into summer, things start to change at the bar.

There’s some atypical deposit of power that’s been bestowed upon the place. People you’ve never seen before, begin to frequent the premises, sharing videos and whispered conversations about that man, Chizome Akaguro, better known to the general public as the Hero Killer.

Tomura flits between several, dark moods, clutching his newly injured shoulder and murmuring complaints about hero society, All Might and the Hero Killer. Apparently, there had been an altercation between the two of them and Tomura didn’t hide his ire, his agitation from you. No, he would vent to you, his voice gravel and ash as he snarled his rage.

Then, as if things couldn’t get any stranger, one evening a young girl begins to hang around, pestering you for a soda and prattling on and on about blood. Another new guy slips in a few hours later, his skin marred by thick, ragged burns and staples. He’s quiet, rudely demanding a shot and nursing it in a corner, his bright blue eyes flashing as he stares vacantly out at the crowd by the well.

A quiet man, called Spinner, asks you for a water, and you acquiesce, watching as his green hands wrap around the glass, downing the liquid in a quick gulp. Later, there’s a robust, loud, clearly confused guy, wearing a skin tight black bodysuit loitering by your bartop. He keeps entreating you for a drink, then tells you to buzz off seconds later. Exasperated, you plunk a whole bottle down beside his glass and continue on with your work, ignoring his chatter.

Finally, a man in a white mask and a top hat rounds out the strange posse and the group gathers together, hovering around Tomura, asking questions and listening to his rasping answers.

Thankfully, the rag-tag group leaves soon after closing, all of them shouldering their way back out into the night. You shake your head as the door closes behind them, gathering the collection of dirty glasses they left in their wake. Only Tomura remains, sipping meditatively on his drink, his red eyes foggy and unfocused. You know from experience that it’s not a good time to ask him questions, so you continue with your closing duties, keeping your eyes down.

Something is going on, that much is clear. But, unless you could worm the information out of Tomura, you’d likely never fully know all of the details. Part of you warns that it’s likely dangerous. Many of the people who haunt the bar are low level villains or brokers, not a winning combination if you’re wanting to stay out of the fray, and on the right side of the law.

You finish wiping everything down and return to Tomura, asking him softly if you can wash his empty glass. His eyes lift to yours and the expression that greets you almost makes you want to reach out and cup his cheek. He looks tired, worn thin and so, so needy. You’ve never seen him like this. It almost feels like he’s showing you something he’s never revealed to anyone else, a vulnerability that only you can see. He’s giving you access to a quiet secret that can hang between the two of you, safe in the knowledge that he can trust you with it. That urge to stroke a finger down his roughed brow rises again, but you shove the impulse away, rattled by your sudden, visceral, reaction to him.

To distract yourself, you snatch up his glass, and turn from the intensity of his stare, a slow prickle of gooseflesh trembling along your skin. As you run hot water and soap over the vessel, you feel your heart begin to pound and you chance another peek at Tomura’s quiet form. As usual, he’s watching you, but he looks unfocused again, that broken vulnerability tucked away. You want to ask him if he’s ok, but before you can croak the words out, he pushes his stool back and paces down the dark hallway, leaving you alone and bewildered.

******

A few days later, you ask Kurogiri if you can sneak away for a minute, you need a break. The bar has been packed since nine and you could use a quick breather. It’s the first night Tomura hasn’t stopped by and his absence has bothered you. You missed his grumpy quips and his persistent glances. All this time, you’d thought it was just him that was catching any kind of feelings, but it looks like he’s somehow managed to nag his way into your psyche, too.

You take the back stairs quietly and let yourself out onto the alleyway balcony, climbing the rickety fire escape to the rooftop. You’d found the access to the roof your second week and it’s still your favorite place in the whole bar. On a clear night, you can see all the way to downtown Tokyo. It’s always quiet this high up, tranquil and serene. You brace yourself against the concrete wall and watch the lights of the city glimmer, like distant jewels, in the darkness.

You pull a small joint from your pant pocket and flick your lighter on, setting the edge of the rolling paper alight and taking a slow drag. The inhale fills your lungs with a light pressure and you savor the feeling before blowing a thin line of smoke into the night. You get a few more hits in before you hear the fire escape stairs rattle, signaling that someone is coming your way. You debate dampening your roach, but you don’t want to waste it, so you tuck the smoldering paper in your other hand, maneuvering it out of sight.

The white shine of his hair always gives him away.

Tomura hops over the ledge and his eyes are already lifting, searching for yours as he stands. You arch an eyebrow at his tense stance and you can’t help your giddy smile. “Everything ok?”

“Kurogiri said you were taking a break,” he replies, dipping his long fingers into his pockets and sauntering over to the patch of concrete you’re braced against.

“Yeah,” you confirm, waiting until he’s closer to lift the joint back to your lips, taking a steadying pull and scooting over, so he can fit beside you on the wall. “It’s busy, and I’ve been slinging drinks all night. Just wanted to decompress for a bit.”

Tomura doesn’t reply, but he does slot himself close, the warmth of his broad shoulder radiating against yours. The two of you drift into a companionable silence, and the only sounds that greet you is the quiet hush of traffic below and your inhales and exhales of smoke.

“You got another meeting?” you ask, crossing your arms and pressing minutely closer, enjoying the distant shiver Tomura gifts you.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice low. You think that might be the end of the conversation but he continues a few seconds later, his head tilting toward yours, those red eyes scanning your upturned face. “They’re on a mission. I’m not able to participate. It will need to be like a SIM game. They are the pieces that I’ll move over the board, they’ll act to my battle plan.”

You turn to him, your eyes wide. “So, they’re just...pawns? Little NPC’s that don’t matter?”

Tomura laughs and his teeth gleam in the moonlight and distant shine of the neon lights. “Of course not. Do I look that heartless? No, they’re valuable players and if this goes right, we’ll be able to take on the next level with a decided edge.”

You let that last comment hover, pausing to take another huff, your eyes lowered, brooding over his words. “So, you’re their vanguard leader?”

“Sure,” Tomura nods, “We can’t keep grinding each mission, hoping to pick up any XP these heroes happen to drop. We need to make waves of our own.”

“Oh? Like the Hero Killer?”

“No,” Tomura snarls, his arm tensing beside yours, a hand rising to scritch at his scarred neck agitatedly. “Nothing like him. We’re looking past him. He was too short sighted, so busy following his own code of justice that he didn’t notice he was breeding more heroes, not putting them down.”

“Hmm,” you sigh, thumping your head lightly against the concrete behind you. “That is true. But, you can’t deny he’s brought up some serious divisions. It’s funny, really. It makes me think of this little hero toy I had when I was younger.

It was of an older hero, he prolly died long ago, but I loved that toy when I was a kid. Then, as I got older, it stopped mattering and one day, without me even realizing it, it lost its importance entirely. I wonder if hero society will ever shift to that. With the fractures that have been seen at UA and all over Japan, it could be a matter of time before real change starts to happen. Anyway, I wasn’t meaning to grill you on your, uh, projects. I was--”

“What toy?”

His question nonpluses you and you cock your head, blinking up at his peripheral stare. “Um, I think it was of that fast hero, O’clock. It was my older brothers originally, but he passed it down to me. No idea where it is now. It likely got lost in a move or accidentally left behind.”

Tomura lifts his eyes from yours, his jaw clenching and a slow gulp echoing down his lean throat. You watch the bob of his Adam’s apple, fascinated by the movement. That urge to touch him is back and you have to clench your fingers into your palms to quiet it.

You’re so distracted by your primal reaction to him, that you miss his question and he has to repeat it, his eyes slipping back to yours, the red dark.

“What?” you ask, blinking against the acuteness of his gaze.

“Can I take a hit of that?”

“Of what...oh.” You lift the half smoked joint and chuckle at yourself, pressing the smoldering paper toward him. “Sure. You had one before?”

“Does it matter?” He scoffs, carefully taking the white roach from you and raising it to his chapped lips.

“Go slow,” you warn as he begins to inhale, his eyes drifting to a half mast, concentrating.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, pulling a tentative, but heavy, drag into his lungs.

“Fine,” you scoff playfully, “do what you want. But don’t blame me when you’re coughing up a lung.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn’t heed your advice and, seconds later, he’s clutching at his throat, dropping the joint onto the broken gravel and concrete as he heaves. Instinctively, you thump him on his back and run your palm soothingly over his lean shoulder blades, surprised by the corded muscle that greets you. For a relatively thin guy, he’s certainly packing some strength under that unassuming form of his.

Tomura startles at your touch and he yanks himself away from you, his head ducked, eyes fastening onto yours, the irises accusatory and bright, burning with some underlying emotion that you’re too nervous to name right now.

“Uh,” you begin, aghast that you’ve upset him, “m-my bad…”

But, he’s already leaving, his head firmly turned from you, clambering over the edge and back onto the fire escape, leaving you alone in the darkness.

******

After that night, you can’t slip him out of your mind. Even when you sleep, you can see those red eyes of his, gleaming and hungry. One evening, you’d even woken with your fingers firmly pressed to your throbbing clit, stumbling and gasping, shaking free of a dream of him. He’d felt so real, so in focus and you can’t catch your breath, fingers still rubbing a tight circle over your quivering bundle of nerves. You pant as you break yourself, sukling in the whites and reds that haze over your vision. Yeah, that crush of his definitely isn’t a one sided thing.

The next shift you work, he’s waiting for you, perched in his familiar seat, his shoulders curved and tight. You give him a glance, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. His hands are lowered, fiddling with something under the bartop. You begin to open your bar, trying to quiet your wandering thoughts, not wanting to perturb him again. You’re uncorking a red wine when he presses something across the mahogany wood of the bar, toward you.

It’s small, with dark colors and a tiny, familiar, upper half mask. You let the bottle of wine thud against the counter, abandoning the half opened bottle to move closer. It’s...it’s your-- No. It can’t be yours, but it is the same toy, the one you’d mentioned on the roof the other night. How did he?

You gulp and look up at him, your heart pulsing wildly against your ribs. For the first time, he looks away from you first, his white hair pillowing across his brow. His lips start to rise in an all too habitual scowl and his raspy voice lifts to your ears. “If you don’t want it,” he grouses, one hand pulling away from the offered toy, clearly flustered by your wondering gaze. Without thinking, you slip your fingertips over the top of his hand, prolonging the touch, sulking in the warmth of him.

His fingers curl, some unconscious tremor racing along his digits. He almost yanks himself away, but then he stops, sighing as his eyes lift to yours. For a long moment, the two of you watch the other. You can hear his breathing speed up and you can almost smell the shift in the air. All it would take is one, tiny push to break that delicious tension.

Tomura’s nostrils flare as you start to lean closer, your body curving toward his, fingers still pressing into his skin. Your tongue dips out, wetting your lower lip and pulling it into your mouth, sucking on the plush flesh. His eyelids have lowered and he’s mirroring your motions, his elbows assisting his lift, his face upturning, seeking, reaching.

With a bang, the front door is flung open and it breaks the spell that’s fallen over the two of you. Tomura leans away first, his eyes narrowed in agitation, sliding from your open face to the darkness of the entryway. You exhale a shaking breath and follow Tomura’s gaze. It’s that masked man, the one with the top hat and he’s already striding confidently forward, peppering Tomura with a series of questions.

Snagging up his gift to you, you walk back to your bottle of wine.

******

You don’t have a chance to see Tomura again until he tells you, one evening, that the bar is going to be closed for the next few days. Then, over his shoulder, you spot the blonde boy, strapped and bound into a stiff chair and you blanch, stunned, too overwrought to give him more than a one word acknowledgement before stumbling back outside. In all of your talks, he’d never mentioned anything like this. That boy looked like a kid, barely past middle school, his eyes wild and defiant, but also so, so frightened.

No, you think, pacing your apartment, it’s impossible to come to terms with this. You can’t stay there, can’t work there. It’s too dangerous, too close to a real criminal den for comfort. You have to look out for yourself, no matter your feelings for the man who’s wandering down some long, lost pathway, toward a future you can’t even comprehend, let alone see.

So, you hand in your written resignation.

Kurogiri is behind the bar when you bring it in, and you’re hoping that the early morning conversation will spare you from having to see him. The wispy, purple hand of Kurogiri is just about to take your letter when Tomura barges down the hallway. His eyes immediately land on you and he steps forward, a dark look passing over his palled features.

“Why?” he growls, fingers snatching the paper from Kurogiri and crumbling the parchment to bits, his quirk rendering your typed words to nothingness.

“I don’t want to be a part of any kidnapping. It…” you pause, looking toward Kurogiri and, to your surprise, he nods to Tomura and moves away, leaving the two of you alone in the vacant bar. Tomura is still glaring at you, but he’s waiting for you to finish your thought, his jaw grinding quietly.

“This doesn’t feel like you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Tomura scoffs, his chin jutting at the assertion.

“This doesn’t change society. This is just some petty attempt to get back at the UA staff. It’s like...It’s like you’re asking for trouble to seek you out. You’re smarter than this. Besides, what are you going to do with him?” you smart, crossing your arms and balling your fingers into your fists.

“What do you know about anything? That kid’s been oppressed by hero society, literally muzzled and bound--”

“As if you’re doing any better! He’s still muzzled and bound, Tomura! He’s just in a different location. This is insanity. Who put you up to doing--”

“That doesn’t matter. This conversation has nothing to do with that. You can’t leave,” Tomura snaps, his head lowering, soft white hair falling over his face. “Give it a few more days.”

“What? I can’t stay if the bar is raided and it’s prolly gonna be if you keep that kid. Besides, that’s not--”

“Just...just give me a few more days. I don’t want to beg you, I shouldn’t fucking need to beg you. It’s not an impossible request (Y/N). Just--”

“Fine,” you sigh, uncrossing your arms and watching him. He looks on edge, haggard and angry. Those emotions aren’t projected at you, you know that. Nevertheless, it doesn’t lessen the danger he’s asking you to stand with him in. But, you can give him a few days and you tell him so, trying to ignore the pattering of your heart when he looks at you and smiles.

******

Then, Kamino happens.

You weren’t there, thank God. But he was, and now, no matter what he’d asked of you, no matter what he’d hoped for, everything shifts apart. Days linger into weeks and you’re trying your best to reason that he’d made it out in one piece. Surely, you would have heard something. The capture of the leader of the League of Villains would have been a morsel that the media would have wanted to crow about, especially after the loss of All Might.

Late one evening, your phone rings.

It’s an unknown, blacked out number, but something tells you to answer, so you pick it up. You almost gasp when you hear that familiar rasp and you listen to what he tells you. You can’t get over how brittle and cracked his voice sounds but you write down the address he gives you. He cloaks his true motivations with a lie. Apparently, he has your last paycheck. Like that even matters to you. Honestly, you’re just glad he’s safe and whole. But, he’s gone to all this effort to build a bridge back to him, so of course you’re going to go.

You check and double check the directions, carefully maneuvering and weaving through bus stops and back streets. Somehow, you make it and find yourself pressing open a dilapidated door and stepping into a small room. Only darkness greets you, even though the bright midday sun is shining outside. The place he’s brought you to is on a dock, on the outskirts of town, close to the salty edge of a bay. You can hear the mournful cries of a seagull as you close the door behind you, sealing yourself inside and blinking into the gloom.

It takes you a minute to catch sight of him.

He’s lingering along the edges but you can make out the glow of his eyes, red and fierce. He looks different. It’s only been a few weeks, but it looks like the weight of years has crushed him under its unfeeling grind in that short amount of time. No, Kamino has changed him, rendering him unhinged and dangerous, drifting along the peripheral of your vision. Still, you haven’t come here to witness him falling to bits at your feet. No, you’d come here with another, darker motive.

Now, to work.

“What happened?” you ask, keeping your back firmly against the door. Watching him move closer, those red shoes of his glinting over the dark wooden floors.

“Sensei is...gone,” he replies, his voice hollow and faint. He’s mentioned his Sensei before and you’d heard the man’s strange voice echoing from that back television, like some distant, terrifying specter. But, you knew he was important to Tomura, more like a father than a teacher. However, you’d seen the news. You knew he was beaten to a pulp and captured, locked away and out of Tomura’s reach. Now, he can’t ask his Sensei for advice or support, not anymore. Even knowing what little you’ve gleaned about the strange man, Tomura must be devastated by his loss.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, genuine in your sympathy.

Tomura nods and fishes for something in the pocket of his trench coat, lifting a thin slip of paper out and showing it to you. “Here,” he sighs, still not meeting your eyes directly.

“Oh,” you say, moving away from the door and taking a few steps toward him. “You really did ask me here for the check, huh?”

“What else did you want?” he grumbles, his voice regaining a small slice of that familiar rasping. The question lingers and you feel your pulse speed up, your palms itching at your sides. “Or, did you want to scold me again?” Tomura continues disgruntled, and you can see a grimace pass over his face.

“You deserved it,” you confirm, taking another step, only wavering when you’re a few feet from him. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn't kidnapped that UA student. Now, the kid, and your Sensei are gone and you’re stuck here. Wherever here is”

“Look at you, quite the oracle aren’t you? So, you did come here to berate me.” Tomura snaps, dropping your pay stub to the dusty floor.

“No,” you shake your head, not wanting this to spiral out of your control, not wanting him to simply shut you out, alone on that pier, left with all of your what ifs. “No, I didn’t come here to do that. I-I...it’s just that...well...that wasn’t you. That whole plan...it still doesn’t make sense”

“How the fuck would you know what is, or isn’t, me? You said that that morning, too. I didn’t like it then and I don’t like it now,” Tomura bristles, closing the distance and bowing up to you. You can feel the sheer heat of him radiating against your shirt and you shiver at the sensation. If you lift your hand you could touch him, you think distantly. He’s so close...He’s so...

You gulp, trying to quell your rising emotions. “I guess, I don’t know then.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fine,” you say, biting your lip.

“Fine,” he repeats, no doubt thinking that will be the end of it, but you’re not finished.

“You’re better than this you know,” you tell him, eyes searching for his, not relenting your glare until he finally meets you halfway, his red eyes flashing.

“Better than what? Better than you? A half baked woman, slumming her way from mid range bar, to mid range bar. Hoping you’ll catch the eye of the right person, someone who can pluck you from all the muck and grime that you lift that pretty little nose of yours at.”

“What?” you breathe, a snarl of your own etching across your face.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know what you were doing. Fucking leading me on like that--”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You thought I’d be your ticket out, or you could wager me later for a better piece, something stronger, someone that could do something for you.” Tomura is seething, his chest bumping against yours, the red of his eyes burning as he glowers at you.

“Tomura- I don’t know what you’re talk--”

“Stop saying that. You stupid, or something? And stop saying my name like that. Like it fucking matters. You could have had anything, you know? But...but you took it all for granted. You had the world...and then it...it’s...it’s just gone.”

He’s not talking about you anymore. Even though he’s growling and spitting rage at you, he’s not talking about you. “Shigaraki,” you begin, trying to see some way to reason with him. To bring him back to you.

“Don’t call me that,” he groans, his head dipping, almost resting against your shoulder. “I haven’t earned...that’s not me.”

“Alright. What am I supposed to call you?” you whisper, overwhelmed and trying to resist that urge to pull him into your arms. You’ve never seen him like this, and you don’t know, you don’t…

“There you go again, acting like you care.” Tomura scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“I do care, you ass,” you bite, turning your head toward him and letting your voice fall beside his ear. He snarls at the assertion and presses impossibly closer, trying his best to put on a show of wavering strength, knowing you might still be bullied into backing down, into denying him. But it’s not working, no you’ve come this far and you don’t want to leave him, not like this.

“I care,” you repeat, still murmuring next to his cheek, so near you can hear, and feel, his ragged breaths, hot against your skin.

“About what?” he grunts, moving his head from you, determined to not let you win.

“About, well, you.”

“Liar,” he spits, but his voice wavers, showing you a tiny, tiny sliver of hope.

“Am not,” you counter and watch as he leans back, those vermillion eyes searching for yours. One of his hands lifts and he ghosts the digits over the top of your shoulder, watching as you shift toward the distant touch, pulled to him, like a magnet.

“Such a liar,” he posits, fingers hovering beside your neck, twitching with want.

“No, I’m not,” you gasp, your voice so faint, you’re worried he might not hear it. But he does and he dips his head toward you, inches from your face, lips already parted and waiting.

“Prove it,” he challenges, his voice deepening, losing that sharpened edge at long last.

So, you shove him.

You’re not sure why that’s your first, instinctive reaction, but it’s too late to question your motives and it sparks a crazed response from the man in front of you, snapping him out of his head and refocusing him.

He fumbles backwards, caught off guard, his red shoes catching as he lumbers, trying to not fall. His eyes flash at you and he instantly rights himself, moving back to you. Through it all, you can hear yourself saying something. It sounds like it might have been another taunt, but you can’t focus, not when he’s pressing himself against you, his fingers finally, finally touching you.

Tomura can’t seem to settle now that he’s gotten ahold of you, his fingers tracing over your neck, your shoulders, your face, your sides. He’s panting and gasping, his fevered exhales fanning over your prickling skin.

“Get off me,” you moan, batting at his wandering hands.

“No,” he sighs, cupping your jaw and dragging you to his shaking lips. His kiss is clumsy, almost childlike. He lifts and leans, pressing halting smacks against you, grunting when you twist from him, fighting his hold.

“You don’t deserve it,” you tell him, wanting to lance that boil that’s festering in his mind, knowing he needs the pain before he can handle the sweetness of the pleasure. The last thing he needs is love. No, not right now. Hopefully, there will be time for that later. But for now, he needs something raw and shattered, something that will let him see that it’s not impossible to pick up the pieces, that he can be whole again, he just needs to try.

He drags his rough lips over yours and you lower your fingers into his snowy hair, pulling him closer, demanding that he give you more. He gasps at the sudden shift and you slip your tongue into his mouth, tangling it with his and yanking stammering moans from him. Your lips are slick now and you use the extra lubrication to slip down his neck, leaving him trembling above you.

You dip into each and every scar, laving over all those old hurts until he’s snarling. You leave a bruising bite against his pulse and he snatches your face between his palms, dragging you back to his lips.

“Stop squirming,” he complains, his forehead bumping against yours, trying to keep up with your rapid fire laps and sucks.

“No,” you laugh, fingers lacing into the lapels of his trench coat and using the leverage to drag your breasts over his hardened pectorals. He grunts at the sensation, one arm wrapping around your lower back, pinning you to him. When he finally manages to work his way free of your frantic presses, he lowers his lips to your neck, mimicking the same path you’d taken with him, his teeth nipping and pulling until your humming, giving him a thin cry of encouragement that spurs him on.

Tomura drags a canine over your pulse and you shiver, folding into his crumpled embrace. He’s almost having to hold you upright and he growls when you slip from his arms, annoyed you’re making this so fucking difficult.

“I said, keep still,” he reminds you, heaving you back up, lean forearms bracing you to him. You smile and lace your arms around his neck, wanting his lips again. He allows the pull, loving the contrast of your plush skin against his. He’s a fast learner and this time, it’s his tongue taps and maneuvers for entrance, swallowing down your needy pants. His nose presses into your cheek and you cup at his jaw, stroking the warm skin until he slows his frantic pace, meeting you halfway, and lingering in your wet softness.

Then, just as he’s getting comfortable, you dig your teeth into his lower lip, pulling until you bleed out a little taste of copper. He snarls and shoves you away, lifting the side of his hand to his injured mouth.

“What was that for?” He snaps, tapping his fingers against the wound, watching as they come back red. “The fuck is wrong with…” His ire stutters to a halt when he catches sight of you.

You’ve already slipped your shirt over your head and now your fingers are twisting until you unclasp your bra, sliding the lace down your arms. The cool air makes your nipples tighten but you don’t attempt to cover yourself from him. Instead, you arch an eyebrow at his abashed expression and begin to unbutton your pants, your fingers teasingly lingering over the button and zipper, before lowering the denim down the curve of your hips.

You don’t even hear him approach. No, you’re too distracted by your little show to notice him until you feel those warm fingers tracing over the newly bared swells of your skin. You lift your head and your eyes catch his, smiling at the hazy hunger that’s blazing out at you. His touch is tentative and you roll your eyes openly at him, lifting your own hands over his, pressing him until he’s digging those four digits into your sumptuous flesh.

His thumb rubs over your pebbled nipple and you reward him with a low moan, your eyes slipping behind your heavy eyelids. He cups at your other breast and lifts the weight of you into his palm, openly marveling at the feel of you. Still, it’s not enough and if you’re going to get your point across, you need him to give you more than these lazy strokes.

“Take off your jacket,” you tell him, stepping away from him, quaking minutely in the loss of his warmth.

“What?” he asks, clearly too overwrought to hear you. So, you help him along. Your fingers snatch the shoulders of his trench and you yank it off him, tossing the fabric down to the gritty floors. Then, you shove at him again. He isn’t as taken aback this time and he rallies immediately, snatching at you and dragging you against him, making you gasp at the harsh sensation of his dark clothes against your bare front.

“What do you want?” you ask him, licking your tongue along the underside of his jaw, listening to his shuddering breaths. “What do you want to do to me, Tomura? Come on, I know you’ve got some idea. Fucking show me. Don’t let me boss you around, unless that’s what you’re wanting today to be about. I can take those reigns from you. I’m better at this after all. Less...flustered,” you pause, sucking and nipping at his neck, enjoying the indecisive flex of his fingers on your upper arms.

He allows you one more bite and then he’s tossing you down, not caring where you land. Thankfully, you sprawl over his discarded jacket, the fabric sparing you from the neglected wooden floor. You’re trying to regain your bearings when you hear his belt clatter to the floor. You look up at him, watching as he flings that dark shirt away, showing you the lean muscles that you’ve wondered about for so long. God, for someone so lanky, he looks fucking good.

Tomura smirks at your expression and swiftly yanks his pants and boxers away too, revealing something even more mouthwatering. Fuck, fuck, you think, an involuntary gasp leaving your lips. His cock is thick, pulsing and absolutely dripping with his precum. The tip is a lovely pink, curving toward that chiseled stomach of his and damn, you want to suck on it until he’s putty in your hands.

As if he can read your mind, Tomura steps closer, giving himself a few tugs as he peers down on you, imperious and almost perfectly in control. “You want it?” He asks, trying to hide that sudden shift in his voice, wanting to show you that he understands what you’re expecting from him. You nod and bite your lip, looking up at him from feathery eyelashes.

“Come here,” he requests, slowing those pulls and letting his precum slip from his fist to the floor, tempting you with those tiny droplets of arousal. Obediently, you rise to your knees, fingers tracing up his thighs, smiling at the light buckling he gives you, his calves twitching and shaking.

You tease your way to the apex of his hips and pause, lingering along that dip of his stomach. “Can I taste you?” you question coquettishly and you adore the moan that falls from his lips.

Taking that as a yes, you slowly lower your mouth to him, ghosting the tip of him over you. Rubbing him back and forth, painting that thick precum over your lips until they’re glistening. Tiring of this little game, his fingers dip into your hair and he grips you, hard. With one pull, he’s burying that velvet heat of his length past the ring of your lips and into the sweet cavern of your mouth. His cock swells and throbs as you lap ravenous at the hefty weight of him.

He’s salty and earthy and you let your tongue swirl over his slit, lapping into that leaking gap until he’s murmuring nonsense over you. He’s almost too big for you to take, so one of your hands lifts and wraps around his base, easing your sucks and ensuring that none of him is left out of this gift of mind numbing ecstasy you’re bestowing upon him.

There are several veins, racing along the side of his cock and you tickle along each of them, pressing until you can feel the beat of his heart, frantic and fluttering. Soon, he begins to silently ask you for more, rutting his hips against your face, scraping himself along the back of your throat. When you heave around him he lets out a loud, elongated moan and digs in again, lingering until you’re nearly choking.

You chance a peek up at him and are surprised to see him gazing right back, those red eyes of his clouded and muddled. His hand keeps an insistent pressure against the back of your head, demanding that you keep going. So, you pick up the pace, lapping and sucking, hollowing your cheeks until a thin line of your drool begins to trickle along your chin, dripping onto your knees.

“Can...can I…” he begins, fingers starting to tremble, his knees buckling. No, that’s not what you want from him. You shake free of his hand, letting him slip from your mouth, and he stammers and sputters at the loss, his eyes narrowed and dark, glaring at you with a raw frustration.

“No,” you tell him, keeping one hand on him, stroking him, maintaining that steady pressure until he’s grunting, his hips instinctively canting into the tantalizing motion. “No, you don’t ask me for anything. Yeah, I can finish you off, if you need me to take control, but it’s not going to be on your terms. If you’re wanting something Tomura, you better fucking take it. Stop asking me for permission. I’m not-- mmph--”

He rips your hand off of his dick and his fingers curl beside your ears, forcing your mouth back, and impaling you on his length, immediately gagging you on his heady thrusts. You inhale sharply, your breath catching, failing as he keeps railing into you. More saliva slides out of your lips and you falter, a weak whimper echoing around him.

“Mmm,” he growls, holding your face as he presses against the back of your throat loving the clenching and mewls you give him. “That feels fucking good, (Y/N). Taking all of my cock, ah- fucking choking on it. You’re so fucking greedy. Don’t worry, I’ll give you more. Let’s see, what would make this even better, oh, I know. Saw it in a porn once. Put your hands behind your back and don’t move them unless I tell you to.”

Immediately, you clasp your fingers together, letting them rest against your lower back. The suspension knocks you off kilter, but Tomura braces your head with his other hand, pinning you between his palms. His dick is still lancing in and out of your mouth, scraping against your tonsils, making you swallow and open, trying to push yourself past that oppressive gagging sensation.

“Ahhh, such a good girl, now spread your legs and lift up, just a little bit, yes- right there. Better keep those hands still,” he taunts, pulling his cock out until it hangs against your lower lip, glimmering with the sheen of your ministrations. Then, he dives back in, thrusting and grinding until his balls are papping against your soaking chin. Your legs tremble as you hold yourself up and you can feel your own arousal, slipping down your inner thighs, splattering onto that dark trench coat of his.

You’re heaving under him, grunting and slobbering trying to not fucking choke on the girth that’s being pistoned into you. He’s gasping praise at you, his white head thrown back, and his lower abdomen is rippling, letting you know he’s so, so close to spilling down your abused throat. He bows over you as he cums, spewing thick ropes of his release into you. You gulp at him, determined to let every last drop slither down your waiting throat, longing to savor everything that he’s giving you.

True to your promise, you keep your hands clasped and you nearly topple over when he tugs free of your lips. Tomura takes pity on your wilted form and lowers himself to his knees, wrapping one hand around you and tapping twice on your shaking digits, letting you know you can relax your grip. You fall forward, and he waits above you, watching you with a mounting fascination. Once you catch your breath, you look up at him, not caring that you’re still covered in a mix of tears, spit and his cum. He smirks at your dishevelment, pleased by your open display of your wanton lust for him.

“See? It’s not hard to take what you want, to do what you want,” you pant, still trying to gulp down a few more rough intakes of air.

Tomura sucks his teeth at your bravado, but you notice he’s having a little bit of trouble steading his own breathing and his hands are twitching as they reach for you. You hum when he cups at your dips and curves, lingering over spots that make you moan for him. As he plucks at one of your puckered nipples his eyes lift to yours and he leans close, pressing a wet line of kisses against your collarbone.

“Lay back,” he rumbles, still sucking at the hollow of your throat. You do as he says, propping yourself on your elbows, curious and waiting. He’s slowed down now that he’s slaked that first brush of pent up aggression, but he’s still got a little more to burn. You can see it, lingering behind his vermillion eyes, gleaming under the carnal intrigue.

His fingers, so dangerous and deadly, race down your sides, falling to the juncture of your legs and dipping into the slick that he finds. He parts your folds, bracing himself over you, his lips sucking bruises into your skin. The gossamer threads of your leaking cunt run down his fingers and onto his open palm and he groans into your neck, nuzzling his nose to your skin and inhaling, deeply.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice scraping, like sandpaper, hoarse and undone along your heated cheek. Ok, you think, arching as he dips one digit into you, you can let him have that one question, especially when your mind is fogging over like this, unable to think of anything but that ache that’s pounding through your core. You roll your hips again, urging that finger to slip further and he hisses as you pull him in, your walls trembling at the intrusion.

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting himself to look down at you, his eyes wide with an awed marvel. “You’re so…”

“Mmm, so what?” you ask, wanting him to keep talking to you, loving rasp of his tone as it tells you such sinful things.

“So soft and warm and...God...so wet,” he replies, adding another finger, watching as you whine for him, your lower lips parting and welcoming him. He pumps the digits, in and out, at a steady rate, waiting for each quiver and ripple, trying to feel his way along, wanting to please you.

“Can--” he stops himself, flushing as your eyes open and snap to his, a rough displeasure written over your face. He tears his gaze from yours and scowls, letting his fingers press a rougher rhythm into you, sucking his teeth at his unspoken inexperience.

“This feels good,” you reassure him, not wanting to completely leave him adrift, knowing that he does need a little piece of guidance, for this part, at least. “Why don’t you get a closer look?”

Tomura looks back to you and nods before sliding down your body, lowering himself until he’s face to face with his prize. His mouth drops and he licks at his chapped lips, painting a few, warm, exhales against your sensitive folds. You squirm at the sensation and he grins, leaning closer, his free hand spreading you for his inspection.

“Is this…” his voice trails off and you can feel him wandering his way to just the right spot. When he lifts the fleshy hood of your clit and thumbs the distended pearl you gasp and shiver, your head falling back against his jacket, thumping against the floor.

He laughs and you can feel him getting ready to swipe at you again, his thumb already slippery and near, the heat of it radiating against that sensitive bundle. “You like that,” he crows, repeating the motion until you’re writhing. “But—” he ponders, moving so his lips are pressed against you, resting on those sopping folds, waiting for you to look up at him. Once your head lifts and your eyes meet his, he lowers his mouth, sliding his tongue over you.

“Oh,” you whisper, your hands automatically lifting and curling into his hair, threading the white tendrils along your palms. His tongue is rough and bumpy as it glides along, pausing to lap at some of your arousal. He smacks his lips at the taste, savoring the flavor before voraciously pressing back into you for more. When he pauses his explorations to give your clit a soft suck, you can’t help but flail, your back bowing and thighs tightening around his head.

Tomura grunts at the rough treatment, prying your legs apart but not letting up on that suction, pleased he’s found something that makes you tremble to pieces in his hands. He’s always liked working you up, so it makes sense that, in this instance, he’s no different.

His long digits are scraping into you, dragging along your quivering walls and spreading your cunt apart, leaking your arousal all over his jacket and onto his chin. He’s not satisfied yet, you’re not satisfied yet, so he keeps going, listening and watching, catching on to what makes you cry out his name, learning and adapting at an alarming speed.

“T-Tomura,” you keen, your hips lifting, grinding yourself against his face, begging him to not stop. You feel a smirk lift his lips and his tongue begins to circle and lick over your clit, maintaining a steady pressure. Meanwhile, his fingers have latched onto something delicate and spongy within your pussy, repeating an arched gesture, curling and uncurling as they stroke your budding flames higher.

“So good…” you murmur, hardly able to form the words as you feel that all encompassing tingle race along your bloodstream. “You’re doing so f-fucking good.”

In response, he begins to suckle on your clit, lightly tracing a canine over the pulsing bundle and that’s all that it takes. Your head dips back, pressing into the floor so hard that your neck arches with your back and your legs wrap around him, holding him to you as you quiver and shake under him. You can feel your heartbeat as you return to yourself, thumping a rapid beat over your breastbone and radiating out to your fingers and toes.

Tomura, for his part, hadn’t stopped lapping at you, his tongue replacing his fingers as he pushes the wet appendage into you, soaking up each wave of your release. Even when you’d dropped your death grip, your legs and arms flopping away from him, boneless and shaking, he’d kept on. After a few minutes of this, his lips suddenly feel a little too ragged, the chapped skin scratching against your sensitive, overstimulated, flushed lower lips. You do your best to wriggle away, but he stills your movements, not quite finished.

“Ah- that...it’s starting to hurt,” you grouse, pushing a hand against his bowed head. That declaration seems to get through and, finally placated, he gives you one last lick and lifts his head, his eyes glinting down on you, dark and mischievous.

“I want to fuck you,” he tells you, wiping a hand across his mouth, dragging the last of your essence away. You tilt your head and grin up at him. “So fuck me,” you reply, spreading your legs again, making room for his trim hips.

“Not like this,” he qualifies, his eyes hooded as he runs a hand along your leg, enjoying your skin, warm and pliant under his palm.

“Then how?” you ask, a little bewildered by this shift in attitude. Tomura leans up, resting on his haunches, leering at your nakedness, another smirk lifting his lips, arching that scar.

“Stand up,” he instructs.

You pull your legs away and slowly rise to your feet, waiting for him to do the same. Once the two of you are eye level again, he tugs you to him, his lips pulling and nipping at yours. You can’t help but melt into his persistent touch and when he feels you slacken against him, he starts to push you backwards. He walks you slowly, carefully, but once your back touches the cold wall, his caresses become rougher, more insistent.

He’s lifting your chin and his teeth are doing more biting than nipping, pulling at your lips until you’re gasping and swollen. He begins to lift away and you protest the movement, but his hand presses into your chest, shoving you back to the wall. You freeze at the forceful treatment, your eyes opening and fastening onto his. Waiting for his next move.

Tomura’s regained that wild look, his eyes hardening, sharpening like ruby slips of flint as they linger over you. “Turn around and brace your hands against the wall,” he commands and, for an instant, you debate pushing back, challenging his order, but that’s not what you’re here for. No, you’d come here with one thought in mind.

To see if you could show him what choices, what strong inner drive, wholly independent of his Sensei, he did have.

You’d watched that kidnapping debacle and all you could think about was how much better, how much stronger he’d be if he could just get out from under the thumb of that man, that voice on the tv. Even with this informal exercise of your own, Tomura had taken to your carnal lessons like a fish to water. He had always been a natural born leader, someone who cultivated and demanded change, he just needs a chance to try. A chance to prove that he didn’t need to ask permission, to ask questions. No, he only needed to act and he could make his aspirations a reality.

So, you turn, splaying your fingers against the wall and waiting for his next move, tilting your head, wanting to see him. He runs a calloused hand over the plush swell of your ass, kneading the skin and stepping closer. Once his hips are flush with your posterior, he ruts his newly re-hardened cock against you, his ever copious precum aiding his motion, letting him glide between your cheeks, easing into that cleft. You groan and press back, wordlessly asking for him to keep going.

Suddenly, his palm smacks against your ass, stinging the flesh and sending a sharp crack around the barren room. “I said, push out more. How am I supposed to fuck you when you’re plastered to the wall like that?” Tomura questions, his voice deep and guttural. You brace your hands against the peeling wallpaper and jut your ass out, presenting yourself to him, quietly hoping he’ll reward you with another spank. Pleased, Tomura does just that, his other hand lifting and smarting against your other, neglected cheek, imprinting his mark on you, even if it’s only for a brief moment, and his fingers linger on the warmth he’s raised from your skin.

“Good girl,” he groans, taking his cock in his hand and searching for that weeping entrance to your waiting pussy. You aid him as best as you can, arching your hips until he finally, finally slips into you. Tomura lets out a deep sigh as your cunt devours his cock, slicking him into the heat of your rippling channel. “Oh, fuck,” he moans, pressing until his hips are flush with your ass, grinding his bony hipbone into your supple softness.

He gives you a brief second to adjust before he bows his head over your shoulder, panting and grunting. “Hold on,” he gasps, slowly pulling his hips back and then ramming his straining cock back into you. You mewl at the sudden ferocity of his thrusts, your head dipping against the steady weight of the wall.

He offers you no reprieve as he pounds into you, his teeth latching onto your skin, sucking and drooling, losing himself in you. His balls tap against your swelled ass and you moan when he traces one hand around you, his fingers seeking your clit and pinching at the nub.

Your teeth begin to chatter, but he doesn’t let up, maintaining that mind numbing pace, pressing and grinding until you can’t fucking think straight. He’s completely untethered and he slakes out all of those pent up questions, feelings, hurts and wants against you. After a time, he begins to murmur things to you, finally sucking up his loose tongue and resting his chin on the mess he’s left on your skin.

He’s worried he can’t do it.

He’s never been alone, not like this.

Sure, he has the others, he has Kurogiri, but it’s not the fucking same.

He needs to see this through.

He wants to, he has to.

Where do you go, when there’s no one else to turn to?

It’s like a confessional, this rutting he’s doing and it’s bleeding all of those thoughts away, letting them pool against the front of his mind and then, pop, they shift away.

Oh this helps, he thinks, loving how you’re fucking taking him, how much you fucking need him. He can’t let you go. He can’t, he won’t. You’re all he has left. After all this, he can’t lose anything else. No, you were right, he’s gotta start taking things, snatching up pieces until he becomes this unstoppable force, greater than his Sensei, greater than All Might, greater than all of them. Yes, yes, yes, when he has you like this, everything else feels so fucking simple.

He’s slowing, his hips beginning to stutter and press erratically against you. There’s no need to worry about you cumming for him, not when you’ve already broken around him so many times in the last few minutes. No, the second he started panting all of those thoughts against you, you were lost, your cunt gripping him so tightly you were worried it might never let go.

Finally, with one last thrust, Tomura grinds his hips against you, his cock swelling and pulsing as he spills himself into you. The sensation of his cum splashing against your walls hurtles you over that edge one last time and you almost collapse, your legs shaking so badly you can't support your own weight. The only thing that prevents you from falling is Tomura. His arms snake around your waist and he holds you to him, his forehead resting heavily against your shoulder, sticking to your skin.

After a long beat, Tomura pulls himself out of you, grunting at the loss of your warmth and sinks to the floor, dragging you with him. Naked and gasping, the two of you cling to the other, waiting for the world to stop spinning as you come back to yourselves. Tomura recovers first, tugging you to his chest and wrapping himself around you, his chin perched on the familiar slope of your shoulder.

“You didn’t...you didn’t need to do this, but...” Tomura halts, his voice soft as his lips press rough kisses to your skin, silently saying what he really means, what you mean to him.

“That’s not true,” you counter, turning your head toward him. “You deserve to make a choice for yourself. You’re your own boss now. Now all you have to do is act like it. Don’t make those mistakes again. You call the shots, not your Sensei, not anyone else in the League, just you. You’ll have other choices soon, so don’t doubt yourself, it’s not like you.”

He huffs out a laugh and buries his nose in your neck, inhaling your scent as he licks at a rising bruise. “I don’t think you’ll like my next choice,” he rumbles, one hand drifting over your side and cupping the soft mound of your breast.

“That depends on what it is,” you smile, your eyes closing at the tempting touch.

“Mmm, do me a favor,” he begins, nipping at your earlobe. “Get on your knees and open your mouth. You looked so fucking pretty when you were sucking on my cock, I wanna see it, one more time.”

“What?” you question, absolutely incredulous, “again?”

“Do as I say (Y/N),” he replies, rubbing his rising length along your ass.

“God,” you gasp, bucking at the sensation, “what have I done? At this rate, I won’t be able to walk for a week.”

“You’ll like it,” Tomura promises, his voice dark, “I’ll make sure that you do.”

Notes: never have i ever liked that kidnapping bullshit. i guess it lets AFO face off with All Might, but for Tomura’s development? it makes no sense and he’s never done anything like that again, in canon. so, uh, yeah. booo kidnapping scheme.

Tags: @spicy-skull, @xwildskullx, @yixxes, @ghstmthr, @rekoii, @diaouranask, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love

#asks #answered asks #pal muses #on Tomura’s dick #and his trauma #shigaraki tomura #tomura shigaraki #shigaraki x y/n #shigaraki x you #shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #tomura x y/n #tomura x you #tenko shimura #shimura tenko #reader insert

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ficforce · 3 years

Text

Lady Beni

Shinmon Benimaru x Reader SFW No set timeline Established relationship Shinra meets Benimaru’s other half

Shinra squinted at Benimaru from across the table, he had long finished his third helping of rice and now had nothing to distract him from the bottom right of the man’s lip. It had been split, it was to the point of being well on its way to healing and there was a whisper of a bruise there too. Someone had given him a vicious uppercut for sure. But who would be stupid enough, let alone brave enough, to injure Captain Shinmon Benimaru?

The man’s thumb brushed over the cut lightly as he read a report, Shinra squinted hard as he thought he saw an almost smile on Benimaru’s lips. “The hell you looking at, kid?”

Shinra jumped and sat up straighter, “Nothing!” He should have known the other would know when he was being watched, another minute passed and teen finally cracked, “Uh, Captain Shinmon?” A grunt of acknowledgement let him know he could continue, “Who hit you?”

“Y/N.” He was yet to look up from the report.

“Y/N?” Shinra leaned forward a little in interest, a woman had hit the Captain?

Benimaru shot him a glare and Shinra shrunk back, “Oi, don’t be so damn casual about her.”

“Waka, that’s the only name you gave him to use,” Konro chose that moment to come in and handed Shinra a wrapped bento box, “I need you to deliver that for me.”

“I’m not listening to any complaints, Konro…” He got up and put his hands on his hips, looking at the bento Shinra was now holding, “Is that for Y/N?”

Konro nodded, “Y/N’s perfecting a new technique by the river, she kept setting things and people on fire by accident. I told her there wasn’t enough space in town.”

“Wait, the Lieutenant called her Y/N too!” The boy let out a yelp as Benimaru smacked the back of his head and glared with his eyes slightly glowing, “OW! …ow… Then, what should I call her? Who is she?”

Benimaru gave a shrug and shoved Shinra with his foot to get him moving toward the door, “You don’t get to call her anything, don’t even look at her - you’re not worthy.”

Shinra grumbled as he saw the Lieutenant hide a laugh behind his hand and shake his head fondly at Benimaru’s pout. He sighed and began walking toward the river, he remembered the place they were talking about and wondered who he was going to meet, someone strong enough to fight Benimaru and who he obviously respected very much. As he walked he was beckoned by the old lady who made daifuku, “Are you going to see Y/N-chan?”

Shinra nodded and looked over his shoulder as if he expected Benimaru to be there and beat him for hearing Y/N’s name again, with no sign of him, Shinra bent down to the old woman’s level, “Who is she?” he whispered, “What should I call her?”

“Y/N-chan?” She tilted her head in confusion, “She’s Beni-chan’s lover, they’ve been together for as long as I can remember… haven’t you met her? I suppose you haven’t, she runs the neighbourhood watch on the other side of Asakusa.” She placed a small bag of daifuku on top of the bento and pat Shinra’s head, “Beni-chan loves her more than anything - Her official title is Lady Beni-chan.” The boy narrowed his eyes at the old lady, certain that wasn’t true but then again… this was Asakusa and they were weird. He made to stand up when he sensed something seriously wrong, suddenly a whoosh of hot air engulfed the street and Shinra made sure to shield the daifuku lady until it had passed.

Bells began to ring and everyone began to get out of the way, helping each other evacuate as the block was deemed unsafe. “It’s another of the big ones!” someone yelled and accidentally bumped Shinra as he passed. A large infernal emerged from the end of the street, fire scorching the homes around it as it ambled unsteadily forward - it was another of the white clads monsters, several infernals merged together to form a giant. Before he could ignite his feet, a fiery matoi flew overhead and took out several buildings in the process. Why couldn’t Benimaru aim for the infernal?! “Damn it, Beni!” A female voice rung through the air and when the teen looked above he saw a figure on the roof above him, the sun blinded him from getting a proper look, “Learn to aim, idiot!”

“Quit complaining!” Benimaru jumped down to the ground beside Shinra, an unlit matoi in his hand, he glared up at the roof and clicked his tongue as if annoyed, “Why don’t you actually do something useful?” He goaded, “Head home and start making dinner like a good girl!”

“Why don’t you shove that up your ass and swivel?” The woman jumped down from the roof and landed gracefully to the other side of Shinra. Shinra was surprised to see that the woman was quite pretty, she looked nothing like he had imagined from hearing her coarse words. Her outfit was very similar to Hikage and Hinata’s, the only difference was that it had no sleeves.

Benimaru shove Shinra roughly and pointed at him, “I told you not to look at her, idiot!”

“Ben-chan!” The woman chided him, “He’s just a baby!”

So this was Y/N? Shinra tried to recall what the old lady had said, she had said that Benimaru and Y/N were long-time lovers and that the Captain loved her more than anything - Then why did they look and speak like they wanted to kick each other’s asses?! He watched as some sort of silent exchange went on and Benimaru took a step back, he formed a circle of flames behind him and then Y/N lifted one of her arms, her fingers forming a distinct sign before the fire around Benimaru began to change.

It shifted and grew, the man adding more firepower to it as it began to coil around him, taking on shape and life until Shinra’s jaw dropped. Y/N had created a giant snake out of the flames, hot enough to singe the stores around the Captain but he seemed perfectly safe in the centre. Y/N lifted her other arm and, with two elegant moves, the fire struck with unbelievable speed and wrapped around the infernal, crushing it in the fiery coils. He watched as its head rose and the snake-like creature looked as if it were trying to eat the monster, all the while it got hotter and hotter until nothing was left of the infernal but ashes.

The fire dissipated into the air and Shinra looked between the two in wonder and awe.

— -

That evening the twins gave a cheer all of a sudden and ran to greet Y/N as she entered the guardhouse, she crouched down to plant a kiss on each forehead and then sent them back to dinner. She looked a little tired and her hair wasn’t as neat as it had been earlier when Shinra had seen her, he also noted the bandages around her forearms and palms. She sat between Konro and Benimaru, the larger man smiling as she grinned at him and told him they had matching wraps for the day.

Before Shinra could speak to her, Benimaru filled a bowl full of rice and placed it in front of Y/N, he then proceeded to pick up a few pieces of meat he had been saving to place them with it. They were sat so close together that they brushed against the other each time they moved. “What happened to your arms?” He asked casually and poured her a drink.

“Hmm?” She finished chewing and then replied, “I added too much fuel to my kindling and scorched myself.”

“Tch, idiot.”

“Asshole.

“Klutz”

Shinra missed his mouth completely and then blushed as the woman looked at him whilst he tried to pick rice out of his shirt. He didn’t get it, Benimaru had just served her food and they were practically sat on each other but they were insulting the other at the same time. Were they really a couple? “So…uh… you’re a second-generation then?” his grin was wide and he couldn’t help but be tense.

Nobody said anything for a moment and then Y/N let out a little laugh, “You’re so stiff it’s cute!” She had heard about his nervous smiles and didn’t mind that he looked like he was mocking her, “I’m second-gen, I’m only dating Ben-chan so he can light my fires.”

“Too much information, Y/N,” Benimaru smirked behind his cup as he saw her cheeks heat up and she punched his knee in her embarrassment. He brushed the backs of his fingers over her cheekbone and muttered a small apology at making fun of her.

“Ah…” Now they were being sweet to each other, what even was this relationship? He cleared his throat a little and tried again, “So Captain Shinmon provides the firepower?”

“Not always,” she replied, “I can take control of any flame but Ben-chan’s flames are my favourite, I can really go to town with my ability and he’s not stingy, we made a pretty big dragon today!”

Shinra didn’t even think before he spoke, “I thought it was a snake…” Y/N looked mildly annoyed and her expression became a scowl as the other’s tried not to laugh too much at her, “I mean… It was amazing but it was a snake.”

“You should see her fire fox… Looks like a weird pig!!” This time the twins burst into giggles, Konro excused himself and Benimaru pressed his hand to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. She shot a glare at all of them and the only one to flinch was Shinra as he tried to apologise.

“It was super cool! I was really impressed, Lady Beni-chan!” All of a sudden the laughing stopped and he looked up nervously, “Uh… the Daifuku lady said… that’s what I should call you - The Captain said I can’t use your name so…um…” The boy’s face glowed red and his grin grew as he realised the old lady was probably picking on him.

All of a sudden laughter filled the room and Y/N reached over the table to ruffle his hair. “Call me Y/N, don’t let these assholes get to you, kid.”

#shinmon benimaru #reader #fire force #enen no shouboutai

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naoyas90dayfiance · 3 years

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Ghosthunting gone wrong | Naoya Zen'in

SFW but Spooky! (I think)

Naoya Zen'in & GN!Reader

Characters: Naoya Zen'in, Chad (whoever you want him to be), and you.

Summary: Naoya and his team go to a hospital looking for some scary footage for his YouTube channel but it quickly turns into a race for survival.

Word count: 4.3k

Author's note: this is a piece for ChaoticYuna's Summerween collab! I hope it spooks you ♥

Naoya abruptly closed his eyes as the shining white light of the camera hit his iris. The lens of the device adjusted itself to focus on his funny face with a wrinkled nose and eyes pressed shut.

"What a face, boss." Chad laughed at the microphone from his trailer. The image on his left monitor distracted him from focusing on the one in the center.

"Shut up, fuckface." Naoya replied to the discreet microphone attached to his earpiece. "Y/N, you almost made me fucking blind." Naoya turned his back to you while you kept adjusting the camera so it'll have a good take on Naoya's body. Chad couldn't help but giggle at the live video that got to his computer.

"Who the fuck thought it was funny to come to an abandoned hospital?" Naoya said when looking at the building that was in front of him.

"Haunted hospitals are trending right now. Chad's projections show we could get up to 100k subscribers with this video along."

"I hope he's fucking right or else-"

"Gotcha, boss," Chad replied; now, his gaze focused on the monitor at the center of the desk. The blue light washed off the color of his face, and the sounds of clicks filled the small cold office.

"Let's record the intro while he does his thing," Naoya walked around the hospital with you. He found a place that looked creepy enough and stood patiently in front of it. He waited for you to get a good angle of him and the infrastructure he had behind.

"And action." The red light beeped from the camera when you finished the sentence.

Naoya's face lit up. He showed his perfect teeth as his features gracefully expressed his acted cheerfulness; his hands articulated perfectly his introduction, on which he explained that he was in a haunted hospital to search for some evidence of paranormal activity.

"Cut." Naoya's face dramatically changed, his once-raised brows now lied flat, his hands went to his side, and his smile was gone. He turned around and faced the hospital that Chad had picked for his video. It was a significantly tall building.

"Make sure to change the building for the thumbnail. This one isn't scary at all." Naoya told his assistant through the discreet microphone.

"It looks exactly like my gradma's hospital," Naoya smirked at your remark.

"Roger that. Boss, did you read the history of the hospital that I sent you?" Chad asked him.

"I read it, and it was stupidly fake."

"It's what I found, boss. People here said that it happened."

"If you keep believing liars, I'll fire your ass."

"People will love it, boss. Don't worry."

"You're going to be the one worried if we don't get the 100k."

"Boss, it'll be cool if we record you walking around the building," you told Naoya.

Naoya agreed with your comment. He fixed his hair and let his face go numb and expressionless. He hid his hands on the pockets of his jeans.

The young man heard you giving him the sign that the camera was recording. And so, the crackling of the autumn leaves and dried branches under his feet sounded throughout the landscape of the abandoned proximity.

As the recording continued Naoya kept making surprised faces, which were composed of raised eyebrows and parted lips. He also pointed to random broken windows of the hospital with his black-manicured index finger.

"I don't know if Y/N can catch this for you guys," Naoya stopped and turned his whole body to face the camera. He pointed to his left side. "But this hospital is in the middle of nowhere. Behind all of those trees, there's nothing. It's all forest. This was supposed to be a hospital for local factories that are about 26 miles from here; but as you can see, it was abandoned." You slowly moved the camera to film the forest Naoya was talking about, but you only got dark shots, as the sun was almost gone.

"And I'm not sure if you noticed it while we were walking around this building," The camera focused on Naoya. "But there's only one entrance door and an exit door. Not the optimal architectural choice for an important hospital such as this one was meant to be."

"No wonder why this place was abandoned," you mocked behind the camera the poor architecture. Chad chuckled at your comment from his desk, but then went back to his task when you finished walking around to the old medical center.

"Done," Chad muttered to himself and changed windows on his main screen. The red light that filled his office turned green when he clicked on the main button.

"Boss, we're ready," Naoya heard Chad’s notice through his earpiece.

"Let's go inside," he told you.

Naoya stepped on the metal steps of the hospital. You remained two steps down as Naoya positioned himself in the middle of the shot with the entrance door behind him.

"Alright, guys. We're about to enter this haunted hospital. If you are enjoying the video thus far, make sure to press the like button, subscribe and ring the bell. The team and I appreciate it very much. Especially for this might be the video where we might not come out ali-"

As Naoya was speaking, the door behind him slightly opened. The sound of rusted metal against itself made Naoya visibly shake his body and almost bite his tongue. He felt an electric sharp going through his spine. The frontman turned around, and gave a brief look back to the camera, then bravely placed his hand on the door. He lightly pushed it to open further. This time Naoya established eye contact with the camera and winked at it.

"Let's go."

You went up two steps to catch up with Naoya, who held the door open for you after he had gone into the hospital first.

Before your right foot could take the final step, a hand with claw-like nails came out of the spider-web-filled space in-between of the steps; it took the seam of your jean and pulled it towards it. The front of your foot hit the metal staircase. You let out a sudden gasp as your skin got goosebumps for the unexpected move; you instinctively directed the camera to your sports shoes.

"Something grabbed me by the foot, boss," you said in a tense and low voice. Your camera was still exploring the vicinity of the staircase, but you only caught on tape leaves and branches, confirming that the area was clear.

"Better get out of that staircase then," Naoya smiled when you pointed the camera to him. He invited you into the hospital once again. He held the door opened wider so you could go inside. Once the both of you were in the building, Naoya let go of the door that hit with a loud bang the steel frame. Your nerves made you shake the camera when you heard the loud sound. But, in contrast, Naoya kept walking with an expressionless yet beautiful face into the main hallway that led to the reception.

You strolled three steps behind Naoya, catching his left side that showed so well his piercings and his lined eyes that were looking at the lack of decoration in the building. Naoya turned his face towards the reception desk, leaving you to record the back of his bleached hair.

You took the cue and moved the camera around to show how the hospital had two long hallways, one at the right and another at the left. Both of them met at the center, which was the reception center.

"Y/N, light over here," Naoya instructed you. He had gotten behind the reception desk. You rapidly moved towards where your employer was.

"It seems nothing's here," Naoya said to the camera once you were filming his long fingers opening the drawers of the desk.

"Probably the people that have visited this place," Naoya paused as he opened another screeching drawer, "took each document."

"By the way, if you didn't know, we chose this building for a particular reason," Naoya was fully facing the camera; his back was to the dirty white wall of the reception center. "It's said that on October 31st, 1991, this whole building was on fire. The victims of the incident: some patients, doctors, and other members of the staff said that they were being burned alive. And people outside of the building recall having called the firefighting department because everyone was screaming in agony, from little children to the grown men of the factories. Hell broke loose here," Naoya left his position behind the front desk and began walking towards the left hallway of the hospital. You followed his movements with the recording device.

"But, there's another side of the story,” Naoya kept talking to the camera as he was walking. “when the firefighters, ambulances, and the police arrived here they saw nothing. There was no fire, no people with crispy burned skin, not even cigarette smoke," Naoya paused. "A firefighter that we interviewed said that when they got inside, they only saw that everyone in the hospital had passed out," Naoya’s gaze set itself in an arc made of shiny letters that welcomed them to the kid’s area. He took his hand out of his pocket and pointed to it so you could film it.

"The people that were outside of the hospital when everything happened insisted they saw this place on fire. And when the police tried to calm them down and told them that there was no fire, they kept insisting that there was a fire. It seemed like they were the only ones that could see it," Naoya had passed three doors with children's paintings on them. "And when some of those people finally got reunited with their family member that was in the hospital, they broke down into tears," Naoya stopped. You circled with your camera around him and took a spot in front of him. "That day a woman was screaming at the paramedics that her kid was dead, that she couldn't see his face, it was all burned. The only thing remaining was a black goo that covered his bones," Naoya shuddered for the camera and stopped next to a door, which had pink foamy letters, and it read: Playro m, the second "o" was missing.

Naoya grabbed the golden handle covered with grey dust and turned it downwards. He opened the door that made a squeaky sound as Naoya opened it slowly. His eyes went from the camera to the entrance. "You can look it up if you don't believe me," Naoya finally said and pushed the door open; microscope spores of dust traveled through his nostrils and almost made him sneeze.

Naoya found inside the room a plastic blue table with many toys on it. The light of the camera was capable to catch on tape their worn-out state.

"It is said that her kid was here when the paramedics arrived," Naoya added, giving his back to the camera. He got near the table and took one of the toys, closely inspecting it.

"Witnesses said she was a crying mess. Her whines could be heard throughout the whole building and the outsides. She kept saying that her kid's body was decimated, but the paramedics saw that none of that was the truth," Naoya showed a dirty teddy bear to your camera. He put the toy down and kept talking to the device. He was browsing the room with his gaze, and you slowly followed it to catch nothing on the footage. "Her kid had fainted, but he was breathing and didn't have a single scratch on his body."

"Creepy, ain't it?" Naoya suddenly locked eyes with the camera and quirked his eyebrow; then he turned on his heels. You exited the room, but neither closed the door of the playroom. You kept your position in front of Naoya and walked backward as both walked to the next room.

"People don't know the motive of the group hallucination, some say it was some chemical in the wind, others are convinced that the victims were lying, and some of the people that knew the staff swear it was a curse the hospital has. As it was founded by a doctor that took ill people and offered them as sacrif-," Naoya's sentence was cut short. "FUCK," He shouted. He had bitten his tongue as a reaction to the loud bang that almost burst your eardrums. You jumped in fear and pointed your camera light to the room you had just visited.

"Don't leave me in the dark for fuck sake," Naoya's hand was in his mouth, trying to soothe his pain as he walked next to you.

"Boss, the door," you said in a whisper as you zoomed into the door of the kid's playroom. It was shut.

"I guess the rumor was true," Naoya removed his hand from his lips and played out a cheeky smile that you caught once you had taken the shot of the now-closed door.

"Everyone at home. It's 7.30 PM," Naoya gazed at his smart-watch. "We only have the moonlight coming from these windows," Naoya pointed to the windows on the opposite side from where the rooms were. They gave enough light to distinguish walls from nothingness; however, the details were left in the dark. "And we have found a haunted place to do our investigation," Naoya looked at the lens of the camera and winked at it.

"Let's go, love," Naoya commanded, and you followed your boss' steps deeper into the left hallway.

"It is said that the doctor had worshipped a God, but no one knows which one was. Maybe we can get some info about it if we go into his office," Naoya gave a brief look back to the camera and stopped his strolling next to a door with a golden plaque that read "Director". Naoya placed his hand on the handle and turned it. The metal door separated from its frame and let out a cloud of dust that had Naoya coughing. He pulled the neck of his black t-shirt to his nose.

He pushed the entrance open, but he only found a wooden desk in the middle of the room, with no chair behind it. There was graffiti with an unknown symbol for Naoya on the wall.

He entered the room, and so did you to get a 360 shot of the room, showing how the many shelves in there were empty. Naoya looked at the camera from his side angle when it focused on him again; his nose was still covered with his t-shirt. Dust was accumulating on the camera.

"People that leave nothing behind are more suspicious than those that do, don't you think? Was he trying to hide something?" Naoya's steps headed to the exit of the room, and you were in front of him once again, walking backward.

"You'll have to find out in the next part of this video series," Naoya was standing in the hallway now. "where we are going to go to the right hallway of the hospital," Naoya pointed to the hallway on his right. "It is said that the Emergency Room was there, and it was where the sightings of the fire started that day," The camera centered on the darkness of the unexplored hallway and closed its shot when it caught a small shadow standing in the middle of it. A few seconds of silence reigned in the hospital.

"Okay, I got it," you said.

"Boss, I'm still trying to synchronize the rest of the stunts. My computer is having issues connecting with them."

"How did I look in those scenes?"

"Wonderful job as always," you replied. Naoya winked at you.

"Sorry, boss. Did you say something?"

"I asked how I looked in those scenes," Naoya heard a sudden static sound on his earpiece. He immediately took it off. "That idiot, I almost lose my hearing," Naoya grunted between his teeth. He pocketed his device.

"What is it?"

"That fool lost connection with the earpiece; I bet he kicked the cable or some stupid shit like that."

"Don't worry, boss. When that little light there turns green," you pointed to an emergency light that had a weak beaming red light. Naoya had to squint his eyes to see it. "it means that everything is ready to go."

"What the fuck?" Naoya replied in a low tone. He shrugged off the technological nonsense and pulled out a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe off the sweat on his face. "Whatever, that piece of trash better have it ready before I quit this shit. You talk to him. I can't stand this," Naoya handed you the earpiece.

"Hey, boss. Look we're ready to shoot," you turned on your camera and set it up to record the empty right hallway. Naoya squinted his eyes again when looking at the emergency light and noticed the green beam discretely coming from it.

The host of the show stepped forward, placing himself in the middle of the shot. He audibly cleared his throat and put his hands in front of him, ready to help him articulate the introduction of the new episode.

"Hey, guys. It's us again. We're here at the haunted Saint John's Hospital. You can check out its back-story on our first video, and watch what we just experienced in those rooms," Naoya pointed at the children's room on his right. You followed his movement with the camera before focusing on the fake blonde again. "This time, we're going to explore th-."

In less than a second, Naoya had lost his balance and loudly fell. The palm of his hands landed after his knees on the floor. His good reflex saved him from hitting his face against the dusty floor by less than an inch.

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?" Naoya shouted facing the floor. His eyes became watery for the dust had entered them, his inhalations became deeper, and the wings of his nose were flaring up. He prompted himself up with his feet and looked at the camera in front of him, his face was completely red, as were his eyes, and the tip of his nose had some visible dust on it.

"Boss, I don't know. Let me rewind the video," you nervously said.

"That piece of trash. He'll know what's good now," Naoya demanded the earpiece back from you. His grip on it made the soft plush on the sides mold to every line of his fingers.

"Chad, fucking son of a bitch," Naoya said on the mic after he put his piece back on. "I'll fucking show you what's funny after we're done filming," Naoya let out a loud shout of pain as he slammed the device on the floor. You tried to hide your neck with your shoulders as you also heard an insufferable screeching sound coming from the earpiece. Naoya walked towards the communication tool and stepped on it harshly until the sound stopped and the device was nothing but small pieces of broken plastic.

"Boss, check this out," you handed Naoya the camera, and he played the clip on the tactile screen. He saw himself standing in the middle of the shot, and how a hand with nasty long nails grabbed his shoulder. The next second of the film showed when it pushed him to the ground.

"What stupid stunt is that? It’s so fucking cliché. I look like a fool," Naoya said between his teeth. His jaw bone was visible through his skin.

Naoya's anger didn't last long, as he let out a loud yelp for he heard deafening bangs coming from every room of the hospital. He dropped the camera, which turned itself off and left you in the dark.

Naoya covered his ears with his hands and tried to adjust his eyes to the dim moonlight coming from the windows. He tried to look for the source of the sound, but it was too dark.

You quickly crouched down once the camera hit the floor and picked it up. You tried to cover your ears from the loud noise, but your right hand was occupied with turning on the device.

As the welcome ringtone played from the camera device and joined the bangs, a ear-piercing scream came from the right hallway. You dropped the camera once again while Naoya visibly shook his body. You firmly clenched your jaw and felt tears rolling down your face for the immense stress that the continuous screeching made your bodies felt.

Naoya sprinted towards the entrance door, and you followed his steps. The camera was far gone as it wasn’t your priority anymore.

When you got to the entrance, Naoya pushed and pulled the door repeatedly; you joined him in forcing the other door. The sounds of the maddening bangs and the ear-shattering scream almost made you start desperately screaming yourself.

"How the fuck did that bitch think this was funny?" Naoya grunted and kicked the door, but it didn't budge. He let out a loud shout in frustration that only made the screeching voice become louder and, somehow, closer to you.

"Boss, let's get out of here now," Naoya realized how now he could see every detail of the hospital thanks to a mysterious orange light. He turned around and saw how the building was being engulfed by flames. Both of you felt the overwhelming heat of the fire making your body’s temperature unbearably high.

You quickly ran into the nearest window, and with shaky hands tried to open it. As you both struggled to lift it, you heard how the nerve-wreacking screech was getting closer to you. And just before the window sprung open thanks to your forces combined, Naoya managed to see from his peripheral view an demonic creature standing next to him, reaching out to grab his shoulder with its familiar human-like hand.

Naoya pushed you out of the way, and he threw himself out of the window. He landed abruptly on the concrete floor of the entrance. His body shook at the impact; he could feel blood running down his face, which clouded his view with red.

“Boss! Help me!” Naoya heard your plea behind him. He turned his bloody face around and saw the tall creature taking the right side of your body to forbid you from leaving the place. Naoya made eye contact with the goat-like face of the force that was man-handling you, but before fear took over his body, he saw your crying and desperated face.

Naoya used his hands to prompt himself up. He grabbed your left hand that was reaching out towards him and violently pulled you outside. You hit your hip with the window frame but managed to free your right arm and jump out of the window.

Trying to look for a way out, Naoya looked at Chad's trailer but it was being devoured by fire. Then, he instinctively looked at the car that was parked near it and saw how Chad's moonlit body was running towards his vehicle.

Without giving a second look back to the creature that was now making its way out through the window, Naoya demanded that you follow him.

He jumped the steps of the staircase, and he loudly sprinted towards the car as Chad was trying to start it. The lights of the lamps guided his and your way towards it.

Naoya slammed his body against the door of the passenger seat. His hands touched the cold metal of the door until he found the handle. He pulled it, opened the door and launched himself into the seat, closing the door behind him. Chad was too focused on trying to start the car for the fifth time to acknowledge his employer's presence.

"Pump the accelerator" Naoya took Chad's hands out of the steering wheel. He put his right hand on the key, and he fidgeted it three times while Chad pumped the accelerator. In an instant, the car's engine started, and Chad placed his hands on the wheel.

As Chad looked up he saw how your bloody body was trying to get to the car. The creature was close behind you. He drove closer to you so you could open the back seat.

In a second, you managed to open the door and got into the car. Chad sped up and drove out of the inferno that was the hospital and the trailer.

Naoya's gaze traveled back to check on your body lying in the backseat, and he could also see how the out-of-this-world creature remained still and watched you leave.

The road to the main highway was a bumpy and silent one. Tears were still running down your face; Naoya had pulled out a few tissues from the compartment, and was cleaning the blood off his face.

He had gave you the whole box and some medical alcohol, which you used to treat your wounds and then clean the blood. As you were doing so, you couldn't help but noticed that your wounds didn't burn when you applied alcohol to them, and that the tissues were only came out with the brown dirt of your skin.

"Someone else has to drive. I can't do this," Chad interrupted your thoughts when he suddenly stopped the car. He started to sob and then desperately cry as the sight of the cuts on his hands was too much for the young man to handle. Naoya opened his passenger seat door and exchanged positions with his assistant. He was now driving his car.

"I had to break the fucking window with my hands. I thought I was going to die there," Chad whispered as he kept crying.

You gave Chad the bottle of medical alcohol and the box of tissue. Chad took it and started to wipe off the sweat and tears from his face, as well as treating his wounds. You saw how he hissed in pain, and noticed how his tissues came out red.

Then, a silly thought came to your head:

"Boss, I lost the camera back there."

"And I lost all the footage in the computer."

"The demon can keep them," you giggled at Naoya's comment, and Chad did the same.

#naoya zenin x reader #zenin naoya x reader #naoya #naoya zenin #zenin naoya

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angryinternetduck · 3 years

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When All Feels Lost Chapter One: All Business A scheme, some terrible plays, an outburst in an elevator. Rom coms, late night talks, dreadful kale and carrot juice. Harry Styles is one arrogant son of a bitch. [producer!harry x actress!reader; enemies to lovers] Warnings: explicit language and alcohol consumption about 11,000 words series masterlist | general masterlist | ask

~*~ The interior of the staircase doesn’t match the exterior of the apartment building at all.

On the outside, the building is run down. The paint of the windowsills is chipped, dead flowers lay wilted in graying flower boxes. It’s not quite derelict enough to catch the eyes of passerby, though; in fact, it’s so unnoticeable that you almost walk right past it.

When you walk in, the door creaks loudly. A small bell tries and fails to mask the sound, ringing out a pleasant chime just barely noticeable over the whine of the door. The man behind the desk looks bored, but a slight bit of interest crosses his face when you ask for the producer you’re looking for: Harry Styles.

The man at the desk points you up the stairs, tells you where to go.

Apparently, Mr. Harry Styles has a level all to himself. The staircase up to his apartment is lined with awards, certificates, and framed newspaper clippings. Where there are shelves, more awards in the form of small trophies cover every surface.

Despite yourself, you’re a little in awe. You knew how famous he was, how good he was at his job, but you never really saw all his glory laid out before you like this. It’s really quite impressive.

When you arrive at the door, you take a second to pause before knocking. You take a breath, read the gold plaque on the door: Harry E. Styles. Executive Producer. You let the breath out, and then knock.

“Come in.”

You walk inside. It’s a big office. There’s a leather sofa on one wall, a desk in the back covered in papers. A coffee table sits in front of the couch, covered in even more papers. Stacked on top of and spilling out of filing cabinets are thin yellow books, bold black print on their covers.

And Harry Styles himself is sitting on the couch. He’s terribly handsome, you notice first, all tan skin and tattoos peeking out of sleeves and green eyes when he looks up at you. He smiles, and you see dimples.

He’s also a mess. His crisp white shirt is undone one too many buttons, his bow tie unknotted around his neck. The coat of his black suit is over the back of the large chair behind the desk.

It hits you, then, that this man isn’t a big time producer. He was a big time producer. You close your eyes for a split second, thinking back to the dates on the newspapers, all from years ago, back to the less-than luxurious building he’s residing in.

He produced countless hits on countless stages, but none in the last few years. Which is odd, seeing how he looks young - he can’t be more than twenty five, twenty six, but it somehow seems like eons ago when you last saw his name in the papers.

Well, it seems like eons since you’ve seen his name glorified in the papers and online. He’s been featured quite a few times with horrific reviews, critics ripping his pieces to shreds and complaining about the once-master reduced to nothing.

Really, that’s the only reason you’re here, the only reason you think you have a shot with him: he’s probably just as desperate as you are. He hasn’t produced a hit in ages. You haven’t starred in a hit in ages.

You’ve been to every other place imaginable, starting at the top and spiraling down, but you haven’t been able to find a job anywhere. You’re the picture of a starving artist. You’re an actress - a damn good one, too - but haven’t seen the stage in months.

“Are you lost?” Harry Styles asks after a moment, breaking you out of your thoughts.

You blink. “No.”

“Alright, then,” he sighs, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. A sliver of muscled stomach peeks out at you as his shirt lifts, and you frown, your gaze darting back to meet his eyes, which are staring at you almost challengingly.

“I need a job,” you say.

“There’s a McDonald’s down the street,” he replies flatly. “It’s hiring.”

“I’m an actress.”

He quirks an eyebrow and then turns around, walking over to his desk. “Then the reason you don’t have a job is because you’re stupid.” You frown more, following him further into the room. He collapses into the chair, which squeaks and bounces under him.

“I’m not stupid,” you tell him, a sliver of irritation flashing through you. “You were the best producer Broadway’s ever seen. I need a job.” He laughs wryly, shaking his head. “‘Were’ being the key word there.”

“You must have something.”

“Yeah, I have something,” he says. “I have a lot of somethings. But a play isn’t one of those somethings.” He stands up again, heaves a sigh. “Neither is patience. So I’m asking you to leave, please, and find some other poor bloke to torture.”

“I’m not torturing you,” you say, stepping forwards rather than back. “I’m asking you for a spot in one of your plays.” His face hardens, and he juts out a finger at you. “Listen to me,” he says lowly. “I’m not producing a play. I’m too fucking broke for that, and it’s not like there are people lined up outside to support me.”

You scoff. “So what the hell are you doing in here?”

He blinks, his hand lowering as his expression melts and his face softens. “Withering away,” he mutters under his breath. “Just leave,” he sighs. “There’s nothing for you here. You look like a good actress… or whatever. You’ll find something else.”

“No,” you snap. “No, I won’t. This is my only option. I’ll do anything.”

He sits down at his desk. “Moose Murders,” he says.

He’s joking. You know he is. Moose Murders is widely considered the worst play ever created. But you sit down across from him anyway, because this is a test, and goddammit you’re going to pass this test and get a job if it’s the last thing you do. “Sold,” you say. “Moose Murders. I’ll do it.”

For a moment, he studies you. You’re a bit intimidated, but you hold his gaze.

Finally, he leans forward. He folds his hands in front of him, on the desk on top of loose pieces of paper. “Would you like to know my secret?” he asks, and you pause. You wonder if it’s another test, but if it is, you have no idea what the right answer is.

A hesitant, “Okay,” is what you decide on.

He clears his throat. “I’m going to try and perform a heist.”

“You what?”

He smiles, almost sweetly, and says, “I’m planning a scheme to cheat rich investors out of thousands of dollars.” Your jaw drops, just slightly, and you have absolutely no idea what to say to that. “Are you kidding?”

“No,” Harry Styles mutters. He stands up, shoves his hands into his pockets, and starts pacing. You turn around and watch as he walks. “I peaked early,” he begins. A faraway look is in his eyes, and you’re a bit scared of what you just got yourself into.

“I was nineteen when I produced my first hit.” He pauses at the record player tucked in a corner, inspecting it. “I’m a genius, I’ll have you know. I’m the perfect producer. I churned them out, one hit after another. I was the best there ever was. And then…” He sighs heavily. “It took one mediocre play to topple me.” He looks at you, and you see anger in his eyes. “It wasn’t even that bad. It was okay. It just wasn’t a hit. And I had… I had no idea how to handle it.”

He turns back around, starts walking around the room, gaze drifting over the documents and posters lining the walls. “I was a flop after that, as you know. Still am. My reputation went down the drain, my investors lost their interest… And now every show’s a flop.” He laughs wryly, looking at you again, shaking his head. “You know that, too. They’re all flops. Failures. But I… I figured something out after my last fuck up.”

Your eyes trail him back to his desk, and he meets your gaze as he sits down.

“You can make more money with a flop,” he says, “than with a hit.”

At that, you frown. “No, you can’t.”

“You can,” Harry insists. “You sell shares before a play, right?” It’s rhetorical, but you nod anyway. “Right,” he says. “You get money, in exchange for a payment once your play is a hit. But if your play isn’t a hit, if it’s only on stage for one night, you can avoid payouts and then just…” He shrugs. “You can just run away with all the money.”

You blink at him.

“We can run away with all the money,” he amends. “If you… want to work with me.”

“You’re kidding,” you say flatly.

“No,” he insists. “I’m not kidding - I swear. It will work. Nobody will check the books of a play thought to have lost money! If I - we - wait for a while overseas until it’s all forgotten about, we can come back, go our separate ways, rich as can be, and…” He tosses his hands up. “And live happily ever after.”

For a second, all you can do is stare at him.

He shifts forward, focusing his gaze on you. “Listen,” he says. “I need somebody like you to convince my investors that something’s different. They’ll never believe something’s changed unless I can show them that I’m serious this time, and you’re the way to do that. An experienced actor, a beautiful actress to star in my next hit - it’s perfect.”

You bite your lip, stay quiet.

“And you…” He scoffs, throws his hands up at you. “You need this. What else are you going to do? Where else can you go? Nowhere. There’s nothing. Theater’s a dying business, darling. You said it yourself: this is your only option.”

You swallow thickly, feeling yourself start to consider his offer. It really might work, you realize, and that kind of scares you, because you really shouldn’t do this. “Well - well it’s not right to steal like that.”

“Oh, please,” Harry mutters. “First of all, we’re stealing from rich old bastards who have nothing else to do with their money but invest in plays. Secondly, we’re barely stealing anything! We’re not taking thousands from one single person, it’s - oh, it’s just a little bit from each person. Each person who has millions, probably.”

You cross your arms. “We could go to jail.”

He rolls his eyes at that and replies, “We absolutely will not. We won’t get caught. Who the hell will check the books?” He leans forward. “Nobody. Besides,” he goes on, spinning his chair around, “compared to my bleak bloody existence at the moment, I don’t think I’d mind jail all that much.” He sighs, staring out the window at the gray building front it looks out on. “At least I’d’ve gone out with a bang.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

He turns back around. “Well?” he asks. “Any more arguments?”

“I need money now,” you say. “My rent’s about to let up. It’s the end of the month, and I… I can’t cover it. I need a job, or - or something now.” Harry looks at you. “Move in with me,” he suggests.

You scoff a laugh, shaking your head. “Absolutely not!”

“Why not?”

“Because - because I can’t!”

“Fine,” Harry says, waving a hand in the air. “Consider it. Whatever. Just get back to me by… oh, by the end of the month.” He levels your gaze. “Before rent’s due.” Then he slides a card over to you and taps it twice. “There you are. Use it well.”

He opens a yellow booklet and spins around in his chair.

You can’t do this. It’s insane. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You could go to jail. And moving in with a complete stranger? Especially one malicious enough to scheme people out of - what did he say? Thousands of dollars?

You look at the business card.

Shit, you think. You need this.

“Fine,” you say. “When can I move in?”

***

The days are starting to blur together.

So are the words.

It’s been about a week since you moved in with Harry Styles, and your days have been nothing but reading lately. You’ve paged through what feels like hundreds of those thin yellow books you’d seen that first day, spilling out of cabinets and opened on tables. You’re looking for the perfect play, which really means the most awful play. It needs to be so indescribably bad that it closes within the first week of opening so that everything goes according to plan.

You never thought there could be so many plays. Most of them are pretty awful. There’s a pile on the coffee table in the main room of potential prospects, but nothing good enough - or bad enough, rather - to run with.

You’re sitting on the bed in your room, plays scattered around you. There’s an empty cup of coffee on the table next to the bed, and you look at it forlornly, willing it to fill up. It’s almost midnight, and you’d go to sleep if you had any sense.

But you don’t have any sense. So with a sigh, you roll off the bed and pad out of your room in your fuzzy socks. As you head to the kitchen, the front door opens up behind you. You glance around.

Harry meets your gaze.

You turn around and pour more coffee into your mug.

The first time he disappeared, you had been asleep and had only realized he’d left when you woke up to him opening the door. He looked a little less than disheveled and absolutely exhausted, and you could only presume he’d been out getting laid.

Well, you thought. Good for him.

Then it started happening more often. It was almost every night, which was fine, you supposed, but only if you didn’t have a play to find. He worked with you during the day and left at night, or left mid-afternoon and came back around midnight, like today.

He shuffles around behind you, and it’s a combination of laziness and stubbornness that keeps you from turning around and watching him or asking him where he’s been. When your mug’s full, you turn around and walk back into your room.

Hours later, on another coffee trip, he’s asleep on the couch with a script on his chest.

***

The first few times he offered you snacks, you refused. You wanted to spend as little time with him as possible, which was a bit difficult seeing as you lived with him. You couldn’t control bumping into him on your way to the bathroom in the morning, or eating breakfast at the table while he watched TV on the couch, but you could control where you read the pages and pages of scripts.

Sometimes he plays records out in the office. He must have quite the collection. You’ve heard a few things you recognize through the door of your bedroom - lots of Fleetwood Mac, some Joni Mitchell, the Eagles - and a lot that you’ve never heard before. It’s all good, and it’s a pleasant background noise to your tedious reading.

He never stopped offering snacks, though, and today, apparently, the last of your restraint has melted away. When he knocks on your door and says, “Popcorn if you want it,” you can’t refuse the delicious smell of buttery popcorn wafting under your door.

If he’s surprised when you come out of your room a few minutes later, he hides it well. He glances up at you, but then his eyes go right back to the script in front of him. The popcorn’s worth it, and when the bowl’s empty, Harry wordlessly goes and microwaves another bag without taking his eyes off the script he’s reading.

When he comes back from the kitchen, he slides down from the couch and sits on the floor, popping a kernel of popcorn into his mouth. From your spot on the opposite side of the sofa, you watch as he spills crumbs all over the script.

You wonder why he’s pulling this scheme, suddenly, wonder why he’s going through all this trouble when he’s really probably fine from what he’s made in his early productions. Scowling, you come to the conclusion that he’s just greedy, and take one more piece of popcorn before standing up and walking back to your room.

***

“Have you seen my, erm - my collection?” Harry asks.

You’re eating lunch at the kitchen table, some spaghetti dish that Harry had made the night before. He’s quite the chef, you’ve learned. “Nope,” you say. There’s sauce on the booklet you’re reading, and you frown as you try and thumb it off.

“You should.”

The sauce smears. You frown more.

“Do you like music?” Harry asks.

You stand up. Walk to the sink. “Of course I do,” you say, a bit sharply. “I’m an actress.”

Behind you, you hear him shuffling through his records. “I love music,” he says softly. “I wish I could… I dunno. Sing or something.” You bite your lip as you run water over your plate. There’s a beat of silence. It’s just the sound of water, the clinking of the dishes in the sink.

When you turn around, Harry’s staring at the empty record player thoughtfully. He looks up after another second and smiles, just slightly. “Any preferences?” he asks, running his hands over the vinyls.

You shrug. “I don’t care.”

Harry looks at you, then shrugs and starts looking through the collection. Finally, he chooses one. “I listened to this,” he begins, sliding a disk out of its sleeve and gently placing it onto the platter, “on the plane the first time I came to the States.” The gentle sounds of Frank Sinatra’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane” float from the turntable.

He begins mouthing the words, dancing slightly, smiling at you.

“We should find that play,” you say, and you walk back to your room.

***

A few days later, you gasp awake when you feel Harry’s hand on your cheek.

“Christ, what are you reading?” he asks. “That’s the third time I’ve woken you up.”

“You had to slap me to wake me up?” you scoff indignantly, sitting up on the couch.

Harry frowns as he takes the script out of your hands. “I did not slap you.”

It’s two pm. You’ve been chugging coffee all day - he’s right, you shouldn’t have fallen asleep at all, much less three times since you started that script. It really is very boring… Your eyes widen as you think back to the play, and you begin, “I think -”

“This is it,” Harry breathes.

“It’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever read!” you exclaim, sitting up.

“I can see that. This is it. It’s dumb as hell, and - and you’ve fallen asleep.”

“Three times!”

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Harry says happily. “The ending doesn’t - it doesn’t…”

“It’s awful,” you agree with a grin.

“Margaret Fitcher,” Harry says, reading off the back of the script. “It’s - there’s an -” He grins, looking at you as he snaps the booklet shut. “She’s close,” he says excitedly. “Get your shit. We’re going.”

The car ride is quiet. You fidget. So does he. His leg moves a mile a minute, his finger fiddling with his lip. He’s going just a tad over the speed limit. When he pulls into a parking lot, you don’t even look at the building.

There’s a directory, and you find the name you’re looking for: Margaret Fitcher. 9C.

The elevator is shaky. It has an iron gate, blinking numbers. When the ninth floor button lights up and the elevator rattles to a stop, the gates clatter open and you follow him out into the hallway.

Harry knocks on the right door. “Ms. -”

“It’s open, sweetie! It’s open!”

You look at Harry. He shrugs. He looks excited.

He pushes the door open, and immediately, the smell of rotten fruit assaults your senses. You grimace, and you see Harry blink, nose wrinkling. “Come in, dearie,” a voice calls. You walk further inside. A cat comes and slides along your leg. You shift away, bumping into Harry, and he steadies you before he turns the corner and you see an old lady - Ms. Fitcher.

Her face is illuminated by the TV, on which an infomercial is playing. There are cats curled around her. You count. Six. Plus the one who’s decided to sit on your feet. Seven. You spot the source of the odor: a small bowl set in front of an easel, which carries a small, partially painted canvas. It’s supposed to be the bowl of fruit, you see. It’s not half bad.

“Sit down, sit down,” she says. Her voice is weak. She’s wearing glasses, on a chain, that are sliding down her nose. “Hello, Ms. Fitcher,” Harry says, speaking up above the TV. “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“Eh?” she interrupts, squinting at him “You’ll have to speak up, dearie.”

Harry tries again, louder, “We’re here to talk to you about your -”

“What are you selling?”

This time, Harry shouts. “We’re here to talk to you about your play!”

“My play!” Ms. Fitcher laughs. She picks up a ball of yarn that had been sitting next to her. One of the cats fusses. “My play, my dear play…” She begins unwinding the yarn. “Who are you, again?”

Yelling, you introduce yourself, and then Harry does.

“Nice to meet you!” Ms. Fitcher croons. “Never see young ones around here anymore… What a shame…” She shakes her head, beginning to wrap the yarn around her frail hand again. “What a damn shame…”

You and Harry exchange a glance.

“Your play is wonderful, Mrs. Fitcher!” you shout.

She looks up. She seems almost coy. “Why, thank you.”

Harry clears his throat, begins to scream, “We wanted to -”

He’s cut off by somebody banging on the wall from the other side. “Oops,” you mutter, realizing neighbors can probably hear all the commotion through the thin walls. “Can we shut off the TV?” you shout, a bit afraid somebody’s gonna come over and rap on the door.

“Oh, the TV?” Ms. Fitcher says. “Whatever you want, dearie.” She hands you the remote, and you shut it off. The silence is glorious. “We want to buy your play,” Harry says, and Ms. Fitcher’s eyes grow wide. “To… to put it on the stage?” she asks, her voice soft.

“Yes,” you tell her. “We want the world to see your story, Ms. Fitcher.”

She pauses, inspecting the two of you. You feel slightly uncomfortable. “You’re not wearing wedding bands,” she says, looking suspicious, and a surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Oh! Oh, no, you - you mean - you think we’re -” You laugh, shake your head. “No, no, just - just business partners.”

“Business partners, roommates, that’s all,” Harry adds.

Her gaze narrows. “Roommates?” she echoes.

“Yup!” you chirp, hoping that’s not a problem.

She hums lowly in a way that makes you think it is a problem, but then asks, “Who will be playing the role of dear Rosalind?” You falter, then remember that’s the main character’s name. “Anybody you want, Ms. Fitcher,” you say.

“I can see auditions?”

“You can come to every rehearsal,” Harry reassures her. “It’ll be just as you like it.”

She stares at you over her spectacles. And then she says, “No.”

You blink. “What?”

“I don’t want you children ruining my masterpiece,” she sneers.

“We are not children,” Harry says irritatedly.

“Hmph.”

“You sent this play to me,” Harry says.

“That was ages ago,” Ms. Fitcher says wistfully. “When I was but a girl.”

Harry scoffs. “It was last year!”

She glares at him. “Get out.”

“No, no,” you try, “no, please, Ms. Fitcher, you’ll have total control, it’ll be you, all you and your -”

“Get out, you’re bothering my cats,” she snaps. “Get out!”

“Please, Ms. Fitcher,” you beg, “please. We’ll -”

She stands up, and now the cats really are bothered. “I’ll call the police!” she shrieks, and both you and Harry jump up, hurrying to the door, which she slams behind you. You look at it, at the sign with the apartment number engraved on it, at the fraying fuzz of the green carpet inside that had stuck to your shoes and was now on the floor of the hallway.

“I’m covered in cat hair,” Harry whispers.

You turn around first. He follows you to the elevator, which clanks as it stops and as its doors slide open. You step inside, lean against one wall. Harry leans against the other. You look down, not sure what to say. The adrenaline’s fading. You really thought that was the one.

And then -

The elevator bangs to a stop.

“What the fuck?” Harry whispers, looking up as you do.

Each floor’s light blinks, then shuts off, in rapid succession.

“Are we gonna die?” you ask.

“I - I don’t know.” He pokes a finger through the iron gates. “We’re in between floors.”

You blink, feel your brows furrow as you shake your head to clear your mind of the cloud of disappointment. “The - the building,” you say, pulling out your phone. “We can call the building.”

“What’s it called?” Harry asks.

You look up. “I have no idea.”

You stare at each other for a second, and then Harry’s face lights up. “I have it,” he says, fumbling in his bag for the paperwork. When he finally finds it, he flips it around so you can see the address. You type the name of the apartment complex into Google and call the first number that appears.

“Hi,” you say, trying to keep calm. “Hi, we’re, um - we’re stuck in one of your elevators?”

There’s a pause.

“Hello?” you say, impatient.

“Um… I don’t really know…”

“Who are -” You sigh, taking a step in the elevator, trying to pace, but you don’t have room. “Who am I speaking to?” A bit of static, and then, “I’m Mike,” the guy says dumbly. “I’m just the desk guy…”

“Do you have the elevator controls?” you ask, not really knowing what you’re asking but unsure of what else to say. “I mean - can you restart the elevators or, like - I don’t know, can you get them moving again? Do you see the - I don’t know, the controls?”

“Yeah, they’re… the box is right here,” Mike says.

“Great!” you exclaim. “Can you please start the elevators again?”

“Oh… I don’t know how to work them…”

You let out your breath, gritting your teeth. “Fantastic,” you mutter. “Um, well, can you call somebody who does?” Mike shuffles a bit. “Um… Yeah, I think so…” You laugh wryly. “Great, Mike, that would be great. Please do that.”

“Okay, I, um… Okay…”

“Keep me updated, okay?” you say tensely. “I’m counting on you, Mike.”

“Okay… bye…”

He hangs up.

“We’re gonna be trapped in here forever,” you moan, banging your head against the wall.

“What?” Harry asks. “What was that?

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “He said he’d call somebody.”

“You didn’t get a time estimate?”

“Jesus, Harry, no, I didn’t get a fucking time estimate.”

Harry frowns at you. “Maybe you should’ve.”

You glare at him.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you start your two-step pacing again. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter. Harry blows his breath out, sliding down one of the walls to sit on the floor. “Ridiculous indeed,” he says.

“I can’t believe this is happening.” You feel yourself getting riled up. “I can’t - fuck. I can’t fucking believe this is happening.” Harry stares at you from the floor. “I’m in an elevator… after getting shot down by a crazy old lady… with - with -” You glance at Harry. “With a fucking con artist.”

Harry frowns at that. “I’m not a -”

“Dammit, I should be on Broadway,” you interrupt. “I should be on Broadway. I did everything right, Styles.” Your breaths are coming faster. You lean back against the metal. “I - I went to fucking Julliard, Styles. I’m a pro. I trained, and I did all the little shows, and I - fuck.”

“It’s just a little pitstop,” Harry offers. “Before Broadway.”

“No!” you sob, and you clap your hand over your mouth. “No.” You step forward, turn around, two steps, you’re pacing around him in the teeny-tiny little box. “God, I’m a failure. I’m a - a failure. That’s why I’m here.” You glare at him through tear-clouded eyes. “With you. Jesus, how fucking evil do you have to be to steal money to get rich? You don’t even need it. You’re probably just fucking fine, probably have some rich daddy back in fucking - fucking England - and you just…”

Your voice is cracking, getting weaker, and you wipe away the tears on your face angrily. “I can’t believe this.” You sniffle, shaking your head. “God, Styles, everybody likes to talk about the new opportunities. Everybody likes to say, ‘Oh, when one door closes” - you jerk on the iron gates - “another opens!’ But dammit, Styles, it’s not open!” You shake your head, stumbling back onto the back wall of the elevator.

“Those goddamn doors must be locked,” you say softly, staring at the shut elevator doors in front of you. “They’re locked,” you repeat. “They’re locked. They slam shut - in my fucking face - and every other door is locked. They’re all locked…” You slide down the wall. “They’re all locked with a key I just - I don’t have.”

Your breath stutters. You look at Harry. “I just don’t have it, Harry,” you whisper.

He opens his mouth to reply, and then your phone rings.

“Hello?” you say. Your voice cracks.

“Hi, are you the lady stuck in the elevator?” It’s a different voice than before. Not Mike.

“Yes! Yes, yeah, I’m here with -” You clear your throat. “What’s happening?”

“We’re resetting the system,” the guy says. “Hopefully that’ll pull everything together. Can you stay on the line for me and tell me if it starts moving again?” You nod excitedly, stepping forward and scanning the buttons. “Yes, I can - what, um - what am I looking -”

A button lights up. There’s a loud clank, and the elevator starts moving.

“It’s moving!” you say happily.

“Great, great. Thanks for calling. Have a nice day.”

There’s a dial tone.

“Right, then,” Harry says as the doors open and you slide your phone into your purse.

You start walking to the car, and Harry follows you. You slow down a little so you’re walking side by side and look at him apologetically. “Um… I’m sorry,” you say quietly, wiping the last of the tears from your eyes. “I’m just… frustrated, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry says.

The car ride back to the apartment is silent.

***

You’re back to reading in your room after seeing Ms. Fitcher.

What’s sort of annoying is that you’re not even partially ignoring him because you’re mad at him - you’re almost just embarrassed about your explosion. You don’t want to face him, don’t want to talk about it. You don’t even want to think about it.

He seems to understand. He cooks a lot. You told him your favorite food a few days ago, before Ms. Fitcher, and he’s made it quite a few times. That makes you even more embarrassed. You blew up at him, insulted him… and now he’s cooking for you.

Ridiculous.

He still disappears a lot. It’s for longer, now; sometimes he’ll leave at noon and not be back until around midnight. You only know because he keeps his bedroom door open and the apartment always has a different air about it when he’s not there.

He doesn’t usually tell you, but… today he is, apparently.

There’s a knock on your door, and you tell him to come in.

“Hi,” he says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say.

He looks down at his hands, and you follow his gaze. He’s holding a small black box, fidgeting with it. “I have to… go,” he says, quietly. “But I, erm…” He looks up, steps forward almost hesitantly.

You get up to meet him, and he holds the little black box out to you.

“I thought of you,” he murmurs. His ears are tinged red, and he won’t meet your gaze.

You take the box. It’s light. When you go to open it, his cheeks flush red to match his ears, and he presses his hand on top of yours. You blink, surprised, looking up. “Sorry,” he says quickly, pulling away. “I just… I, er -” He smiles, laughs a bit sheepishly. “Do you wanna open it when I leave?”

You smile slightly, a bit amused despite your confusion. “Sure,” you say.

Harry nods. “Okay,” he says. He clears his throat, not moving, and despite yourself, you’re not mad, because it’s nice to be in his presence, to hear his voice, because you haven’t heard his voice in a while, haven’t been near enough to -

“Okay,” Harry repeats.

He leaves, and you look at the door of your room for a second, hearing the door of the apartment shut before looking down at the little black box in your hands again. It’s a jewelry box. When you open it, a little slip of paper flutters out.

It has jagged edges like it was ripped from a larger piece of paper. You recognize the handwriting from the notes Harry writes in the scripts he reads, from the thoughts he writes in the margins of the books he’s lent you.

For when every door seems locked.

Inside the box is a necklace.

The chain is delicate. Simple.

Attached is a silver pendant, in the shape of a key.

***

The next day, after you said thank you to him, and after he smiled and said you’re welcome, you stayed in the main office with him to read. It’s quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You could stay in this quiet all day.

The day after that, he’s gone for most of the day.

When he comes back, your plan to silently scold him for leaving again by ignoring him for a while crumbles because he’s watching The Notebook while he works. It’s late. You were just getting coffee, planning to hide away in your room after acquiring your dose of caffeine.

Then he gives you a soft smile and nods towards the empty side of the couch.

Come on, he says silently. You know you want to.

So you do. You can’t help it. It’s The Notebook, of course, and you can kind of just tell it’s his favorite from his small smiles at certain parts, his whispered echoes of every other line. Also, he tells you, says, “This is the best movie ever created,” as he grins over at you from the opposite end of the couch where he’s wrapped in a soft blue blanket.

It continues the next day, when he flicks on a movie during dinner and doesn’t turn it off after all the food’s away and you’re just reading on the couch. It’s just something random, but you have to bite your lip to hide your amusement at Harry’s snarky comments under his breath.

A few days later, you shouldn’t feel as satisfied as you do when he comes in to find you already on the couch, your favorite movie onscreen. He smiles at you, takes some of the chips on the coffee table, and starts reading.

Progress goes a bit more slowly once the movie watching begins. You need it, though; it’s a welcome distraction and you’d definitely go crazy without it. Letters dance after a few hours of nothing but reading in silence.

The Potential Prospects Pile on the coffee table grows, but it’s kind of just for show. You both know you’ll know it once you see it. Your interest piques whenever you see him add a booklet to a pile, though, and you flip through each one that’s added like he does.

It’s a few weeks after that first time watching The Notebook, and to your slight reluctance, you’re watching it again. You’re sitting on the floor, coffee sitting next to you, a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table on top of the prospects. Harry’s on the couch, all six feet of him sprawled and taking up the entire thing.

It’s late, almost two am. You want to fall asleep - are falling asleep - but Harry only just arrived and you feel like you should stay up with him. He’d been out the entire day, doing God knows what.

“Sometimes I hate Allie,” Harry murmurs suddenly.

“Really,” you say, only half listening.

“She makes it so… unbalanced.” His voice is so low. He sounds exhausted. You look up, and you see that the play he’s reading isn’t even open - it’s closed in his hand, fingers marking his spot, hanging over the side of the couch. He’s on his side, head on his hand, eyes fluttering shut.

“What d’you mean?” you ask before you can think.

“He writes to her for a year,” he whispers. “A whole year. And she... She doesn’t.”

You shrug. “She didn’t know he was writing.”

“She should’ve written to him anyway. She said she loved him. She should’ve written, and told him again, or… or…” He fades off. “What, she should’ve run away back to him?” you ask, and Harry whispers, “Yeah.”

When you turn around again, he’s asleep. You bite your lip, and then look back at the TV.

On screen, Noah catches a glimpse Allie across the street, then sees her kiss someone else.

You open another script and take a sip of coffee.

***

Sleepless in Seattle is playing on the TV. Harry loves his romcoms.

It’s late again.

The days seem to pass so quickly, and the nights seem to drag on forever and ever. Maybe that’s because your sleep schedule is royally fucked up, but you’re mostly blaming that on Harry being out all day.

You’re sipping hazelnut coffee. It’s delicious. It’s not hot anymore, but it’s not quite cold enough to be given up on. The remainders of your midnight snack - tacos - lay on the coffee table, and there’s a smear of guacamole on one of the Potentials.

The movie’s wrapping up. The elevator doors are closing. The credits begin to roll.

Sighing, you stretch for a second before turning around and resting your chin on the coffee table so you can look at Harry. The key necklace swings forward. It hangs in the space between your chest and the table, and you can feel its weight on the back of your neck. It’s comforting.

Harry’s on the couch. He’s on his back, holding his arms straight up with his elbows locked so he can read his script. His brows are furrowed, and his lip is between his teeth. He looks uncomfortable.

“I don’t know anything about you,” you whisper.

Harry meets your gaze, dropping his arms. “You know my favorite movie.”

“But not your favorite book.” You wonder what the hell you’re doing.

Harry smiles slightly. “Or, apparently, how indecisive I am. I can’t decide.”

“Are you just trying to avoid other ‘what’s your favorite’ questions?” This is the longest exchange you’ve had in weeks. “No,” Harry says, “really. I can’t decide. I’d answer all the ‘what’s your favorite’ questions you have if I could.”

“Why?”

Harry sits up, looks at the script in his lap, and shrugs. “Seems like you hate me.”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“No,” he says softly, looking at you.

His eyes are really green, you notice. Maybe it’s just the light. Or lack thereof. They sparkle in the darkness, and you kind of want to see him smile, want to make him smile, want to be the cause of those dimples so that you can see his green, green eyes light up for real.

You close your eyes and lean backwards. Now your back is on the ground, your arm over your eyes. “I think you should pay for a chiropractor for me,” you murmur. “My back’s killing me from sleeping out here all the time.”

“There’s a bed just in there,” Harry says.

“Too far away.”

“Then that back pain’s on you.”

“You’re why I’m out here in the first place.”

“No, you’re out here for the food.”

You feel yourself smile. “And the movies.”

“There you have it.”

“Still think you should pay,” you whisper.

“I pay for yours, you pay for mine.”

You close your eyes tight, bite your lip hard, because now you’re smiling even more.

“You have yourself a deal,” you say.

***

A few days, later, and you’re trying to hold your tongue again.

It’s been quiet for too long, and you’re getting uncomfortable. You’re not sure if that’s because you’re beginning to associate silence with the tremendously boring reading, or if it’s because you just don’t like silence.

Another possibility hovers in the back of your mind, one that implies that you really aren’t uncomfortable, you just want to talk with him, with Harry, the enigma sitting two feet away from you, but you don’t want to think about that, so you say something.

“You sound British,” is what comes out, even though he hasn’t spoken in hours.

It’s a few days later. Four in the morning. The TV’s quiet, no movie playing. There’s a bowl of M&Ms on the table - this guy has every snack imaginable in his little kitchen - but that’s the only distraction. You’re both on the floor this time, the coffee table pushed off to the side. He’s cross-legged, sipping tea, you’re on your stomach, eating more M&ms than probably healthy.

“Is that a compliment?” Harry asks, looking up from his script.

You eat another M&M. “Can be.”

“That’s ominous. I am. Born and raised.”

“Why’d you come here?”

“Broadway.”

You smile, turning onto your back to look at the ceiling. “How romantic.”

Harry frowns, asks, “Why?”

“Dunno,” you reply with a shrug. “There’s something sweet about that - a little boy, being absolutely entranced by plays he sees onstage… he’s enchanted, wants to be a part of it but isn’t nearly handsome enough to be an actor, so -”

“Hey!”

You look over at him. Grin. “What?”

“You don’t think I’m handsome?”

“I’ll only make that big head of yours bigger if I answer honestly.”

He smiles. Takes a sip of tea. “Nice to know.”

“Why not an actor, anyway?” you ask, looking back at the ceiling. You follow the fan with your eyes as Harry says, “Believe it or not, I prefer to be backstage.” He sighs, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him follow your gaze to the fan.

“I wanna see people’s reactions,” Harry says softly. “I like to see their faces light up at something funny… Or their tears at something sad…” He looks back down and takes an M&M out of the bowl. “The best is when somebody’s trying to hide it.” You see him smile at you, and you look at him. “When they think they’re so cool, so stoic and - and immune to the wonders of the stage…” He smiles more, fiddling with the M&M. “And then you see them break, see their reluctant laughter or their hands rush to hide their watering eyes…”

You steal the M&M he’d been playing with. “Wouldn’t you rather be the one making them feel those emotions?” He gets another M&M. “Nah. Too much work.” He eats it, finally, you watch him chew and swallow and then you look at the ceiling again.

“It’s not,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Maybe you’re just not doing it right.”

You open an eye to glare at him, and he smirks.

“I am,” you say. “You’ll have to see me some time.”

“Maybe after this mess I’ll produce a real play,” Harry murmurs. “You can star.”

You close your eyes again. “Not in one of your plays,” you hum. “Don’t want my first play back to be a flop.” You feel something against your arm, and you realize Harry had thrown an M&M at you.

You scoff. “I’m just being honest!”

“Sometimes a little white lie can be appreciated.”

“That’s not good for your ego.”

“What ego?”

“The one making you think you’re funny.”

“Oh, sod off,” Harry laughs.

There’s a beat of silence, and then you whisper, “What if we never find a play?”

Harry clears his throat. “We will,” he says. He stands up, dusts off his hands, and grabs a book. You watch as he sits down in a chair and puts his legs up onto the table. “Keep looking,” he tells you quietly.

So you do.

***

A few days later, a little after lunchtime, and it’s your turn to pick the movie. It’s one of your favorites, a comfort movie at this point. You mouth along the lines with the actors, grinning madly at the television screen because it’s so perfect and you love it so much.

Harry’s not really paying attention. He’s been quiet. Normally, he’s cracking jokes, murmuring sass at the stupid scenes and sighing heavily at the dramatic ones. If it were any other movie, you’d be curious, or anxious, but not this one.

You’re not even holding a script.

Harry is, though, and you look over at him curiously as the credits start to roll.

“You okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t reply.

“Hey,” you say, nudging him with your foot, “are you good?”

“I think… I think this is it,” he says quietly.

Yawning, you stretch towards the ceiling. You wonder what time it is. “What’s it?”

“This is it,” Harry says, sitting up but not taking his eyes off of the script. You frown, straightening. “It’s bad?” you ask, and Harry finally looks up. He’s practically glowing, he’s so excited, and a spark of excitement rushes through you.

“It’s so bad.”

“Lemme see,” you say, standing up, but Harry’s pacing.

“Retired FBI agent Leopold Gray is suddenly being hunted down by a small town dentist named Ernest D’Angelo who thinks Gray has killed his wife. As D’Angelo chases the elderly Gray around the globe, the two slowly start to lose patience; by the end, D’Angelo has given up, and Gray is retired - again - in Bismarck, North Dakota.”

He pauses, and you frown, waiting for him to continue.

Instead, he looks up, grinning. “That’s it!” he exclaims.

You blink. “You’re kidding.” He hands the script to you, and you read over the summary, scoffing in pleased disbelief as you get to the end and see that it’s just as unsatisfactory as Harry read it to be.

“God, it’s a - it’s an action and a musical!” you laugh.

“Come on,” Harry tells you, grabbing his coat. “Look at the address on the back, tell me where we’re going.” Following him out the door, you read off the street name and number. Harry plays music in the car, but you don’t hear it.

A sliver of doubt runs through you as you get closer and closer to the address, scared to be shot down again. You shove it aside, shifting from one foot to the other as you wait on the front porch.

This guy lives in a house. His name is Richard. The house is a small stand alone, with a little yard out front. It’s gated. The paint on the door and under the windows is chipping, and the flowers in the yard are drooping and wilted.

Harry knocks on the inner door. The screen door slams shut when he pulls away.

You wait a beat, another, you’re getting nervous, and then -

BANG.

You jump a foot in the air as the screen door slams again, this time against the rail behind it, and then fear courses through you, because the guy is holding a large cast iron pan, and you’re genuinely afraid for your life.

“Who are you,” the man - Richard? - hisses, glasses sliding down a crooked nose.

Harry coughs, backing up half a step. “I - I’m Harry Styles, this is -”

You tell him your name. His eyes are beady, and there’s a single strand of graying hair on his forehead, and his fingers are trembling, and Harry says, “Please, sir, we just want to talk to you about your - your, erm - your absolutely fantastic play -”

He freezes.

“Could you put away the, um - the pan?” you ask, and it slides out of his hand.

It thuds against the floor.

“My play, huh?” he says gruffly, wiping a hand under his nose.

“Yes,” you say. “It’s - it’s absolutely ingenious.”

He stares at you for a second, and then backs up. “Come in.”

Harry looks at you, and you shrug helplessly, opening up the screen door. Richard’s already halfway through the hallway, which is dim, and if you squint, you can see cobwebs in the ceiling. You follow Richard until he stops in a living room and sits in a creaky sitting chair.

Richard glares at you. “What about my play.”

“We want to put it on the stage,” Harry says.

“Why.”

You clear your throat. “Because it deserves to be seen.”

“I think so, too,” Richard says. His glasses are slipping down his nose.

Slowly, Harry pulls the documents out of his bag. “If you sign here,” he says, patiently, like he’s talking to a five-year-old, or perhaps a wild animal, or maybe a criminal about to kill somebody, “thousands of people will see your play.”

“Thousands,” Richard echos, his eyes widening.

“Thousands,” you confirm, lying. Harry gently slides the papers, along with a pen, towards Richard on the glass table between the easy chair where Richard’s sitting and the sofa where you and Harry are.

“You’ll be praised in every newspaper,” Harry says, also lying.

Richard picks up the pen. He looks down at the papers. The place where he’s to sign is highlighted in yellow. He’s looking down, and his glasses are at the very tip of his nose. You wonder what would happen if they slid off his face completely, or if he’d notice.

After an awkward moment as Richard just stares at the papers, he begins to sign.

“My mother will love me again,” he whispers.

You look at Harry.

Harry looks at you.

“Make me proud,” Richard says hoarsely, and you and Harry both look to Richard, who’s holding the papers out. You see a single tear roll down Richard’s cheek. “Thank you so much!” Harry exclaims, and then he grabs your hand and practically sprints out of the house and into the car.

“Floor it, floor it,” you rush, and Harry speeds away.

As soon as he turns a corner so Richard’s house is out of eyesight, he pulls the car over, parking for a second. “Okay,” he breathes, palms flat against the top of the steering wheel, “what the fuck was that?”

“I have no idea,” you reply, laughter bubbling out of you.

“Oh, my God,” Harry says incredulously, laughing too, and for a second, all you can do is laugh, because that was so surreal and you’re not quite sure how else to react. “I hope we never have to deal with that again,” you say as your laughter dies down.

“Christ, he’s fucking insane.”

“Harry, our cause of death could have been a frying pan.”

“No wonder his mum doesn’t love him!”

“Shit, this play better bomb,” you giggle, and Harry pulls onto the road again.

“We gotta do something,” he says. “To celebrate.”

You raise a brow. “Like what?”

Harry glances at you, and smiles. “I know just the place.”

***

You haven’t been out in forever.

Harry’s music is great - calming, quiet, mellow. The entire atmosphere of the apartment is like that. Everything’s quiet, with a layer of comfort over it. That’s not bad, of course, but it does mean that the club Harry’s just taken you to is a little more than a shock to your system.

This music pounds in your ears, thrumming in your chest and in your stomach, pulsing in your hand where it meets Harry’s. He’s leading you through the crowd, and when he turns around to grin at you, he’s glowing.

He says something, you can see his lips move, but you can’t hear him.

“What?” you shout, and he stops for a second, but you don’t, and you’re suddenly bumping into him, pushed flush against him by the moving crowd around you. Smoothly, his hand slides down to your waist, holding you tight, grounding you.

You can feel his breath on your skin, his fingers digging gently into your hips. He’s everywhere, flooding your senses. The fabric of his suit jacket is warm under your fingers, his cheek so near you’d be kissing him if you were any closer.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, right next to your ear.

You feel yourself shiver, and you nod because you don’t trust your voice.

Suddenly he’s moving again, and then you’re through the crowd and landing at the bar, and you’re breathless, and he’s flush-faced and happy and you feel yourself smiling because he’s smiling, and then he’s ordering something and you’re not sure what it is.

On three, you see him say when the shot glasses appear in front of you.

And on three, whatever it is slides down your throat, burning a trail to your stomach and lighting you up from the inside. The music is deafening. You love it. Harry’s beaming, and he clinks his next glass against yours before downing it as you do.

You’ve never felt more alive.

Harry leans forward, and you lean into him, and you’re smiling blissfully, you’d kiss him if he let you, and he says, right into your ear, “You alright?” You laugh and nod and tell him, “Never been better.”

Time begins to blur, and your head’s fuzzy as hell not just from the alcohol but from Harry’s intoxicating presence and the thud of the bass in the music. You find yourself in the bathroom, a while later, staring at your reflection in the mirror.

You look different. Good different. You giggle and lean forward, inspecting yourself, and then sigh and stumble backwards against a wall. It’s much quieter in here, and you can breathe for a second, and can kind of hear your thoughts through the muddle of your mind.

After a while, you wonder where Harry is, and walk out of the restroom to search for him. “Harry,” you sing out, your voice drowned by the music and people. “Harry, Harry, Harry,” you call, just for the fun of it.

“Harry, Harry, Har -”

You freeze.

You recognize his hair, and the jacket he was wearing, and the rings on his hand, which is holding someone else’s hand above their head, against a wall. He’s close to them, lips against their neck. It’s a girl. She’s grinning euphorically, eyes closed. You can see her laughing, chin tilting upwards as Harry whispers something into her ear.

“Oh,” you say, out loud, even though you can’t hear yourself.

You can’t move. Your brain’s stuck.

When he moves, his arm slides around her waist, and he’s leading her out of the building. He looks over his shoulder before they reach the door, and sees you. He falters, and a spark of hope flashes through you before he just grins and winks and keeps walking and your heart falls back down into your stomach.

You see his fingers linger against the door as he guides it shut from the outside.

Oh, you think, silently, blinking back something that feels suspiciously like tears even though… why? You rub at your eyes, frowning at yourself, walking away, because why on earth would your - friend? roommate? coworker? - why would Harry getting laid suddenly make you cry? That’s ridiculous.

You collapse at the bar.

Absolutely ridiculous.

Somebody’s smirking at you. They’re pretty good looking. You sniffle, then smile back.

There’s nothing more ridiculous than crying over Harry getting laid.

They start to come over, and hurriedly, you blink away the tears in your eyes.

He wouldn’t cry if you were getting some.

They’re smiling at you. You bite your lip, letting your eyes trail over their body.

Not if - he won’t cry when you get some.

You say yes when they ask to buy you a drink.

Yeah, no, he won’t cry when you get some. Tonight.

You lean into their kiss, open-eyed. They’ve got some pretty green eyes.

It’s not like you can go back to the apartment, anyway.

***

“Charles Cartwright,” Harry reads off the list in front of him.

“Double ‘c,’” you say.

“Hope his middle name is Carter.”

“Or Chris.”

“Cole?”

“Cooper…”

You watch as Harry sighs, setting the stack of papers down onto his desk again. He doesn’t sit there a lot, behind the huge mahogany desk at the back of the room with the giant leather spinny chair.

“We’re never gonna get anything done,” Harry says, looking down at the list.

You shrug. “We have tomorrow.”

“Said that yesterday.”

“All these people sound like bastards, anyway,” you mutter, spinning the paper around on the desk so you can look at the names. “Yeah, that’s why they’re wasting money investing on my plays,” Harry mutters back.

The list is very long, a whole stack of crisp white printer paper with a cover page and a shiny black binder clip holding it together. Enumerated neatly on the left side are what seems like thousands of names, all previous investors of Harry’s various plays. Phone numbers and addresses sit under the names, along with emails and other pertinent information.

“We’ll go for Mary Sanders first,” Harry says decisively after a second, clearing his throat. “She loves me.” You look up at him, an eyebrow raised, and he rolls his eyes. “I look exactly like her son,” he says, “who hates her. So she’ll do anything for me.”

“Fun,” you say.

“Very. Tanner Smith, however…” He points his name out at the bottom of the third page. “He’s just fucked up. Batshit crazy. He hates me, but liked my old, erm - the company manager, so he chipped in for something I did with - with her.”

“Great.”

“Excited to meet Mr. Smith?” Harry asks with a wry smile, sliding a manila folder over to you. “Can’t wait,” you say, flipping the folder open. There’s a picture of a scowling man in wireframe glasses. “Wow,” you add, shuffling through the ten or so pages in the folder. “This is… a lot.”

Harry shrugs. “Most of it’s just financial details, but there’s a” - he reaches forward, slides a single page out to the front - “page on personal stuff. Don’t mention his wife, but we’ll definitely mention hockey.”

“Hockey?”

“He sponsors his grandson’s minor league team,” Harry tells you, rolling his eyes. “It’s all these entitled little rich boys who flip him off behind his back. He thinks he’s doing God’s work.” You snicker, scanning the document.

“They have games every Saturday,” Harry says, and you look at your phone. It’s Wednesday. Harry goes on, “I usually ambush him there,” and then frowns. “It usually doesn’t work.” His frown turns into a smile as he looks at you. “But maybe this time it will.”

“Making me feel a little used here, Styles.”

“Well, you’re using me for money, too, so don’t get all high and mighty on me.”

You sigh. “Are you really gonna take me to a hockey game?”

“Consider it our first date,” Harry says, smirking.

“Better buy me flowers, then.”

Harry smiles. “A whole bouquet. That’s Saturday, though. We’ll go for Miss Mary today.”

“Have a file on her?”

In response, he slides another manila folder from a filing cabinet behind him. This one’s a lot thicker, double the size of the last. “I’m a little creeped out,” you say, hesitantly opening the folder and peeking inside.

“Don’t be,” Harry replies. “She’s, erm - quite the chatterbox. This was all given consensually, I promise…” There’s a picture of Miss Mary herself on top of the papers, and then a picture of a young man next to her.

The young man is very good looking. Dashing. Green eyes, dark hair, a charming smile.

You look up at Harry and then back down at the picture.

“Nicholas,” Harry says. “Her son.” He poses for you. “See the resemblance?”

“If I squint,” you say with a shrug.

“He’s a lawyer.”

“Good for him.”

“Married,” Harry sighs. “A kid on the way. He lives in San Francisco. Drinks kale juice.”

“Damn.”

“I know,” Harry says, almost wistfully. “Imagine that.”

You scoff a laugh, brows raised. “No, Styles, I’m surprised that you know all of that, not that it’s - unimaginable.” Harry frowns at you. “Like I said! Mary’s a chatterbox. Not my fault she calls me to give me an update on her perfect son every week.”

“Je-sus. Every week.”

“More or less,” Harry says. He stands up and stretches. “Study up, we’ll leave in ten.”

***

He’s a natural.

You can tell from the moment he walks into the little flower-covered house that he’s got her wrapped around his little finger. “Oh, Harry, darling,” Mary coos, patting his cheek and linking her arm with his. She doesn’t even notice you, just leads Harry into the house. “I have biscuits in the kitchen, dearie, come on, come on.”

Attempting to disentangle himself from her, Harry starts, “Mrs. Sanders -”

“Mary, dear, you know that,” Mary interrupts cheerfully, pausing for just a second in the hallway. You hover in the doorway, but Mary goes on, “Oh, and I have that dreadful kale and carrot juice you love, too!”

You make a face at Harry, and he rolls his eyes.

“That’s Nicholas, Mrs. Sanders,” Harry mutters.

“Oh, of course,” Mary says absently, and she rubs his arms before starting into the house again. Harry sighs, and you watch his jaw clench in frustration as he gently places a hand on Mary’s shoulder. “Mary, I have a guest.”

“A guest!” Mary sputters, turning to look at you, still standing in the doorway.

“Hi,” you say.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Mary gasps to Harry, smacking him on the chest with the back of her hand. Harry winces. “He’s terribly impolite, isn’t he, sweetie,” Marry says disapprovingly. “What’s your name, then?”

You introduce yourself, Mary hugs you, and Harry shrugs at you over her shoulder.

“Come in, come in!” Mary exclaims when she finally pulls away. “I have biscuits and tea in the kitchen, you won’t have any of Harry dear’s terrible juice.” Behind her back, Harry throws his hands up exasperatedly.

“Okay, Mrs. Sanders,” you say, biting back a smile at Harry’s dramatics.

“It’s Mary, dear, please,” she tells you, leading you into the kitchen.

Harry closes the door behind her, then follows behind you.

“Sure, then, Mary,” you say with a smile, and she pinches your cheek. When you arrive in the kitchen, there is in fact a plate of cookies on the table and one teacup. Another cup, this one tall and clear, is set across the teacup, filled with a thick, scary looking green substance.

“Sit, sit,” Mary orders, pulling another teacup from a cabinet.

You do. Harry sits next to you, inspecting the juice with a disgusted look on his face.

“I do hope chamomile is alright,” Mary says, pouring some into the teacup that sits in front of you. “More than alright,” you say, closing your eyes as you breathe in the comforting steam happily. When you open your eyes, Harry is glaring at you over his kale juice.

You smile at him sweetly, then turn to Mary. “So, Mary,” you begin, “I’ve heard you’ve helped Harry here with his plays in the past.” Mary nods, hands wrapped around her own cup of tea. “Yes, I have. Quite the talented one, he is. He’ll be a force to be reckoned with once he finally decides what he wants to do with his life!”

“It’s this,” Harry says in a halfhearted way that makes you think they’ve gone through this many times before. “I’m a producer. That’s what I want to do with my life.” Mary chuckles, patting his cheek again. “Okay, dearie.”

You clear your throat. “Well, about this play…”

“Oh, yes, yes, what’s this one about?”

“It’s about an FBI agent,” Harry says. “It’s very adventurous.”

“Adventurous!” Mary echoes gleefully.

Harry smiles. “Yes. I’m sure you’ll love it.”

Your eyes widen as Mary rifles around in her purse and then comes out with a checkbook. “I certainly will!” she says happily. Her handwriting is elegant, flowing from her black fountain pen and onto the check with graceful ease.

“I have an appointment at two, darlings, so you’ll have to excuse me,” Mary tells you, handing Harry the check. “But I do adore seeing you, love, so come back soon!” Harry slides the check into his pocket, and you stand up as he does, following him to kiss Mary on the cheek.

“Bye, now, Mary,” he says. “See you soon.”

“It was nice to meet you, Mary,” you say, and Mary smiles at you. “And you too, dearie. You better come back soon, too, promise me.” You nod, and she looks at Harry. “And pick up the phone, Harry.”

Harry opens his mouth to reply, but she goes on, “You’ve been dodging my calls, love, don’t bother denying it.” She glances at you and winks. “Maybe it’s because of this one. Try and take a break from each other every now and then, you hear me? Young love is important but so am I.”

Harry looks about as red as a tomato. “We’ll see you later, Mary,” he says hurriedly, and he grabs your hand to lead you out, which probably doesn’t help with Mary’s assumption. “Bye, Mary!” you call.

“Sorry about that,” Harry mutters once you’re outside, letting go of your hand.

“Seem a bit flustered,” you laugh.

Harry rolls his eyes as he opens the car and gets in. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t deny it, though.

“‘s not worth it,” Harry sighs as he starts the engine.

You reach over and pat his cheek like Mary, grinning. “Whatever you say, Styles.”

~*~

aaaaand that's chapter one! hope you liked it!!! if you did, a reblog and some feedback would be much appreciated <333

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#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #harry styles fanfic #harry styles x you #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfiction #🧇

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jamiemackenziefraser · 3 years

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All That Was Fair

Chapter 24: The Rubber Stamp

Summary: “It seemed that every time someone was at the door, Jamie was confronted with a disaster. (...) He had no desire to answer it and whatever trouble it might bring.”

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a/n: I'm hardcore procrastinating right now, so here's a next day update! This chapter picks up on the same day as the last chapter. Hope you enjoy and thanks so much for reading <3

Chapter 24: The Rubber Stamp

There was a solid knock at the door, three raps showing no particular urgency but also leaving no room for Jamie to pretend he hadn’t heard. It seemed that every time someone was at the door, Jamie was confronted with a disaster. First it had been the mailman that had resulted in Claire crying in his arms over never being able to go home, and then it was Jenny… being Jenny— twice. He worried at first that it was his sister back again to stir up even more trouble, except the knock was most certainly not his sister’s style of ringing the bell like a maniac. Still, he had no desire to answer it and whatever trouble it might bring. He wanted to stay wrapped up in his fantasy with his faerie forever.

At the sound outside the door, Claire jerked her head up from where it had been laid on his shoulder. They were having a lazy Sunday afternoon, sitting on the couch in quiet companionship after having finished up their chapter of Lord of the Rings. Claire had been just slightly dozing at his side when the sound disturbed their peace.

“Dinna fash,” he said quietly as she shifted a bit so he could stand, “stay here.”

As he made his way to the entryway, he could sense his stubborn faerie getting up and following behind him. He stopped in front of the big oak door and Claire pressed herself behind him. He shot a glance over his shoulder to see her peeking curiously around his side.

“Sassenach,” he said patiently, “why dinna ye go wait in the other room?”

She shook her head stubbornly.

Jamie rolled her eyes and decided not to argue with her. (He was beginning to miss the early days of easy compliance— not that he wanted her to be as timid as she used to be, he just should have enjoyed telling her what to do while he’d had the chance). She seemed content enough to mostly hide herself behind him, so maybe she wouldn’t be visible to whoever was at the door.

He unlocked it and pulled it open a crack.

Outside stood none other than his Godfather, Murtagh Fitzgibbons, looking particularly dour under his bushy beard. As soon as the man caught sight of Jamie, he grumbled, “took ye long enough.”

“Murtagh!” Jamie exclaimed, feeling the rush of fondness he always did at the sight of his godfather, “what are you doin’ here?”

The only thing lacking from the expression on Murtagh’s face was an eye-roll. “Care tae explain why yer sister is bletherin’ on in my ear every day and night for the past week about how her brother has taken up wi’ a trollop and gone off the deep end? Mind,” he shot a look to the side of Jamie that made his eyes go wide, and Jamie felt a sinking feeling in his gut that his godfather had caught sight of Claire peeking around him, “I wouldna have been inclined tae believe her if not for the fact that I havna heard from ye. And now I see… ye do have... company.”

Murtagh gave a nod at Jamie’s side, where he knew Claire must have been showing herself.

Jamie let out a sigh and gave into the urge to check behind him. Claire had drifted forward and was hovering at his side, looking out the cracked door with huge doe eyes.

“This is Murtagh, your…?” she spoke up, addressing Jamie.

“Aye, my Godfather,” Jamie said, reluctantly accepting the unplanned meeting, “well I suppose introductions are in order. Murtagh, this is Claire.”

“Hello, lass,” Murtagh said, politely enough. He held out his hand, saying “so you’re…”

“The trollop,” she answered, completely innocently.

Jamie had to bite down a laugh. The lass didna even ken the meaning of that word…

Murtagh’s eyes went wide, and he looked rightfully embarrassed. “I didna mean… I—”

Claire still hadn’t taken his hand (yet another human custom she didn’t know— Jamie had to remind himself to teach her that one), and Murtagh glanced down at his proffered appendage, then back up at Claire. Assuming she was too offended by his earlier statement to shake his hand, he dropped it back to his side.

Jamie decided to try to ease the situation and offered, “why dinna ye come inside?”

Murtagh made a sound of assent deep in his throat and stepped inside the door. Just as Claire started to turn toward the living room, Jamie suddenly remembered that she was wearing the low cut dress— the one that so prettily displayed her wings. He threw himself behind her just in time to use his bulk to prevent Murtagh from seeing her exposed wings. With urgency, he grabbed Claire’s arms in front of him and pulled her against him so her back was pressed to his front, safely hiding the wings from view.

He herded her toward the living room, pushing her so fast that she nearly stumbled. But they needed to get there before Murtagh so he’d have time to rip off his jacket and give it to her.

Sure enough, Murtagh was ambling lazily enough, so the second they were in the living room, Jamie whirled her around so her front was facing the entryway and then let go of her to tear off his jacket. He swung it around her shoulders just in the nick of time before Murtagh arrived.

Trying to disguise what he’d been doing, Jamie pulled Claire close and draped an arm around her, feigning nonchalance as best as he could. Meanwhile, Claire was clutching Jamie’s jacket closed in front of her, holding on with a white-knuckled grip.

“Murtagh,” he said, trying to get his brain to catch back up to the situation, “I’m glad ye’re here, truly. Now ye can officially meet my girlfriend.”

To Murtagh’s credit, his eyes only went wide in shocked disbelief for a second before he managed a polite, “nice tae meet ye, lass” for Jamie’s now-claimed girlfriend.

“Why dinna ye have a seat?” Jamie suggested, gesturing toward a chair.

In the meantime, Jamie brought Claire with him over toward the couch. On the way, Claire reached up on her toes to whisper softly in his ear, “is it okay to hold your hand?”

He looked down at him, confused for a second to see her anxious expression, before he remembered their conversation about PDA and how it’d been inappropriate in front of Jenny. Jamie nearly had to laugh at her earnestness to do right by his customs.

“Yes, lass,” he whispered discreetly as they sat down together, “as long as ye dinna sit on my lap this time.”

Claire seemed greatly relieved by this, and as soon as they were seated, she reached out to lace their fingers together. She held on more tightly than normal, and Jamie gave her a squeeze, trying to reassure her that Murtagh was not, in fact, like Jenny, and she didn’t have to worry.

Jamie was rather worried himself though. Murtagh had been like a father to him ever since his own had passed a few years back; his opinion about Claire (who he hoped he’d spend the rest of his life with, God willing) meant a lot to him. He could only hope that Jenny’s sour words hadn’t already cemented Murtagh’s opinion.

Naturally, Murtagh began with questions that Jamie had a hard time answering.

“So, when did ye two…” he fumbled. It was unlike Murtagh to waver so indirectly, but it was clear what he was asking.

The next few minutes were spent feeding him the fake backstory Jamie had concocted. As he’d explained to Jenny, Jamie said that he’d met Claire at university in Paris and they’d kept in touch. When she’d come to visit, they’d reconnected. Claire extended her trip, and they both realized they’d been in love all this time.

Murtagh seemed to take it mostly in stride, nodding politely but keeping his expression neutral. Jamie had no idea what was going on underneath that impenetrable beard of his, and it worried him to no end.

“So, lass,” Murtagh said, sounding conversational, “let’s hear from you. How do ye feel about our Jamie, then?”

Jamie’s head whipped to her, and found she was smiling nearly ear to ear. “I love him,” she answered without hesitation, “I think he’s the most amazing man I’ve ever met.” Her voice was fond and sincere, and she looked up at Jamie with a smile, as if she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. “I think he’s kind, and giving, and thoughtful, and intelligent. And so much more than that. And I think I’m so lucky to be here with him.”

His heart clenched nearly painfully in his chest, and it took all his self control to keep from kissing her, or from breaking into tears. God, he loved her.

Forgetting Murtagh for a second, he grew lost in her warm gaze, that honey look like a caress on his skin.

“I think I’m the lucky one,” he said softly.

Murtagh cleared his throat pointedly, breaking the moment, but when Jamie looked away from Claire and back toward his godfather, there was none of the animosity in his eyes that there’d been in Jenny’s. His grump of a surrogate father just held his usual “why are you subjecting me to the nonsense” kind of expression.

Just as Jamie was about to open his mouth, floundering for something to say, Adso came prancing into the room, looking distinguished and ready to grab the attention. He was quite successful, too, because the non-existent conversation ground to a halt.

“Adso!” Claire cooed, as she always did when the cat approached.

The cheetie meowed back at her in greeting, and Claire’s face softened ever-further. She always got this sweet expression on her face around Adso, like the look of a loving caretaker. Jamie couldn’t help but wonder whether she’d wear the same expression with their kids… if they could even have kids…

His gut clenched for a second in uncertainty, thinking about the very real possibility that they couldn’t actually procreate. Jamie knew they would have to talk about it someday, but he was terrified of hearing that his dream of having children was an impossible one. He could manage without a big family— all he really needed was her— but he’d prefer to live in hopeful ignorance for a short while longer, imaging bairns running around with her whiskey eyes and his red hair.

When Jamie managed to drag himself back to reality, he saw that Claire had repositioned herself to sit on the floor, and Adso was already settled in her lap, purring away.

His faerie looked up at Murtagh. “Do you like cheeties, Murtagh?” she asked, looking the picture of innocent enthusiasm.

Murtagh— the hard man that he was and usually so unshakeable— looked taken aback at the question.

“I canna say I have a strong opinion on the matter,” Murtagh answered.

“Oh, well I love them. I’d never met a cheetie before Adso, but I’m sure he must be the nicest there is,” Claire said simply. Jamie had to clench his jaw, finding her incredibly endearing but infuriating at the same time. She was drifting carelessly into dangerous territory….

“Never ‘met’ a cheetie, meanin' ye’d never had one or…” Murtagh was looking dubious, and Jamie’s heart beat faster, his muscles coiling as if he could face the threat of Murtagh’s suspicions physically.

“No,” Claire said, and Jamie had to hide a grimace, knowing exactly where she was going. She was always so honest, his faerie. “I mean I’d never seen one.”

Murtagh’s brows drew together as he squinted down at her. “Where did ye say ye were from again?” He asked, not unreasonably.

“A verrra small rural town near Oxfordshire,” Jamie jumped in hastily, for fear that Claire would forget herself. She seemed to be going off the rails, there was no telling what she would say, even knowing as she did that she shouldn’t say anything to give her secret away.

Claire, still sitting cross legged and stroking the cat, gave a nod of affirmation.

Murtagh’s only response was a grunt, followed by silence. Ever a man of few words, he didn’t seem inclined to further the conversation himself.

Unfortunately, that meant that Claire, in her eagerness to get to know him, was jumping confidently back into the conversation. “So, Murtagh,” she said, “what do you do?”

Alright, good. That’s a relatively normal question. Good, lass.

“Construction hereabouts,” Murtagh replied, seeming less than interested in the small talk.

Claire’s eyes widened, and she put on an excited face that Jamie thought was very genuine.

“Building? That’s lovely! What do you build?”

While Claire likely meant the question quite literally, having no idea what the job of construction entailed, Murtagh thankfully took it at face value.

“Mostly residential. Many of the houses ye see hereabouts are our work,” Murtagh said, a hint of pride showing from beneath his busy beard.

“Ohh…” Claire said, probably sounding a little too awed for the occasion, but it was sweet nonetheless, “so you build places like this? How—”

Jamie, sensing that she was about to question how one goes about building a house, tried to avert disaster by quickly cutting in before she could finish her strange question. “Claire, mo ghraidh, would you mind grabbing me a glass of water?”

Claire shot a sweet, indulgent look at him from over her shoulder and gave a nod. “Of course, Jamie.” She unceremoniously dumped the cat from her lap as she stood, and she gave a polite nod to Murtagh, saying, “sorry for leaving the conversation, I’ll be right back.”

As she left the room for the safety of the kitchen, Jamie felt his heart rate drop back to normal rhythms.

Just as quickly though, it was ratcheted back up when Murtagh gave him a long look and commented, “She’s a wee bit… strange, isn’t she?”

Trying not to break out into nervous sweats, Jamie reminded himself that there were strange humans too, and nothing Claire had said had been that bad.

“Aye, a bit. But I love her for it,” he said honestly, throwing a look into the kitchen where Claire was currently studying the sink closely as she tried to recall how to turn it on. Jamie sent her good luck and tried not to smile to himself. They’d worked the sink together before, but she never really had a reason to use it on her own. Jamie was often around to turn it on for her after she’d been gardening and needed to clean up. He made a mental note to stop enabling her lack of human skills.

Murtagh was staring at him in the meanwhile, looking lost in thought and careful evaluation. Meeting those dark eyes, Jamie found himself feeling nervous over what was going on in the impenetrable head of his godfather.

“Ye’re sure about her?” came the question.

All Jamie managed to get out was an “aye,” before Claire was returning to the room, looking triumphant with a full glass of water in her hand.

The next few minutes were spent catching Murtagh up on the happenings at Jamie’s publishing company, which thankfully did not involve a grilling on why Jamie had been taking so much time off. Claire was quiet during the conversation, but feigned engagement well, looking invested in Jamie’s words in a way that made his stomach warm. The sweet lass truly knew nothing about his work, but apparently loving him was enough to make her love hearing about his passions.

Then, at a break in the conversation, Murtagh stood up, wiping his hands on his pants.

“I’m sorry to cut the visit short,” he said abruptly, “but I hafta be somewhere, I canna stay much longer. I jes’ wanted tae drop by and check on ye, lad.”

Taking Claire’s hand, Jamie stood as well, bringing her with him. Murtagh’s eyes fixed on Claire.

“Can I have a moment tae speak wi’ Jamie alone before I go?” he asked her once they were all standing.

“Of course,” she said graciously, “it was so nice to meet you, Murtagh.”

She shot a quick glance at Jamie over her shoulder and, at his nod, gave one last smile to Murtagh— who gave a soft “you too, lass”— before leaving the room. Alone with Murtagh, Jamie’s heart began to race, wondering if he was about to face the “are ye daft?” intervention talk.

Murtagh approached him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and walking him toward the door. When they reached the entryway, both of them stopped, and his godfather looked at him for a long second.

Jamie braced himself, trying to be strong for the moment Murtagh expressed disapproval. He could handle it. The world could hang, all he needed was Claire— he tried to tell himself despite the rising anxiety in his chest.

Murtagh’s stare didn’t break, his usual dour expression holding fast on his face. His bushy brows were low over his unreadable eyes, but there seemed to be a clenching in his jaw that was unusual for the hard man.

“What do ye think of her?” Jamie finally burst out, trying to bite the bullet he knew was coming.

Murtagh gave a sigh, his shoulders sagging slightly. “Ye love her?” he asked simply.

Jamie nodded immediately and answered without hesitation. “I do.”

His godfather looked away, his eyes lifting toward the heavens.

This was it, the moment when Jamie would receive a famous Murtagh tongue lashing for his idiocy…

“Your mother…” Murtagh started, very slowly.

‘Would have disapproved’… please don’t say those heartbreaking words…

“Had the sweetest smile,” Murtagh said instead. He looked back up at Jamie, his eyes softer than he’d seen in years, “Would warm a man to the backbone jes’ to see it...” He gave himself a nod, as if reminding himself of the conviction of his next words, “Claire’s smile is jes’ as sweet.”

Jamie’s world suddenly fell entirely into place as Murtagh finally met his eyes, his godfather’s lips turning up into as much of a smile as the man ever gave.

Approval. Unspoken between them, but clear and plain as day. Murtagh gave another nod, now trying to smother the uncharacteristic smile on his face. Jamie’s excitement must have been showing plain.

“I can see it when ye look at each other, ken,” Murtagh said, clearing his throat a little, “ye love her, and she loves you.”

“Aye,” Jamie choked out, trying desperately not to fall to pieces in front of his godfather.

“I’m happy for ye, lad,” Murtagh finished. He placed a slap on Jamie’s shoulder.

Jamie gave a nod of acknowledgement, pouring all his gratitude into it, and he smiled so emotionally that his lips turned downward. Together, they walked toward the front door, and Jamie opened it for him.

“It was good to see ye, a ghoistidh,” Jamie said quietly.

“And ye, lad,” Murtagh answered.

Another moment passed between them, short but just as meaningful, and as soon as it had happened, Murtagh turned on his heel and walked out, with no more of a goodbye needed.

Closing the door behind him, Jamie was nearly bursting with joy. Quick as he could, he rushed through the room until he found Claire lingering in the kitchen.

“Sassenach,” he said, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

She turned toward him and had just enough time to raise her arms before he was embracing her, nearly overcome by emotion. He was so happy he was nearly shaking, and he hugged her tightly to him, squeezing her close.

“He likes you,” Jamie said, his voice nearly breaking as he spoke into her hair, “He approves of us.” He took another shaky breath before repeating, “He approves.”

***

a/n: I’m really curious if anyone reads on tumblr rather than AO3, so if you made it down here, would you drop me a comment? For research purposes? Thanks so much for reading, loves, however you choose to do it :)

#yes— another chapter!!#for your Sunday reading pleasure #🥺☺️#all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #fae claire

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mysterioh · 4 years

Text

hello neighbor [ 1 / 10 ]

Pairing: Writer!Bucky Barnes x Single Mom!Reader

Summary: Brooklyn Heights’ residential playboy has got his eye set out on the new girl across the hall. She’s got it all. The looks. A killer smile. A pretty laugh. Two cute kids……………..wait a second.

Taglist Open!

Masterlist

Bucky wakes slowly, blinkingly.

He slept a sleep that boasts of the bottled ruby red Burgundy sun, the whispered tune of slow jazz wafting in a dimly lit room, and her eager fingers running across his tailored suit.

There’s a smear of red hot lipstick on his pillow with traces of it marking his cheek. Sunshine pours into the room through the window. The curtains add an orange glow to the morning sun. Warm in its color; cool in its embrace. The songbird beckons with a lively song but the air in the dull-colored room is thick with sleep, emptiness, and her.

The slow rise and fall of her chest, naked against the white sheets. Bucky can hear her breaths, heavy and slow. He doesn’t need to turn over to picture her golden waves against sand-colored skin. The bed is enveloping, tempting, and teasing, but he slips out anyway.

He rubs the side of his cheek, smearing the red onto his fingers as he exits his room and goes straight to the Keurig. After making a cup for himself, he slides open the door to the tiny balcony of his apartment and steps out.

In an instant, the gentle summer sun warms his skin — like kisses from the divine.

Kisses from the divine.

That’s a good line, he thinks to himself and files it away for when he sits to write.

A chorus of birds dancing in the breeze drone out the dull sound of ongoing traffic while the strong aroma of breakfast reaches his nostrils all the way from the cafe across the street. Leaving his mouth watering at the smell of warm bread, scrambled eggs, and sizzling bacon.

Bucky leans against the railing, coffee mug in hand as he observes the start of the day for his neighbors. The owner of the corner store lifts the steel rolling door with ease while another shop owner pulls out a rack of clothes and tables of trinkets with eye-popping signs that denote some sort of sale when the prices weren’t really worth it. Children run by, hollering and teasing, heading towards the park and it’s like torture to his ears. Shrill and coarse. It ruins the delicate mood. He huffs while taking another sip of his coffee, hoping it’d help alleviate the pain.

Sadly enough, it’s run cold and to make it even worse Charlotte from the night before finds him in the solace of his balcony.

“Hey there,” she murmurs sleepily as she rests her chin on his shoulder. She’s wearing his shirt and he's trying to figure out who gave her the right to. “You left me all alone there,” she pouted.

Oh God, she’s a clingy one.

Bucky groans quietly, but she doesn’t notice.

“I had fun last night,” she whispered into his ear, seductively like she’s begging him for more

Bucky chuckled at her. Maybe five years ago it would’ve been a huge boost in his ego but now it’s just another lackluster compliment.

She slides her hand against his bare chest. “Come back to bed,” she cooed.

Bucky turns towards her with a sardonic smile.

“Listen, Amy,” he starts and her hopeful smile falls.

“It’s Nora,” she replied as if he cared.

“Whatever,” he lifted his shoulder in a half shrug, shaking his coffee cup. She stands straight, sleepiness gone in an instant. “I had fun last night, but that’s it. We’re done here,” he said flatly.

She’s left in shock, mouth ajar and eyes wide. He was blunt and straight to the point, and it threw her off.

“So, enjoy this cup of coffee,” he hands it to her, “while I go take a shower. And by the time I’m done, I better not see that pretty face of yours around here,” he ordered with a sweet smile. “You got that?”

She nodded dumbfounded and slightly ashamed.

“Good,” he walked inside, the sound of a moving truck rumbling down the street. “It was fun while it lasted. See ya.”

Bucky locks the door to his apartment before walking down the hall. He scrolls through his phone, searching for Sam’s number.

The elevator bell rings signaling the doors to open. He hears footsteps exiting the elevator and quickens his speed to make it in before it closes. Eyes glued to his phone, Bucky doesn’t notice a small pair of brown eyes watching him from the corner of the hall.

His little fingers were wrapped around the handles of the nerf gun. He aims his gun at Bucky walking down the hall, following his every step through the sight of the toy. Like a sniper ready to fire, he waits for the perfect moment to strike. Bucky pauses in the middle of the hallway to read something on his phone, giving the boy a perfect moment to take his shot.

He pumps his rocket blaster back and aims straight for the head. He shoots at Bucky and it hits him smack dab in the middle of his face.

“Haha!” the boy jumps out from the bend at the end of the hallway with the gun in his hand.

Bucky mutters a curse underneath his breath while rubbing his nose.

Oh, how he hated kids.

“What’s the matter with you?” he questions the boy. “Watch where you’re shooting that thing!”

The boy laughs with a smug grin. “Maybe you should watch where you’re going, grandpa!”

Grandpa? Who the hell is he calling grandpa?

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky snaps at the boy.

“Oh yeah and what are you gonna do about it?” he boldly asked.

“Ezra!” you shouted, stomping down the hall.

The color fades from the child’s face and his confidence begins to diminish quickly.

Bucky turns around to see who was calling and freezes the minute his eyes fell on you.

His world seems to slow down just a little as you walk towards them. Your sun-kissed skin shines under the dull lights of the hallway, rather distractingly. He’s caught in the wonder of your gentle features, the loose strands of hair that swept past your face, the crease in your lovely brows, and the down curve of your full lips.

Bucky remains still as you scold the boy.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you ask him with your hands on your hips.

“Nothing,” Ezra shrugs innocently. You press your lips together and just stare at him. He doesn’t falter but instead flashes the sweetest face he could muster up.

You sigh, letting your hands drop, heart softening every time he blinks. You try your best to remain firm, but he knows he’s won.

You point down the hallway. “Inside now,” you order. “I’ll talk to you later.”

He nods and dashes down the hall.

You turn to look at Bucky and there’s a shine in your eyes that has him falling closer. One full of mystery and the expanse of the galaxy hidden within.

“I’m really sorry,” you apologize, taking a step closer. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t do it again.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” Bucky smiles. “Kids will be kids, y’know? Just moved in?”

A smile stretches across your face. “Yeah,” you chuckled and it’s like a pretty melody to his ears. “Just down the hall. Apartment 216.”

“No way,” he exclaims. “That’s right across from mine.”

“Really?” you asked with twinkling eyes. Damn, she’s pretty. “Nice to meet you, neighbor,” you extended your hand.

His hand slips into yours immediately and shakes it. “Nice to meet you, too,” he replied calmly, despite his insides twisting by the touch of your hand. “My name’s Bucky.”

“Bucky?” you say with a bit of a chuckle. Your hand falls back to your side.

His cheeks blush a soft pink as his hand goes to scratch the back of his neck. He lets out an embarrassed, breathy laugh. “It’s just a nickname from when I was a kid. My name is James, but everyone calls me Bucky,” he explains.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to offend—”

“No, it’s totally fine, um?”

“Y/N,” you replied, “I have no nickname, so just Y/N.”

Bucky nods with a laugh.

“Sorry about Ezra again” you repeated, still feeling guilty, “he’s a bit of a troublemaker.”

Bucky shakes his head with a wave of the hand. “He’s a kid. What would you expect?” he says, although inwardly he wanted to repay the action. “I’m guessing he’s your brother?”

Your cheeks burn a bright red and bite the side of your lip. “Ah no,” you reply, “he’s my son.”

“What? He’s your son?” Bucky blurted. It only made the red hue of your cheeks darken.

“Is it really that hard to believe?” you questioned, with a slightly defensive tone and a scowl forming on your face.

“No, no!” he puts his hands up in front of his chest. “I was just—I mean you’re so young.”

The scowl on your face fades and an embarrassed smile appears in its place. Your blush is still a bright red. You shake your head with a chuckle.

“I’m not as young as I look,” you state.

“But you look great,” he exclaims.

Bucky screams inwardly. “Why did I just say that? Now she thinks I’m a creep!”

Bucky didn’t like to brag, but he was a bit of a Casanova of modern times. A “gentleman in the streets and a freak in the sheets” sort of man. Although the past ten minutes could have proven otherwise.

“Um, thank you,” you reply sheepishly.

“Hey Y/N!” a voice calls from behind Bucky.

Bucky turns his head to see a woman with brilliant red hair sticking her head out the door of your apartment. She has a box of books in her hand.

“Where do I put these?” she asks.

“Oh, just put them anywhere for now,” you chuckled with a shrug.

“I should let you unpack,” Bucky says, wanting to escape. “I think I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

“Oh no,” you assured. “It’s fine!” You take a step past him as if you were running from him.

Not like he wasn’t expecting that.

“It was nice meeting you again,” you wave, “hope you have a nice day!”

Bucky nods with a sheepish smile. “Yeah, you too.”

He turns on his heel and walks towards the elevator. He pressed the button and waited silently for the doors to open. The metal doors slid open and he entered the elevator.

“If she has a son, that means she’s probably married.” he thought. He presses the main floor button and sighs.

“What a tragedy.”

The doors close as he leans against the wall. He can’t seem to get that pretty smile out of his mind.

“But I don’t see why that should stop me.” He ruminates on that thought for a while and wonders where that will take him. He shakes his head in refusal.

“What the hell, dude, you’re disgusting,” he mutters.

Permanent Taglist: @chuckennuggets1213 @murdermornings @marshyrebelcloud @miraclesoflove @fckdeusername @undiadeestos @hailmary-yramliah @andiebell2023 @anjali750

Hello Neighbor Taglist: @disaffectedbarnes @rootcrop @nerdgirljen @simmisblog @supernatural-bangtanboys @marvelismysafezone @littlemissporter @dark-night-sky-99 @justlovelifeblog

Only Bucky Barnes: @infinity-saga @sebastian-stan-is-my-love

#bucky barnes x reader #star's celebration challenge #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagines #bucky barnes fluff #single parent au

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satoruverse · 3 years

Text

au! baker gojo x bookstore owner getou

warnings: none

wc: 2254

The snow fell softly as it crunched under the long-haired man's feet, his cheeks nice and rosy as of course it was winter. The bell rang out signifying that a customer had entered the bakery. He looked around to see decorations being put up with faint Christmas music playing in the background. One of the regulars at his bookstore always told him the fruit tart from the bakery across the street was to die for. Suguru decided that today would be the day for him to try it out, so that’s how he ended up here.

“Oi, old man someone’s here to order! Hurry up,” The girl called out before quickly turning around and instructing the two boys where to put what decorations.

This made Suguru laugh a bit to himself, but he turned around to face the counter, coming face to face with a man he did not expect, he was tall with white hair, and bright blue eyes. A quite attractive young man at that with the softest smile he’s seen in a while.

“Uh hello! Welcome to Satoru’s Bakery, how may I help you today? Sorry for the commotion, we’re setting up decorations,” He said softly.

Suguru blinked twice, before blushing again, he was staring into the man’s eyes.

“Oh well, I’m the owner of the bookstore across from this bakery, and I would like to buy one fruit tart please? I’ve heard they’re to die for,” Suguru said smiling back and Satoru nodded.

“Alright, coming right up!” Satoru said while humming the song playing in the background softly.

Suguru watches as Satoru slips on a glove and carefully slips the fruit tart into some wrapping and then into a winter themed box, taping over some doodle (drawn by Itadori) and then placing the box down while turning to the register typing in the price for the fruit tart.

“That’ll be $3.50 sir. Hello, are you alright? You seem spaced out,” Satoru says with a small laugh after.

Suguru’s heart clenched slightly upon hearing his laughter, before he noticed he found himself laughing with the baker. He handed the money to him with a polite smile while Satoru received the nicely decorated box. Thanking Satoru quickly, he waved goodbye and went out of the shop, the same bell jingling accompanying him.

“He was completely lost in your eyes Satoru,” Nobara said, leaning her head on her hand as she smirked up at him.

Satoru blushed slightly, before waving her off quickly.

“Don’t you have more decor to put missy? Also, don’t call me an old man. I'm only in my late 20s,” Satoru said with a frown.

Nobara laughed a bit but nodded before turning back around to instruct Itadori and Megumi on her vision for the rest of the decorations.

Itadori quickly put down his decoration taking the hands of Nobara and Itadori before pulling them away as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas played. “What are you doing idiot?” Megumi asked with a sigh.

“Let’s dance together cmon,” Itadori said and the other two gave in, swaying with him slowly.

Satoru walked in with a soft smile, taking a picture of the trio, making a mental note to print it out for the album Satoru has filled with their christmas pictures. Megumi caught Satoru looking at them and quickly pulled him over so they could all dance together. The bakery got busy again after as it was lunch time, so many people would be stopping by. The bakery was split into two, an area to eat, accompanied with an outside area as well, and where people could buy their food. After quite the busy day Satoru found himself sighing while he stretched, he had sent the kids home, he looked out the window to see the bookstore keeper locking up and making his way home, oh how he envied him. Satoru looked back making sure that the birthday cake he was making was in perfect shape, which it was of course. Once he finished, he locked up his bakery and got in his car commencing his drive home.

Satoru slipped on his jacket calling out after Megumi, Satoru had promised to go with him to this place he’s been wanting to go for the past week. Megumi never exactly told him where it was but that it was nearby. Satoru decided to humor the boy as it was the holiday’s and the holiday spirit was quite contagious.

“Okay, you two call me if the shop picks back up ok?” Satoru says while looking at Yuji and Nobara who nodd.

Megumi walks out, his scarf covering half his face Satoru, who insists he bundled up as the temperature was dropping. It’s quite the short walk until they are facing the bookstore, which looks a bit lively. Megumi opens the door, Satoru follows, taking in the space, looking around. The lights were slightly dimmed in some areas, decor was simplistic, nothing too flashy fitting for a bookstore.

“Hey! How can we help you today?” A girl comes up to them with a smile on her face accompanied by what seemed to be her friend.

Megumi began chatting with her about some book while Satoru just peacefully looked around. He decided since he was here he might as well just get something for himself, but he didn’t know what.

“Hey, be careful,” A familiar voice called out, a soft warning, Satoru looked over to see the man that was in his bakery earlier that week.

They both blushed slightly, neither expecting to see the other soon. Meanwhile on the other side of the bookstore three people were busy talking.

“I didn’t know he was a dad, you two look nothing alike?” The one with the ponytail asked, Nanako.

“Yeah, he took in my older half sister and I, she’s off in college right now though. Anyways, I’m glad you two came up with this idea. Do you think it’ll work?” Megumi asked and both girls contemplated.

“I think it will, from what you said, Suguru couldn’t stop staring,” Mimiko said and Megumi nodded.

“I should have brought Nobara with me, she was the one to catch on after all,” Megumi and the two girls nodded.

“Well, let’s go see how they’re doing,” Nanako said and they nodded.

Satoru caught himself staring for a bit, before blushing offering a smile.

“I apologize, I actually want to buy a book but I don’t know which one, do you have any suggestions?” Satoru asked while looking around taking in the rest of the shelves.

“Well, it depends, which kind of genre would you like, Satoru?” Suguru asked softly.

“You remember my name?” Satoru asked, blushing to which Suguru nodded.

“Yeah, I mean it says on your shop as well but, I rarely forget names. Comes as a bonus with owning the store,” Suguru said with a soft laugh after.

“Right, genre hm, I like science fiction? Like Ray Bradbury, got into him recently,” Satoru said and Suguru nodded.

“Oh, good choice, do you want to read more of his works?” Suguru asked to which Satoru nodded his head.

Suguru with a simple gesture motioned for Satoru to follow him, the two of them making small talk, not noticing they had a few eyes trained on them.

“They seem to be hitting it off well Nobara, yeah you were right, take a picture are you insane?” Megumi whispered, his voice as hushed as he could possibly make it.

After slight back and forth he gave into Nobara’s request quickly snapping a picture of the two walking. The two girls laughed slightly, while Megumi just shot them a glance.

“I’ll bring her with me next time, I think you three would get along well,” Megumi said and they nodded.

Soon the pair arrived at the section of shelves Suguru was looking for, he hummed quietly as his eyes roamed. Satoru watched in silence as his hand stopped pulling out a book, handing it to Satoru with a smile. Suguru’s hands felt warm as they brushed against Satoru cold ones, as it was nearly freezing outside. The book was titled the Martian Chronicles, and Satoru quickly flipped it over, scanning the brief summary in the back before looking back up with a smile.

“Well, thank you, I have to go find Megumi, I came in with him,” Satoru said and Suguru nodded slowly.

“When you go to check out, request Suguru and I will ring you up, give you a discount as well,” Suguru said and Satoru nodded, turning away quickly texting Megumi to meet him at the cash register.

Megumi replied with a brief okay and Satoru stood waiting patiently for Megumi to show up. Once he did they both went up to pay the girl they greeted them earlier was going to check them out.

“It’s okay Nana, I can check them out,” Suguru said from behind her with a soft smile.

Megumi put his two books on the counter accompanied by Satoru’s, who began to take out his wallet to pay. Suguru wrote down something on a piece of paper, slipping it in with Satoru’s change.

“Those are some more suggestions if you come back,” Suguru said blushing while rubbing the back of his neck with a smile.

Satoru nodded before heading back over to the shop with Megumi, slipping his change into his pocket. Satoru flipped the note over and saw that Suguru had written down his number on the back with a simple call me when you’re done. Satoru’s face flushed, which Megumi noted but decided to stay silent about it, opting to tell Nobara and Yuji when he got them alone. The bakery seemed to be buzzing, people were sitting down and chatting about the holidays while Nobara and Yuji worked to dish out orders, accompanied by another presence, Tsumiki. Megumi’s eyes widened at seeing his sister home so early, but Satoru beat him to her. He went over hugging her tightly, ruffling her hair after with a smile.

“You’re home early, sorry we weren’t here to greet you, you should have said something,” Gojo said and she smiled softly.

“It was meant to be a surprise, it’s nice to see everyone again,” She said softly, her eyes glancing over to Megumi who was behind Gojo.

“It’s nice to see you Tsumiki,” Megumi said quietly with a nod before putting his books away.

Gojo sighed as Megumi was always like this when his sister came back, granted the two of them had a rocky relationship after she left for college. Tsumiki just smiled softly, while asking Satoru what he needed help with within the bakery. After a few more hours of the shop being busy they soon closed, Satoru making sure to drop off Nobara and Yuji this time, as he opted to come in early in the morning to set up. The drive was silent on their way home, tension between Tsumiki and Megumi a bit higher than anticipated. Satoru knew it would be like this for the first two days and then things would be fine after so he didn’t worry much. He quickly showered when he got home, and then sat down on his bed pulling out the book he got earlier. His phone rang, he looked at the contact name, it was Shoko calling him how odd.

“Hey, everything alright?” Satoru asked, obviously surprised.

“Yeah yeah, now… WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME YOU HAD A CRUSH?” Shoko yelled in the phone as Satoru held it away from his ear.

Satoru was a bit confused as to what she was on about until he looked down at the paper slip he was holding in his hand, everything clicking.

“Shoko, who told you? And anyways it’s not a crush he’s just kind of handsome, you’re always pressing the gas with these things,” Satoru said with a soft sigh.

Pressed up against his door was Tsumiki and Megumi, who had Yuji and Nobara on the line listening in on Shoko and Gojo’s conversation.

“See I told you Goomi, it was a good idea to tell Shoko,” Yuji said with a triumphant smile.

“Alright alright, let’s all calm down so we don’t get busted,” Megumi said with a sigh.

Tsumiki had an all knowing smile on her face as she looked at the way they interacted, Satoru definitely would owe her money by the end of the holiday big time. She heard Satoru stop talking and grabbed Megumi, quickly pulling him into the kitchen. The two of them quickly began to talk, while Satoru walked into the kitchen making himself a cup of hot chocolate.

“Don’t stay up too late, tomorrow is Saturday and you know how crazy the shop gets, off to bed c’mon,” Gojo said and the two nodded while going off into their rooms.

“Do you think they’ll go on a date soon?” Nobara asked, a hopeful tone to her voice.

“They seem to be hitting it off well, so far so I think so yeah,” Yuji said and Megumi nodded.

“Have you two been on dates before?” Nobara asked while yawning after it was getting late.

“I’ve only been on one,” Yuji said with a sigh holding onto his pillow tighter.

“I’ve been on none, the three of us should go on one sometime,” Megumi suggested with a small blush.

“Yeah that’d be nice, well you heard Gojo, we better get to bed,” Nobara said.

With that the three of them hung, letting themselves fall asleep peacefully.

#gojo satoru #gojo #satoru gojo #getou #geto #getou suguru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #au #fic #getou x gojo

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petersthree · 4 years

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Hey guys! I have a fic that’s based off of @niamaggie ‘s prompt list, the prompt is as follows:

Prompt: There’s more to Alex’s story with his family outside of what Luke said. They don’t just disapprove of him, they outright pretend he doesn’t exist. It gets to a point where he completely breaks down in the studio after having a bad practice day (the kind of day where nothing is going right). Being a ghost, is like what his family did to him, but on a much bigger scale. It’s much harder to deal with...Just want the band to comfort him, please.

Huge thank you to @superbandnerd99 for beta-reading! I’ve tagged people under the cut who liked my excerpt post; please let me know if you want to be untagged!

Crossposted to AO3 (properly formatted here)

Fic: Ghost in the Family

Alex had told himself that he was going to be fine being in his old home. It was fine. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t stepped foot in the house in twenty-five and a half years. It was fine. It was fine.

Sure, his stomach was twisting in knots and he felt like his heart could beat out of his nonexistent chest - actually, wait. Could it do that? He still wasn’t sure how much their new solidity worked and the thought of his chest literally beating out of his chest was almost as terrifying as the thought of stepping back into his family home was.

Okay. He was doing it again. Spiraling, as Julie liked to call it. Or totally wigging out, dude, as Reggie liked to call it. Or haha, wow, look at this dude lose it, guys, as Carlos liked to - okay. Alex sighed, shaking out his hands and staring at his house. It hadn’t changed a bit over the past 25 years, save for a new white mailbox with an American flag emblazoned on the side. Alex couldn’t remember their old one, but he was pretty sure it was better than that.

He walked up the steps slowly, each step closer feeling like another step towards his doom - which was dumb, of course, he had been the one to say he wanted to just check up on his parents, he was the one who told the rest of the band and Willie (and Carlos, who followed them around everywhere he physically could) to not come with him, he was the one who got it into this head that he needed to see his family again.

He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths, trying to center himself. Relax, he told himself. They can’t see you. You’ll be fine. He breathed in deep again before opening his eyes and ringing the bell.

The door opened, and Alex looked at the woman in front of him. “Mom?” he asked - a stupid question, because she was looking right through him and obviously wasn’t going to answer, and because if this woman was mom, she would have to be a ghost too. He squinted as the realization hit him. “Lizzie?” he asked this time.

His sister looked around in confusion, for a millisecond looking right at him, and when he heard an old woman’s voice ask who was there, his sister shrugged and said, “Doorbell must be on the fritz.”

Alex slipped in before she closed the door, and stared at the place he used to call his home.

It hadn’t changed a bit. Well, it had changed a little since the day he had left. They had stripped away the carpet and there was a mahogany floor now. Alex wondered when that had happened. Certainly after he had left. He remembered the carpet covered with bits of glass after his father had thrown the family photos on the floor with such a force that the frames had cracked. Alex could remember the stony silence as he had stood there, staring at the pieces of glass glistening on the carpet, barely registering Luke’s hand on his own as he pulled him out the door. He had mumbled something about his clothes, only for Luke to say he had grabbed some, but when Alex was in the backseat of Reggie’s car looking through the duffel Luke had packed, the David Bowie sweatshirt he had borrowed from Reggie hadn’t been there alongside his favorite puka-shell necklace and Alex had tried to tell himself that it was okay even as the tears had run down his face and the pressure in his chest tightened so much that he felt like he was going to choke.

Maybe that was his unfinished business, to give Reggie his shirt back? He wondered if it was still around, somewhere, but his thought was interrupted when he felt his sister walk through him. God, what a weird thing to experience, Alex could always feel people’s emotions when they passed through and it unnerved him whenever it happened. As she passed through him there was a hint of - anxiety? No, not quite, he told himself. It felt a bit like his anxiety creeping up, but while he would feel like there was something in his chest tightening as it tried to get out, this felt heavier somehow, like a great big nothing that could swallow him whole if he let it. But there was a warmth there too, slow and steady, that let him know without a doubt that this was his older sister.

He wondered where Nina, his younger sister was, but one look at the family photos on the wall answered his question. An unfamiliar woman was on the wall, side-by-side with a brown-haired man, two smiling babies on their laps. Nina must have moved out ages ago. His eyes flitted to the photo next to it. Nina and Lizzie were there, their arms around an older woman with long graying hair and an old man with his mouth set in a straight line but a smile in his eyes. The family photos littering the staircase didn’t seem to have him on it at all, just photos of Lizzie and Nina and his parents. It was as if every trace of him was gone from their lives, down to the pictures.

Two figures walked down the stairs, and Alex backed up quickly, giving them a wide berth. He knew they could pass through them and could already hear Reggie and Luke’s voices in his head reminding him that he was a ghost, it was fine, but the thought of Alex’s parents passing through him made Alex feel sick in a way that he couldn’t quite explain. He followed his parents as they sat down in the living room, his mother on her phone and his father turning on the television to watch some sitcom. His mother leaned towards his dad, showing him something funny on her phone, and the two laughed, and when Lizzie came over and peered at the image and joined in, the sounds mixing in with the canned laughter of the unseen audience from the sitcom.

Alex tried peering over their shoulders to peek at the phone, but his dad’s frame kept blocking his view. “Just move for a second,” he said absentmindedly to his dad. “I want to see.”

His father, of course, didn’t respond, and then the phone was put back into his mother’s pocket, Lizzie went towards the kitchen, and the house was quiet, besides the commercial about some discount furniture store playing on the screen. Alex stood in front of the television, watching his parents look through him. He would accompany Luke and Reggie to see their families from time to time. Luke’s parents always walked around like living ghosts, as if a little bit of the light had gone out of their eyes. Reggie’s would laugh and smile but stare off into the distance when they thought nobody was paying attention.

Mom looked a little bored. Dad yawned.

Alex felt the crushing anxiety switch to a feeling similar to anger, and it welled up in him as he slammed the wall in frustration. At the last second, he thought, No, maybe I should just phase through but his hand was already making contact and he could only soften the blow, making just a sad pitiful thump on the wall.

His mother’s eyes went to the wall and furrowed in confusion, but his father waved his hand. “Bird probably hit the window again,” he said, and his mother shrugged, turning her attention back to the screen.

“I - okay,” Alex sighed, the angry-adjacent feeling gone. He suddenly felt tired, and he walked out the door, leaving his unaware family behind.

He moved past the people strolling down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding bumping into people as he walked by. “Excuse me,” he muttered as he moved around a group of kids riding their bikes. He sidestepped one house’s sprinkles a second too late and he flinched slightly as the water shot out towards him until it passed through him and he sighed. Right. Ghost.

It wasn’t until he had gotten to the garage door that he realized he could have just poofed home, and he blinked back tears. He couldn’t even be a ghost correctly. He squared up his shoulders and tried to make his face as light and casual as possible, and he poofed inside, where the band was already setting up for their next practice.

“Alex!” Julie said, lighting up, though her eyes filled with concern when she saw his face. “Are you okay?”

Well. There went light and casual. Yet another thing Alex couldn’t do, apparently.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Alex said, though even to himself it sounded like an obvious lie, but besides Luke and Reggie sharing a look that they thought he didn’t see, there were no further comments, and Alex sat down in front of his drums.

Practice was a disaster.

Alex tried staying on beat, but with every measure of the song, a new memory would come to him.

Him locking eyes with Luke whenever Luke would turn during a performance, the way his heart would flutter when Luke winked at him.

Stuttering out a confession to Luke, only for Luke to lean in and kiss him on the lips, Alex staring at Luke and asking, “Does - does that mean you like me too?”

Him telling his parents that he was gay, watching his father’s eyes glass over and just...getting up, ignoring Alex’s frantic, “Dad?”

Of the one time his Dad had acknowledged him in months when he said he liked that young man Luke in his band, something that Alex thought was Dad was secretly telling him that he knew they were dating and was proud, and that they could tell him, that he was finally ready to see Alex.

When his father slammed all the family photos and threw them on the ground, and Alex realized he had been so desperate for acceptance that he’d misunderstood his father’s comment, which meant nothing. Just like him.

Him breaking down in the garage one month into living there, telling Luke that he didn’t think he could do this, any of it, and the hurt in Luke’s eyes before he told Alex that he had to do whatever was best for him.

Alex was aware that the band had stopped playing and were staring back at him, concern clear in their eyes.

I can’t even get it together for my band, he thought, and he threw his drumsticks down in frustration. They were moving towards him, and Alex felt the crushing feeling in his chest again except ten times stronger and the tears that had been threatening to flow ever since he had entered his parent’s home were now freely streaming down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Julie said, and he felt three pairs of arms around him. “Tell us what’s wrong,” she said. “Don’t keep it in.”

“I never gave you back your sweatshirt, Reggie,” Alex sobbed into what he thought was Reggie’s chest.

“Uh, well, that’s fine,” Reggie said, a bit of confusion mixing in with his sympathy. “All of you always stole my clothes. I’m pretty sure Bobby’s still wearing my jeans, which honestly? Super dumb. We’ve been dead for 25 years, what’s his excuse for wearing the same clothes?”

Alex laughed, and the group broke their hug, smiling along with him. Julie’s arm was on his back, Reggie still had his arm around Alex’s waist in a semi hug, and Luke was holding onto Alex’s hand. Alex looked down at their intertwined hands and then back at Luke, but instead of withdrawing, Luke simply squeezed his hand.

“I’m guessing the family visit didn’t go so hot?” Reggie asked. It was blunt, but his tone was kind and he unconsciously gripped a little tighter onto Alex’s waist.

“No,” Alex admitted. “I haven’t been there since...well you know, since I left, and it just…” he trailed off, not knowing how to continue.

“Did it remind you of the day you left?” Julie asked, rubbing small circles on his back. His mom used to do the same for him as a kid whenever he came home sobbing because he messed up a performance or had answered a question wrong in class. The motion made him feel safe and comforted, even as it caused a heavy ache to spread across his chest.

“No,” Alex said, wiping at his tears. “Or, kind of. It was definitely part of it, but being there just reminded me that…” he trailed off again, trying to think of the words.

Alex had hated the day he had left, but a sick part of him had been relieved when his father had thrown down all their photos and raved at how upset he was, at his mother sitting on the couch massaging her temple, saying that she was disappointed.

It had been awful, but nothing compared to the months before. Throughout the day it was bearable - they all had their own things going on and it was easier to pretend like everyone was just busy instead of actively ignoring him - but whenever they sat down to eat was always the worst. Only Lizzie and Nina would be asked questions about their day and Alex would have to grab a plate because there were only four set on the table. Nina was so little that she thought it was a game and she’d grin with delight every time Alex asked for someone to pass the salt, giving her the chance to ask, “Did you guys hear something?” and lighting up every time their dad said, “No, I don’t think I did.” Lizzie would sigh at it and pass it to him, but even with her distaste at the petty shunning, she still wouldn’t look at him. He had asked her once, to look at him, and she had said, I am, all the while avoiding eye contact.

“Me being a ghost and me being alive is the same thing,” he finally said. “That’s what it feels like. Every song we had was stolen by Bobby, nobody sees me if Julie’s not around, and there’s not a single picture of me up back home.” He gave a humorless laugh as a thought came to him. “I always felt like a ghost in my own home, and now I literally am.”

“No, you’re not,” Luke said.

“Well, you are a ghost,” Reggie added, and Julie nudged him. “Ow, what?”

“Okay, well you’re a ghost, true,” Luke amended. “But this is your home.”

“And we see you,” Julie said.

“And Willie, Flynn, Carlos, and Ray now too,” Reggie chimed in. “You may be dead, but your social life has never been better.”

“And I don’t know how yet, but I will find a way to make sure everyone else can see you too,” Julie said, moving her hand from his back and holding on to his other free hand. “Not just when we’re performing. Always.”

Alex looked into her eyes, wide and earnest, and he nodded. “Okay,” he said. It didn’t encompass what he thought - that he knew without a doubt that Julie was telling the truth, that she’d spend the rest of her life figuring out how to do it, that even if she couldn’t it still meant the world to Alex that she was going to try, no matter what.

Luke spoke next. “And they may be your family on paper,” he said in the same carefully gentle voice he always used when he spoke about Alex’s family. “But we’re your family too. You’re our family.”

“Nothing is ever going to change that,” Reggie said, and he got up. Alex looked up at him, expecting a mini-pep talk, but Reggie’s eyes filled with tears and he tackled Alex into a hug, knocking Alex back, chair and all. Julie and Luke shrieked as they fell backwards with him on the floor.

Alex laughed and sat up (not easy, with Reggie still clinging onto him, but he got it done). He wrapped his now free hands around Reggie. “Okay, okay,” he said. “I know. We’re family.”

“We definitely are,” Luke said, practically throwing himself onto the both of them and enveloping them both in a hug.

Alex smiled at the two of them and then looked over at Julie, who had sat up and was smiling at the group, an unsure look on his face.

“Julie,” Alex said lightly, “I think I need one more person hugging me to feel better.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile grew and the unsure look in her eyes disappeared, and she joined in on the group hug.

The garage doors squeaked open, and Alex heard a sigh.

“You guys are having another crying session?” Carlos asked, and the group broke apart.

“No,” Luke said, wiping at his eyes.

“Sure,” Carlos said in a voice that yelled, I definitely don’t believe you. “Well, when you’re done not crying, Dad said it’s time for dinner, so hurry up.”

With that, he was gone, and Julie got up from her spot on the floor. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go have dinner.”

“Your dad remembers we’re ghosts, right?” Luke asked.

“Nuh-uh, not this argument again,” Julie said, struggling and failing to keep her face serious. “You remember what Dad said last time you said that, family time -”

“-is family time, whether you eat or not,” the rest of the boys finished, and Julie grinned.

“Exactly,” she said. “So come on.”

“Just give me a second,” Alex said, and at the worried looks from his bandmates he gave them a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, don’t worry. I just want to clean up the equipment a bit and then I’ll be in.”

Reggie patted him on the back and then he was out the door, yelling that he wanted to sit next to Ray, while Julie laughed and trailed after him. Luke reached over to squeeze Alex’s hand, and then he poofed away. Alex could already see Ray jump as Luke poofed into his usual seat next to Reggie and Julie, and Carlos’s eyes light up at the sight. They’d have the gluten-free-paleo-whatever tía Victoria had brought over for the week and Julie would absentmindedly pass him the salt to season his food. They’d say grace, and Ray would say thanks for the wonderful five kids in his house, something that had thrown Alex off the first time he had heard it but was grateful for each time. Afterwards, Carlos would show them some of those ghost hunting shows he liked to watch on you-tune or whatever - maybe Willie could even come by, if he was free, and they’d all circle around the screen and laugh as one of the guys fell over himself with every random noise. Julie would video call tía Victoria, who’d fawn over her niece and nephew and ask about the rest of the band, talking about how she had just seen yet another new performance of theirs and had loved it.

Unbidden, an image of his sister and her family popped up in his head. It occurred to him, briefly, that he never got to see Nina and his nephews or nieces, wherever they were. Maybe he’d try again, this time bringing his entire family along. They never made the crushing feeling in his chest go away, but it didn’t feel like it was choking him and they made everything all the more bearable. Maybe he could go visit, he thought, getting up from the floor. Maybe it’d be good for him, maybe it wouldn’t, but they’d face it together and he knew they’d gladly come with him if he asked. Maybe he’d even take another visit to his parent’s house, and try to get closure much like Luke had some time ago.

“Yo,” Carlos said, reappearing at the door and looking around the room. “You coming?” He stared just to the left of Alex (he was getting better at figuring out where the boys were without Julie, Alex had to give him that).

Alex tapped his drum cymbal in response and Carlos grinned. “Oh that’s so cool,” he said. “And perfect, because I’m starving.”

Alex grinned at the younger Molina and followed him out the door, his thoughts of his parents and his sister disappearing into the background. Maybe he’d do it, maybe he wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure yet.

For now, though, he was going to have dinner with his family.

Tagging: @random-nerd-3 @glgrdsklechhh4 @thewickedandthehufflepuff @isnt-that-wizard @ellicxr @kymwitthaus @starryseavey @kristallbluemchen @fanficfighter @mariechensterntaler @iamtiredofmydreams @rubyblaze22 @speedycubed @tyrantlizard-king

#jatp fanfic #jatp #julie and the phantoms #alex mercer #jatp fanfiction #janie writes stuff

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grownups-are-the-real-monsters · 3 years

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(There's No Place Like) Jake's House for Christmas

{I’ve decided to post some Holiday one-shots during this Holiday season!! Leading up to Christmas, I’ll post a one-shot for a few different King Ships so be on the look out!!}

Summary: Cuthbert’s toes were going to break off in a few seconds if he didn’t switch positions but the glittering Christmas lights would never get put up that way. He continued to stand on his tip-toes, pressing the green wire of multi-colored bulbs against their wall.

He glanced over his shoulder to spot his husband digging through the box of dusty decorations with something like pensive curiosity on his face. Almost as if he had trouble seeing the point in decorating at all, which Cuthbert knew was a very likely possibility. It might irritate him if Roland didn’t flash him genuinely warm smiles every twenty minutes.

Fandom: The Dark Tower

Ships: Roland/Cuthbert, Jake/Benny, Susannah/Eddie

Word Count: 6,773

The year of Jake’s 13th Birthday had so far been the busiest one in the Deschain-Allgood household. The husbands had finally managed to gather a regular crowd at their own bar which they’d opened just the previous year (despite all obstacles from outside and inside sources). And just a few weeks shy of Jake’s big day, their old, ‘We’re Homophobic but won’t say it out-loud’ neighbors moved out of the sweet brick house to their right. Roland had helped carry out boxes just to make them uncomfortable one last time. Loving Father and darling son had played an extra long game of catch there in the front-lawn while the old sweethearts ‘politely’ hid their scowls.

From that point on, dead silence was all that came from next door. Roland had been pleased with the idea of having no obnoxious neighbors coming to replace them but just days before Jake’s birthday, a large moving truck rolled down the street. It had hiccupped like an old man before parking up against the Robinson’s old curb. Cuthbert had just enough time to spy on them through the safety of their large Livingroom window before he was due to open their bar for the night. “Young enough to be our kids, maybe.” He’d wrinkled his nose as Jake observed the couple for himself.

“You sure that one isn’t yours, dad?” Jake bumped Cuthbert’s arm and gestured to the skinny long-haired man pushing his girlfriend up the walk-way in her wheelchair. They’d stayed silent again for a moment or two, father and son kneeling on the breaking couch. The neighbor turned to get a box then, showing off a t-shirt which read ‘Somebody who hates me went to Colorado & all they got me was this dumbass shirt’.

Cuthbert and Jake fell into eerily similar sounding hysteric laughter while Roland finally attempted to sneak some glances.

They’d had to order in that night because Roland burned their dinner.

More time began to pass and Jake realized he’d have to save himself from the embarrassment of having 1 one incredibly recluse father and 1 overly-social dad and make the first neighborly move all on his own.

That had been accomplished by playing out in the backyard with Oy on the finest of autumn afternoons. He kept himself busy until he suspected someone on the other side of that wood fence had come out to enjoy the weather. So...

He picked up his catching ball and ‘accidentally’ tossed it over.

What he hadn’t known was that his neighbor, later introduced as Eddie Dean, had been sitting in a lounge chair positioned perfectly for him to get popped in the shoulder.

However, Eddie of New York hadn’t cared. He played about 15 minutes worth of catch with Jake until gathering his girlfriend, Susannah, for a formal family introduction.

Jake didn’t get to hear much of that first conversation they’d had with his Father’s but he didn’t need to. For he’d always had a knack for sensing certain things. What he felt from Eddie and Susannah was an outpour of warmth and determination for life...Jake supposed that was exactly what tied Roland to them so instantly.

: : : : : : : : : Time had slipped through young Jake’s fingers like the fluffy snow which now fell from the gray clouds hovering above the neighborhood. Silver bells were ringing out for Christmas and the upcoming New year.

He passed through the cold, dead eyes of many Snowmen on his walk home from the last day of school. He pulled aimlessly at his heavy coat (old and comforting, passed down from Cuthbert) when he felt a sudden jolt of shock that took a bit of his breath away. He didn’t have to look to know who that was.

There against the white fuzzy sky and curling Jake’s back in a forward hunch was Benny Slightman and his familiar toothy grin. “Merry Christmas Jake!”

“Gee, thanks Benny.” He did his best to hide his amused expression, trying to look back at him as best as he could. Benny shifted and looped his arms around his neck with ease. “Happy Holidays, here’s a broken back.” He huffed yet hiked the slightly smaller boy up to keep steady.

Benny only chuckled happily, he felt the breath on his ear as he wiggled his feet. “This isn’t the way to your house...?”

Jake rolled his eyes as he started to turn around. “Astute observation Benny.” He reached up to move his friend’s hand down to avoid being choked. “I was going to walk past your house to see if I’d run into you and....”

Another laugh. Benny tightened his grip and enjoyed the sounds of crunching snow under his friend’s feet. He nuzzled his face into the dip between Jake’s cheek and shoulder.

Those same snowmen from before, with eyes of dull black, watched again as Jake padded back with a boy caught on his back. They, of course, said nothing but stared one. Sometimes from under knit hats but more often they sported simple bald heads. “I have a question for you, Benny.”

His friend hummed but spoke nothing.

“My dad’s are having this Christmas party tonight.” He shoved the boy farther up his back, gently. “Our neighbors are coming and everything. Do you wanna come?” The slight hiccup of nerves in his voice was obvious only to him.

“Sounds fun to me!”

Jack smiled, holding onto the boy’s legs a bit tighter. ‘Yes. Benny could come. Yes, he could come and play.’

Benny had yet to actually come over to his home. He’d never even seen Roland or Cuthbert--not that Jake had been afraid for such. Benny was purely sweet. Older in years but younger at heart. Jake had no doubt that the boy would be impressed by his fathers. There weren’t very many people in town these days that weren’t. It sounded braggy but Jake took pride in his family. He just didn’t want them to think...-

He’d mentioned his buddy to his parents a few times...at least enough for Cuthbert to insist he invite him over. But for an odd reason, Jake kept on keeping Benny to himself like his own special secret friend. Cuthbert sensed as much considering he gave Jake mini-looks whenever the subject came up. He liked for his son to let-go and behave like a carefree boy and if getting to spend some time away from home with a new friend was the way to this, he’d be ok with that.

Benny sniffled into his mitten as snow continued to flurry down all around them, standing out against the colorful strings of lights around the streetlamps. Christmas was upon them now but would be over just as quickly. Boy boys silently hoped for a long stand-still pause; one to make the Holiday last much longer.

“Wanna walk to the Dunkin’ Donuts for hot chocolate?”

Jake attempted to look back again. “Yeah! I’ll even buy you a doughnut.” He looked both ways once they reached the busy street and allowed Benny to slide off his back and plant his feet on the concrete.

“What did I do to deserve that?” He teased but Jake just shrugged.

“Nothing.” He looked off down the distant right and felt a knot of pure joy hit his gut.

: : : : : : : : :

Cuthbert’s toes were going to break off in a few seconds if he didn’t switch positions but the glittering Christmas lights would never get put up that way. He continued to stand on his tip-toes, pressing the green wire of multi-colored bulbs against their wall.

The humble green tree had been set-up in their living room for a week previous to the day Cuthbert announced he wanted to have a Christmas party. Roland had lifted Jake off the floor to hang the star.

The home--their home--was sort of small but fleshed out with the strapping personalities of the men who’d bought it years ago. It shined during each Christmas season because they had a young boy--who was now a ways past young...

Slowly, he lowered himself down and came upon his husband to kneel next to him. He briefly admired the box which turned out to be filled with the ghosts of Christmas past; macaroni noodle ornaments made by the hands of a boy not too much younger than Jake. “Our son is a teenager.”

Roland scoffed, thumping his hands past several tongue depressor reindeer. His eyes--heavy with sleep--blinked thoughtfully.

“Seems like just yesterday he was following you wherever you went.” Cuthbert gently reached for Roland’s hand. “Remember him walking around the house with your boots on-?” He paused, feeling that memory deep in his chest. “I look at him and I see you, Roland.” He began to rub his thumb in smooth circles against the rough skin of his husbands palm. “Being a father looks good on you.”

“Better on you.” Roland gently slapped Cuthbert’s hand. For a moment they just leaned on each other. “I’m gonna miss driving him everywhere. I already don’t get to tell him stories at bedtime anymore-” Roland shrugged, to anyone but his husband he would only look indifferent but Cuthbert knew he was broken up.

“There’s time left, Roland. Lots. Do you good to remember that.” He kissed him quickly. “We’ve done good. Combing knots out of his hair...taking him to school.” This time he had to stop himself with a purse of his lips. “You’ve come a long way from the boy who told me he didn’t know he could be a father.”

Roland looked a mixture of touched and sad. “I still think about that day I dropped him.”

Cuthbert rolled his eyes but his stomach dropped at the memory-echo of little Jake’s screaming mixing with Roland’s horrified gasps. It’d been shortly after the adoption process. That baby had wiggled his tiny body right out of his new father’s arms and tumbled to the floor. Carpeted but still just about the scariest sound in the world. “That was a long time ago. You wouldn’t ever let him fall again.” He teased but with a genuine smile.

Roland only smiled back, kissed Cuthbert’s temple and continued to sort through the box. Together they separated what was worth keeping out & what needed to be thrown away. Cuthbert’s dancing snowmen were in the garbage pile for two-minute intervals every twenty minutes before Roland finally gave up.

“Bert?” Roland frowned as he watched his husband carry the snowmen into their bedroom. No answer. “Cuthbert?” still nothing. He frowned, hopping up to chase after him.

Cuthbert was rooting his hands through their sock draw and occasionally pulling out a few pairs and folding them together. The snowmen were dancing and singing just at his eye-line. It was obviously very amusing to him which Roland couldn’t help but admire.

Cuthbert’s broken nails caught on threads every few minutes so he’d pull and pull until the thin string would just snap. But on the eighth time he grew a little bit restless and snapped the string. Quickly shutting the drawer afterwards. “Roland?”

He turned to his husband, who was still lazing around behind him like he wasn’t sure how to decorate without direction. He gave him a small smile and walked towards him, putting his hand on his back. Roland looked up at him, waiting for him to speak whatever was on his mind. “Do you think-” he paused for a second before shaking her head. “Never mind, it’s stupid.”

Roland smiled up at him and chuckled. “You say a lot of stupid things, I won’t mind.”

Cuthbert gave him a look that he’d seen a lot of wives give their husbands when they were younger and felt a genuine thrill that he had a husband to be annoyed with now. It was a look of amusement and familiarity. “Well, I was just wondering…” he began again, going back over to the drawers to root around for Christmas socks. “Do you think Jake has something to tell us?” he asked, a little unsure of himself.

Roland cocked his head to the side and looked lost. “Like what?” He asked, swirling an extra mini string on dead lights in his hand. Cuthbert sighed and leaned back on the drawers behind him. Clasping his hands together, he spoke again.

“Well, he’s been spending a lot of time with that Benny kid….” he trailed off, waiting to see the glaze of realization in his husbands eyes but Roland just smiled.

“Yeah, that’s great. Isn’t it? I’m glad he’s got someone to hang out with, I was getting worried-”

“Roland!” he crossed his arms and the corner of his mouth raised into a small grin. “I mean, do you think the boys….”

Roland still had that clueless look on his face so Cuthbert tried to specify with a look what he had actually meant. “….like each-other?” he finished.

“No.” Roland answered, definitively. Just like that. Cuthbert was actually a bit hurt by the quick rejection. He raised his brows.

“That was decisive.” His head shook just the same as the snowmen behind him. “I was only asking because he’s just seemed so happy-”

“Because they are friends.” Roland shrugged.

“Yes but he keeps him away from us-”

“Jake probably doesn’t want us to embarrass him.”

Cuthbert scowled at the contestant interruptions. “Yes but they go down to the woods all the time-”

“And? We used to do that all the time too.” Roland shrugged again which defused some of Cuthbert's anger into laughter.

“We’re married now! We snuck down there to make-out! Don’t you see my point here?” He hunched over to get the last of his hearty laughter out but Roland looked completely annoyed by the whole show. “I’m not laughing at you.”

“Good.” He rolled his eyes, shoving the string-lights aside so he could leave the room.

Cuthbert followed him like a lost puppy, same hurt expression too. “Why is this making you so uncomfortable?”

Roland turned, just now noticing that Cuthbert had stuck an old (probably rusty) Christmas pin through the earring hole he’d first given himself in the sixth grade. He sighed with a soft expression, now reaching over to unclasp the damn thing before it got infected.

Cuthbert just moved back as if burned. The pain that cause Roland was obvious on his face.

“I don’t want to think about him growing up right now, Bert.” His partner’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. There was more to the issue, that they both knew, but it was have to wait for a later period. Now, Cuthbert just brushed his hand against his love’s face and smiled.

Outside the snow pelted down harder and covered their lawn in a cold blanket of slush. The picture of their son’s growth would surely not freeze but the air surrounding their home most defiantly would. So, Cuthbert decided it was time to make some hot chocolate and cuddle with the man he’s been enamored with since they were small.

“You want a candy cane in yours?” Roland asked, as if reading his thoughts.

“Yes please.”

A few kisses and a laugh later, the men were guzzling down their warm drinks and waiting for their company to come.

: : : : : : : : :

'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire, Jack Frost nipping at your nose …’

Benny’s nose twitched almost as if taking cue from the song and Jake thought it had to be the most adorable thing he’d ever seen...He looked back down at his sad little doughnut and sighed. Hot chocolate burned it’s way down his throat while he wondered just what his parents were doing.

The two boys sat in the lonesome corner of the Dunkin Donut’s where he knew for a fact Benny had once spilled a bottle of strawberry milk all over himself when he was nine. The picture of the incident in his mind made Jake want to giggle. Instead, he watched Benny pull his sweater sleeves over his hands and drink tiny sips of his hot drink.

“Quit your looking at me.” Benny chuckled almost self consciously--though he needn’t be--and tried to flip Jake off with subtlety he never had. It only made Jake feel alive with joy; he kept looking. “You can get a cup of whip-cream for dogs, look-!” Benny cast his eyes over at a couple feeding their little furry-friend at the counter. “We should’ve brought Oy.”

Jake loved the way Benny absolutely adored his dog just as much as he did. It almost made him feel like they were part of a little unit. “I think you only like me for Oy.”

Nat King Cole changed to Paul McCartney and Benny bounced a little atop his stool. “He’s a nice bonus.” He chuckled. “But you’re my honest favorite.” Benny leaned in closer over the table.

Jake surprised himself by letting a blush bled into his cheeks. He quickly looked away.

Benny, as carefree as ever, didn’t seem to notice. “What are your dad’s gonna think of me?” That question shocked Jake. He nearly choked on his doughnut.

“I guess what they already think of you.” He finished chewing and swallowed carefully under Benny’s watchful eyes. He wanted more, obviously. Jake pounded his fist to his chest. “I’ve never been very good at making friends, to be completely honest Benny. My parents are pretty happy with you.”

That earned him a smile as white as the snow. “And they haven’t even met me yet!” He struck a bit nervous to Jake in that moment.

Honestly, Jake couldn’t see how anyone in their right mind could dislike Benny. There was so much the boy found to love in his friend--his openness, appetite for fun, his willingness to work hard when there was chores to do. And there was that yodeling laugh of his--to name just a few things. “I have your Christmas present ready for tonight.”

Benny was aglow at just the mention. “Me too.” He tapped his bag, which was currently close to sitting in a puddle. Jake chuckled lightly and allowed himself to admire his friend.

He thought back to the time not so long ago when they’d met. When Jake had been introduced to Benny’s kindly personality. He’d been deeply afraid he would only lose the friendship they had developed so quickly. He’d been a boy who constantly lived in his head and not many kids his age liked him. But surprisingly, Benny had grown quite attached to Jake. Reminding the boy of that John Denver song that Cuthbert sometimes sang around the house... ‘Follow me where I go what I do and who I know. Make it part of you to be a part of me’

Jake let a quick release of air pass his lips in the way Benny used to do when they slept close together at the Slightman household. He was growing attached as well...

“Jake!”

The boy did not jump...not in the slightest. But Benny nearly jumped to the ceiling, it was quite funny considering the man who shouted was just Father Callahan. The man from Salem’s Lot who now lived here in town with them.

He was dusting powdery snow from his shoulders and juggling a few bags as he strolled past the counter (for now) to say hello. It looked like a scene straight from the print of a Christmas card. “Good afternoon.” Jake hopped off his stool to help the man set his bags on a nearby table.

“Oh, thank you.” Callahan smiled, taking off his gloves with an appreciative expression.

“No problem, Father.” He shrugged then looked back to Benny, looking a bit...shy. Which was a bit odd. “This is my friend, Benny Slightman.”

Callahan held out a hand and shook with the boy before digging through his bags. Jake watched him with amusement. “Would you like to come to our Christmas party, sir?”

The man turned, looking a bit touched. “If your parents would have me.” He nodded to himself. “I believe I carry a gift for your Roland in one of these bags.” He huffed.

“I hope you’ll promise not to have one of those long religious debates with my dad.” Exasperation was hard to keep from his voice. Benny looked like he wanted to chuckle but...he held back for whatever reason.

Donald Callahan held up his hands in mock surrender. “I promise.”

: : : : : : : : :

The twenty-three year olds had much more energy than Roland imagined he even had left. He watched--gleefully if you asked Cuthbert--as Susannah and Eddie Dean made their way up the walk to the door.

They were chuckling already, Roland could hear Eddie singing ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’. He smiled and opened the door before they could even knock.

‘Life was funny. Sometimes it delivered you two of the greatest friends a person could have. But it also gave you the inability to voice your genuine thankfulness for their being.’

“Merry Christmas!” Eddie leaned in to smack a kiss against Roland’s rough cheek before moving on to Cuthbert. Roland did not have the time to playfully shove him back before Suzie approached with that special little smile just for him.

“Happy Holidays old man.” She smiled and accepted a gentle hug before wheeling herself in the open spot next to Cuthbert’s rocking chair.

Eddie Dean was admiring the tinsel surrounding the kitchen while mixing himself some kind of Christmas drink. Roland watched his friend for a few moments, only meeting his eye when he spilled the eggnog into the sink. He took the time to be grateful that he could share Eddie’s laughter.

“Where’s Jake?” Suzie craned her neck towards the bedrooms. As she did so, Oy padded his way out of Jake’s and scampered over to jump into her lap. He didn’t usually take to strangers but Eddie & Susannah seemed to be exceptions.

“Out with his friend, Benny.” Cuthbert took the same drink order which Eddie handed to him without hesitation. “Think he probably invited him over for the party.” He hushed his voice like the topic was a secret.

From the kitchen, Eddie noticed that with ease as he stirred Roland’s hot chocolate. Standing there in his neighbors--friends--house with his fuzzy snowmen socks pressed against the cold tile, Eddie Dean felt at home. “You ok, big guy?” He slapped the back of his hand to Roland’s hard chest.

The big guy in question wiped down the splash of eggnog he’d gotten on his shirt and shrugged. He would speak nothing of the stirring inside him, that much Eddie knew.

“I brought a classic Christmas movie.” He changed the subject for him, popping some kind of snack he’d found into his mouth. He pulled free a DVD case from his back pocket.

“Star Wars...” Roland squinted like an old man to read “Is not a Christmas movie. Put that away before Cuthbert thumps you.” He chuckled, sipping hesitantly at his drink.

“Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back, thank you very much.” Eddie scoffed. “It takes place on a snow planet. That’s close enough.” He shrugged. “Plus, I’m still mad at your husband for saying the Prequels are better.”

Roland smiled at the mention of that long debate the two similar men had during their mini Thanksgiving get-together. Eddie had decided the time had come to share his fondness of the movies with his older friends. Jake had gotten a real kick out of watching them go back-and-forth for nearly two hours. “If it were up to me, I’d let you.” He rolled his lips together to taste some more chocolate as he set down the mug. “You know I thought those movies were kind of...cool.”

Eddie chuckled. “You were a real riot, Roland. Something to say about every scene.”

“I just like the idea of...a spiritual force binding us together.” His eyes seemed to gloss over. “One that directs us...has a will of it’s own.” He clinked their mugs together before turning around to join his husband and Susannah.

Eddie pursed his lips together. “I just like the lightsaber fights but whatever.”

“Come on, Eddie! We’re watching ‘A Christmas Story!’“ Susannah called.

“Can’t we watch a Christmas movie that isn’t overplayed like...‘Home Alone’ or ‘Scrooged’!” He pretended to pout. “Oooh or ‘Gremlins’!” He bounced on his slippery socks as he plopped right next to Roland.

“Since when is Home Alone not overplayed?” Susannah rolled her eyes fondly. Delicate flakes of snow continued to fall and press against the glass of the window behind her head.

“And we can’t watch Gremlins, it scares Roland!” Cuthbert smirked and was immediately rewarding with a hard kick to the ankle. The attempt to hush him did not even phase him. Eddie burst into hysterical laughter.

Susannah even fell victim to the giggles, leaning over the arm of her chair to try and conceal it.

“He’s lying. It doesn’t scare me.” Roland thumped his husband on the arm and leaned back on the couch, ignoring his husband mocking him. “Ask Jake.” Cuthbert pretended to nod in agreement but sipped his eggnog suspiciously.

: : : : : : : : :

Jake gulped down his hot chocolate without considering that Benny might be staring at him. Father Callahan went on to his own table with a peppermint tea to finish sorting through his gifts. They could still hear the shuffling of gift wrap and bags upon bags.

“Jake?”

The boy finally set down his drink and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The foamy residue was erased in a half-second. Benny had to fight away the thought of tasting that chocolate. Deep down there was a part of himself sparring against the naivety which he’d lived with for years. “Should we wait to walk over with Father Callahan?”

Jake paused, noticing the tonal shift within his friend. “We could...” He glanced over at the man before going back to Benny with a gentle grin. “But we don’t have to. He could just meet us all there.”

Benny tried not to look too pleased with that answer but found it hard to stop his shy smile as he hid it behind his cup. He watched as Jake went over to say his goodbye to his old friend with nerves building up.

“We’re good to go.” He threw away the empty cups and grabbed for Benny’s wrist, pulling him out of the Dunkin’ with something like excitement. The touch burned pleasantly at the boy’s skin with hot intensity. For a ridiculous moment, Benny worried Jake might catch the way his pulse was thundering and drop him from his grasp with disgust. He didn’t dare to look at the Father as they darted out.

Together, they walked a little over a block before either of them spoke again. Benny kept his heart to a calm flutter and thought briefly of the Christmas song Jake was crazy for...‘The moon and stars seem awful cold and bright Let's hope the snow will make this Christmas right...’

The snow was at that point, a thin blanket coating the wet ground. It would soon be the same kind of dangerous ice that his Father had despised. It’d make it hard for him to drive to work, he’d complain with a shaking fist.

Abruptly, Jake turned to face him with his nose a bright color to rival Rudolph’s. He pulled softly at the end of Benny’s sleeve, truly making him all the more endearing. ‘My friend the world will share this special night. Because it's Christmas...’

His eyes were glowing like the festive sparkling bulbs across each house’s rooftops. If he knew of the stunning beauty it made him, Jake showed not. Instead, he just kept swaying their arms in the cold air.

“Jake?”

The boy blinked. “Sorry. I was just-” He waved his spare hand by his ear. “I wrote some stuff on your card. But I think I’d rather just say it to you...before we get to my house. If that’s ok?”

Benny raised his brows but nodded quickly. “Yeah-yes. I’m ok with that.” He smiled, kicking himself for sounding so stupid. Jake smiled, looking confident in a way that Benny couldn’t imagine for himself. His heart thumped down to his gut.

“First of all, Merry Christmas.” He chuckled, looking embarrassed for the first time in a while. He wiped his free sleeve against his cheek when hot color blossomed underneath. “I’m glad you’re my friend, Benny. I really needed a good one and you’re the best.” He swayed their hands again but did not meet Benny’s eyes. “I really like you.”

Benny couldn’t even begin to convince himself that he didn’t hear Jake’s special inflection or see the way he’d widened his eyes. “I really like you too, Jake.”

His friend blushed fiercer and let his hand fall from Benny’s sleeve to fully grab onto his hand, interlocking their grip. For a second, the boys couldn’t manage much else but giggling there in the middle of the sidewalk.

“I’ll race you home?” Jake challenged.

Benny smirked and hugged the boy’s hand tighter, their palms were a sweaty and warm relief from the bitter cold. “You’ll have to let me go.” The party seemed a weary idea now compared to their new found discovery. But as the snow continued to poor down on them, Jake seemed suddenly eager.

He hesitantly slipped his hand free and blinked up at Benny with curious eyes before launching forward and placing a surprise kiss against his cheek. He pulled back and stood for a mere second before taking off towards his house.

“That’s cheating, Chambers!” Benny called out, catching a few snowflakes on his lips before chasing after the boy.

: : : : : : : : :

Eddie was curled up against Susannah with a look of pleasant shock at the scene unfolding in front of their eyes.

Cuthbert lounged right onto Roland’s lap and was heavily making-out with the man in such a...relaxed state. Neither neighbor had ever seen Roland so...open or frisky before. The guy was downright playful in the way that he ran his large hand through Cuthbert’s tangled hair and knocked off his obnoxious Santa hat.

Susannah smiled for a moment before throwing the DVD case at their heads. “Quit that, will you?” She chuckled when Cuthbert tumbled onto the floor with a smile. She pretended to ignore her husbands thumbs-up directed to a now more in-character Roland, who was looking stern once again. “Your boy will be home any minute.”

Cuthbert leaned against Roland’s tall leg and grinned.

As if on cue, the front door creaked open to reveal two red-faced boys as they piled into the home, wiping their boots on the mat. “Hey guys.” Jake bounced inside, greeting Oy with rushed excitement. His friend stayed back by the doorway with a shy expression. Eddie waved, hoping to ease the kid.

“This is Benny Slightman.” Jake reached out for his friend from his place, kneeling in front of Oy, and urged him forward.

Roland shifted in the arm chair, both Eddie and Susannah noticed the uncomfortable look on his face. Eddie felt a sudden urge to go over and ask him about it. However, Cuthbert crossed the room to shake the kids hand before anyone could do anything else.

“Cuthbert, Jake’s Dad.” He grinned, the beautiful one of his. He pointed to his Husband. “That’s Roland, his other Dad. Over there are our neighbors, Susannah and Eddie Dean.”

Benny nervously shifted on his feet and nodded. Susannah smiled kindly and was close enough to offer her hand to shake. “Nice to meet you, Benny. You boys want to watch ‘Home Alone two’ with us?” She asked kindly, not knowing this had immediately endeared her to the kid. Benny decided just then that he really liked her.

Jake gave Oy a final pat before stealing a glance to Roland. “Maybe we’ll join later. Benny and I are gonna go exchange gifts in my room.”

Roland seemed to consider the statement with some kind of tension hanging in the air. Nothing necessarily bad...just a bit awkward though for once in his life, Jake didn’t seem to notice anything was off. “Alright.” He took a long sip of his coffee and smiled back when Jake rewarded him with one.

The boy ushered his friend into the other room and quickly shut the door behind them.

“And what did I say?” Cuthbert asked, a smirk on his face but Roland didn’t seem too amused. He looked blankly at the closed door before excusing himself for a refill. Eddie watched Cuthbert deflate and felt a pang of sadness for him.

He got up, Susannah urging him to follow Roland, and went straight for the kitchen to chase the pacing man. “What’s up with you?” He asked, sparing his own look to Jake’s closed door.

“Nothing.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and dug his fingers into an open bag of cookies left on the counter by Cuthbert earlier. He wasn’t the biggest fan of Peppermint but the taste was actually quite nice on his hot tongue. Ignoring his friends obvious attempt to shut down the conversation, Eddie blocked the doorway. “I’m not an idiot, you know?”

“Nothing that concerns you, Eddie.” Roland corrected himself with that special classy asshole tone of his. Nothing couldn’t possibly piss Eddie off quicker than that voice.

“Just when I think we’re getting to be close, you shut me down.” He scowled and swallowed a particularly minty chunk of cookie. “I wonder how Cuthbert feels being married to someone so...”

“So what?” Roland’s wise eyes crinkled with anger.

“So guarded...so solitary.” Eddie flicked his tongue accusingly and nearly choked on the cookie crumbs lingering in his mouth. Part of him found it disgustingly strong and wanted to spit up the remnants into the silver sink. But he held that back in favor of appearing non-idiotic.

Roland huffed and blew past his skinnier friend and treaded his way back to the lounge seat.

“Oh no, Don’t waltz back in here if you’re all worked up.” Susannah’s voice came from a ways off, making Eddie smile despite the annoyance flaring up inside him. He could always count on his wife.

Eddie followed in shortly after and plopped down next to Cuthbert who was looking just as irritated when he leaned over to whisper; “Suzy thinks Roland has some internalized homophobia to work-out.”

Eddie raised a brow. “The dude is married to a man, how can he be homophobic?” He asked, feeling that dreaded idiotic feeling again.

Taking another invisible cue, the doorbell rang and was used as Roland’s next distraction.

Father Don Callahan & a handsome friend entered behind a small pile of Christmas printed bags.

: : : : : : : : :

Benny ran his hand through his hair, feeling through the soft curls. He found that he did that more and more, especially when he was nervous. The heat from just his nerves alone was getting close to unbearable. He shed his larger coat (finally) and placed it awkwardly in his lap.

Though, Jake simply reached out to swipe it and threw it across his bed (blue sheets) with a smile thick with teeth. “Merry Christmas, Benny.” He placed a delicate present (silver wrapping) between their criss-crossed legs.

His hands shook but his smile never faltered because Jake was just about the cutest Benny had ever seen him. He watched nervously as he playfully shook the gift.

Unwrapping slowly, bending the paper under his curled fingers and enjoying that attention…was NOT of his nature. Not at all. Benny tore open the gift with anxiety pouring out of him like sweat.

Laying atop a bed of fluff was one of those spinner rings he’d talked about just a couple weeks ago. It stared up at him, shining into his eyes.

“You said you wanted to try one of them to help with your fidgeting.” Jake grinned before scooting closer to pick it from the bed and hold it out for his friend. Benny slowly slid his ring finger into the cold silver with a warm blush taking over his cheeks.

“I got one with paw prints on it...cause you only like me for my dog, you know?” He chuckled, backing off slightly to watch Benny’s reaction.

“Rad.” A horrible word really. But it was just the one to pop into his mind like a dumb old jack-in-the-box. Benny cringed but quickly laughed it off. “I mean, Thanks, Jake. I love it. Thank you!” He spun the metal and watched the prints blur. “Your turn, now!” He reached into his own bag and handed over a medium sized green box. The red ribbon glittered under the light.

The boys had gone for the same theme, it seemed. Jake pulled free a silver ornament in perfect likeness to Oy by it’s velvety red loop. Though Benny felt a renewed sense of inferiority as he spun his ring, Jake’s eyes light up. He cradled his hands under the ornament with that shy smile of his.

“It’s lame, I know, to get someone an ornament for Christmas...” Benny frowned. “Your gift-”

"It's not a competition, Benny. Besides..." Jake turned back to look at the ornament that was now laying in the tissue paper. "I love it, you know me so well." He chuckled before biting into his cheek and turning slightly, to face Benny fully. He opened his mouth to say something but Benny was quicker to voice his own thought.

“Do you want to go back to watch the movie...?” He gestured to the door.

“Do you?” Jake countered.

No. He did not. Benny really wanted to keep their illusion of privacy up for just a little longer. His heart was doing flips in his chest just at the thought of it. “No...” He giggled. “But I get the sense that you’ll be missed, Jake.”

The boy shrugged. “Ok. We’ll go watch.” They set their gifts onto Jake’s nightstand and went for the door but before either of their hands could curl around the gold, Jake leaned over and gently kissed Benny’s cheek.

It was quick and devastatingly soft. But very, very important to both of them.

: : : : : : : : :

The two boys ended up on the couch with a blanket tossed over them by Cuthbert, only one so of course they had to squish together or else one of them would be too cold.

Jake had somehow found himself with Benny’s sleeping head resting on his shoulder by the second movie. Not that he minded it at all. Benny had a candy cane hanging out of the side of his mouth that he occasionally twirled around. But was now slipping from the corner of his lips.

Roland watched Jake, who was watching Benny, with a feeling of...discomfort(?) that even he didn’t understand.

“Please free that cane before it goes down the kids throat, Jake.” Susannah chuckled. The boy chuckled and when he slipped the red & white candy out, Benny shook himself awake.

“Sorry.”

“S’fine.” Jake grinned and let his gaze linger. Benny looked around for that Father Callahan, who’d been in the kitchen when he fell asleep, and found him basically curled up with that friend he’d brought; Lupe.

Benny widened his eyes. “Is he gay?” He snapped his head over to whisper to Jake, who’d started to cackle.

“Yeah, he is.” He wiped his sleeve across his mouth to settle down. “We’re you worried he was...homophobic?” His brow raised as he remembered how off his friend became in that Dunkin’ when ol’ Father Don Callahan came over.

“Yes!”

The boys dissolved into a privately shared laugh as Oy jumped onto the couch next to them.

Cuthbert plopped down into Roland’s lap and gently ran his fingers down his shoulder as they just watched their son. “Are you alright?”

Roland nodded, pulling his eyes away and towards his handsome husband who was cuddling down next to him despite the limited seat room. It would be annoying if it were anyone else on earth but for Cuthbert, Roland loved like Cupid.

He kissed the top of his head and hid behind it slightly as the intro to ‘Gremlins’ played on their small TV. “I hate you.” He mumbled into Cuthbert’s hair.

He hummed. “I love you too.” He leaned back and kissed Roland’s jaw. “Merry Christmas.”

Outside, the snow had slowed considerably but the ground was not visible under the thick blanket given from the sky.

#used an actual jake quote when he was talking about what he likes in Benny #his openness and appetite for fun etc..#The Dark Tower #my fanfiction #jake chambers #benny slightman #roland deschain #cuthbert allgood #eddie dean #susannah dean #stephen king #holiday fics

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hatsukeii · 4 years

Text

OH MY GOD I JUST HAD A GENIUS SONGFIC IDEA

I am once again disregarding requests-

I’m sorry I love you guys but I HAVE TO DO THIS

Due to popular demand via a vote on instagram, I have decided who to write about:DDD

Disclaimer: This fic is inspired by a Levi one I’ve read before, I don’t remember the author but if you find them or they find me props to you!!

Remember When // Modern!Todoroki Shouto x reader

Word count: 2000+

Warnings: Cursing, idk if this is a warning but aged up characters

Summary: In a world where everyone is reincarnated, your search to find someone special ends somewhere nostalgic.

The memories shouldn’t stay.

They just shouldn’t.

That’s not how the world works.

What was supposed to happen, was you were supposed to die, forget everything, and get reborn. Start a new life, with a new face, meet new people, fall in love all over again, get married, have kids, grow old, die, repeat.

So why didn’t that happen to you too?

Why did all the memories come flooding right back the second you turned three? Why did you look the exact same? Throughout your teenage years, you desperately tried to get rid of everyone in your memories. Mina, Bakugou, Deku, Kaminari, Jirou, and most importantly, Todoroki.

Ah, Todoroki Shouto, your first and last love. How could you forget him?

For fifteen years of your life, you’ve been trying desperately to find him.

But who’s to say he remembers you too?

That possibility didn’t stop you from seeking out every opportunity to figure out whether he was still the Todoroki you used to know. The Todoroki you used to love so dearly. You prayed every night, that you would finally meet him again, not in your dreams, but in real life. No matter how hard you tried to burn the memory of him out of your mind, he just wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t let go of how he stared at you, those heterochromatic eyes staring into your soul as it lit on fire. You craved to feel his hand on your cheek, his lips on your head, his arms around your waist, you wanted it all back. It made you feel greedy, it did, but could anyone blame you? You had everything taken away from you the minute he died. You wished to pass away, so you could forget about him and start a new life, but ended up with this mess. Your emotions are hard to suppress. You’re just as in love with Todoroki Shouto as you were in another life.

You were unlucky to be reborn like this, all the memories from your past life mixed with new ones. The school days at UA high, fighting villains alongside your best friends. The day you got married. The day you had kids. It was terrible, having those images in your mind, but being unable to fulfil the hunger and constant longing to do it all over again.

Walking down the street, you stop at a cafe. It’s a really nice cafe. Reminds you of the one you used to work part time at in your past life. Warm, dim ceiling lights, timber wall lining, Swiss cheese plants, a nice little island where baristas were busing brewing up steaming hot mugs of coffee, plush couch seats and wooden chairs accompanied with marble tables, and a little platform for occasional guests that would perform. The entire cafe radiates a nice vibe. It reminds you of what you used to have. Giving yourself a tiny grin, you push the door open, letting the little bells ring. Grabbing a couch seat, you settle yourself down, putting your headphones on in an effort to block out the noise other customers were making. “Good evening, miss. Would you like anything? I suppose you wouldn’t want coffee at such a late hour.” You position one of the sides behind your ear. What time is it? You bring your phone up to your face, squinting a bit at the bright screen, showing 7:15 in bold, white numbers. “It’s fine, I’ll just have a latte and your apple pie.” The waitress looks at you in confusion. “Miss, I haven’t given you the menu yet?” Eyes widening, you go silent, before plastering a smile on your face. “Regular, just not at night.” Did that convince her? The waitress bites her lip, tilting her head a bit, before jotting down the order and shuffling away quickly.

The cafe is buzzing with excitement, talks of a band performing in a bit filling the air of the cozy space. You roll your eyes, not wanting to deal with it. You just got back from five lectures that you surely didn’t enjoy. The cafe is supposed to be a way for you to get some downtime, not for a band to ruin the peaceful atmosphere. Pulling your headphone back onto your ear, you mindlessly go through your phone, bored and uninterested in anything on your timeline. Every single post is about your friends with their valentines date. To you, valentines is truly, the worst thing to possibly celebrate. Not only is it is about a man that was tortured and eventually killed, it is also a reminder, that you’ll never be able to love someone normally because of those stupid, idiotic, utterly pointless memories that held you back. It doesn’t matter how many people your friends set you up with. You’ve had to reject over eight guys you were set up with, all because you simply can’t let go of Todoroki. It doesn’t matter whether he remembers, as long as you do, you’ll never be free of this hell. You get made fun of for being too uptight, too picky, too dense, when in reality you can’t help it at all. Whenever you even have the slightest thought of a different guy, Todoroki’s name plays in your mind like a broken record. Thinking about it now, maybe you don’t want to leave the memories behind. Maybe you want to remember them, no matter how annoying, shitty, and irritating they can be. Losing them would be like losing a part of yourself, and you didn’t want that.

“Miss, the latte, and the apple pie. Enjoy your food.” Picking up the tiny spoon, you fiddle around with the utensil, admiring it in all its simplicity. It isn’t a peculiar spoon or anything, just a normal coffee spoon that has a gold brimmed green end. Sticking it into the latte, you give the drink a good stir, not even paying attention to the coffee foam art that was there a second ago. Leading the brim of the cup to your lips, you carefully take a sip of the hot liquid. Nothing about it has changed. It tastes just as good as when you worked here. If only you could introduce this to Todoroki all over again. Eyeing the pie with lidded eyes, you cut out a chunk, taking it into your mouth as you reminisced the days, where you would feed him the exact pie. It was pretty impossible not to feel nostalgic in this place. Way too many memories were made here. First dates, first kisses, first mini concerts, this was like a shrine of key events in your past life. You continue to savour the rest of your food, saving the drink for last. Exhaustion is taking over as you hear the sound of cheering, a guitar strum, and a half recognisable voice. Slumping into the couch, you doze off, headphones slowly falling off. From onstage, heterochromatic eyes stare at your figure, mouth hanging as the band sets up their instruments.

He finally found you.

After all these years, he finally found you.

Never has he ever been so thankful for fate.

His situation was the same as yours. He was reborn, then regained memories from his past life, except he was never able to get a certain someone out of his head. For years, he performed at this particular cafe, hoping you would be there to watch him. He hasn’t been able to fall in love with anyone, despite having hundreds of fangirls craving for his hand in marriage. He spent immeasurable amounts of time delving deep into those past memories, trying to scrape together the song you oh so loved to listen to. The song that represented your life with him. Hours upon hours of bass practising, just for the sake of reuniting with you. Uncertainties burdened him night after night. What if you’ve already become a different person? Would all his work have been for nothing? Would the only place he can ever meet you again be his dreams, and the piles of the memories he still had with you? All those doubts were washed away with the look he gave you. That was definitely the (Y/N) he knew. From the iconic band hoodie, to the order of the cafe’s secret apple pie and latte. That was undoubtedly you.

“Guys, please let me play one song first.”

“Hah? Todoroki, you’re seriously changing it now?”

“Do me a favour, would you? Let me do that song first?”

The drummer’s eyes widened in realisation.

“O-oh! Yeah, sure thing. Good luck, you get one shot.”

Hands on the mic, the cafe goes silent as the first riff comes on.

Headphones fully slipping off your ears and onto your neck, your ears are no longer protected from outside noises.

This song.

Letting your eyes flutter open, you shake your head, rubbing your eyes a bit from your little nap. Adjusting your headphones to hang nicely around your neck, you sit up from your position, steadying yourself with your hands. How long have you been asleep for? You groggily grab for your phone, wincing yet again at the bright light that shone through. You weren’t even able to fully comprehend the numbers on your screen, when a voice rang loud and clear.

“Thought I saw your shadow under the door,”

This song, I remember it.

What is this? You absolutely love it. The way the lyrics resemble a long lost friendship, it makes your heart clench with every word. You pull your phone up, trying to Shazam the lyrics. The song sounds familiar, yet so, so different from anything you’ve heard before. Typing in the lyrics rapidly, your search fails as nothing comes up.

Dammit, what is this?

“I can never tell what’s real anymore, anymore, anymore.”

There’s no way. It has to be a real song. You swear on your life you’ve heard it somewhere. It’s lingering in the back of your mind, waiting for the right time to pop out. Cold sweat drips from your forehead as you go through all the songs you know. Your head hurts, your sight is blurry. Hands go up to grab your head as you squeeze your eyes shut, your phone dropping onto the plush couch.

No, I know this, I definitely do.

“It seems so long, it seems so long,“

Colours flash in front of your shut eyelids, almost giving you an epilepsy. Your mind travels into those god forsaken memories from your past life. Mina, Jirou, Kirishima, Bakugou, Deku, Todoroki, everything crashes right down on you. Panting heavily, you grab the cup of coffee, downing it in one go, hoping it helps with easing your mind. An image flashes in your head, sending jolts to your body. You and Todoroki in a cafe, listening to Wallows perform for the first time. That was your first date. Remember When became your song that night. It was a staple of your relationship. It was like the background music of your life story. Was there no Wallows now? The nostalgia that song brought you was immeasurable, yet you didn’t know it would have such an effect on you.

Oh my god.

A moment of epiphany hits you like a truck.

“All the places I’ve returned to,”

“All the faces that remind you,”

Letting your head spring up, your eyes dart around the cafe, desperately trying to find where the song is playing from. You should know fully well it’s coming from the band that is intriguing the audience excellently. However, you’re still in a state of complete shock, refusing to believe your ears. The familiar tune resonates in the cafe, a silky voice serenading couples in the audience.

It’s him.

Your eyes lock onto the band.

Heterochromatic irises stare back at your watery ones.

He looks just as good as before. His hair is still groomed, red and white parting in the middle. His turquoise eye shines with the gloss of tears as he sings his heart out on the stage, letting the tears roll down his cheeks freely.

Covering your mouth with a shaky hand, tears freely fall from your eyelids as your mind goes blank. You can’t seem to peel your eyes off him. Your heart beats wildly as you let out a tiny gasp.

It doesn’t matter if the two of you only just met. At a cafe.

Right now, you’re looking at someone you’ve known your entire life, and it feels ethereal.

I found you.

Finally.

Do you remember this?

Do you remember when we were the ones watching?

References:

Remember When- Wallows

Lyrics to said song

Cafe interior inspo lmao

Tags:

@sunshines-and-tatertots @izzyphantomgamer @trashcanweeb @burnt-tomato @tiger1719 @bokutokoutarou @poppirocks @just-another-bored-writer @justachillgirl @itmekisuu @kaylacinderella @random-fandomlover @skyeackermans @macaronnv @mariechan123 @xonfusedsoul @inlwlevi @talks-a-lot-of-stuff @ewfilthymundane @emsvegetables @estherwritess @shoutsukii @sakusasgarbage @agentvicinity @thirstyvolleyballhoe @artsamber @sneezefiction

Feel free to comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

For once I’m proud of something I wrote, please feel free to give me feedback, hope you like reading this<3

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swanqueeneverafter · 4 years

Text

The Once & Future Queen Pt.14

Storybrooke. Swan-Mills House. (With the family reunited, Ella and Henry watch Emma cradling her daughter in her arms by the fireplace. Although Maria is fast asleep, Emma is still whispering promises to never leave her again.) Ella: "Now that's what I call a happy ending." Henry: (Smiles:) "Yeah, it sure is. You know, word on the street is you made me a mix tape.” Ella: “Who told you? (Henry makes the lock and key motion to his mouth:) Hm, all right, I did.” Henry: “Well, I think I'm gonna need to see what's on it. I mean, you know, this could change everything.” Ella: “Well, then I better get it.” (Ella gets up to find the mix tape.) Regina: (Leans on the couch behind him:) “Aren’t you two adorable?” Henry: “Oh, hey Mom. What’s up?” Regina: “Not to interfere with whatever is going on between you two, but do you think you could look after Maria just a little longer?” Henry: “Sure. I mean she’s already sleeping so-” Regina: “Great. It’s just that Emma and I need to take a shower and we might be some time.” Henry: (Winces:) “Yeah, I really wish you hadn’t given me that image.” Emma: “Sorry, kid. We’ll try not to be too long.” Ella: (Returning with the tape:) “And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.” (While Emma and Regina head for the stairs, Henry takes the tape from Ella and begins to read the label.) Henry: “Oh, ooh. Okay. We got some Beyonce... not a big surprise. Nice. Not a big surprise. Lauryn Hill. That's always a good choice.” Ella: “Mm.” Henry: “Oh, wow. Mikky Ekko, ‘Pull Me Down.’ Look at you! Now, that is an impressively deep cut.” (The rest of Henry’s appraisal is cut short when Ella leans in to kiss him.)

The Land of Oz. Past. (The Wicked Witch dines alone.) Zelena: (Taking a bite of her food:) “Ugh. The salt, please.” (As one guard rushes to bring her the salt, another enters the room.) Guard: “Your Wickedness, there's a man here to see you. He says he needs help.” Zelena: (Sighs:) “Don't people remember I exiled that charlatan Wizard ages ago? Maybe it's time I did something to remind them. Well, send him in.” (The guards open the doors and a man walks through them.) Stanum: “Hello, Zelena. It's good to see you again.” Zelena: (Shaking her head:) “Do I know you?” Stanum: “Perhaps you'd know me better if I were holding a bird's nest.” Zelena: (Stands:) “Stanum.” Stanum: (Chuckles:) “It's been a long time. And I see I'm not the only one who's changed.” Zelena: “What are you doing here?” Stanum: (He approaches:) “I was hoping you'd help an old friend. I chopped down a tree belonging to the Wicked Witch of the North, and she punished me by giving me a terrible curse.” Zelena: “What? She turned your clothes to tin?” (Chuckles.) Stanum: “That's just it. It's not just my clothes. It's me. (Lifts his sleeve to reveal his arm turning to tin:) And it's spreading. And unless I find a new heart soon, there won't be any of me left.” Zelena: “You'll be a walking tin can. (Giggles:) Well, what am I supposed to do about any of this?” Stanum: “There's an enchanted object. The Crimson Heart. It's said to be hidden in the woods, and there's a horrible monster that guards it. I need your help to get it.” Zelena: “Mm. So, you get a heart. What do I get out of this little arrangement?” Stanum: “Whatever happened to you using your magic for good?” Zelena: “Well, it's as you said. I've changed. And using magic to be wicked is a lot more fun.” Stanum: “That may be, but I don't think being wicked is the reason you're not helping me. You act powerful, but I think you're really afraid.” Zelena: (Closes the distance between them:) “How dare you talk to me like that. Do you know who I am, what I can do?” Stanum: “Yes. I just don't have much to lose anymore. Hope you enjoy having dinner by yourself.” (Stanum turns and begins walking out of the room.) Zelena: “Guards! (The guards block Stanum’s path:) I'm not afraid of some monster in the woods. I'm the most powerful witch in all of Oz. Now let's get that heart, and I'll prove it.”

Storybrooke. Present. The Dragon's Lair. (Zelena sits at the bar beside Rumple, discussing Morgana and her chances of being redeemed.) Zelena: "I mean it's not beyond the realms of possibility. Look at me. Look at you." Rumplestiltskin: "Yes but the fact remains that Morgana has no one left to support her. It was only through Belle's love and my desire to truly change for my son that saved me. Much like the love you have for your charming daughter here." Robin: "Thanks." Zelena: "Actually it was my time spent with the latest incarnation of Robin Hood that made me think Morgana might not yet be a lost cause." Robin: "Yeah?" Zelena: "Mm. (Takes a drink:) You see Robin was still haunted by all the men he killed back when he was in the King's army. It was only when he met up with you and your Dad's old mates that Robin felt he could do something to turn his life around." Rumplestiltskin: "Which is exactly what I said, it's the love of others that ultimately leads you down the path of redemption and Morgana has no one." Robin: "Well, Guinevere gave Morgana a second chance. She might still be willing to see the best in Morgana?" Zelena: "It's worth a shot. Trouble is, Guinevere and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. Ever since I aided Arthur back in Camelot, she doesn't quite trust me." Rumplestiltskin: (Scoffs:) "Imagine that." Robin: "Regina and Emma know her pretty well. Or Snow White, you could ask her to smooth things over between you two? I know Snow's good friends with Lancelot." Zelena: (Considers:) "That's true... but I think I'd rather ask Regina and Emma for the favour. I did just save their arses back in the forest after all." (Zelena pulls out her phone and makes the call.) Swan-Mills House. Bathroom. (The top of Regina's phone is visible within the back pocket of her discarded jeans. Unfortunately as the phone begins to ring, the sound is muffled by all of Emma's clothes that are currently piled on top. Despite having successfully managed to rid themselves of their clothing, neither Regina or Emma have made it to the shower. Perched on the marble counter top, Emma has her legs wrapped around Regina's shoulders as the brunette devours every last drop of her essence. Leaning back against the bathroom mirror, Emma allows the powerful orgasm to wash over her completely. Rising slowly up to claim Emma's lips with her own, Regina enjoys the look of utter satisfaction upon her wife's face.) Regina: "Mm. Ready for that shower now?" Emma: "G-give me a minute. I don't think I can walk anywhere right now." Regina: (Whispered into Emma's ear:) "Then let me carry you." Emma: "You're not serious." Regina: "Feel my arms and you tell me. (Emma slides her hand from Regina's back to her bicep and gives it an experimental squeeze. When Emma emits a groan of desire:) I had to do something with all my excess energy while you were away. Turns out that kettle bell in the garage was useful after all." Emma: (Wrapping her legs tightly around Regina's waist:) "Then what are we waiting for? (Regina smiles and kisses her wife before lifting her into her arms and walking them to the shower:) Holy God, woman. I've never been so turned on in all my life." (Regina chuckles and steps into the shower. Any further conversation is lost under the sound of falling water.)

Morgana’s Hovel. (Agravaine strokes Morgana’s cheek as she lies unconscious where he placed her on the bed. He gets up and walks over to the fire while Morgana stirs, dreaming.) Spirit World. (Apparently on the brink of death, Morgana is able to walk through the spirit world, where she is surrounded by dozens of lost souls. Troubled by their incoherent moaning and wailing, Morgana is relieved to see a familiar face walking towards her through the crowd.) Morgana: “Sister!” Morgause: (Holding up her hand to stop Morgana coming any closer:) “It is a joy to see you, my Sister, but please, do not come any closer.” Morgana: “Why not?” Morgause: “Because it is not your time to join me. (Morgana nods and stands firm:) Your latest battle has left you suspended between worlds.” Morgana: “I fear all is lost, Morgause.” Morgause: “You must be strong. (Morgause lowers her hand and turns it palm upwards. A large silver coin appears within it:) Take this.” (Morgana steps forward to accept the coin.) Morgana: “What is it?” Morgause: “It is the Coin of Necromancy. It will allow you safe passage back to the world of the living. Once returned you must travel to see the Dochraid and she will guide you. (Noticing the lost souls closing in on them:) Go quickly, Sister. These ghouls would seek to keep you here forever.” Morgana’s Hovel. (Morgana wakes, wide eyed and terrified, and sits up. Agravaine looks over and sees her awake.) Agravaine: “Morgana! (He rushes to her side:) When I found you, you were unconscious in the woods. What happened to you? Morgana, who did this to you?” Morgana: “That doesn’t matter now.” (She stands and walks away from the bed.) Agravaine: “It doesn’t matter? I don’t understand.” Morgana: “What’s important is that I hide this place from prying eyes. A cloaking spell should do.”

Agravaine: “All right. But then how will I be able to find you?” Morgana: “I shall use blood magic for the spell. You will be able to come and go as you did before. However, once it is in place I need to leave.” Agravaine: “No, my lady. Clearly it is not safe for you out there.” Morgana: “I will not sit and cower in my hovel, my lord. Besides, I have a new plan to reclaim Camelot as my own.” Enchanted Forest. Tavern. (Mulan and Ruby meet up with Tinker Bell and Tiger Lily.) Mulan: "So, things worked out pretty nicely for you two, huh?" Tinker Bell: (Holding Tiger Lily's hand:) "Yep, I'd say so." Mulan: "Are you still living in Neverland?" Tiger Lily: "We go back and visit occasionally, but Storybrooke's been our home for awhile now." Ruby: "They first arrived with Regina and Emma and the others when they returned from rescuing Henry. Granny swears by their herbal teas." Mulan: (Confused:) "Herbal teas?" Tinker Bell: "We run a little shop on Main Street. We sell crystals, herbal supplements and remedies." Tiger Lily: "With a 100% approval rating." Tinker Bell: "Yeah, because all of our products have a little fairy dust sprinkled in them. It drives Blue crazy." Mulan: (Chuckles:) "I'll bet." Tiger Lily: "She wasn't very pleased to see us when we first arrived. I think she felt a little threatened." Tinker Bell: "Oh she just needs to get that stick removed from her butt and enjoy herself." Tiger Lily: "She's still mad at us because some of her sisters left the convent. Turns out they took inspiration from us and realised they wanted more out of life." Tinker Bell: "Two became nurses and work at the hospital now." Mulan: "That's great. And er... (Nods to the hand holding:) things are obviously good between you as well?" Tinker Bell: (Smiling at Tiger Lily:) "Yeah, I'll say." Tiger Lily: (Chuckles:) "We started as mentor and mentee, then quickly became friends." Tinker Bell: "Then... well it took us awhile, but we finally realised our feelings for each other ran deeper than friendship and, well, here we are." Xena: (Entering with Gabrielle:) "You know, I hear the best relationships start out that way." (Everyone makes room at their table for Xena and Gabrielle, who have come to celebrate Mulan's return.)

Gabrielle: (Hugging the warrior:) "It's good to have you back." Mulan: "It's good to be back." Xena: (As she and Mulan clasp forearms:) "You know, Gabrielle and I have some experience with alternate timelines." Ruby: (Smiles:) "Yeah, we know." Mulan: "It's one of our favourite episodes." (Before Gabrielle can reply to this, an arrow whistles through the air and lands in the middle of the table between them. Everyone turns to see the archer.) Merida: “Sorry to break up the welcome home party, but I needed your attention.” Xena: (Growling:) “There were less deadlier ways of getting it.” Merida: “Deadly. That’s a perfect word to describe what we’re facing right now. You see, I’ve just spent the better part of three hours trying to find Morgana’s hideout and I couldn’t. Which is strange because I was standing inside it just this morning.” Xena: “Wake us when you get to the interesting part.” Merida: “Obviously Morgana’s using her magic to make finding her impossible, which means she’s up to something.” Gabrielle: “That’s a fair assumption. What do you want us to do about it?” Merida: “I’m looking to put a team together. I say we hunt down Morgana and put her out of our misery.” Mulan: “Merida, no! If you go after Morgana without a plan you’re just asking to get killed.” Merida: “I’m tired of waiting! The longer we wait, the more likely Morgana is to come up with another scheme that puts us all in danger. I say it’s high time we do something about it once and for all. If you don’t want to join me, fine, you’ve earned that right. But I won’t just sit around and do nothing.” (Xena and Gabrielle look to each other.) Gabrielle: “We’ll join you.” Merida: “You will?” Xena: (Looks surprised at Gabrielle, then nods:) “Yeah. If only to stop you from getting killed. Besides, after what I did to her sister, I’m pretty sure I’m high on Morgana’s ‘to do’ list. Might as well make it easy for her.” Ruby: “That’s all well and good, but you still don’t have a way to counteract Morgana’s magic.” Merida: “Actually, I think I might know someone who’d be interested in joining us. She’s no fan of Morgana’s either. You coming?” (Xena and Gabrielle look to Ruby and the others then follow Merida out of the tavern.) Storybrooke. The Dragon's Lair. (Emma watches Snow White dote on Maria while she sits at the bar.) Emma: "You know I was the one who was gone for awhile, right?" (Emma points to the banner overhead which reads: Welcome Home Emma & Mulan. After much back and forth between Robin and Granny, it was decided to hold a joint celebration at the Dragon's Lair and Granny's. With the guests of honour promising to make an appearance at both venues, each restaurant is sure to turn a profit.) Snow White: "Of course, Emma, but you won't let me hold you half as long as Maria will. So I'm getting my cuddles from her on your behalf." Emma: (Smirks:) "Fine by me. That just means more hug time for my Dad." (Emma pulls David in for a hug and he wraps his arms around her tightly.) A Short Time Later. (David sits down to speak with the Reporter.) Reporter: "I saw that hug between you and Emma earlier, there looked to be a lot of emotions behind it." David: (Nods:) "You know, time is a funny thing. When you're happy it can fly by. When you're sad, even a week can seem like an eternity. I know what it's like to be separated from the ones I love. I literally slept through almost three decades of my daughter's life and the first ten years of Henry's. When the curse broke and I finally realised how much time had gone by, I was crushed. Every day since then, I've made a point of being present. Of living in the now. (Chuckles:) I admit that to some I may appear to be the typical hen-pecked husband, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I love Snow and would do anything to make her happy. Emma is the same. I know how important it was for her to not miss a day of Maria's life like she did with Henry. I see the joy that lights up Emma's face when she's surrounded by her family and recognise that in myself. So you asked me if there was a lot of emotion behind the hug we shared?" Reporter: "Seems I was right." David: (Smiles:) "Emma will never fully admit it, but I know how much that week or so away would've taken out of her. Some people say as the years go by that things like this get easier, but they never do. I'm just glad Emma's back and able to enjoy everything she's worked so hard for." Reporter: "That sounds like a very proud Papa talking?" David: "Oh yeah. I couldn't be more proud of Emma."

Back At The Bar. (Henry and Ella arrive.) Ella: “Hey guys. Nice turn out.” Emma: “Yeah, it’s not bad.” Henry: “Hey, Mom. You okay?” Regina: “Yeah, just overworked and underpaid.” Henry: “Well luckily you know the owner. (Nods to Robin:) If I were you I’d ask for a raise.” Regina: (Smiles:) “What can I get you?” Henry: “Two beers, and make it the good stuff, because we are celebrating.” Regina: “Celebrating?” Emma: “Uh, you mean other than my safe, heroic return?” Henry: “Well that too, of course.” Ella: “But also, we got the electrical system running on the food truck.” Regina and Emma: “Ah.” Regina: “Well, that is good news.” Ella: “I just wish I knew when we were actually gonna make some money.” Robin: (Cuts in:) “Why don't you come work for me?” Ella: “What?” Robin: “Well, I mean, why not? I can use the help. You know, this place has picked up quite a bit since Maleficent’s stopped scaring away half the customers. Plus, now that Emma’s back, I doubt Regina will be sticking around much longer.” Regina: (Smiles:) “Now that you mention it...” Robin: “See? So finish that drink and grab an apron.” Ella: “Robin, thank you.” Emma: “That's good. Right?” Ella: “Yeah, no, it's amazing.” (After a bit of non verbal communication between Emma and Henry - namely Emma prodding him - Henry turns to Ella.) Henry: “Uh, so I was thinking, maybe it's time you let me take you out on that date.” Ella: “The make up date, you mean?” Henry: “Yeah, have I apologised for that yet?” Ella: “Not today at least.” Henry: “Ah, well I am very sorry for standing you up like I did.” Ella: “Uh huh. Well I don’t feel like going to a restaurant. I wanna do something fun. What do you think?” Henry: “Absolutely. Fun I can do, no problem.” Ella: “Then I guess it’s a date.” Henry: “Great.” (Emma and Regina exchange knowing smiles just as Drizella enters the bar.) Emma: "Drizella. Nice of you to make an appearance." Regina: (Coldly:) "Uh, yeah, we’ve got a strict no-whiskey-for-witches policy." Drizella: (To Emma:) "She's still not talking to me? (Emma shrugs:) What if I said I know of a way to defeat Morgana?"

#sq #swanqueen #swan queen

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chaptersinprogress · 4 years

Text

demolition lovers | 3

The person who had called out approached the group, stepping into the light.

King's jaw dropped.

"You!"

Rating: T

Warnings: swearing, alcohol

Pairings: Ram/King; Bohn/Duen

"Oi, Nong, what are you doing here too?" asked Bohn, glaring. "Actually, you know what, don't answer that. Of-fucking-course you followed Duen."

King, however, was stuck on a crucial detail.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, whipping around to stare at Bohn. "Nong?!"

"You know each other?" asked Prae.

Bohn groaned and waved his hand tiredly. "Nevermind, I'll explain later. We need to go," he spoke as he began to step forward.

"Oh? And where are you going?"

The children's heads snapped up at the unfamiliar voice. Hadn't there been enough surprises that night already?

The man they had seen on the ground floor earlier stepped into the corridor, King's and Bohn's fathers following him. The severe man eyed them coldly. King's father shook his head minutely at them from behind him.

The three heirs rapidly disentangled themselves, Bohn and King flanking Prae. It was clear that they had spectacularly failed to make it out unnoticed. And from King's father's reaction, they had no longer had any option but to smile and hope for the best.

"Pa!" exclaimed Duen.

King's eyes widened. From the sharp inhale beside him, it was clear Bohn had not been expecting that either.

"Duen, are these the friends you were hoping to find?"

"Ah, yes," said Duen embarrassedly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Bohn's father spoke, trying to diffuse the situation. "If I might suggest, why don't you kids catch up in the reception hall? There is plenty of food and drink, and you need not stand here in the dark."

Duen's father jerked his head at the door. "Go," he ordered the children, before turning and striding back into the hall. The CEOs followed him, but not before giving their children warning glances.

The university students found themselves alone in the corridor once more.

"Bohn," Duen called out, stepping forward.

His companion's arm shot out, pulling him to a halt. With a sharp glance towards the three heirs, he proceeded to drag a protesting Duen out of the corridor and back into the reception hall. The heirs exchanged bewildered glances, struggling to process the sudden turn of events.

"So... are we following them?" asked Prae.

Bohn turned to King, who shrugged. "Guess so," he sighed as they began walking to the door. "We play by their rules for now."

The three found Duen and his friend waiting for them beside the balcony.

"Bohn!" Duen exclaimed, approaching them. He faltered at the sight of Bohn's stony expression but pushed on to stand in front of the three. "I'm sor-"

"Nong, don't you think you should at least introduce yourself and your friend first?" cut in King, wearing an expression of polite indifference. He seethed internally. How dare this kid repeatedly throw his best friend's care back into his face, then still have the guts to come crawling back uninvited. "And address us properly. We're your seniors, show us some respect."

Duen turned white as if he'd been slapped. Eyes flashing, Hot Damn started forward. Duen hastily threw an arm across his friend's chest, stopping him. Bohn's fingers twitched. King watched as Hot Damn's expression smoothed over into a blank mask.

"Ah, I apologise for my lack of manners, Phi," said Duen as he wai-ed. "I'm Duen, 1st year medical student. This is Ram, 1st year engineering student. We both attend the same college as P'Bohn." Duen shoved his elbow pointedly into Ram's side. Getting the hint, Ram wai-ed stiffly.

Meanwhile, King was freaking out on the inside. Shit, he'd finally got Hot Damn's name! Ram. Beautiful. King fought down the smile that threatened to form as he subtly admired the man he'd never thought he'd see again. The name suited him.

Prae smiled courteously, wrapping a hand around King's arm. "It's nice to meet you both. I'm Prae, 1st year engineering." She stepped forward, pulling King along with her, forming a wall between the two juniors and Bohn. "This is P'King, 3rd year engineering. P'King attends the same college as P'Bohn, but I'm from a different university."

"It's nice to meet you, Prae, P'King," came a voice from behind Duen and Ram. A girl in a sleek, figure-hugging gown approached and wrapped her arm around Ram's waist - leaning into him and tucking her head into the crook of his neck. "I'm Ting, 1st year medical student with Duen."

King's stomach dropped.

He couldn't tear his eyes away from the damning way Ting interacted with Ram. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd forgotten. Of-fucking-course he'd happened to pick a guy with a girlfriend. No wonder he'd been left like that in the street. He swallowed harshly and steeled himself. This wasn't about him; it was about Bohn. He could throw his pity-party some other time.

Prae had felt King stiffen slightly as Ting made herself comfortable in Ram's personal space. Huh? Oh. Was it possible...? She smirked and very intentionally dragged her hand slowly down King's arm, briefly entangling their fingers and squeezing.

King turned to look down at her, the question clear in his eyes. She tipped her head up at him and merely smiled wider. Stepping closer, Prae slid her arm around his middle and placed her other palm over his chest possessively. Automatically, King's arm fell across her waist.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Ram's jaw tightened and his hands clenched briefly. Aha. Hook, line, sinker. She turned back, only to find Ting smiling dangerously at them. Prae felt her metaphorical hackles rise. She let her upper lip curl higher, revealing a hint of teeth. I see you.

Bohn and Duen however, seemed oblivious to the power play occurring in front of them.

"Bohn...P'Bohn," Duen hastily corrected when he caught King's eye. "I'm really sorry. I know I hurt you and took you for granted. Please let me make it up to you!"

Bohn sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Duen, I'm tired. Please drop it." He looked at King, "Can we go?"

"But I-" started Duen.

Prae interrupted him. "Duen, please. It's quite late, and we're all a little tired. If you want, we can discuss this some other time."

King stared at Prae, betrayed. 'Some other time???' his expression screamed.

Prae returned his stare evenly. 'Well, he certainly doesn't seem like the kind to give up...'

King dropped the issue. There was nothing he could do about it now. Running a hand through his hair, he offered the juniors a stiff smile. "Well, it's time we took our leave then."

Bohn huffed. "Yeah. Bye," he said, abruptly spinning and striding away. King and Prae exchanged awkward goodbyes with the juniors before promptly going after their friend.

Bohn threw himself onto his bed with a groan. Prae and King followed him into the room - Prae joining Bohn on the bed while King leaned against the vanity.

Prae poked Bohn. "So...your boy's from an important family."

"He's not my anything," replied Bohn, half-heartedly swatting at her hand. "Besides, I have no clue who that person was. Dad seemed worried about him, though." He lifted his head to look at King. "Did Dad or Uncle send anything?"

King glanced at his phone and shook his head. "Nothing. But the text about us reaching your place has been read." Walking over to the bed, he settled beside Prae and began taking the pins out of her hair.

Prae frowned at Bohn. "Oh? But isn't he the one you forced to buy you flowers every morning? I'd assumed he was the one you were courting."

"Yeah. But that was until he threw my gifts right in my face and made it explicitly clear how much my presence had been inconveniencing him."

"He said what?!" sputtered King. "And he still had the nerve to crash the fundraiser and try to ask for forgiveness?!" His hands tightened into fists. "I'm going to deck that son of a -"

"Ow! Yes, yes, you're pissed, we get it! But for heaven's sake don't take it out on my hair!" yelped Prae, tugging at King's hands which were pulling painfully at the strands.

King hastily let go. "Sorry," he said sheepishly. He finished pulling out the last of the pins and ran his fingers through the hair to straighten it out.

Bohn rolled onto his side and watched his best friends with narrowed eyes. "By the way, don't think I didn't notice the little show you both put on earlier."

"Show? What show? I don't know what you mean," replied Prae innocently.

"I'm heartbroken. Not blind."

"At least he's self-aware," King whispered to Prae with a laugh.

Bohn remained undeterred. "You made sure to stake your claim on our King very explicitly, N'Prae." Propping himself up on his elbow, he smirked at them. "Hell, you might as well as thrown him to the floor and had your way with him right there!"

Prae's mouth fell open. "BOHN!" King shrieked, thoroughly scandalised.

Said person began howling with laughter at their reactions, half-crying into the mattress. After a few seconds, Prae joined in, giggling into her palm at the thought of the preposterous suggestion.

King buried his face into his hands and groaned. "I hate you two. You both are impossible." He glared at them half-heartedly. "See if I do anything nice for either of you ever again."

"Awww, don't be like that, husband." Prae cooed.

"Do I hear wedding bells ringing?" mocked Bohn, sniggering.

"Oh shut up!" King grabbed a pillow and began whacking Bohn.

Bohn rolled away. "Mercy! I yield, I yield!" he choked out through his laughter.

King huffed, stopping. Bohn took the opportunity to question Prae.

"But really, what was that for?"

Prae lifted a shoulder, smiling mysteriously. "Oh, just testing a theory."

"What theory?" asked King exasperatedly, dragging a hand roughly through his hair. "I hope it was worth it. Because, no offence, but I really don't want to end up marrying you."

"Well I don't want to marry you either," Prae replied coolly. "Besides, your nongs were blocking us from the front and Bohn was directly behind us. No one would have seen anything too out of the ordinary."

She stared pointedly at King. "As for what theory... you're the one who has to explain. You know that guy Ram, don't you?"

"Wait, what?" said Bohn, looking at King for confirmation. "You know him?"

King flushed. "Well not exactly..." he said, squirming slightly. "We're... vaguely acquainted."

"Uh-huh," said Bohn, clearly unconvinced.

Under the weight of his friends' combined stares, King caved. "Ok, fine, I'll tell you," he said, getting up and grabbing the opened bottle of Baileys from the mini-fridge. "But I'm going to need a drink first," he groused, taking a swig straight from the bottle.

Sitting on the couch, he studied the bottle in his hands as if it held the secrets of the universe. "So, you remember the tutoring session 2 weeks ago?"

"You mean the time you went to school on a Saturday evening to help the Year 2s study? How could I forget? I still think you're crazy," said Bohn, shaking his head.

"Oh shush!" Prae smacked his arm. "Just because you don't do nice things doesn't mean that others don't." She turned back to King. "You were saying?"

King rubbed his neck. "So, erm, we kind of almost got mugged on the way back."

"WHAT?!"

"I said almost!" said King hastily. "I basically tried to distract them and let the others escape the opposite way. I thought I could ditch them somehow."

"Why? You could've just taken them," said Bohn, scoffing.

King sent him an unimpressed glare. "What, in front of the nongs? And then have them spread the story throughout the university? That's the exact opposite of what we need."

"So...?" pressed Prae.

King sighed and shrugged. "So I ran into this random club hoping that I could lose them there. Turns out they were more persistent than I thought and they caught me. But Ram got rid of them. That's it. End of story."

"I'm relatively certain that you skipped a few steps in there somewhere," said Prae.

King ducked his head and toed the floor. "SoImighthavekissedhimandaskedhimoutforcoffee..." he mumbled.

"What?"

He raised his voice, vibrant red staining his cheeks. "I said, I might have kissed him and asked him out!"

"What?! Why would you DO that?!" said Bohn aghast.

"I thought that those gangsters would be busy looking for someone running away and not think twice about two people making out, ok?" replied King defensively. "It made sense at the time!"

"But why would you ask him out?!" Bohn half-shrieked.

"I don't know!" King shouted, throwing his hands up. "I thought he kissed me back, and he was hot, and also looked so fucking cool taking those guys out like it was nothing, and it seemed like a good idea, and... I don't know, ok?!"

Prae and Bohn glanced at each other, then back at King.

"Shit..." Bohn stared blankly at him. "You have it bad."

King let his head fall onto the back of the couch with a groan. "I know..." He sighed bitterly. "It doesn't matter. He's straight. And has a faen. No wonder he just walked away without even giving me his name when I asked."

The three sat in silence as they mulled over the events of the night.

"Wait," said Bohn, jerking upright. "Does that mean we'll have to see all three of them around campus? Cause N'Ram's in Engineering, and Duen's not going to let this go, and the girl N'Ting hangs around them both... shit!"

King moaned and started chugging the contents of the bottle in despair.

Prae rolled her eyes as she watched the overdramatic idiots she called best friends have their meltdown.

Urgh. Boys.

#chaptersinprogress #my engineer the series #my engineer #ramking #bohnduen #ram x king #bohn x duen #king x ram #duen x bohn #prae #ting #fanfic #fanfiction #demolition lovers #long update

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scullymakesmefeelautopsyturvy · 4 years

Text

Several Times Scully Got Locked Out Of Her Motel Room In Her Scanties (First Time Smut Ensues) Chapter One

Space (Season One)

They sat on the city steps in the midday sunshine awaiting another of Mulder’s mysterious informants. She, eating a sad little excuse for a sandwich: cucumber-dampened white bread encompassing roast chicken lovingly Saran-wrapped and pressed into her hand after Sunday lunch at her parents’ house. An awkward lunch, during which her father had accomplished the stellar feat of not asking her about her work once. I should have cheered everyone up by asking if anyone had heard from Charles lately, Melissa had joked, darkly, over the phone afterwards.

The sandwich stuck in her throat a little as she swallowed, and out of nowhere, everything felt so… insufficient.

Was this really her life now? Crackpots and conservative suits and no sex since Jack? Reading journals alone on Friday nights and eating her mother’s leftovers?

She was still stashing a fastidiously initialed brown bag in the Bureau staff kitchen fridge each morning, as she had been in the habit of doing at Quantico.

Dana Katherine Scully, you’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore, she told herself.

Perhaps it was time to graduate to lunch in the cafeteria, like one of the big kids.

Mulder nibbled on his inescapable sunflower seeds. Rental car cup holders. The top drawer of the basement desk. The bottom drawer, and the middle. Even loose, once, inexplicably, in her suitcase when she arrived home from a three-night case in Iowa. They were everywhere, pervading her entire life with their woody scent and their easy charm just like the man who unceasingly consumed them.

He was close, now, his knees spread wide and swinging with casual rich-kid confidence as he began to lose patience with his anonymous NASA tipster. Scully kept her stockinged legs primly pressed together, her well-lined heavy linen skirt draping over her kneecaps, preserving her modesty. His fingertips brushed her own as he handed her the informant’s note, and she was glad of the excuse to break his gaze, to look down and away from his face; the inevitable thrill she was coming to know so well shooting through her body from tip to toes.

When the Space Program whistleblower did arrive, it was a she; a development Scully could well have done without. Especially one as… developed as this.

Long and lean, blonde, finessed; Michelle Generoo looked exactly like the full-sized version of the girls Scully imagined Mulder growing up with on Martha’s Vineyard, summering in Rhode Island, picnicking on lush lawns by sparkling waters while she herself played hopscotch with scavenged pebbles on Navy base blacktop, or avoided cracks in uneven paving slabs as she skipped along in hand-me-down pleated skirts and fraying hand-knitted sweaters. This was probably exactly the WASP-y horsewoman type Mulder’s parents had always envisaged him marrying, with her tweed jacket and her long silky locks and her mirror-lensed aviators.

Not a squat, pale, Irish Catholic Navy brat with full cheeks, wiry russet hair and stubborn freckles that were probably popping exponentially with every second spent sitting in this sunshine. Who still brought homemade sandwiches to work.

Michelle Generoo: Mission Control Communications Commander for the Space Program in Houston. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now, for I must have sinned, and am being punished with the early-afternoon arrival of Fox Mulder’s ideal woman, sent from heaven to enact my own personal hell.

Scully hated this feeling: this creeping sense of little sister inferiority. It was the mid-semester first day at a new school all over again, having been transplanted with her father’s latest deployment; Bill laughing and joking with the jocks or the prettiest clique of girls he could find, she hiding with a book in the library. It was enviously watching Melissa tame her curls into elaborate braids when all she could manage was a stubby ponytail with lumps at her crown, aged seven, twelve, twenty-nine.

What was it about prepubescent inadequacies that made them so infuriatingly unassailable? Successfully reinterpreting Einstein and near-perfect pistol qualification scores had only ever compensated for so much.

At the mention of a fiancé - a Shuttle Commanding astronaut fiancé, no less - Scully relaxed somewhat. For once, she was glad that Mulder’s particular obsession with certain matters of the universe was a little less than impressive to the casual observer.

Mulder disappeared off into the city on some unspecified errand, and sent her back to the Hoover Building to arrange flights and accommodation, agreeing to meet her at the airport.

On the plane, he seemed disappointed when she didn’t want to read his brand new copy of NASA: A History of American Space Travel, and peppered her with trivia instead.

“Did you know, all twelve men who walked on the moon agree, the surface smells like spent gunpowder?”

“Oh really,” Scully said. “And what did the women say?”

Mulder looked a little uncomfortable. Having made her point about why she might, perhaps, feel a little excluded from his spaceboy enthusiasm, Scully pondered this fact.

“They can’t remove their helmet on the moon; there’s no atmosphere.” She countered. “How do they know what it smells like?”

“From the dust left over on their spacesuits,” Mulder was clearly happy to be able to inform her.

Scully frowned at him.

“You think they’re so cool, don’t you Mulder?”

He looked personally injured. “Scully, how can you be the one person in the universe - a physicist, no less - who doesn’t think space travel is cool?”

She turned her torso in her narrow seat to face him.

“Mulder, when I was five years old, for Apollo 11, I was just as excited as you are now. My older brother and sister and I followed the news of the mission; we watched the moon landing just like everybody else. Bill and Melissa dressed up as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin for Halloween that year; they made me be the Stars and Stripes so we could all pose for photos together. I had to stick my arm out and wobble the flag. We were just as space crazed as anyone. And over the years, as the missions continued, I read everything, I mean everything-” Mulder nodded, he could surely believe that of Scully at any age - “and I found out some trivia of my own.”

Mulder titled his head, curious.

“You know, a spacesuit is a sealed environment. It has to be airtight, right?”

Mulder nodded.

“And spacewalks last between five and eight hours on average.”

Mulder was listening intently.

“Well, there’s… nowhere to… go. When you have to go,” she gestured euphemistically. “And in a zero-gravity environment - or any environment, in fact - you don’t want to just relieve yourself inside the suit.”

Mulder frowned.

“So they wear these… things. It’s called a MAG: A Maximum Absorbency Garment,” she enunciated carefully. “You just… let it go, and it… absorbs it.”

Mulder looked perturbed.

“So basically, underneath that cool, space-exploring exterior,” Scully continued, “you’ve got a bunch of highly trained, hero-worshipped men - and now, women - floating around wearing adult diapers.”

Mulder swallowed hard.

“You know, I have a little brother. Charles. When he was still wearing Pampers I would watch my mom changing him, and I’d smell those foul odors and witness the frankly terrifying contents in some detail, and I just - I could never look at astronauts in the same way again after I found out about the MAG. I don’t know, it just ruined it for me.”

Her partner sat back quietly in his chair, more than a little disturbed.

Scully smiled at him weakly, and decided to take a nap.

On the tarmac in Houston, the cabin lights, dimmed for landing, switched back to full brightness as the seatbelt indicator dinged off. Mulder sprang out of his seat, already reaching up for the overhead bins to retrieve their luggage.

Scully sat calmly with her forest-green briefcase on her lap, not willing to pointlessly stand for ten minutes while the passengers in rows A-R filed interminably slowly up the aisle, huffing and checking her watch as though that would change the physics of the aircraft and hurry anything along.

No, patience had always been her friend; she would await her turn peacefully, could wait for anything forever, so long as she knew for certain it was coming to her.

Alighted, they bypassed the checked baggage carousels, Mulder carrying the suitcases and Scully toting only her leather satchel. The pair walked to the Lariat desk, where Scully hung back, and Mulder flirted with the smiling clerk working the night shift.

In the car, Mulder questioned her again about the arrangements.

“Intercontinental, Scully? It’s probably the furthest possible airport from the Space Center.”

“...and all requisitions would let me book at such late notice. The flights into Hobby were almost double the cost. It would be a waste of taxpayers’ money.” She signalled right, checking both directions.

“Are we heading further North, Scully?” Mulder asked, checking the constellations through the windshield.

She tsked and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. “It’s late. If you want to make all future travel bookings, be my guest, Mulder. But as it stands we’ll stay up here tonight, drive down for our eight-thirty a.m., and stay down there from tomorrow.”

At the mention of the morning meeting with Lt. Belt, Mulder brightened, and stuck his head back in his book for the remainder of the journey to their motel.

When they arrived at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, she threw him a look. A warning shot.

Don’t say a word, Mulder.

The motel took shabby to a whole new level: the paintwork was more chips than oil-based matte; the blown bulbs outnumbered the working ones, the woodwork of the bare-bones portico looked like it should have been condemned alongside the Rosenbergs.

The sign on the office door declared, ‘Desk open 7 a.m. - 10 p.m. ONLY ring bell outside of opening hours for ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.’

Scully checked her watch. It was approaching midnight. A handwritten Post-It stuck at an angle underneath read, ‘Scully booking, rooms # 8 & 12. Doors open. Keycards inside.’

“Always nice to experience that famous Southern hospitality,” Mulder deadpanned, peeling the note from the glass. They moved along the walkway, counting up as they went.

The door to number eight was propped barely ajar with a rotting two-by-four. Scully could see the square of exposed woodwork where an old lock mechanism had been removed: replaced by a newfangled electronic keycard system. She ran her eyes over the crumbling porch roof and thought, Really? This is where they chose to invest their refurb budget?

Mulder pushed the door open for Scully and held her gaze as she stared at him momentarily. He looked like he was about to follow her into the room.

“Thanks,” she gulped, taking her suitcase from his hand.

But he stayed put outside, grabbing the handle to pull the door shut, double checking their plans for the morning. “See you at seven-fifteen then? All checks complete and ready to strap ourselves into the command module?” He grinned.

Scully dropped her case onto the bed and sighed. He was going to be insufferable tomorrow.

***

After showering, hanging up her burgundy pantsuit for the next day, then losing a fight with the room’s overactive heater, Scully unravelled the tightly rolled pink satin pajamas from her suitcase. You get fewer wrinkles if you roll rather than fold, her mother had taught her.

Stepping into them, she could already feel herself perspiring lightly, and wondered if it would be better to do without the pajamas or the comforter. Her mind flashed to the various possible emergencies that might see her fleeing her room in the middle of the night: a fire, a tornado, an intruder.

Keep the pajamas, lose the comforter, she decided.

But she suspected she’d need more to keep herself cool. She remembered passing an ice machine a few doors down, and grabbed a metal bucket left on the dresser for just such purposes, tucking her keycard into the breast pocket of her nightwear as she went.

She was so warm and the ice machine was so close, she didn’t even bother with shoes as she tiptoed the few feet along the walkway. The machine hummed and clanked as she lifted the front and noisily plunged the bucket into the crisp, dry cubes.

Ice.

The Arctic Ice Core Project. Alaska. A sparsely appointed supply closet. Mulder crouching down to her level and hissing his balmy, furious breath directly into her face.

I don’t trust them. I WANT to trust you.

He’d been angry and sweaty and ripe, and it had been the two of them against the others. They’d made what felt like a binding pact, whispering conspiratorially; sealing it with their laying on of hands.

If she’d been asked prior to that about the most intimate part of a person’s body, she might have given the same answers as anyone else. Reproductive organs her studies had given her medical names for. Mammary glands meant for feeding young but warped by western culture into symbols of sex and shame. Perhaps the cushiony swell of the gluteus maximus, so favored by jocks, and creeps in bars.

But she’d finished that case on the Icy Cape with the discovery of more than a new species of worm; she’d learned for the first time about the deep, heady, overwhelming intimacy of touching another person at the back of the neck.

Jesus, she’d already been so wet when he’d grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back to inspect her spine. She feared her unguarded gasp had given her away. And when he’d brushed aside her hair and lain his whole palm against the nape of her neck, awaiting the telltale wriggle of the homicide-inducing parasite, it was she who had squirmed beneath the hot, unrelenting pressure.

Oh god, what he’d be able to do to her with those big, strong, capable hands.

Alaska at that latitude had average winter temperatures of less than zero degrees Fahrenheit. November on the North Slope saw little more than three hours of sunshine a day. They regularly experienced impenetrable blizzards that could freeze a person to death in under an hour.

But when Dana Scully thought of the Icy Cape, all she could feel was searing, blazing, pulsing heat.

She filled the ice bucket, slammed the machine shut, and carried her personal cooling system back to her room, balancing it on her hip like an infant as she swiped the keycard for entry.

She got a red light.

Furrowing her brow, she swiped again.

Red.

Again.

Red.

Sighing her frustration, she ran the card through the slot several more times, resting the bucket on the floor and jiggling the handle as she tried over and over for green, listening for the buzz of the latch electronically pulling back.

Nothing.

She threw her hands up in the air and tried twice more to no avail.

She looked about her for assistance, finding none. No one was about. She started off towards the office and slowed as she reached the door. She re-read the sign.

ABSOLUTE EMERGENCIES.

Well, she couldn’t get into her room. Surely that was an emergency. She pressed the bell and waited, but no one came. She pressed again, and again, nothing. This was ridiculous. She tried once more with the bell, and after two minutes, sighing furiously, strode back along the walkway, her bare toes starting to go numb. She’d successfully cooled off, at least.

She continued past room eight, doubling back to try the lock three more times then kicking the door with great vexation before jogging up towards number twelve, wrapping her arms around her breasts to warm herself. The ice bucket stood sentry, dripping condensation.

She lifted her knuckle to knock on Mulder’s door, then hesitated slightly. She stole a glance down at her pajamas. They were not thick, and clung to her curves, puckering at her bare nipples. Mulder had seen her wearing far less - had checked her for mosquito bites clad only in what her maternal Grandmother would have called her smalls on their very first case - and remained professional, but that had been a rare exception, borne of her neophyte panic. She worked so hard to be taken seriously, to be seen as a colleague and an expert and a peer, and not as a sexual object. It was hard to project an air of authority in pastel pink satin with your breasts announcing themselves to anyone within five hundred yards. But Jesus, it was freezing out, and she had to be up and dressed in less than seven hours. She wasn’t about to spend a frostbitten night out in the cold and give herself hypothermia for the sake of avoiding a little embarrassment. She was a fully grown woman; Mulder, a fully grown man. They were both adults here. They could be mature about this.

She knocked, hugging her chest again afterwards.

Mulder opened the door still in his shirt and tie, although his jacket was hung over the desk chair in the corner. The NASA book lay face down, open on the bed. He chewed on one of his infernal seeds.

“You okay, Scully?” he asked, frowning. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Couldn’t get back into my room,” Scully explained, huffing. “I went out for ice and my… the keycard doesn’t work.”

“You should ring the bell for the owners,” Mulder suggested, unhelpfully.

“I did,” Scully said, pointedly. “No answer.” She looked up at him and pressed her lips together apologetically. “Can I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Mulder said, standing back to let her enter. He stood with his back to the door after it was closed. “You can sleep in here; it’s no bother. I’ll crash on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Scully said, perching on the desk. Mulder sat himself on the end of the bed and gazed over at her.

“You cold?” he asked.

Actually, Mulder’s room was as toasty as hers had been, and her toes were already thawing out.

“Warming up,” she said, thankfully.

“Just that you’re… hugging yourself,” he explained, gesturing at her arms, still clamped across her unsecured bosom.

“Oh,” she said, self-consciously, but let her arms drop slowly to her sides, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands for security. “I’m not… wearing very much, is all.”

“Oh,” he echoed softly, his eyes scanning the length of her nightwear all the way to the floor and back up again. Yes, she was certainly feeling some heat once again.

“What you are wearing is… very nice though.” His eyes settled on her own for a few seconds, then flicked down to her breasts, and she inhaled sharply, silently, she hoped in retrospect. When he looked back at her face, her mouth was hanging slightly open, and she caught herself, licking her lips for discipline, her chest heaving. He looked down again.

She felt her cheeks burning, and averted her eyes to the book on the bed, a change of focus for her mind, which was racing with thoughts of candlelight and shower-wet hair, of thermal shirts and platonic supply closet fumblings: Mulder and his fingertips the common denominator in these scenarios.

She forced herself to look back at him. He was comfortably staring now, his face giving nothing away, but she knew he was quite aware she’d seen him appreciating her exposed form. He was leaving this up to her.

She wrestled with her conscience.

She shouldn’t do this. They were partners. It was against Bureau policy. It was unprofessional. It could ruin her career if it ended badly. Worse, it could come between her and Mulder, drive a wedge between them and prise apart their newly cemented friendship.

But…

She thought of Oregon and hands and Alaska and ice, and she knew what she wanted.

You’re hardly a schoolgirl anymore...

She stood up slowly, wordlessly taking a few steps towards Mulder on the bed. Yes, they were both fully grown, and she had some very adult ideas about what they could do together.

She paused one or two paces from his knees, and held his gaze for a moment. She let her lips fall open once more, her breathing labored, and she saw his breath was keeping pace with her own.

She thought of Michelle Generoo, and of her own jealousies and insecurities, and second guessed herself momentarily. She’d always suspected she wasn’t Mulder’s type. Yes, he had moments ago brazenly taken in the sight of her nipples brushing against the silky confines of her pajama top, but he was a red-blooded straight male, and they had been right there, still standing at attention from her time out in the cold. And yes, he was looking at her intently now as she crossed the room, the propulsion of months and months of unverbalized, unresolved sexual tension at her back, but his expression was blank, and he might be nervously wondering how the hell he was going to abort this mission.

There was one way to be sure. He had done his fair share of looking; it was her turn to be brazen.

She dropped her gaze to his lap, seeking a different kind of green light.

In the dim glow coming from the slightly open bathroom door, she found exactly what she was seeking. The bulge that tented Mulder’s pants cast a promising shadow. She was go for launch.

She took another step, and found his eyeline once more.

His pupils were dilated, his lips pillow-soft and pouting, the ridge growing noticeably larger even in her peripheral vision.

She reached down for his left hand and brought it to her breast, pressing it against herself over the pajamas.

“Make me see stars, Mulder,” she whispered, breaking into a lazy smile.

His momentary expression of disbelief gave way to a grin, and he looked up at her with reverence. She let go of his fingers, dropping her arm to her side once again, and his palm moved with feathery softness over her breast, centering her nipple in the smoothest spot, where you’d clutch a baby’s fist, or a prized possession. The heat of his hand radiated through the satin, the friction of skin on fabric even more erotic than direct contact. Their gazes were locked. His mouth fell open a fraction, mirroring hers, and he raised his other hand to work both breasts, his fingers held up and away from her body as he traced circles with her hardened peaks against his deep volar arches. She closed her eyes and moaned, low and soft, letting her head fall backwards. Her knees went limp, and Mulder steadied her with one hand, docking her at the hip.

His grip sent shockwaves to her core, her pulse now strongest between her legs. She knew she was already leaving a damp mark on her pajama bottoms.

She lifted her head back up and looked down at Mulder, still seated on the edge of the comforter. They panted together in the quiet, each awestruck by the other, and Scully reached up to her top button, deftly pushing it through the opening with her delicately manicured fingertips. She did not avert her eyes from Mulder’s as she worked her way down to her waist, finally letting the shirt hang open at the front.

She took his left hand once more and tucked it inside the front panel, his massive palm easily encompassing the entire fleshy mound there. He squeezed her hip gently, cupping her and pulling her towards him at once, guiding her between his knees. Checking her eyes for continued consent, he brushed the center of her shirt to one side and revealed half of her chest to his vision for the first time.

“Oh, Scully,” he said in a hushed voice, and - permission silently granted by Scully’s hungry gaze - lifted his mouth to her nipple and latched on, sucking, circling his tongue around her hot, pink bud. She moaned again and grabbed the back of his head, twisting her fingers into his hair, her nails scratching at his scalp.

His mouth broke contact with her delicately pale skin, and he pushed the satin from her shoulders, letting it whoosh to the floor.

He was gazing up at her again, and she leaned down to kiss him now, finally allowing herself to experience in the flesh that which she had longed for, imagined, fantasized about for some time. Their lips met; wet, fervent, ravenous. Their shared craving drew them together, suctioning them to one another at the mouth as though they could consume one another entirely, and meant to. His salted breath mingled with her own, and their tongues tangled and danced. He ran his hand up her naked back, and her breasts pressed against his collarbone.

He pulled away, and she held the side of his face tightly to her bare chest, breathless, eyes closed.

“Scully,” he ventured, “are you sure about this?” He looked up at her with his soft, beautiful, hazel eyes. She didn’t know what had possessed her for so long, being able to resist those eyes all these months.

She straightened up, and took his hand once again, reaching behind herself to slide it down the back of her waistband, over her rounded ass, and into the molten cleft of her body. She spread her thighs as his fingers found her desire, parting and probing her on their voyage of discovery. He dipped a single digit inside her body, and she exhaled on a low moan.

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she murmured, smiling again. “Take me to the moon and back.”

He relaxed a little, his shoulders dropping, “Oh is that the game?” he teased, “Space puns?”

She shrugged playfully.

He smiled wide at her, or she thought he did; it was hard to see with her eyelashes fluttering closed. Her head dropped back once more as he pumped into her, his thumb resting fortuitously against the base of her perineum, that dark, forbidden, blissful spot. She felt alive, animal, raw. She let her breath come out ragged, allowed her rasps and moans to escape unbridled. Mulder paused his efforts for a second or two, leaving two fingers curled inside her, using his free hand to yank down her pajama pants. She helped, kicking them loose from her ankles as he grabbed a handful of her ass with his spare hand and pulled her toward the bed, reclining face up on the mattress and encouraging her to crawl on her knees up to his shoulders and sit back. Only then did he remove his fingers from inside of her, and her body sucked at them as he did, protesting their departure.

Scully was giddy with want, and Mulder looked up at her just then with such veneration that her heart burst with renewed affection for him. She’d never been made to feel more worthy in her life. This was so Mulder. She had not specifically realized it before, but this was how he often made her feel, in his best moments.

At the insistence of his hand pressing gently on her lower back, his fingers sticky with her own yearning, she lowered her sex to his mouth.

As soon as his velvet tongue met her clit, she cried out, almost lifting herself up on her knees at the shock of it. He held her steady, lapping at her hardened bundle of nerves with the flat of his tongue, softly at first, then applying more and more pressure as she sunk further down onto him, his chin pressing up into her heat, her slick juices gliding her inner walls against his light stubble. Oh Jesus, it was divine, and she called out his last name as she rode his face, her breath hitching in her throat as her trajectory was set to climax.

Scully chanced a glance downwards and saw that he was watching her in her ecstasy.

She was wanted. She was valued. She was enough.

She smiled down at him, not halting her movements, and reached up to pinch her own nipples with her dainty, expert hands. Mulder groaned his pleasure into her body, sucking and licking and holding her down so she could not get away.

“Fuck,” she gasped, and was lost; her face lifted to the heavens, her body and mind spinning and soaring in concupiscent formation, her voice clamorously invoking two thirds of the Trinity with various, stertorous monikers as she rocketed into her own private orbit.

Mulder massaged her hips and kept his chin tilted up into her as she twitched and panted and called out for God, and she felt her inner muscles contracting around his way-past-five-o-clock shadow. The humid air of his heavy breath rushed from his nose, tickling her pubic mound as his lips remained clamped over the hood of her clitoris. She exhaled the last of her shudders and sat back on her haunches, resting on his solid pectorals, running her tongue over her lips, wetting them with exhausted delight. Mulder’s chin glistened in the dim room, drenched, and she laughed, reaching down to wipe him off.

He let her, but then caught her by the wrist and held her soaked palm against his mouth, kissing it, hard, and smearing the residue of her arousal all over his lips once again. He licked them clean, unblinking.

She buried her face in her other hand and laughed shyly.

Mulder chuckled along with her, resting his hands on her still-spread thighs, his thumbs dipping close to her parted labia. She bit her lower lip and looked him in the eye once again, unable to hide her happiness.

“Luckily, out here, no one can hear you scream,” he joked, a question in his eyes suggesting he was worried he might not get away with this, and she pushed him away teasingly but giggled as she climbed off the bed. She picked up her pajama pants from the floor.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Mulder asked her as she stood up.

“I’ll be right back,” Scully responded, flinging the bottoms over her shoulder and sauntering off to the bathroom, looking back at him to make sure he was getting a good look at her receding form. “Don’t move.”

She glanced down at the enormous bulge in his pants once again, and knew she needn’t worry. He wouldn’t be going anywhere with that thing.

She returned a few minutes later, now wearing the satin pants, and sporting a dark gleam in her eye as she crept across the carpet towards him. When she reached the bed, he leaned up on his elbows and reached for her to pull her onto the bed, but she shook her head. Instead, she reached for his belt buckle and deliberately undid it, sliding the leather through the metal loop before reaching for his fly. As she unzipped his pants, Mulder lifted his hips, and his erection bounced up, pushing the flaps of the zipper to either side, straining against his boxer briefs. This was one shuttle she wouldn’t mind watching blast off, and she was ready to fire up the booster rockets.

She helped him remove his pants, then tugged at the waistband of his underwear. He removed it and lay himself back down on the bed, looking almost anxious.

“Mulder,” she reassured him. “Relax; I want this. I want you.” She whispered the last part, lowering herself to kneel at the foot of the bed.

His manhood loomed large, worryingly large for such a petite person, but Scully had never met a challenge she didn’t want to face. And face it she did; this hard, quivering invitation to wantonness inches from her mouth. He smelled like the Mulder she had come to know, only stronger here; that musky, spicy pheromone blend that brought her to her knees - now, finally, literally - and she breathed him in with abandon.

She gripped him in her hand, taking his tip into her mouth, sweeping her tongue around the head of his cock as he exhaled forcefully. She slid her closed palm up and down the base of his shaft, letting her saliva drip down to lubricate her ministrations, then working him further into her jaws so that the top of his penis rubbed just against her soft palate. She bobbed her head against him. He filled her mouth easily, and she thought of all the times she’d surreptitiously stolen a glance at his lap. Her curiosity had been satisfied, and then some. He was every bit as big as she’d always suspected, and her small oral cavity made for a snug fit as she worked him into a frenzy on the bed.

He clutched at the covers and murmured her name, encouraging her efforts all the while. He slowed her at one point, just managing to explain through his moans that he wanted to enjoy it a little longer, but his thighs were soon flexing again and she accelerated her pumping with her fist, sucking a little harder, working the tip of her tongue against his popping veins.

Mulder reached out and grabbed at her shoulder, clumsily pushing her back. “T-minus... T-minus five seconds and… and counting…” he sputtered, and she risked another tongue swirl, another deep thrust towards her throat.

“Scully!” Mulder choked out, and she pulled her mouth away. She kept her hand in place and he wrapped his own around it, working his erection skillfully as he delivered his impressive payload over their ten conjoined fingers and down onto his stomach. A coy smirk plastered itself across Scully’s face as he collapsed back onto the bed.

She raised herself from the floor, rolling her neck from side to side, and grabbed the box of tissues that was sitting on the nightstand. She held them out and sat on the mattress, one foot tucked under the opposite thigh, her breasts sitting proudly on her chest with the pert insouciance of youth.

Mulder cleaned himself up and aimed the balled up tissues at the wastebasket, missing. He sighed, but didn’t get up, so Scully laughingly dragged herself over and retrieved the errant missiles, dropping them into their intended target. She returned to the bed and lay herself down in the crook of Mulder’s arm.

He kissed her temple, a peck, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then lifted her chin with one finger so that he could plant a full kiss on her mouth. She breathed in the scent of herself on his lips, their musky scents intermingling on both their tongues.

“Wow Scully,” he smiled. “That was fun.”

She nodded, grinning herself.

“Although, it was a bit of a close encounter, if you know what I mean,” he said, and she buried her face in his shoulder and laughed, any residual worries she’d had about this changing the fundamental nature of their relationship flying away on her huffing breath and disappearing into the vacuum of the mattress.

Mulder lifted his head. “Oh god, it’s past two,” he announced. He must have been checking the display on the alarm clock. “You should get some sleep Scully; you gotta drive us down to the Space Center in the morning.”

“Hey, it’s your turn,” she whined, sitting up and pulling the covers back to climb beneath. Her pajama shirt lay forgotten on the floor. Tornadoes and fires be damned, she’d already had her ABSOLUTE EMERGENCY for the night. It was too hot for more clothes, especially with Mulder’s intense body heat so close. And she did intend to hold him close tonight. And other nights, if he wanted her.

“Talk about a waste of taxpayer’s money, Scully,” Mulder droned, sitting up and shaking himself alert. “The two of us sharing a motel room while another sits empty.”

“Oh,” Scully replied sleepily. “Believe me, I’m demanding a refund on my room.”

“Demanding a refund, Scully?” Mulder queried, now folding his pants and setting them on the chair by his suit jacket. “You weren’t happy with the level of service you just received?”

She squinted one eye open to look at him. “Mmm, you? You did good, Mulder. I’ll be sure to leave a generous tip for you at check out.” She patted the mattress next to her.

“I’ll be right there,” he assured her, disappearing off into the bathroom.

She was asleep before he even turned out the light.

***

Scully had witnessed Mulder ejaculating for the first time at the Spring Creek Mercury Motorlodge, but she genuinely worried she might see an impromptu repeat performance when they arrived at the Space Center the following morning. Walking to their meeting, they bantered for the benefit of their NASA escort, Mulder practically bouncing off the walls and once again bombarding her with facts and figures.

“You remember all that stuff?” she asked, wearily, suppressing a yawn.

“You never wanted to be an astronaut when you were a kid, Scully?”

“Guess I missed that phase,” she sighed, mouthing ‘adult diapers’ at him behind their guide’s back.

She couldn’t help but make fun of him for his adulation of Lt. Belt, either. “Didn’t you want to get his autograph?” she teased as they left the Space Shuttle Program Director’s office, and when Mulder caught up with her he tapped her lightly on the ass in retaliation.

At some point in the afternoon, Mulder slunk off and made some phone calls, and when they drove to their accommodation after the successful launch that evening, it wasn’t the motel Scully had booked but a ritzy hotel with bellhops and room service. They finally made it back there in the middle of the night, following the complications with the mission and Lt. Belt’s questionable press conference.

At the reception desk, Mulder retrieved two keys, but when he held one out to Scully and she grasped her forefinger and thumb around it, he didn’t let go. She looked up to meet his smoldering gaze.

“What’s the matter Houston; do we… have a problem?” She managed to keep a straight face, just about.

“What do you say we waste some more taxpayer’s money tonight, Scully?” he grinned, his voice hushed, seductive. “Maybe we can cross... the final frontier?”

She halfheartedly rolled her eyes at his pun, but her insides were already aflame. She drew her mouth into a tight, shy smile, and nodded her agreement.

nb. I want everyone to know that I watched the Falcon 9 launch and I managed to refrain myself from using the phrase ‘good orbital insertion’ in this fic. And that was a struggle.

AO3 link here.

#xfsmut2020 #mulder and scully #mulder #scully #the x files #x files #x files fanfic

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