#gritting my teeth white knuckle gripping the edge of the table. Yeah No Its Fine.

[ispyspookymansion]

BOO!

oh sorry….come in…..hello…welcome to my halloween party ^_^ feel free to take a piece of candy and a goodie bag before you go okay? have a fun (and nostalgic) halloween season!!

#seems like many people related to this i hope some of yall click the og post now <3 #originally this post said i dont need therapy i need to be 8 years old at halloween again #kora.txt #gritting my teeth white knuckle gripping the edge of the table. Yeah No Its Fine. #the things i will never experience again haunt me… #8 is arbitrary. anything before like. 15. would work.

[petri808]

i came across mashima's nalu art again where natsu was helping lucy study so if youre open for nalu requests could you do one where lucy is studying and natsu decides to distract and help her relax for a bit by yk doing it😏

Hi again Nony. I’ll do this request but afterwards I won’t be taking anymore nalu requests for now. Thanks 😊

@thenaluarchive Sinfully Nalu Fantasy prompt

One of Lucy’s deeper fantasy’s was to do something in public, although she’d told Natsu about it, she never expected him to act on it…

By 8pm, Natsu was getting worried about his girlfriend Lucy. Finals were coming up in a couple of weeks, and she’d been studying non-stop trying to cram. This night wasn’t different from the last several in a row, so he went looking and sure enough, found her tucked away in a quiet upstairs corner of the University’s library hunched over a book. The library was only open for another hour, and it was mostly barren of students or staff sticking to the lower level.

“Lucy, why don’t we head home for the night, huh? It’s late and you’re gonna give yourself a headache if you keep stressing like this.”

“I’m fine, Natsu, almost done with this chapter and I’ll come home.”

He sat down beside her as his eyes kept look out, leaning close to keep his voice down. “You’re not fine. I can tell,” massaging her shoulder as he spoke. “Look how tense you are. Do I need to remind you what happens when you stress?”

“What?”

“Your hippocampus shrinks,” he tapped her head lightly. “And your memory is affected.”

“Pfft. Where’d you learn that?”

“Neuroscience.”

Lucy sighed. “Regardless, I need to cram and ace this test— you know that.”

“Taking a break won’t hurt you. And I’d be happy to help you relax.”

She stopped writing and turned to him. “Oh, I bet you would mister. But I’m not going home until closing.”

“Fine,” he shrugged with a grin. “I can work with that.” Natsu then shifted and moved Lucy in her chair so he could slide in behind her.

“What are you—”

“Shhh,” he silenced her. “Remember that fantasy you mentioned?”

“Yeah…”

He pulled her onto his lap and let her legs dangle over his thighs.

Lucy turned her head. “Natsu, this is—”

“Excuse me ma’am please keep your voice down in the library.” Natsu shifted her face back forward. “Focus on your studying.” He then rested his head on her shoulder, with one arm around her waist for control, sliding the other hand under her skirt.

Lucy sucked in a breath of air. “Oh my god…”

“Your… fantasy…” he whispered. “Now go back to studying.”

She swallowed hard as she picked up the pen, chanting in her head to focus on the book in front of her. But as his fingers moved over the cotton panties, Lucy knew damn well studying would be that last thing on her mind and simply prayed no one would walk in. Thank goodness, she’d picked a cubby with her back to a wall! Natsu’s deft fingers toyed and rubbed circles over her clit through the dampening fabric. Each soft sigh and increased wispy exhales fueling his passes— oh, how he knew just what buttons to push! She gripped harder to the pen and kept her face down to mimic studying, but below the table line her legs clenched around his thighs and every time Lucy tried to bring them together, Natsu swiftly and easily held them down.

“No, no,” he kissed the nape of her neck softly. “I’ll let you go once you cum for me.”

“You just w-wait till I can get you back!” She seethed through gritted teeth, though there was no malice in her tone.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Natsu jested in return as he licked his fingers and slipped his hand under the waistband of her panties.

“Natsu… no…”

“Natsu, yes.” He gave her a moment to truly stop his ministrations, but when her hands stayed tethered to her pen and book, it prompted him to continue. “You are so wet,” Natsu whispered as he resumed toying with her clit. “And so hot for me.”

“It’s not fair I’m the only one suffering,” Lucy whimpered. Now that he’d successfully riled her up, she wanted so much more than just being teased like this. Might as well enjoy it.

“What do you suggest?”

Lucy lowered her head further as she whispered. “Let him in.” For that would add to the pressure.

Now that surprised Natsu for sure. He chuckled an okay, then unzipped his shorts, lowered his boxers, and pulled out his hardened dick through the opening. Next, Lucy sat up slightly allowing him to shift her into place and slide in through the leg opening of her panties, using her skirt to cover up what they were truly up to. They both groaned silently at the enraptured feeling it brought, conjoined, filled, and satisfied.

“You know I’ll want to finish at home,” Natsu pointed out.

“We’ll see,” Lucy jested. “Now make me cum.”

“Brat,” he chuckled. “Go back to studying.”

As if to return his taunting, Lucy shimmied her hips for a second as she picked up the pen and pretended to go back to her cramming. Natsu clenched his jaw to keep from making a sound. Oh, this woman! She won’t be so smug for long.

He returned to what he’d been doing, rubbing and playing, rolling her clit between his fingers, and running his fingers through her folds. Natsu kept his forehead on her shoulder to hide his facial expressions but couldn’t hide the uptick of his breathing as he let himself be engulfed by this fantasy. It was hard, he couldn’t lie, to simply sit still like this, so he slowly started rocking his hips.

“No, no big boy.” Lucy tightened her legs around his thighs, and feet around the chair legs to make it harder for him to move. The move caused her inner muscles to tighten around his cock too.

“You brat!”

Lucy giggled. “I love you too.”

“Tch.” The wasn’t gonna stop him. “You asked for it.”

Natsu made several more passes with his fingers, pulling silent sighs and whimpers as they expertly fiddled with her clit, paying close attention to her reactions, knowing, waiting until her breathing increased. Lucy had dropped the pen and gripped onto the edge of the desk instead— it was his cue. In that moment, his pointer and middle fingers slipped down and carefully pushed their way inside her next to his own cock.

Lucy’s head jerked and back arched before catching herself and hunching over again. “Oh my god.”

“Sorry, my name is Natsu.”

“Ass!” She seethed.

“Love you too,” he teased with a kiss to her shoulder. His free hand gripped to her thigh for leverage as his fingers pumped steadily in and out, and his thumb was left rubbing on her clit in parallel timing. Bonus point for pleasuring his own cock along the way.

Lucy held her breath, the knuckles on her fingers turning white as she used every ounce of willpower not to make a sound. The heated coil brewing between her thighs rose, tightened… her hips moving unconsciously to chase his fingers, but his hand did its best to keep her from moving too much so the chair wouldn’t make noise. Lucy’s body coiled down closer to the desk as she clamped her mouth shut to stifle her whimpers. The combination of his dick rubbing slightly against her opening and his fingers pumping in and out— heaven help her, Lucy’s thighs stiffened as the orgasm hit. She bit down on the back of her hand, but a few muffled moans leached through.

“Shhh, someone’s gonna hear.”

But she couldn’t help it. “S-Stop,” Lucy begged through each heated wave as she reached down and grabbed for his hand. “S-stop, please.” It was time to tap out.

Natsu heeded her request and pulled his fingers away. His cock was still buried inside, but all movement had ended. He kissed her shoulder. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah…” Lucy answered, though her labored breathing was still coming down. “It felt so good, but I hope no one heard us.”

“I didn’t see anyone come up stairs.” Natsu turned her head so he could kiss her lips. “But we should get out of here just in case.”

“Mmm,” she hummed and sat up, freeing him.

The couple quickly straightened out, making a quick stop at the restroom before heading home.

“So, you know I’m still gonna get my finish, right?” Natsu teased as they walked along the sidewalk.

Lucy squeezed his hand and smirked. “Then I suggest you walk faster.”

“Tch!” Natsu laughed, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. She didn’t have to tell him twice!

#nalu #nalu smut #nalu au #natsu dragneel #lucy heartfilia #sinfully nalu #prompt fantasy #nalu Drabble #nalu fanfiction #nalu fan fic #smut fic #fairy tail

[kissinginkitchens]

You Bring Me Home—Chapter Seven: How Sweet It Is

a/n: Welcome back friends! Thank you again for tuning in for another chapter of YBMH. It has been so much fun to talk to you lovelies and hear your thoughts, so keep them coming! I have to give a very special thank you to the wonderful @duckyficrecs​ for all of the love and amazing commentary so far, I really appreciate you!! Happy reading! Much love, Mel <3

Pairing: Hawai’i!Harry x Original Character

Warnings: unrealistic standards of men (sorry) 

Word Count: 6.8k

catch up on parts one, two, three, four, five, and six

Alani’s eyes peel open and she squints at the clock on the bedside table that reads 8:53 a.m. The sun creeps in gently behind the thin curtains, casting the room in a soft, warm glow that pales in comparison to the light inside her chest. As she inhales deeply, the arm strapped across her midsection rises, but it doesn’t budge. Alani turns over carefully to face Harry still sound asleep with a light snore escaping from his parted lips. She fondly observes every detail of his serene features, from the tiny freckles atop his cheekbones to the curl of his eyelashes. As her finger glides along the slope of his nose and the indentation of his cupid’s bow, Harry stirs lightly and his arm tightens around her waist with a contented sigh. Alani drapes her leg over his hip and presses a feathery kiss to the middle of his brow that causes the edges of his sleepy mouth to twitch. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” she coos and Harry’s eyes flutter open slowly. 

“Mornin’ beautiful,” he replies with a deep rasp in his voice. 

She massages his scalp gently and he hums, planting a sweet kiss to the spot just over her heart. 

“Y’hungry?” Harry murmurs against her skin. 

Alani’s stomach growls in response and they both giggle. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,”

“Need a shower first,” she decides, sitting up. 

Harry groans at the loss of contact, but he manages to secure a hand around her wrist. “Ten more minutes,”

“Nice try,”

“Five?”

Alani grins before burrowing under the covers again with her cheek fit snugly against Harry’s chest. His knuckles skim over her arm as he fights the drowsiness weighing on his eyelids. 

“Did y’dream anything?” he mumbles. 

“I did,” she admits apprehensively. “But I don’t know if you’re gonna like it,”

“Why not?”

“Well, I sorta dreamt that I was married to James Marsden—the guy from The Notebook,”

Harry laughs gently. “Lucky bastard,”

“What about you?” Alani deflects, peering up at him with curious eyes. “Any dreams?”

“Not really. But I did wake up a few times in the middle of the night ‘cos you were hogging all the blankets,”

“I get cold!”

“Uh-huh.”

Alani presses her chilly toes against Harry’s shins and he grimaces, peeling himself out of the bed to escape her icy touch. With a self-satisfied chuckle, she swings her legs over the edge of the mattress and slips away to the ensuite bathroom, chin held high as Harry trails close behind. 

********

Harry digs out a faded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from his closet for Alani to borrow, and although it’s a small gesture, the sight of her in his own clothing fills his entire body with euphoria. He holds out a white t-shirt with the Volkswagen logo on it and a pair of grey sweatpants that she accepts gratefully. While she slips into his clothes, Harry puts on a pair of running shorts and a black hoodie with the image of Earth and the words “Spice World” on the front. Next, he digs through his drawers and produces a red bandana that is used to keep the damp hair out of his face, but Alani has already braided her wavy locks before he can find a similar garment for her. Harry extends a hand and Alani interlocks her fingers with his as they set out for breakfast. 

“Why don’t you go pick out some tunes?” He suggests when they reach the kitchen. “There’s a record player in the living room,”

Alani wiggles her brows and gives him a quick peck before venturing out ito the other room. Her eyes immediately land on a wall full of vinyls, and she excitedly browses them with delicate fingers. The Zombies, Bill Withers, and Sam Cooke are among the first in the collection, but her eyes widen when she spots a familiar blue cover. Joni, she gasps, pulling the record out of its sleeve. Alani quickly switches the player on and navigates the needle over the first track on the disk, turning the volume up and filling the room with the sound of a folk guitar. Harry’s ears perk up in the other room and the music brings a wide grin to his face. A few moments later, Alani reemerges in the kitchen, her hips swaying; she reaches out for Harry’s hands, which are occupied with the switches on the stovetop and a carton of eggs. He puts it down and gives Alani a twirl, which elicits a playful giggle that tugs on his heartstrings. His hands settle around her waist while her arms weave around his neck. They sway for a moment, hips flush with one another, before another soft kiss is exchanged. 

“Looks like I don’t need a ‘kiss the cook’ apron after all,” Harry jokes lightly, their noses still touching. 

Alani rolls her eyes with a scoff. “You haven’t made anything yet,”

“That’s because a certain dancing queen keeps distracting me,”

“Fine,” she starts to pull away but Harry immediately ropes her back in. 

“Not yet,” he smirks, lifting her with a quick spin. Alani shrieks and her arms tighten around his neck. 

“I see the lovebirds are up,” Mitch grumbles, the heel of his hand rubbing his tired eyes. 

The pair conceal their laughter and put a bit of space between each other, though Harry instantly misses Alani’s touch. 

“Morning, Mitch,” she says sweetly. 

The guitarist forces a smile on his face and reaches inside the fridge for a bottle of water. “Morning,” he returns, padding back to the hallway. “And keep it down, you crazy kids. Some of us are hungover and not in the lovesick way.”

Alani’s cheeks flush. “Sorry, mom.”

Harry snickers and he returns to the stove with a gentle shake of his head. 

They scarf their breakfasts down with legs woven together under the table and fingers interlaced. While their meals are identical, they take turns feeding off of each other’s plates and stealing sips of the other person’s drink. Harry feigns annoyance over the spilt orange juice on the t-shirt that he lent to Alani, though a part of him hopes it will leave a stain as a subtle reminder of this moment. It amazes the both of them just how quickly they had fallen into a shared rhythm, as if breakfast was a sacred ritual engraved into their muscle memory. But despite the natural ease that comes with each other’s presence, there is an impending sense of dread looming over Alani and Harry’s heads about the inevitable end to their domestic bliss. 

“I should probably get back soon,” she sighs, thinking of her younger sister waiting alone at the house. 

His stomach turns. “Do you have to?”

“Afraid so. Need to check on Pua and Freddie,”

Harry nods with a small sigh and collects both of their plates. “‘Kay,”

Alani follows him into the kitchen and her arms delicately wrap around his torso from behind when they reach the sink. “Are you upset?” she asks timidly. 

Harry’s heart cracks, racked with guilt over his petty behavior. It wasn’t her fault that she had to leave eventually, and it wasn’t right to take his disappointment out on her. He turns his back to their dishes and presses a light kiss to the tip of her nose. 

“No,” Harry assures her with a soft, dimpled smile. “Could never be upset with my sweet girl. Just gonna miss you.”

Alani’s chest stirs at his words and she slots her needy lips between his. Now that they had tasted a little less than twenty-four uninterrupted hours together, being apart for more than one moment seemed near impossible. Harry’s fingers slip inside the back of her shirt, and his nails gently graze the outline of her spine with a sly grin. 

“I don’t think I’ll have what she’s having,” Jeff teases, sifting through a bowl of fruit on the counter. Harry grits his teeth and makes a mental note to plot revenge on all of his friends later. 

“Good morning,” Alani offers shyly, pulling away from his warm touch. 

Jeff smiles and waves with a banana in hand. “Buenos días. Always good to see you, Alani.”

“You too,”

He whistles a cheerful tune and roams into the living room, leaving the pair alone again. 

“I think we better go before we get caught.” Alani jokes weakly.  

********

The Range Rover pulls up slowly in front of Alani’s house and Harry’s grip on her hand tightens as he puts the car into park. 

“Where’re your parents?” he wonders aloud, reaching in the backseat for a spare bag that Alani can use to carry her clothes in. 

“Mom had a big surgery this weekend, so she stayed at the hospital to keep an eye on her patient. Dad is in California on this chef’s weekend trip with, like, Guy Fieri or something. Just me and Pua until tomorrow night,”

Harry hums, watching her stuff her belongings into the bag. “You working?”

“Yeah, I close tonight,”

Damn, he swears to himself. There go his plans. “What’re you doing until then?”

Alani shrugs with her hand already on the door handle. “Chores, I guess. You?”

“Probably nothing,” Harry sighs. “Missing you.”

She grins and presses an affectionate peck to his cheek. “Ditto, sunshine. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

“I won’t miss it.” The new pet name makes his stomach twist, but the butterflies quickly turn to stones when she slips out of the car. 

Alani begrudgingly treks down the stone pathway when she hears loud music coming from the car behind her. Turning quickly, she spots Harry peeking over the roof of the SUV with the song “Baby Don’t Go” by The Supremes blaring from his speakers. She shakes her head playfully and blows him a kiss before retreating back to her house; He catches it in his palm and presses his palm to his lips. The song is still playing softly when Alani closes the door and she momentarily considers throwing all caution to the wind by inviting him inside. 

“I’d ask how your night went, but I think half the block knows that answer now,” Pua smirks with arms crossed as she descends the stairs. 

Alani offers a sheepish smile and clutches Harry’s bag to her chest. “Morning,”

“Are those his clothes?” her sister questions. 

“Yeah,”

“Okay that’s really sweet, actually,”

Alani shuffles through the house to make sure that everything is still in one piece and Pua follows close behind, anxious for all of the details about her older sister’s date. “So I wanna hear everything, but you can spare me the making out parts,” she insists. 

“What? Harry didn’t give you the rundown already?” Alani pokes. “I’m assuming you’re the one who told him about Angelo’s,”

“It may have come up once—casually, of course,” Pua admits. 

Alani rolls her eyes playfully, but the confirmation that Harry had conspired with her sister melts her heart. “Well then, I guess I owe you some thanks for a perfect night,”

“It was all his idea,” Pua maintains with her hands raised in surrender. “But it was? I mean, really perfect?”

“Straight out of a movie,”

“He has that way about him, doesn’t he?”

Alani’s mouth curls gently. She couldn’t describe Harry’s allure better if she tried. “He really does,”

“I can’t believe it,” Pua muses with a starry look in her round eyes. “My sister is dating the Harry Styles. I can practically hear the millions of hearts shattering over the news,”

Out of all the thoughts running through Alani’s mind these days, the public’s response to her blossoming relationship with Harry was apparently last on that list. Fame hardly seemed to be the focal point of his life given how little he had to say on the subject, thus it was easy to forget that he was, in fact, a celebrity, especially when they were alone. But despite his reluctance to open up about stardom, it’s a conversation that Alani figures she should prepare for. 

“Speaking of,” she begins, making her way upstairs. “What are his fans like? You know, what should I expect?”

Pua considers it for a moment, searching for the right words. “Passionate I guess. Loyal,”

“And they’re all in love with him?”

“Can you blame them?”

Alani chuckles lightly and her chest swells as she reflects on her growing feelings for Harry. While she had initially wanted to believe that he was no different from any other guy, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stand by that judgement. His immense thoughtfulness was evident long before he had whisked her away for the evening of her dreams. Afterall, what famous person willingly agrees to help a stranger with their homework? And then there was Harry’s boyish charm and tenderness that no leading man in any romantic comedy seemed to rival in Alani’s opinion. Could never be upset with my sweet girl, his words echo. 

“No,” Alani exhales, her throat tightening with a sudden sense of longing. “I really can’t,”

Pua squeals and envelops her sister in a warm embrace. “God, I’m really so happy for you both. My favorite singer and my favorite sister,”

Alani hugs her sister tight and it temporarily quells the ache left by Harry’s absence. “Me too.”

“But if he hurts you, I will kill him.”

********

“Hey Harry, what do you think about Maui?” Jeff proposes, typing into his phone. “The resort’s got a private pool for every room,”

Harry blinks with a faint smile still on his lips. “For what?”

“Next weekend, maybe. Glenne and Jenny are thinking of meeting us there,”

The thought of going an entire weekend away from Alani makes Harry’s brows furrow. He was going on just five hours now and it was complete torture.

“Can’t,” he says quickly. “I’ve got—”

“You can bring Alani,” Jeff reassures him with a knowing smirk. “But you two gotta promise you’ll socialize,”

Harry blushes and his chest aches at the sound of her name. “I’ll ask,”

“Don’t make me say it,” Mitch threatens from the sound booth. Harry’s head tilts, challenging his friend to continue. The drummer clears his throat and coughs into his closed fist. “Whipped,” 

“You’re just jealous that your girlfriend couldn’t make the trip ‘cos  she’s too busy being a badass rockstar,” Harry shoots back coolly. 

“So we’re dropping the g-word, huh?” 

The singer casts his eyes down at the guitar in his lap and fiddles with the strings to occupy his hands. “Dunno,”

“He’s got it bad,” Tom teases, turning to Jeff Bhasker with a dramatic outstretched hand. “Alani, my dearest, how could I ever live without you?” 

“Oh, Harry.” Jeff raises his voice a pitch. 

Tom drops to his knee, clutching Jeff’s hand to his chest, and the group erupts into laughter. “Say you’ll be mine at once!”  

Harry relinquishes a shy smile and a dry laugh at his friends’ antics in an effort to be a good sport. “Very funny. Oscars for you both.”

 His idle fingers continue strumming the guitar gently as everyone else dissolves into their own conversations. The  phone balanced on his thigh pings, and though the notification has nothing to do with Alani, Harry decides to check in. 

Harry: How’s the weather?

He can’t think of anything particularly witty to say, but the mere action of sending her a message keeps him from dissolving into a puddle on the floor. 

Alani: Google is free, you know

Harry: Ouch. Trying to tell you that I miss you here :(

Alani giggles at Harry’s clingy show of affection. Truth be told, she also misses him deeply and resents the fact that she has to work instead of staying snuggled into his side all day. The smell of his shampoo lingers in her hair and it twists the knife deeper. She decides to snap a silly photo of herself, eyes crossed, and sends it off to him. 

Alani: Missing you too, my little pocket of sunshine ☀️

Harry’s heart nearly bursts from his chest when he opens the attachment, and his cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. He quickly saves the photo to his phone before setting it as his lock screen. 

Harry: My god you’re going to be the death of me

Alani: The feeling is mutual 

It takes less than five minutes of admiring the photo for Harry to decide that he can’t go any longer without the real thing. 

Harry: What time does your shift start?

Alani: 5 minutes 

Swiping his wallet and keys, Harry slips out of the studio without another word. 

********

Alani ties her hair up and adjusts her apron as she heads out into the busy restaurant. She quickly falls into a rhythm of taking orders, clearing tables, and filling drinks while the minutes in her eight hour shift tick by. Before she knows it, an hour has already passed and her mind is completely occupied with her guests, but a familiar voice sticks out among the buzz of it all. 

“Excuse me, miss?” Harry pipes up from the counter, a bouquet of sunflowers emerging from behind his back. “Think these are for you,”

Alani fights back a smile, but it’s no use. She accepts the flowers gratefully and raises them to her nose.

“Why, thank you. They’re beautiful,”

“They’ve got nothing on you,” he suggests, leaning in closer over the counter. His eyes dart to her lips in silent prayer, but Alani clears her throat and scans the busy scene around them. 

“Can I get you something?”  

Harry peruses the menu with a serious dent between his brows. “Hmm sure, I think I’ll have the Chef’s Salad—dressing on the side—a lemonade, and a kiss,”

Alani smirks, accepting the menu from his hand. “The kiss is extra,”

“Make it two, then,” he offers expectantly, but she shakes her head in disapproval. 

“Kissing the waitresses isn’t allowed,”

“Well what if I don’t wanna kiss a waitress?” Harry counters. “What if I wanna kiss my…” 

He intentionally trails off to read Alani’s reaction, but she suddenly feels flustered by the implications of his statement and turns on her heel to put in his order. “I’ll go get your lemonade.”

“Alaniii.” he complains, watching her back away. She shoots him a wink over her shoulder and darts into the kitchen to avoid his further protests. 

The afternoon rush gradually subsides after another hour of Alani racing around the restaurant. Eventually, as she heads back to the counter to refill two iced teas, Harry catches her attention again and holds up his own glass. “I think something was missing in my lemonade,”

She frowns. “What was it?”

“Some sugar,” he replies with a mischievous grin. “Have any to spare?”

Alani rolls her eyes playfully, but before she can quip back with something clever, one of her co-workers calls her to the kitchen. Harry slumps in his seat and picks at an olive on his plate. 

Two more hours go by and he silently watches Alani dart from table to table, hunched over a journal splayed in front of him. Alani’s eyes repeatedly linger in his direction as the night winds down and she knows without a shadow of doubt that more of his antics await, but she can’t resist wandering over to indulge his advances and her own curiosity. 

“Whatcha working on?” she questions with a quick glance at the page in front of him.

Harry beams, shutting the book and leaning against the counter on his elbows. “More pick-up lines,” 

“I admire your tenacity,” Alani chuckles lightly. “How long are you gonna stick around here?”

“How long you got left?”

“Three hours,”

“Then I’ll have another lemonade.” he says with a flash of his infectious smile. 

Alani swipes his nearly empty cup, but before she retreats to fill it again, her head lowers to his level and she plants a chaste kiss to his eager lips. “Didn’t wanna forget your sugar this time.”

Families come and go and tables are cleared as the sun disappears into the horizon. By the last hour of Alani’s shift, the restaurant is practically dead save for Harry, who eventually migrated from his perch at the counter to a more comfortable booth in the corner. The sight of Alani rolling out her shoulders across the room steals his attention away from his scribbles, so he stands and makes his way over. When his warm fingertips meet her tense muscles, she immediately sinks into the touch. 

“That better?” Harry murmurs, feeling her gradually relax as he works the knots at the base of her neck and shoulders. 

“Yeah,” Alani hums. The relief is instant just like it always is when he’s around. After a moment, she reaches up to where his fingers are pressed against her skin and she spins so they’re standing chest to chest, hands clasped. 

“Hi,” she greets softly. 

“Hiya,”

“I can’t believe you stayed here all day,”

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s better than being at the house missing you. Besides, I got some work done, too, so I’d say it was a success overall,”

The edges of Alani’s mouth turn up and she pulls away slightly with their hands still attached. “Oh yeah? So are you finished with that book of pick-up lines, then?”

“Almost,” Harry laughs airily. “Think it might even be a New York Times Best Seller,”

“Maybe ditch the ‘have any spare sugar?’ one. It’s a bit saccharine, don’t you think?”

“Dunno, that one worked pretty well, if my lips remember correctly.” 

The corners of Alani’s mouth curl and she pulls away with their hands still attached. “Want some pie?”

“What kind?”

“Cherry,” she says, making her way over to the dessert bar. 

“The best kind,” Harry replies, taking his seat. 

Alani cuts out a generous portion and serves it to him. “I’m more of an apple pie girl,”

“A la mode?”

“Definitely,”

“You know,” Harry starts, cutting out a slice with his fork. “I used to work in a bakery,”

“Is that so?” she indulges him, taking a seat on the opposite side of the counter. 

 “Oh yeah. I’m a natural baker, it’s what they all used to say,”

“You’re gonna have to prove it one of these days,”

“Maybe I will,”

Alani rests her chin in her hand and watches Harry finish the rest of his pie, a content glimmer in his eyes. It’s ten minutes to closing time, so she wipes down the counter and starts the routine that she knows all too well. Harry sneaks off to the jukebox and sifts through the selections available, his tongue peeking through the corner of his lips when his eyes land on the perfect song. A gentle piano wafts through the restaurant followed by Diana Ross’ vocals singing a cover of “Bring it On Home to Me.” Alani hums the familiar tune and continues cleaning up before she feels an arm slink around her waist. She stops her work and turns around to face Harry who is singing the lyrics softly. 

“Bring it to me, bring your sweet lovin’, bring it on home to me,”

Alani turns slowly to face him and she watches his strawberry lips carefully, realizing that this is the first time she’s ever heard him sing in person. His voice is low and smooth with just the right amount of grit behind it. She savors the sound, wondering what he would sound like performing his own lyrics before her memory recalls the image of him stooped over his notebook, scribbling something secret. The pair begin to sway gently, Harry still singing as he pulls Alani closer. He slips one hand to hers and lifts it so they’re in the starting position of a waltz. She slips an arm around his neck and her head meets his shoulder, feeling the vibration of his voice against her temple. For the remainder of the song, everything ceases to exist but the two of them: two hearts beating against each other—beating for each other. Harry dips Alani gingerly as the melody begins to fade out and she cranes her neck just enough to grant him another tender kiss. Her lips feel like the first sip of water after a long journey through the desert, and he knows that he will never get enough as he pours every ounce of adoration and longing that he can possibly muster into the kiss. Slowly, he brings her back to standing with their lips still attached before pulling away to catch his breath. 

“I’ve never heard you sing.” Alani murmurs with her heart still racing. “Not like that,”

“I’ve never sung like that before,” he confesses, referring to the emotion behind the lyrics. “Guess I never really had a reason to.”

Alani’s breath hitches. Once again, she finds herself toeing the line between reality and fantasy. It often felt like he was too good to be true and this moment is no exception, but the delicate brush of his fingertips against her arm coaxes her back to the present—and very real— moment. Alani hugs him to her chest to feel the fierce beating of her heart and the drum of her own love song. 

********

“Did that sound weird?”

“Sounded fine to me,”

Harry chews on his lower lip, eyes pinched shut as he locates the correct pitch in his head. “No, it sounded weird. Let’s go again,”

“You got it,” Tom says over the sound system that floods into the recording booth. “Take two of Harry’s untitled thing, rolling,”

“That’s not what we’re calling it on the tape, is it?” 

“We are until you title it,”

Harry releases an amused breath. “Fair enough. Let’s just call it…” he hums and a faint smile creeps across his lips. “Let’s call it Clair de Lune for now.”

Tom scoffs. “Okay Debussy. Take two on Clair de Lune.”

“What does that mean?” Jeff asks, adjusting the levels on the soundboard. 

“It’s French for ‘moonlight,’” Mitch declares. “According to Google Translate.”

Alani peeks inside the back entrance of the dimly lit studio and immediately hears a faint chorus of laughter. She cautiously steps inside and follows the sound down a narrow corridor, treading lightly to go unnoticed. The familiar gaggle of voices grows louder as she reaches the end of the hall and up to the door of the sound booth left slightly ajar. Her head pops in first, index finger raised to her lips, and Jeff silently beckons her inside while Harry and Tom go back and forth over the sound system. 

“It’s fine—”

“—It’s not fine, it’s missing something.”

“So go again, but maybe try head voice instead of falsetto this time.”

Alani observes the scene with her back pressed firmly against the door to remain out of Harry’s sight. His presence at the café earlier in the week had been such a pleasant part of her day that she decided it was her turn to surprise him and show support for his work, which would undoubtedly be more interesting than watching her serve food for hours on end. The impromptu day off cost her a week of doing Pua’s laundry, but it was worth the chance of becoming a fly on the wall in the studio before eventually stealing Harry away for a few hours.

“I think I wanna do a harmony for this bit,” he says finally after a minute of playful bickering with Tom. “Can you send Mitchell in?”

The guitarist flashes two thumbs up through the window and stands, but he makes his way over to Alani, instead, and prompts her to go in his place with a conspiratorial wink. She slips inside the recording booth and Harry casually glances up from his notes, doing a double take and grinning wide when he realizes that it’s her. 

“Sweets,” he beams, hanging up his headphones to scoop her into a tight embrace. 

Alani’s feet hover a few inches from the floor and she giggles into the crook of his neck. “Hi, sunshine,”

“Whatcha doing here?”

“Just wanted to see you,” she admits, pulling away to relish in his dimples and bright eyes. “Well alright, maybe I also planned to kidnap you at some point, too, if that’s okay,”

Harry laughs and plants a kiss to her cheek. “Course it’s okay. Was just about to take a break and head your way, but you beat me to it,”

“Perfect,” Alani smirks. “So I’ll just wait for you to finish up here and then we can head out,”

The singer shakes his head before taking her hand and stepping over to the microphone.

“That’s a wrap for the day. Great work everyone,”

“You don’t have to do that,” she insists. “I can wait—”

“—Well I can’t. I’m dying to see where you’re whisking me off to.” Harry quips back, already escorting her out of the booth with a jaunty spring in his step. 

********

“You can open your eyes now,” Alani bids after putting Stevie into park. 

“Finally,” Harry huffs teasingly. “Missed your face,”

They share a lighthearted kiss before Alani nods to the passenger side window. “Aren’t you curious to know where I dragged you to?”

Harry’s head turns, a cheshire grin spreading across his lips as he catches a glimpse of the sign that reads ‘Akaka Falls State Park. “Hey! Déjà vu,”

“My reason for bringing you here is twofold,” Alani explains, reaching into the backseat for the supplies she had brought along. “I know you’ve been in kind of a writer's rut lately, so I figured some proximity to the falls might help. But I also thought that maybe you could flex your painting skills, too,”

A tote bag full of fresh paint, canvas, and brushes materializes onto the middle console between them and Harry’s eyes light up. He gleefully sifts through the materials before looking back at Alani with a tender expression. “Alani, this is amazing,”

“I want you to draw me like one of your french girls,” she jokes with batted lashes. “Sorry, I’ve been sitting on that one since yesterday,”

Harry’s eyes crinkle with unbridled laughter. “You’re the best,”

“You get me,”

“Well what are we waiting for?” he questions, stepping out of the car and into the fresh air. “We’ve got some masterpieces to create,”

Alani meets him at the hood, and her arm slings across his back as his rests around her shoulders. “Full disclosure: I’m terrible at arts and crafts. I think I was the only ten year old who flunked art class,”

“Nah, I don’t believe it,”

“It’s true!”

“But you’re good at everything,” Harry reasons. “Maybe you’re just one of those artists who weren’t appreciated in their own time.”

Alani scoffs, her gaze occupied with the way their steps fall into sync. “Sure, let’s go with that.”

They venture down the same route as their very first trip to the falls, though this time joined at the hip. The cerulean sky overhead and high summer sun provides the ideal subject for landscape paintings, and though dozens of tourists have also gathered to enjoy the perfect day, Alani and Harry are oblivious to everyone else. His cheeks flush with self-consciousness when she casually mentions the song that she had overheard him working on earlier, and he simply rubs the back of his neck and feigns ignorance when she asks what it’s about. It had always wracked his nerves to let other people hear his music before it was completely finished, but the fact that his current work-in-progress was heavily inspired by Alani only makes him that much more reluctant to share. While her curiosity begs to her to keep prying, she shrugs it off and refocuses on the lush scene before them as they reach Harry’s favorite lookout spot. 

“What’re you gonna paint?” he asks, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration as he picks out his supplies. 

“I don’t know,” Alani ponders. “What about you?”

“Something good—hopefully,”

“Have you ever painted before?”

Harry’s eyes lift to the sky, as if searching the clouds for his answer. “Sure. Loved art class when I was in school. It’s a good way to de-stress,”

“Have any favorite artists?”

“Keith Haring’s pretty great, saw some of his stuff in New York City last time I was there,”

“Oh yeah, he’s incredible,” Alani agrees, mixing some paint on her platter. “Hey, have you ever been to the Louvre?”

Harry nods and the tip of his tongue peeks through the corner of his lip in concentration. “Yes actually, once,”

“Lucky. Paris is definitely on my bucket list,”

“Good to know,” her comment is stored in the back of Harry’s mind for future reference. “Hey sweets, you’ve got something on your face,”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, riiiiight,” Harry leans in, silently dipping his pinky in a dollop of pink paint before pulling back and smearing it across the bridge of her nose. “There,”

“Hey!” she cries. 

Harry throws his head back and laughs. “I don’t know how you didn’t see that one coming,”

“You are such a child,”

“It’s fun, you should try it,”

Alani’s lower lip pouts. “Don’t wanna,”

“Sure you do,” Harry insists, holding out his plate of colors to her. “Go ahead,”

She releases a sharp breath and turns her back to him, strategically dipping her fingers in her own palette out of his sight.

“Sweets,” Harry coos. “Alani, hey, I’m sorry. That was a stupid—” 

Her fingertips meet the side of his face and slide down to his chin, leaving a trail of yellow, orange, and blue. “Oh, sorry. What were you about to say?”

Harry’s mouth hangs agape and he blinks slowly. “You know what, I’ll let that one slide,”

“No you won’t.”

“No I won’t.” 

Alani springs up from the bench and turns to bolt, but Harry’s arms snake around her waist and lift her in the air with one swift move. She shrieks, but she doesn’t fight his grasp and turns to face him instead, offering her puckered lips in surrender. Harry slots their mouths together with a satisfied smirk, but the spirited kiss quickly dissolves into laughter when their teeth collide.  

********

Alani flips her bedroom light on and ushers Harry inside. “Sorry about the mess,”

He steps inside and absorbs every detail, taking note of all the photos and trinkets on display. The walls are a shade of blush, which doesn’t surprise him, and the bed is tucked neatly in the corner under a skylight. String lights dangle along one wall above a desk piled high with books and magazines. A hanging plant in another corner catches his attention, but it’s quickly overshadowed by the presence of her own record player and collection of vinyls. A red, heart shaped rug in the middle of the room ties it all together, and Harry doesn’t think that it could possibly be more Alani. She plops onto the bed with her completed artwork and motions for him to do the same. When he makes himself comfortable, she turns the canvas over with a wiggle of her brows.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s amazing,” Harry applauds, admiring the blobs of colorful shapes that somehow coalesce into a perfectly admirable—yet unidentifiable—piece of art. “What is it?”

“It’s you!”

“Me?”

“Mhmm,” she begins, sitting up straighter to explain. “I really tried to go for the Keith Haring thing, but I added a little bit of my own touch to it. And there’s me too, see? The pink one in the back. And that’s supposed to be a palm tree but it looks kinda like a dude with green hair,”

Harry’s heart soars. “You made us into a Keith Haring?”

“I know it’s not as cool as what he would’ve done, but—”

“—It’s perfect,” he asserts. “I love it,”

Alani beams and she sits back on her heels, setting the painting against her nightstand. “Your turn,”

“Alright, well,” Harry clears his throat. “I also tried to emulate your favorite artist, so hopefully you’ll like it,”

He turns the painting over and a light gasp escapes Alani’s lips. She immediately recognizes the waterfall—the same one from ‘Akaka Falls that they had visited together twice now. Alani had had the slightest inkling that Harry was being modest about his artistic abilities, but she hadn’t quite anticipated this level of skill. 

“Harry,” she starts, breathless. “I don’t even know what to say. This is incredible,”

“It’s no Georgia O'Keeffe, but I did my best,” he offers sheepishly. 

Alani shakes her head with a small laugh. “I kind of hate you for saying that. It’s gorgeous. Blows my stupid kiddie craft out of the water,”

“Hey,” Harry tuts. “I love your painting, it’s so creative,”

“Yeah, well, yours is infinitely better and I love everything about it,” Alani states matter-of-factly, admiring each brushstroke and use of color. “So would it be okay if I—I mean… can I keep it?”

“Course you can, made it for you,”

“You did?”

“Yeah,” Harry admits shyly. “It’s kinda like our spot, you know?”

A wide grin splits across Alani’s lips and she slinks her arms around his neck to bring him closer. “Yeah, I guess it is,”

“And the lookout where we saw that rainbow and had our first kiss,”

“Right,”

“Maybe even the café,”

“The whole island,” Alani hums. “And the sun, and the moon, and the stars,”

Harry smiles softly. “The sun and the moon, eh Mahealani?”

“Funny how life works out like that, isn’t it sunshine?”

next chapter

#harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fluff #harry styles x oc #harry styles writing #harry styles #ybmh #sorry for the delay blame tumblr!!!

[animemangasoul]

I Need to Do Something

Summery: Tim Drake doesn't smile anymore. Damian doesn't like it

Characters: Damian & Tim

Damian didn’t like Drake.  

Truth be told, Damian was sure no one liked Drake. Father probably pitied him and Grayson liked strays. That is probably why Drake was still around.

Damian didn’t like him.  

Drake was inadequate, useless, annoying and thought himself smart when all he ever contributed to conversations were pitiful retorts to protect his damaged pride.  

No, Damian did not like him at all.

Still, pulling Alfred closer to his chest, Damian frowned at the older teen where he sat in the living room talking to Richard. Drake was smiling and nodding to something the other was saying, and after a momentary pause in speech; Grayson watching the younger expectedly, Drake laughs. It’s a short burst of amusement and Richard seem to thrive on it, for he grins widely and leans closer to try and continue whatever meaningless conversation they’d been engaged in.  

But something about the situation didn’t sit right with Damian. Grayson was fine. He was acting like he always did, perhaps a bit more exuberant now that he had Drake’s attention all to himself, but nothing unusual about that behaviour. No, what had Damian on edge was not the older man but the younger of the pair.  

Taking a hesitant step forward; still ensuring he was well hidden behind the door frame, Damian narrowed his eyes, gaze fixed on the sibling he liked the least.

No, what was wrong with this scenario was Drake himself.  

Drake no longer smiled.  

Sure he pretended to, and by Grayson’s reaction it was faked perfectly enough for his brother to fall for it, but Damian knew.... he’d grown up with deception wrapped around him like a second skin. He knew a fake smile when he saw it and there was no mistaking it. Drake did not smile anymore. Not around the manor. Not around Grayson. Not around father.  

He was not sincere.  

Something inside Drake had faded away and while no one seemed to notice this fact, Damian had. He’d noticed and for an absurd reason he couldn’t quiet put his finger on, it bothered him.

Drake no longer smiling, bothered him.

Reaching up to pat Alfred, Damian continued to observe the interactions between the two older vigilantes. Watched as Drake tensed when Grayson ruffled his hair. Watched as for a split second, Drake’s mask of happiness fell and utter blankness took over. Watched as Grayson was nothing but oblivious to the charade. Watched and felt a sense of pain; dull but present, bloom in his chest.

He didn’t like it.  

This would have to stop.  

Drake was unhappy with his current circumstances and it was only a matter of time before Richard caught on and if he did----

Damian found himself shoving away the image of the heartbroken man and blinking away the sudden feeling of desperation clawing at his chest.

Something needed to be done. Damian needed to do something. If Drake could no longer smile with Grayson, perhaps Damian could teach him how to smile again, and then maybe-----

--------

How to Make Someone Smile

Scanning over the suggestions, Damian grimaced at the romantic notion behind some of them. That wasn’t what he was looking for. Scrolling down, he filters through the list until he had separated those that were plausible from those he wouldn’t do in a hundred years.

Satisfied, he picked up his notebook and walked out of his room.  

A couple of suggestions had appealed to him. They were simple enough to execute and if he succeeded, he was sure Drake would be happy again and Richard wouldn’t be disappointed.

Simple enough.

Simple enough.

First order of business, he looked around and there—Leaning down Damian scooped up Alfred. Bringing the purring feline close to his chest and making his way down the stairs.  

Whenever someone needed cheering up, animals were supposed to do the trick. Animals.... Alfred was of course far superior to rest of the feline population around the world, so Damian was certain that a bit of time spent with him would make Drake smile again.

“I’m aware I’m asking a great deal of you,” he muttered to his friend, fingers coming up to run over its fur. “But this is important to father and Richard and I need you to do your best to accomplish this mission.”

Peeking into the living room, he spots Drake once more. Figures..... Drake had been forcing himself to stay put in public areas of the manor. Why? Damian hadn’t quiet figured it out yet, but if ever in need of finding the former allusive vigilante, now on only needed to visit the common rooms of the manor and he would be there. Either working on urgent matters or entertaining the rest of the family's attention; specifically Grayson.

He was never happy while doing it.... in fact, Drake looked pained every time he somehow found himself stuck in a conversation with Richard, but despite his trepidation and his general lies of faked happiness, Drake never walked away.

Perhaps he too was trying to reconnect to the family the same way Grayson was trying to bridge the gap between them? Perhaps Drake was just tired of fighting..... Perhaps Drake didn’t care anymore--

Gritting his teeth, Damian swallowed down the sudden tightness climbing up his throat; fingers shaking slightly where they curled around Alfred. “This is for Grayson, Alfred. For Richard.”

With that he places the cat on the floor and gently shoves him towards Drake. “Go on.”

Alfred does not require much prompting and with a soft whine, he takes off and springs up to Drake’s surprised figure. Jumping on top of him with no care in the world; loud meows escape past his mouth.

Drake does not know what to do at first, laptop held gingerly above his head where he’d managed to save it out of reflexes alone when Alfred made himself at home in his lap without warning. Blinking in stunned silence, Drake expression goes momentarily blank, eyes fixated on the feline on his lap.

Finally after an agonizing moment of pure silence, Drake carefully puts his computer on the table before he slowly; ever so slowly reaches out to run a hesitant finger over Alfred’s head and---

Damian holds his breath.  

It takes eleven minutes and thirty-two seconds but--- Drake’s expression..... his blank, empty, hallow expression falls apart. It’s an amazing thing to witness.  

Slowly, painfully slowly, Drake lets his guard down. He stops looking so..... dead and with every affectionate purr that comes out of Alfred, the more the vigilante's eyes light up, shoulders relaxing and finally.... finally, his lips quirk up the tiniest bit. Not by much and not anything like he used to be from the pictures Damian had gotten his hands on, but----

This smile, this tiny inch of something; was more genuine than anything Drake had shown for the past couple of months. Maybe it was this easy. Maybe Damian had fixed things---

“Timmy! Tim! You in here buddy!”

And just like that the faint trace of happiness that Alfred somehow had brought to the surface of Drake was gone. Blankness descended once more like a shutter across Drake’s expression and his lips pulled up at the corners. Wide, friendly, happy.

“Hey Dick. Yeah, I’m in the living room!”

“Timmers! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Drake laughs. It’s high, broken, filtered..... hallow.

Damian feels sick.

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

“Showing concern can make someone feel appreciated and cared for. A phone call to ask them about their well-being is a good first step.”

Phone in hand, Damian frowns down at his notebook. This advice while easy enough sounded.... unfounded?

Still, Alfred had managed to incite some form of reaction out of Drake, so perhaps calling him to check on his work would also yield a positive result.

Mind made up, Damian quickly typed in Drake’s number, trying to ignore the sudden difficultly he was experiencing with his breathing.  

“Hello?”

Tensing, Damian’s fist clenched at his side; knuckles white where they gripped the phone for dare life. What was he even doing?

“Hello?”

Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and focused on the end results. It was only a matter of time before Richard and father figured out Drake’s unhappiness and the fallout from that revelation would be devastating. If his brother and father could not handle Drake’s ridiculous need for emotional support, it was up to Damian to figure out a way to make his lies into reality, so--

“Drake.”

A pause.  

Drake had obviously not expected him to be on the other side for his stunned silence was all too apparent. Damian could still hear his hitched breathing on the other side of the phone.

“Greetings Drake.”

“Damian?”

The utter surprise in the other’s voice made him frown in displeasure. He didn’t know why Drake’s reaction bothered him, but it did and....... He couldn’t focus on that now. He had a mission to accomplish.

“I decided to check on you and your work.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Damian continued. Feeling a tiny bit of relief to have initiated the checkup phone call. Hopefully Drake would feel appreciated at the concern Damian Wayne was displaying towards him. “Your latest project is behind schedule and your productivity has decreased significantly. Perhaps you ought to go back home and rest.”

“What?”

Sighing, Damian shook his head. “Your exhaustion most be affecting your ears as well Drake because my words are quiet simple and yet you’re incapable of understanding them. Get some rest Drake. It will be good for you.”

“.......”

“.......”

“.......”

“Drake?”

“Can’t you for once in your life!” Comes the sudden outburst from the other side. “.... you know what, I don’t have time for this. Goodbye Damian.”

Staring at the phone in his hand, Damian blinked once, then twice. What had happened?

Did Drake just hang up on him? What in the....  

Slamming the phone back down, ignoring Pennyworth’s indignant huff, he marches out of the kitchen and shoulders past a surprised Grayson.

“Dami?”

How dare Drake dismiss him. He had gone out of his way to communicate with him to.... to show Drake that he was wanted by father and Richard and what did that insolent, useless....  

For some reason his chest hurts and he can’t quiet pinpoint why.

--------

“A compliment will make anyone’s day brighter. Put a smile on someone’s face with a simple, well timed compliment!”

A compliment....

What kind of utter nonsense.

This website was proving to be even more of a useless tool than that stupid game Grayson had bought him the other day.  

Still, it was his best bet and the memory of that smile; no matter how fleeting made him believe in this site just enough to decide to try their suggestion one last time.

Drake had not been around for the past week and Damian had thus not been able to implement his plan into action. The lack of the other vigilante presence had at first not concerned him much, but as days passed, Damian had slowly felt a sense of panic stirring in his chest.

What if Drake had already moved on? What if he’d somehow deciphered something from his phone call and come to the conclusion he no longer wanted to be associated with their family?

What would Richard think? Knowing that he had driven Drake away for a second time?

What would father think?

This was..... this was bad. He....

Swallowing thickly, Damian ran a hand through his hair and tried to center himself.

This was easily fixable. He just had to make sure Grayson called Drake and invited him over. If Grayson was insistent enough, he was sure Drake wouldn’t be able to refuse.  

And then..... yeah, he could work with that.

Another week pass and Drake comes up with all kinds of excuses to avoid coming over. And slowly the number of rejections seem to get to Richard. His downtrodden frame and sad eyes becoming his default expression around the manor. And father becoming more and more stoic the longer Drake wills himself away from them.

For a second..... for the smallest fraction of a moment, Damian feels a sense of vindication. ‘Now you understand,’  he thinks. ‘Now you notice how little Drake cares for either of your presence after everything you’ve done. Now you notice when he’s long since accepted your negligence.’  

But as soon as those thoughts come, they go away just as quickly.

How could he even think such thoughts of his own father and Richard? They loved Drake. It was Drake’s own fault for not recognizing that care and for not.....

No.

It didn’t matter what any of the others thought. The point was that Drake wanted to be accepted and Damian could make that happen. He could turn Drake’s lies into realities and maybe then things would work themselves out.

He was robin and this is what robins did.

So when father finally manages to coax Drake to come visit, Damian is waiting at the entrance to his room, standing by the closed door and keeping his eyes squarely on the elder's face.

Drake who’d been looking at his phone the whole way down the hall, startles as he sees him. Face shuttering close and body tensing up as he expected Damian to suddenly lash out at him.

Damian tries not to take offense in that. Taking a deep breath; arms folded behind his back, he steels himself. “Your work on the construction project down by the docks have been admirable.”

Each word feel as if they are dragging like burning coal up his throat, but when the sentence is out, he feels a sense of relief descend over his body. There, he’d said it. Now Drake could smile and thank him.

“What do you want Damian?”

What?  

Taken back, Damian mouth falls open at the sheer hostility in Drake’s voice.

“If you’re here to mock me again, I’m frankly not up for it. So go bother someone else and for once in your life, just leave me the hell alone!”

Damian doesn’t even have time to formulate an appropriate response before Drake has shoved his way past him and slammed the door shut behind him.

Left standing by the door; mind still reeling from the scathing remark, Damian wonders if any of this is even worth it anymore.

Drake was done with them. Perhaps it was time to accept the truth and inform father and Richard that there was nothing to be done.

But just the thought of them looking heartbroken and then.... Just the thought of them then.... just accepting it and moving on as if nothing happened.... forgetting about Drake and giving him “space” to sort himself out which he never would because..... of course he never would and.... Damian felt sick just thinking about it.

No,

He could fix this. He just needed a better plan.

Yes, a better plan.

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

Buying Drake lunch and visiting him at the company to give it to him goes as badly as his previous attempts.... in fact, it goes even worst.

“Are you trying to poison me!” Slapping the vegetarian meal out of his hands, Drake practically snarls at him; eyes wild and stricken with emotions Damian had a hard time deciphering. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why--- Why can’t you just leave me alone! Fuck Damian. I haven’t done anything to you. I’ve..... just,” he looks exhausted. Dark circles painted like ink under his eyes. Drake’s bottom lip is quivering, fingers practically vibrating against the desk and---

Sitting back down, Drake sighs, Damian had yet to move from his frozen position, arms still stretched outward; hands empty now that his well-prepared meal had been knocked off.

“Just go!” It’s a hissed dismissal, a hate filled wish for Damian to just go away and never come back.

So he does.

Without a word he turns on his heels and flees. The surprised shout from Drake falling on deaf ears as he takes the steps two at a time.

He should have known better.

Drake and him..... there were no fixing things.

Drake would never smile again and there was nothing he could do to change that.

It was over.

His brother had made that very clear when he interpreted any kind of gesture from his as a threat to his life. How could he possibly come back from that? Too much history, too much blood had been spilt between them. Damian had been a fool to think he could be the one to make Drake feel accepted again.

Robin.....

Drake did not require a robin. He required a non-Damain. He required Richard or father to step up and clear the air. Damian had been silly to assume... to think...

Blinking furiously, he tries to stop the itch in his eyes from tearing him apart.

He would not cry.

This was not his fault.

He had tried.

Grayson had said.... sometimes good intentions mattered just as much as good results, and Damian had tried. He had.

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

He goes to avoid Drake after that.

Each time the other vigilante shows up at the manor, Damian makes himself scarce. Doing his utmost best to ensure that Drake would not experience a similar break down in his presence ever again.

Still, he does keep an eye on the other.  

Of course he does it from relative obscurity where Drake wouldn’t be aware of his presence, but...... try as he might, he can’t help but to follow him around, to note how little Drake seems to have changed from the first day he noticed his lies.

Drake is still living a lie and no one is the wiser.

No one but Damian.

Too bad Drake did not appreciate his gestures of good faith.

“Why are you following me around?”

He stiffens. “I do not know what you’re implying Drake, but I suggest you keep your imbecilic assumptions to yourself.”

Damian should have been more careful.

When Drake finds him, Damian had been hiding behind a shelf in the library on the second floor, where his eyes had been tracing after the hunched over form of one Timothy Drake Wayne, until he of course dozed off in the most untimely moment ever and now here he was, Drake standing in front of him arms crossed and eyebrows tilted up in suspicion.

“You’ve been acting weird the last few weeks and I’m tired of looking over my shoulder all the time, so spill! What the fuck do you want with me?”

Damian wants a lot of things.

He wants a life that makes sense.  

He wants to go to school and not feel like an outsider.

He wants Richard and father to be happy again.

He wants Todd to stop acting as if he isn’t wanted and come home.

He wants.......

“I wish you could smile again.”

He wants Timothy not to be sad anymore.

“I want you to be happy again.”

Drake eyes widen and his mouth falls open. The clear surprise evident in his eyes.

And it hits Damian then. How little this was about Richard or father. How little it was about tying the family together and how much it was about trying to fix something he’d been a part of breaking.

He’d forgotten how easily Drake used to smile. He’d forgotten because he only saw it once.

Once, when Drake had reached out to him, smiled and welcomed him into the family.

Damian had spat at his gesture then. Tried to kill him..... and.... But Drake used to smile. In all those photos. In those albums hidden at the very depth of father’s closet. There were pictures and.... Drake used to smile and laugh and..... Drake had a dimple. At the very center of his left cheek and it didn’t appear often but whenever he was laughing it would show up and.... that was genuine. It was warm, it was honest.

Drake didn’t used to have to lie to others and fake something he no longer felt but now....

Maybe Damian couldn’t fix things, but.... maybe he could be honest. With himself, with his brother.

“I was trying to--

“Make me smile,,” the words are nothing but a whisper. But the sheer wonderment in Timothy’s voice makes Damian’s eyes burn.

“Yes.”

“Oh”

“And of course I have failed in my endeavor.” He doesn’t know why he’s still talking. “And I should have known as I’m the least likely person you would ever trust to be sincere towards you. But...” Why does his chest hurt? “I wished to help you regain---- you used to be happier before I arrived and---” Perhaps his attempts no matter how well intentioned could never make up for the horrors he’d inflected.

Perhaps he was destined to never build the bridges he’d burned down with his own hands.

“The phone call and compliment and fo--- you were trying to...” Drake’s eyes are in danger of falling out of their sockets from how wide they are now.

Damian nods: lips thin and chest heaving painfully.

“Oh”

The words are nothing but a whisper and Damian finds himself burning up with shame at Timothy’s realization.

How pathetic he most look.

But then.... just a moment before Damian decides to flee the scene all together, Timothy’s eyes light up. A sudden sense of brightness bleeding through his wide-eyed gaze and..... his lips pull at the corners, a giant, blossoming smile practically drowning out his cheeks and---

There—the dimple.

Right at the center.

“Oh wow.... thanks Damian. I--- Thanks.”

It’s so unexpected. The genuineness of it all. How easily Timothy had managed to smile again, just from.... He’d put two and two together, figured out what Damian’s disastrous attempts had been about and..... somehow that had made him smile when nothing else had.

And----

Damian bursts into tears. Loud, startling sobs wrecking his body.

And it’s all he can do not to throw himself at his brother. All he can do to keep himself from falling apart then and there, because..... it was as if finally.... finally a weight of insurmountable proportions had fallen of his shoulders.  

Timothy steps closer than, not privy to his own despairing thoughts of what he does and does not deserve and engulfs him in one of the warmest hugs Damian had ever experienced.

“Thank you kid.”

“I.... of course---Drake.... I... I apologize for... I’m so....rry I... Thank you.” The words come out chocked up, incoherent and in fact, highly embarrassing of a mess, but Timothy’s warm laughter makes it all worth it and Damian finds himself burying his face even further into his older brother’s chest and clutches even tighter to the back of his shirt.

Because Timothy was happy at this very moment and Damian did that. He did that.

The End

#Damian Wayne #Tim Drake #robin #red robin #batfamily #Batfamily Fanfic #batfamily fiction #dick grayson #nightwing #bruce wayne #batman #batsiblings fic #batbros fanfic #batfamily oneshot #fanfic #Fic

[writingsofmyimagination]

Silk Tie

Summary: Wide awake with midnight munchies? No problem. Dom Hobi (As if he’s anything else :P)

Hobi x Reader. (Established relationship)

Genre: 18+, PWP basically. Hobi ruins me like that. Some cute stuff though :P Not going to lie loved writing this hope its not too terrible.

Words:2564

Warnings: Swearing, Smut (Light bondage, Oral F receiving, Slight Exhibitionism, Spanking, Hint of Cum Play) Think that’s it.

Enjoy ARMY. Love You ALL! Please Reblog and Comment your thoughts.

“What time’s your alarm set tomorrow?” you inquired, rolling over enveloping your arms around Hobi’s chest. You were shameless in trying to share the body heat permeating of his skin; being greedy with the warmth already supplied to you buy the cosy duvet shrouding you both.

“4” Hobi groaned mid-stretch, one of his hands falling to your waist.

“What!” your normal tone hiked up a few notches higher looking up at him. The brown wavy hair pushed back from his forehead as he chuckled.

“We’ve got a shoot tomorrow what do you expect?”

“Well, wake me up at that time and BTS will need a new choreography lead” you toyed.

“I’ll do my best” he rewarded your forehead with a delicate kiss.

“How have you slept this week?”

“Too well”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“I suppose not. I’ve missed this though” gripping his body where your hand rested.

//

5 hours later you were wide awake, irritated at the amount of tossing and turning you’d done. Huffing, you threw the covers off and made way for the kitchen. Your feet cooled on the marble floor as you stood focusing your sight on the cereal cupboard. You needed Frosted Shreddies. The moonlight slithered in the high panel windows, an opaque white stream guiding you to slump down feet under you on the sofa. The TV near on silent, your gaze barely registering the cascade of moving pictures in front of you. Going back up for seconds, the patchwork wheat lightly clanging in the porcelain bowl. Ears pricked up at the sound of light shuffling behind you. Hobi was heading over to you, grey trackies cushioned at his hips. The midnight beams bouncing of his delicious sculpted torso. His hands slid around your front, his head resting on your shoulder.

“What’s keeping you up baby?” he spoke softly. Since the news Hobi had been much more observant of you. He’d have never normally left the comfort of the bed to come and find you.

“Cravings” You lifted up he bowl and twirled in his grip to face him. The concern dropped from his face as quick as he dropped down to your waist level.

“Why don’t you let mummy sleep this is no time to be hungry? And you could have at least picked a nicer choice than dry shreddies” he spoke to your stomach holding a hand there. You chuckled batting his hand away

“Hobi, Stop!”

“What?” he whined dodging a playful attack to his arm. You finished your mouthful before answering.

“We don’t want the boys hearing it’s only been nine weeks” His smile was not the least bit apologetic, keeping this from them had been the hardest for him by far.

“And I doubt squishy can hear your disapproval of craving choice” you added.

“Hey you told me at nine weeks the ears get more defined even though squishy is just a grape” he protested taking the bowl from you and placing it behind you.

“Touché Mr Hoseok that I did” Unobstructed he was now free to pull you into a kiss, allowing yourself to be pushed back against the side. Your hands locked behind his neck as he left your lips chasing his. Finally getting Hobi back after week, your fluctuating hormones were giving you serious that only Hobi could currently take care of.

“Shouldn’t you be heading back to bed. You’ve got to be up soon. I’ll be fine” you suggested rummaging the bowl, hands hurrying to continue snacking.

“Probably” he agreed

“Buuut?” you goaded.

His hands ventured underneath your night shirt, his shirt and traced your sides teasing his hands just underneath your breasts. One of your weak spots.

“I missed you” He was creeping and you both knew it. You were enjoying cute Hobi, you knew it wouldn’t last. Your hands dropped, trickling over his chest.

“Missed what exactly” you teased. He knew he’d been busted. Something darkened behind his eyes when his desire took over; it was unmistakeable, devilish. He hesitated.

“Sure it wasn’t this?” you took lead of his hand and guided it beneath the slack waistband of your underwear. Slowly coating his slender fingers with yourself; both your eyes flashing wickedly at each other.

“This is most definitely part of it” You left him taking over your lead. His forehead fell meeting yours, his eyes focused on his hand. The atmosphere between you quickly deteriorating into a heated starved cluster.

“Fuck this!” he breathed. In moments your behind tight in his grip, legs secured round his waist. The anticipation to be underneath him on your bed quickly seeped down into panic. Your ass being placed on the glass dining room table. Your hands hanging on to his shoulders as you sheepishly looked at your surroundings.

“Hobi, what… here? We can’t” He was already pulling at your thighs, the silk of your underwear enabling him to have you almost perched on the edge.

“Why not?”

“Erm because you live with six other guys that could walk in any second” You’re protesting weak, underwear already being slipped down your legs.

“Better be quiet then while I have you dripping round my mouth then” The words could only tug at your core for a few seconds before his tongue was pressed flat scooping through your arousal. Your fingers lacing through his hair, tight enough to pinch at his scalp. Your other hand clamped round the edge of the table, colour draining from your knuckles. The slow stripes of his tongue becoming more pressured circular movements honing on your clit. He took a breath, admiring your inner thighs with wet delicate kisses.

“Tell me how good I make you feel baby” he requested, hot breath fanning your core. Fingers stroking your folds in his tongue’s absence.

“Sooo good, please Hobi” His lips curled up against your thigh.

“Uuughh” you winced as his teeth clamped down on your flesh.

“Gotta make sure I have you marked as mine princess”

“Hobi just give me your tongue for god’s sake” Your frown was met with ‘The Glare’. Blood rushed straight to your core, adrenalin pumping ferociously below your skin. You’d awakened the devil. And you were weak for it.

“Up” Any sweetness in his voice was long gone. You were not going to keep him waiting. Even the presence in front of you was different. His chest heaving, passionate eyes and tall toned stature now oozed authority. He swirled his finger round. Turn around. He flicked his finger down. Bend over on the table.

The cool of the glass table was felt through your thin cotton shirt.

“You don’t get to demand what I do to you, do you?” Passively informing you of your mistake.

“No, Sir!” you responded correctly.

“Arms behind your back” You cursed Namjoon silently for leaving a red silk tie slumped over the breakfast bar chair. He secured your wrists with little give.

“Hobi we’re In the kitchen” you reminded

Swear to god if someone walks in…

“You can count with me. 3 okay!” Your pulse already boiling and racing since the second he’d taken the wooden spoon from the cutlery draw. He completely ignored your previous words.

“MMhhm” you hummed.

“Yes” you quickly corrected. Flinching preparing for a reprimanding smack for not using words. It never came.

“1” he warned

“1” you responded through gritted teeth, stalling the moaning whine dead in your throat. The sting prickling on your behind.

“2” you continued, squeezing your thighs together.

“Fuck, I love it when you ask for your own punishment” he growled, the wooden spoon striking the same place again. A cry seeped past your lips permeating into the room. Hobi stepped to you pushing his weight into you gripping the back of your neck.

“Keep It down! Do you want the boys to know you’re here bent over for me in their kitchen?”

“3”

SMACK!

His palm nursed the rose tainted skin on your behind.

“Good girl, all pretty and pink” You hauled yourself on the table, more than ready for him to take you to the bedroom. Force pushing down on your shoulder blades shoving you back down, the heat of your breath fogging up the table.

“Hoseok please, just take me to bed” you whined.

“Oh baby, we’re not going anywhere” His hands trailed up your sides catching your shirt and rolling it half way up your body.  His fingertips denting lightly at your sides, his touch becoming soft at your hips. They inched round your behind, dipping between your thighs. The pair of you both gasped, your hips chasing the direction of his fingers.

“Fuck…Baby I think you like the idea of being caught” Your mind was too busy honing in on how his fingers felt gliding through your arousal; your brows millimetre by milometer furrowing each time he purposely neglected your throbbing bundle of nerves. Your sighs and exhales increasingly becoming laced with frustration.

“Does my baby want something?” he coaxed, his bulge pressing into you was certainly one of your answers.

“Yes” you breathed

“Tell me”

“I want you, just touch me” His movements ceased, hovering over your clit, barely making contact.

“You’ve got to do better than that otherwise you’ll get nothing” One his hands was gripping at your hips tightly, refusing them to move into his frustratingly static fingers.

Fuck

“I need you Sir, pleeassee. I want you to fuck me, right here, hard!. I need you to make me cum”

“You spoil me princess” He groaned in appreciation. Instead of holding your hips back he pushed you into his fingers.

“I’ve fucking missed this” you moaned

“Yeah?” The slow circles on your clit spreading already had you arching your back. He shuffled behind you

“And this?” Your wrists pulled against the tie, fidgeting as his hand left you, trailing up to grip your hair.

“Have you missed how good my cock makes you feel” He asked coating it in your answer, you rolled your head, forehead on the glass.

“Mmmmm” you responded in a hum; not wanting to open your mouth for fear of your volume control failing.

“Words!” he scolded

“Volume down baby” he warned. Hair yanked back, he pulled you onto him, hard. His warning was lost.

Your whine was loud and drowned out with an expletive. He refused to move letting you to adjust to him or to listen for any movement elsewhere is the dorm. Or both.

“Such a dick” you breathed.

“But I’m all yours baby” he whispered in your ear. Your hair still gripped. Pulled back against him. His breath passing over your neck in a warm breeze.

“Now if I let you go are you going to be quiet while I fuck you on my kitchen table?” words falling across your skin like honey, clenching around him. You loved when he spoke filth in your ear; and he knew it.

“Yes” it was more of a plea than anything else.

“Good, cos I’d hate to not let you cum cos you can’t do what your told” His grip relinquished and he shoved you back down. Hands harshly digging into your hips stabilising you, his hips already bucking into you roughly. You struggled to filter through your cries and moans into soundless bursts. Becoming too much his hips slowed. Drawing out of you so slowly. Pushing back equally torturously.

“Yellow” You whined. You used this warning for only one reason. To signal to Hobi you were near some kind of limit. He would stop momentarily, and give you free reign to say whatever it was that you needed him to know in that moment.

He stopped.

“What is it princess?” Concern suspended heavily in his voice, it had become more weighted since the pregnancy started, understandably so. Especially with how hard he could go. You’re convinced he has slivers of sadistic tendencies beneath that sunshine smile of his; not that you’ll ever complain.

“It’s too hard to keep quiet, I need..something for my mouth” You breathed. Rather tell him you’re not going to be able to achieve what he wants than not being given release you needed after time apart.

“Is that so?” he teased pulling out of you even more slowly.

“Yes! You feel too fucking good” you complained while obviously not complaining. Stroking the shaft of his well-deserved bedroom ego. The silk of the tie loosened around your wrist, your body spun round, tie secured at your wrists again, in front of you. The ache in your shoulder washed away with the fresh movement, synovial fluid flowing blissfully around the joints. The pair of you out of breath as he hooked your arms over his neck hoisting you onto the table; pulling the back of your thighs forward.

“Use me baby” he panted lining himself back up with you. The strands of his hair were locked firmly in your fists, bracing yourself.

“You close baby?” Your teeth and mouth clamped down onto his shoulder, his skin absorbing the moan he elicited from you with his thrust.

“Mmm” Your ability to formulate words was lost, every thing focused on how the muscles in your lower stomach began to tighten, his shoulder was already blossoming red under your mouth. Your hands had no energy left to pull his hair, falling limp into the restraints. Your moans against his skin became soundless, energy drained to the bundle of nerves in between your legs.

“Cum for me” With the pressure of his finger against your clit, everything unwound. The top half of your body froze, nails clenching into his neck. The bottom half of your body convulsed, unleashing the surge of dopamine flooding your nervous system. Your muscles spasmed clenching around him causing him to still inside you; letting you ride it out until the waves calmed.

“Why did you stop?” His hands stumbled your restraints undone, hooking the tie round your neck.

“Knees!” he ordered

That’s why

Normally you’d flat out refuse, roll your eyes at least but

1.       You were in no mood to be a brat and be disobedient

2.       The way his eyes glimmered at the image of you on your knees, picturing his cum smeared over the bottom half of your face was too hard to refuse.

//

“Your too fucking good to me” His praise ignited your smile like a christmas tree, his finger tipped your chin upwards and you stood following his hand. He wiped your face with the silk round your neck.

“Hobi!” you laughed pinching the tie from his grip.

“What?” his tone a pitch higher, he winked sticking his tongue out at you.

“You’ve just wiped your cum off my face with Joon’s tie”

“And? it’ll wash”

“You’re unbelievable! I’ll never look at it the same way ever again” You chuckled retrieving your dignity in the form of your underwear from the kitchen floor.

“What if he wears it to our littluns first birthday party” he was exaggerating his words, teasing your embarrassment further

“Or oh my god what about on stage, at an intervie…” you launched the light soiled fabric directly at his face.

“Okay I’m going to bed” you announced shaking your head, doing your upmost to hinder your lips curving up.

“Love you” he lightly called after you. All he got you from you in return was your middle finger.

“I’ll be in a minute baby”

#ksmutclub #smutcentralnet #kwritersworldnet #bts #hyunglinenetwork #btsguild #networkbangtan #bangtanarmynet #kpopwonderlandtag #hobi x reader #bts jhope #jhope #jung hoseok #bts x reader #bts smut #jhope x reader #silk tie

[writtingsofspn]

Excellent Bedside Manner

Request: Doctor!Dean x hurt reader. Dean is an er doctor and he takes care of her and it’s really fluffy

Warnings: Car crash, probably swearing as usual

A/N: I had fun writing this so please let me know what you think!

You’d of course heard of this happening to other people, seen enough of the commercials warning about the dangers, but you never thought it would happen to you.

It was dark, much later than you were used to driving, and you were tired. He came out of nowhere, no headlights, heading right at you, on a one-way highway.

There wasn’t anywhere to go, you tried to swerve but the drunk driver must have had the same idea. You collided head on, all you can remember is a deafening crunch as plastic, metal, and glass all shattered at once, then silence.

You felt rather cold, unable to feel a thing, hearing nothing but a heartbeat in your head much too fast to be your own. There were men surrounding you suddenly, you weren’t sure when they got there, you could see their lips moving, asking you questions, but you didn’t hear a word they said.

“I’m fine” You mumbled, your hands making their way to your seatbelt as you tried to get it off.

Faintly you could hear them yelling at you to stop moving but it sounded too muffled to make out on your ears. You could feel your eyes growing heavy as you fought with your seatbelt, totally missing the sight of firefighters ripping a hole in the side of your car to get to you.

You were lifted out of the car, fading out of consciousness as you were put into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital.

-

You woke in a bed surrounded by a light blue curtain hanging from the celling. The room behind the curtain was quite loud.

You tried to bring a hand up to your head to calm the thumping in it only to feel and unexpected resistance. You looked down to see a clear plastic tube running into the inside of your elbow.

The curtain was pulled back sudden to reveal a rather handsome doctor holding a chart looking quite surprised. “I see you’re already awake”

“What’s going on?” You asked, your voice coming out hoarse and dry.

“You were in a car accident” The man explained, writing something in your chart before closing it and putting his hand in his pocket, giving you an apologetic look “I’m Dr. Winchester”

You vaguely remembered something like that, tires squealing, loud crunching. “Is the other driver ok?”

You could see the doctor clench his jaw at the question, forcing his eyes back to your chart despite having just closed it. “He’s fine”

“Good” You nodded before trying to push yourself up into more of sitting position, wincing heavily as you did so.

“Oh please, let me” your doctor jumped in, coming to your side and helping you sit up, making a point to fluff your pillows while he helped you.

You couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled as he leaned over you, your skin tingling beneath his touch. He stepped back a bit, looking into your eyes as he asked if the position was ok and instead of answering you found yourself entranced by his gorgeous green eyes. “Uh…yeah”

Your doctor chuckled as he went back to the foot of your bed. “Alright I just have a few questions to fill in the blanks of your medical history”

You nodded, letting him know you were ready.

“Alright what’s your name?”

“Y/N Y/L/N” You answered.

“Beautiful name” He said it so quietly you could’ve sworn you imagined it and given your current state you wouldn’t put it past you. “any allergies?”

“None” You shook your head.

“Alright that should do it for now then” He said closing your chart. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a bus” You answered making the doctor smile.

“A car but close”

You chuckled at this, your ribs crying in protest, but you had to admit it felt good to laugh in this situation.

“Well the button to your right administers more morphine” Your doctor explained, pointing at a little remote.

“Now we’re talking” You joked, giving the button a press and almost immediately feeling some of the edge taken off.

Your doctor grinned at you making you smile back, his smile remarkably infectious “There are some cops standing behind the curtain here. Are you feeling up to answering a few more questions”

“Yeah that’s fine” You assured him “thanks doctor”

-

Being in the hospital was remarkably boring. Dr. Winchester had offered to call your family for you but you told him not to, no sense worrying them you were fine afterall. Your phone had been busted in the crash so you were left with absolutely nothing to do. Resultingly, you took a lot of naps.

You were in the middle of one of these when a certain doctor pulled back the curtain quickly once again to let himself in “How’s my favorite-“

He stoped as soon as he saw you jump in surprise, rubbing your eyes as you tried to get them to focus quickly.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t know you were napping” He started apologizing profusely making you giggle.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take any distraction.”

“Bored already huh?” He asked, setting your chart on the end of your bed and leaning his hands on the end railing.

“I mean no people, no phone, no anything, can you blame me?”

“What if I could get you a book or something? Would you be interested?”

Immediately a grin erupted across your face “That would be perfect”

“Alright I’ll see what I can do” He chuckled, a similar grin making its way across his face as he spoke. “On another note I think you’ll only need to be here another day or two”

“sweet” You exclaimed, more than ready to go back home.

Your doctor grabbed his chest “wow that hurts Y/N”

“Oh you know that’s not what I meant” You laughed, rolling your eyes.

“So eager to get away from me” He continued as he opened up your chart and wrote something down before reaching back up to the curtain “and after I offered to steal a book for you”

“Hey I never said anything about stealing” You called after him as he left your little area, shutting the curtain behind him. “Please don’t steal anything!”

-

“So you eat hospital food everyday?” You asked Dr. Winchester as you took a bite of your own sandwich. Over the past few days he had been spending his lunch break with you, dragging in a chair and bringing your food to you instead of a nurse.

“Pretty much” He shrugged.

“You poor poor man”

The doctor laughed but didn’t disagree as he took a bite out of an apple before changing the subject “Alright so you know what I do for a living so now it’s your turn”

“What a weird way to ask what I work as” You laughed causing him to smile and shrug “I’m a mechanical engineer at a car manufacturer”

“That’s awesome” He exclaimed “I’ve always kind of had a thing for cars. I drive a ’67 Chevy impala currently”

“Nice” You approved, taking a bit to study his face before looking away “You do look like a car guy”

“What does that mean?” He asked “Should I be insulted?”

“No” You laughed “its just something about you”

“Alright I’ll take it as a compliment then”

“You do that”

The two of you shared a soft chuckle before a comfortable silence fell over you, neither of you feeling as though you had to fill it, simply enjoying each other’s company.

All of a sudden you felt a sharp pain in your abdomen making you jump slightly and grab at the area which soon proved to be a mistake.

Dr. Winchester was on his feet in an instant, his lunch tray dropping to the ground forgotten “What’s wrong?”

“There’s this…sharp pain” You grunted out as you grabbed your bedsheets, gripping them with white knuckles as you gritted your teeth trying to keep yourself from screaming out.

“Let me see” He gently pushed you back into a laying position, pushing away the table with your lunch tray on top as he lifted your shirt.

A large purple bruise covered most of your abdomen, Dr. Winchester swearing under his breath and yelling for a nurse as soon as he saw it.

“What is it?” You cried, desperately trying to push down your fear as half a dozen people rushed in your direction.

“You seem to have some internal bleeding” The doctor tried to put on his best calm voice for you but it didn’t do much. “We need to go to surgery”

“surgery” You repeated, not fully grasping the situation at the moment.

“Let’s move it people” He yelled at the team as they started to push your bed off down the hallway.

“Am I going to be alright?”

Dr. Winchester looked at you directly in your eyes, grabbing your hand and squeezing it as you were rushed across the hospital “I’m going to be right by your side the entire time”

“That doesn’t answer my question” You cried out, panicking more

“We have the best surgeon in the country right here” He assured you, not taking his eyes off you for a second “You’re not dying on my watch”

You hesitated for a moment but ultimately nodded, fully believing he wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to you and allowed them to put the plastic mask over your face, administering antithetic brining you into a dreamless sleep.

-

You woke up in a room of your own for a change. The blinds open just enough to show you it was pitch black outside.

Even though you had just been unconscious for god knows how long you felt extremely tired, struggling to keep your eyes open as they landed on a figure asleep in the chair across the room.

“Dr. Winchester?” You called out, your voice rather gravely.

The man immediately sat up taller with a deep inhale, his hands going to his eyes rubbing at them tiredly “You’re awake”

“What are you doing here?” You asked “You’re not in your scrubs”

“I promised to stay by your side”

You nodded silently, suddenly feeling the crushing weight of loneliness as you realized he was the only one at your side at the moment. You almost died and you didn’t even tell your parents you were in the hospital. You were all alone here, the only person to comfort you being your doctor.

“Would it be inappropriate to ask you to hold me” your voice was small as you asked the question, deathly afraid of the answer.

“Probably” He shrugged “but I won’t tell if you don’t”

You shuffled to one side of the bed as he made his way across the room, hopping in next to you with no hesitation. Without a second though you rested your head on his chest as he wrapped his arm around you, both of you sitting in silence for a moment, almost afraid to break it.

“thank you for being here for me” You all but whispered, slightly bunching up his shirt in your fist as you held on to him, desperately needing something stable at the moment.

“Don’t mention it” He brushed it off, squeezing you carefully knowing you’d be sensitive given the circumstances.

“No really” You objected “you didn’t have to-“

“but I wanted to” He interrupted, effectively assuring you you weren’t being a bother to him.

“If a nurse were to walk in right now would you get in trouble for doing this?”

With his other hand Dr. Winchester brushed your hair softly for a bit before resting his head back on the pillow with a small content sigh “don’t worry about it” He tried to assure you with a soft, calm voice “just go back to sleep”

A big part of you felt bad for putting him into this situation, as far as you knew this could very well get him fired. But an even bigger part of you wasn’t ready to give up the comfort of just being in his arms. So you didn’t press the issue any further, instead you slowly let go of his shirt and let your hand just rest on his chest, rubbing soft circles in it until you drifted off asleep.

-

You awoke in bed by yourself but that didn’t surprise you. Dr. Winchester stopped by later to apologize for that but you assured him it was ok, jokingly praising him for his excellent bedside manner earning you a soft blush on his cheeks that put butterflies in your stomach.

Unfortunately you didn’t see much of him after that. Of course you had lunch together everyday and he stopped by once or twice on top of that to make sure you were feeling ok but other than that nothing. Which you understood, he had other patients and given that he worked in the ER you assumed they had much more pressing issues than you did.

Good news arrived just three days after your surgery, a nurse showed up with release papers telling you you could finally go home. And though you knew you were going to miss seeing Dr. Winchester you had to admit you were eager to go back home.

Dr. Winchester walked in on you while you were packing up what little things you had at the hospital, his furrowed brow telling you he wasn’t aware of your status.

“I was discharge this morning” You explained, watching his smile faulter slightly at your words “I get to go home”

“That’s great” He responded almost hollowly, sticking his hands into the pockets of his coat.

“I really want to thank you for all you did for me Dr. Winchester” You started, stopped as he chuckled and held up his hand.

“Please call me Dean” He grinned “and it was my pleasure”

You couldn’t help but blush slightly at his words, turning around and picking up your bag “Well…I guess this is goodbye”

“Any chance I can steal you away tomorrow for our usual lunch date?” He asked it so casually it didn’t immediately register that he was asking you out.

“Oh so all of those lunches have been dates” You teased earning a grin from him.

“Well the food wasn’t great I like to think the company made up for it”

“It did” You assured him “And I’d like that…as long as we don’t have hospital food”

“I think that can be arranged” He chuckled, bidding you a farewell as you left the room, a grin on both of your faces at the prospect of what was to come.

#dean winchester #Dean Winchster #dean fic #dean fanfiction #dean one shot #dean oneshot #SPN #spn fanfic #spn fan fiction #spn oneshot #spn imagine #supernatural oneshot #supernatural one shot #supernatural imagine

[emospritelet]

KOL! Prompt - Gold returns to work but can't get Belle off his mind and is noticeably mentally absent.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12]

AO3 link

Gold still felt a little light-headed and weak during his shift, but two cups of coffee from the canteen helped him get through the morning.  He even treated himself to a Danish, enjoying the brief sugar rush it gave him.  The energy was short-lived; his body felt as though it had been soundly beaten with iron bars by the time midday came, and a tiny voice whispering in the back of his mind told him he had returned to work too soon.  He ignored it, and pushed on, heading to the children’s ward, where seven-year-old Grace Milliner was recovering from her own bout of the flu.  Gold sat down on the edge of her bed with a feeling of relief, and Grace blinked at him, strands of light brown hair curling around her face.

“How are you feeling?” he asked kindly.

“Okay,” she said, in a small voice.  “I can’t find Mr White, though.”

“Mr White?”

Gold racked his brains to think of who that might be, flicking through his mental filing cabinet of staff and patients and drawing a blank.  He reached out to feel Grace’s forehead, nodding approvingly when he detected no fever, and she sighed.

“He’s fluffy and soft and I can’t sleep without him,” she said, looking miserable, and Gold smiled.

“Mr White is your toy rabbit,” he guessed.  “Of course.  Forgive me, but I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced.”

Grace giggled a little at that.

“When I’m all better you can come to a tea party,” she offered.  “Daddy always says you need to get out more.”

“Does he indeed?” remarked Gold.  Bloody Jefferson and his interest in my social life!  “Well, that’s very kind of you, Grace.  I should think you can go home tomorrow, so you can arrange all the parties you want.”

“Mr White always sits at the head of the table,” she added.  “But he’d love for you to come!  If I ever find him, of course.”

She looked upset again, and Gold smiled.

“I suspect he’s just gotten lost in the ward somewhere,” he said gently.  “Why don’t I see if I can find him?”

She beamed at him, and he stood up, swaying a little as he hooked the chart back over the end of her bed.  He managed to get his cane underneath himself, steadying his footing, and walked quickly from the ward before he could fall on his face.  There was a large laundry hamper on its wheeled frame outside the door, and he frowned to himself before bending over it and pawing through the sheets.

“You lost something?”

Dorothy’s cheerful voice made him jump, and he almost fell into the hamper before it started rolling away under the pressure of his body.  She grasped the metal handle, stopping it with a foot behind the wheel so that he could push himself upright.  Dorothy raised an eyebrow, looking amused, and his mouth flattened.

“You doing laundry now?” she asked.  “You know there are plenty of patients to look at, if you’re short of work.”

“I’m looking for Mr White,” he said vaguely, picking up one of the sheets and shaking it.

“Are patients trying to get smuggled out in the laundry hampers?” she remarked.  “Wow.  I had no idea you were so terrifying.  I know you’re kind of strict on people taking their meds, but that is some classic escape plan right there.  Mr White’s my hero.”

“He’s a rabbit,” said Gold impatiently, and balled up the empty sheet, dropping it back in the hamper.

“Mr White is - okay, you lost me.”

Dorothy folded her arms, and Gold sighed, leaning on the hamper again.  His body was screaming at him to lie down.

“Grace’s rabbit,” he explained.  “She can’t sleep without him.  I thought he might have been picked up by accident when the beds were changed.”

“You’re dead on your feet and you’re upside down in a laundry hamper looking for a toy rabbit?” she said flatly.  “Go and sit the hell down, would you?  Like I don’t have enough to do without hauling your ass out of there.”

“You’re as bossy as Belle,” he grumbled, and she raised an eyebrow, pursing her lips.

“I’ll check in the laundry room for the rabbit,” she said.  “Why don’t you finish your rounds and get home.  Before you fall over.”

“I’m fine, I can do it!”

He bent over the hamper again, almost falling in while he rooted around, but his fingers grasped something that felt far softer than the sheets.  Dorothy’s hand grabbed his collar - along with a good chunk of his hair, which made him growl - but she hauled him upright until he was on his feet, and he turned to face her with a scowl.

“You’re freakishly strong!” he snapped, and she shrugged.

“Never get in a fight with a lesbian,” she said.  “Now would you go and get some rest before you kill yourself?”

Gold gave her a smug grin, pulling his arm free from the pile of sheets and brandishing a somewhat bedraggled plush white rabbit.

“Told you I could do it,” he said snidely, well aware he sounded about five years old, and not caring.

He stomped off to the ward again, and Dorothy followed him, which meant that she was there to witness Grace’s face lighting up with excitement as he handed over Mr White.  It also meant that she was there to witness him bending to pick up a patient’s chart and almost falling over.  He grasped at the end of the bed to steady himself, gritting his teeth as he felt the room spin around him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” said Dorothy, looking concerned.  “You don’t seem completely - with it.”

Gold sighed, his knuckles white as they gripped his cane and the bed frame.

“Guess I’m still trying to shift this bloody flu,” he admitted.  “Sorry.  I’m - I’m probably more hindrance than help today.”

“Hey, we’re still short-handed, I’ll take all the help I can get,” she said.  “But you should get home as soon as you’re done with this ward.  As long as Whale doesn’t come down with it too I think we’ll be fine.  Come back tomorrow if you’re better.  But only if you’re better, okay?”

He grunted something that wasn’t quite agreement, picking up the chart he had been reaching for.  He dropped it, the clipboard bouncing end over end before clattering to the floor, and he sighed heavily.

“Go home,” said Dorothy firmly, scooping up the fallen chart.  “You’re gonna make yourself worse, and then who’s gonna look after Belle, hmm?”

“I’m not sure I’m doing all that much better than she is right now,” he said, plucking the chart from her fingers and earning a frustrated hiss from her.  “But you’re right.  I should really check on her.  She looked after me so well, it’s the least I can do.”

“Yes, I’m sure your gratitude is the only reason,” she said quietly, and he glanced up.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing,” she said, and smiled widely.  “How’s Belle doing, anyway?”

“Not great,” he said, running a finger over the figures on the chart.  “I left her with iced water, lots of blankets and instructions to stay in bed.”

“She’s - in your bed?” asked Dorothy blandly, and he looked up sharply, to see her grinning at him.

“Of course not!” he snapped.  “I do have spare bedrooms, you know.”

“I just thought, given the power outage, there was the perfect opportunity for some impromptu bed-sharing,” she said innocently, and he wanted to grind his teeth.

“Don’t you bloody start!” he said severely.  “As if I don’t have enough of that from Miss Mills!  I’m sure Miss French wouldn’t appreciate being the subject of gossip anymore than she already has been!”

“Oh, keep your pants on, I’m teasing,” she said, waving a hand.  “I know you’re unfailingly polite and wouldn’t lay a hand on her.  Much to her disappointment, I’m sure.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” he demanded, setting down the chart.

“Yeah, but this is way more important.”  She followed him as he moved to the next bed.  “Besides, I need to keep an eye on you.  You look like you’re gonna fall on your ass.”

“I told you, I’ll be alright.”

He picked up the next chart, sighing as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, you don’t happen to know if anyone here has property to rent, do you?” he asked absently, and Dorothy snorted.

“Dude, I just bagged the last house-share going in this town,” she said. “Trying to find apartments to rent in Storybrooke is like searching for unicorns.”

Gold grunted.  As he had thought.

“I thought you owned your own place, anyway?” she said.

“Oh, it’s not for me,” he said, checking the patient notes.  “Belle’s looking for somewhere to rent.  She’s living with her father at the moment, which knowing Moe French’s personal habits, can’t be ideal.”

“Hmm.”  Dorothy folded her arms.  “Didn’t you say you had spare bedrooms?”

“Several, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”

He put down the chart, moving onto the next bed, and she followed him.

“Really?” she said flatly.  “So Belle is currently living at your house, is looking for a place to stay, you have tons of room, you like each other, and you can’t think of any connection between that set of facts?”

Gold looked up, blinking at her in surprise.

“I - I live alone,” he said, as though that explained everything.

“Not at the moment you don’t.”

“Yes, but this is a - a special situation,” he said impatiently, turning away. “She’s sick.  I could hardly toss her out into the snow.”

“So you agree that offering her a home when she needed it most was a good thing to do?” she pressed, and he sighed.

“This is only for a few days,” he said.  “Once she’s well enough to leave, she can go back to her own home.”

“And you can go back to sitting alone in the evenings being miserable as hell.”

“I’m not miserable!” he snapped.  “And I don’t see that my private life is any of your business!”

“I’m sharing with Astrid and Leroy,” she said bluntly.  “I get more than enough of watching two people dance around one another like they’re not completely in love when I’m at home, thanks.”

“Astrid and - and Leroy?” he said, perplexed.  “They’re together?”

“No,” she said patiently.  “Not yet, anyway, because they’re almost as blind and stupid as you are.  I can see I really have my work cut out as matchmaker in this place.”

“You certainly will,” he remarked.  "I think your aim as Cupid is woefully off target.  I can’t speak for Astrid and Leroy, but I’m not in love with Miss French, and she’s certainly not in love with me.“

“Wow, you really are blind and stupid.”

“Nurse Gale, so help me—”

“I’m serious!”

“What is it with the staff in this hospital trying to interfere in my lack of a personal life?” he demanded.  “If you must know, I’ve been quite happy on my own for decades!”

“And now you could be happy with someone else.”

“Or it could be an unmitigated disaster that doesn’t get beyond the first awkward attempt at a date and she leaves town, never to return.”

“Oh my God!”  She threw up her hands in exasperation.  “If you won’t ask her out would you at least offer her a place to live?”

Gold opened his mouth for an angry retort, but then snapped it shut, smirking as he recalled noticing something.

“Fine,” he said lightly, and turned away, moving to the next bed.

“Fine?” said Dorothy, suspiciously.

“Yes, fine.”  He picked up the chart, grinning to himself, and heard her step closer.

“Fine as in you’ll offer Belle a place to stay?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing around to where she was watching him with narrowed eyes.  “Just as soon as you arrange yourself a date with the lovely Miss Lucas.”

Dorothy’s mouth fell open as a blush rose in her cheeks, and his grin widened.

“I expect something suitably romantic, none of this ‘just as friends’ nonsense,” he added.  “And you’re to text me an update during the evening to let me know how you’re getting along.”

“You’re a bastard,” she said flatly.

“Well, I’m only thinking of your future happiness.”

“But I don’t even know if she likes me!” she protested, and he grinned at her.

“How unfortunate.  I guess you can go back to sitting alone in the evenings being miserable as hell.”

Dorothy glowered at him repeating her own words back to her, but nodded reluctantly.

“Fine,” she grumbled.  “I’ll stop bugging you about your non-existent sex life, and you stop bugging me about mine.  Deal?”

Gold grinned, showing his teeth.

“The deal is struck.”

He put back the final chart and headed for the door of the ward, hoping that his legs wouldn’t give up and pitch him onto the floor.

“If I ever do manage to get a date with Ruby, you and I are revisiting this conversation!” she called after him.

Gold turned slowly on the balls of his feet, and winked at her

“Well, I won’t hold my breath, then.”

x

Gold took his time driving home, the roads treacherous with compacted snow and patches of ice.  His head was aching, his body exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep for twelve hours.  The house was silent when he entered, and he shrugged out of his coat and made his way up the stairs, knocking quietly on the door of the spare bedroom.  A sleepy voice answered, and he opened the door to peer in at Belle.  She was curled in the bed, blankets pulled up under her chin, dark curls spread out on the pillows and her cheeks flushed, but she sent him a wan smile.  Gold walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head at the temperature of her skin.

“You still have a high fever,” he said.  “Have you been drinking plenty of water?”

“I’ve mostly been sleeping,” she said, and he nodded.

“Try to sit up.  You should drink something.”

She pushed up obediently, arms shaking a little, and he stood up and poured her some water, sitting down again and putting a hand on the back of her shoulder to support her as she drank it.  Belle gulped at the water, then lay back down with a heavy sigh.  Her head rolled against the pillows, her eyes flicking up to meet his.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, and he shrugged.

“Better than yesterday,” he said.  “But I’m a terrible doctor.  I managed nothing more technical than finding a little girl’s toy rabbit.”

Belle giggled.

“Well, I’m sure that was very important to her,” she said, and he smiled briefly.

“Perhaps.”

“All those years of medical training may give you lots of knowledge,” she added.  “I’m willing to bet they don’t teach much about how to care for people in the little ways that matter, though.”

“Patient welfare isn’t just about getting the right diagnosis and treatment,” he said, and her smile widened.

“See?  That’s my point.  You care about your patients.”

“Well, don’t tell anyone, I have a reputation to maintain,” he quipped, and Belle’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Would you stay with me awhile?” she asked.  “I’ll probably fall asleep again, but it would be nice not to feel alone.”

Gold hesitated, looking down at his suit and tie before glancing to the chair at the dresser.  He was desperately tired, but if she wanted company, perhaps he could sit with her for a moment.  Belle seemed to sense his uncertainty.

“Oh, I didn’t mean for you to sit around like you’re about to go out for dinner,” she said.  “Please, go and change.  Put some PJs on.  There’s enough room on the bed for both of us.”

She patted the blankets beside her, and Gold swallowed hard.  Sleeping beside her had been excruciatingly wonderful, and he had just resigned himself to the fact that it would never happen again.  And now she was sitting there, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, gazing at him imploringly from beneath the sheets of his spare bed.

“Just for a little while,” she pleaded.  “It’s depressing being alone when you’re sick.”

He hesitated, Dorothy’s words about him sitting alone and miserable echoing around his brain.  Had he really been suffering in his solitude before Belle had turned up on his doorstep?  He didn’t think so, but then perhaps he had just gotten used to an empty, silent house.  He knew that a part of him had wanted it to be a punishment, to shut himself off from the world and wallow in grief and guilt and self-loathing.  When had it become a shield?  When had he started to take comfort in loneliness?

“It’s - it’s okay if you want to be alone.”

Belle’s voice made him jump, jerking him out of self-reflection and back to the present.  She was watching him worriedly.

“I’m sorry,” she went on.  “You’ve been around people all day, you probably need some time to yourself.  Forget I said anything.”

“Right,” he said lamely.

She smiled then, tired and beautiful, her eyes lighting up the room.

“I’ll maybe see you later,” she added.

“Right,” he said again, his brain screaming at him to stay with her, to talk to her.  “I’ll - I’ll bring you some tea.”

She smiled at him, and he stood up, shifting from foot to foot until he managed to move one of them.  He stepped back from the bed, reaching for the door handle, and closed the door behind him as he left the room.

#fic: kiss of life #rumbelle fic #my fic #dr gold x candy striper belle #rumbelle

[builder051]

Alice’s restaurant

If you haven’t heard this song, go to YouTube and listen to it.  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m57gzA2JCcM

This story takes place in my Steelbridge Sixties AU ‘verse, featuring Vietnam War-era Stucky.  It’s not 100% necessary to read the novella that sets the scene, but it’s here if you’re interested.

_____

Walk into the shrink wherever you are, just walk in, say,"Shrink, you can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant", and walk out

You know, if one person, just one person, does it, they may think he's really sick and they won't take him

And if two people do it, in harmony, they may think they're both faggots and they won't take either of them

And if three people do it! Can you imagine three people walkin' in, singin' a bar of "Alice's Restaurant" and walkin' out? They may think it's an organization!

--Arlo Guthrie, Alice’s Restaurant, 1967

_____

Bucky wakes with his head aching.  He supposes he should be used to it by now.  He doesn’t think he’s gone a whole day without pain since before the war.  The days when he was too fucked up to be aware of his body don’t count.  And he’s supposed to be getting clean anyway.

The alarm clock on the bedside table begins to ring.  Steve reaches out of the cocoon on blankets to silence it.  Then he rolls over and grins at Bucky.  “Morning,” he says sleepily.

“Morning.”  Bucky tries arranging his face in a smile, but it feels awkward.  He isn’t sure he’s achieved the desired result. He stops worrying about it when his jaw stretches into a yawn.

“Sleep ok?” Steve asks as he sits up.

Bucky shrugs.  It’s easier to sleep in Steve’s bed.  He’s gotten used to the mattress.  It no longer feels gooey under his spine, and it’s a definite improvement from an Army-issue bedroll or a hospital cot.  It helps to have another body tucked in with him, too.  A peaceful face one pillow over to remind him of where he is in time and space.

“It’s a big day, right?”  Bucky rubs the grit from his eyes.

“Yeah.”  Steve opens the dresser drawer and starts pulling on a pair of jeans.  He tosses another pair onto the bed for Bucky.  “You remembered.  Ready to wield a serving spoon?”

“I remembered…”  Bucky echoes.  Most of the time he knows what day it is, but it’s especially important today.  It’s Thanksgiving.  A happy day.  But he doesn’t feel happy.

Bucky mulls it over as he slips out of bed.  Everything at the forefront of his mind is solid, like the surface of a frozen lake, gleaming and ready to run across.  He’s safe.  He’s home.  He and Steve have plans.  But a dark shape lurks beneath the surface, reminding him that all it takes is a single crack for things to turn dangerous.

Steve helps him through the process of getting ready.  They’ve fallen into a routine; Bucky struggles with his clothes while Steve disappears to the bathroom.  He finishes up as soon as Bucky’s ready to join him, leaving the faucet running and Bucky’s toothbrush on the counter.

Bucky wants to ask him for an aspirin.  Ideally something stronger, but he knows that won’t fly.  He hasn’t touched anything beyond weed in almost a month.  Which is a good thing, Bucky reminds himself.  He sticks his toothbrush in his mouth, cringing at the bitter tang of chemicals under the artificial mint.  Too late now.  He won’t want to swallow anything for at least half an hour.

They hold hands as they walk to the shelter.  “No one’ll see,” Steve murmurs as he interlaces his fingers with Bucky’s.  It’s a holiday, and early morning to boot.  The neighborhood is completely still, and even the main roads are devoid of traffic. There may as well only be two cars in the entire town, both parked on the curb in front of the soup kitchen.

It’s warm inside, and already full of the aroma of cooking food.  “Hey, guys!”  Scott looks up from the antenna he’s wrestling into place atop the ancient TV set.  “There’s coffee in the back.  And pie.”

“Pie?” Steve shakes his head.  “A little early for that, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t just for breakfast anymore.”  Scott fiddles with the knob to change the channel, and a view of New York City appears in grainy black and white.

“Nice one, man.”  Steve claps him on the shoulder, then leads Bucky through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Sam appears to be in command, stirring a huge pot of potatoes while talking T’Challa through the turkey.  “It’s pre-cooked, man.  Stop messing with the oven or you’re gonna dry it out.”  His eyes alight on Steve and Bucky, and he greets them with an enthusiastic, “Happy Thanksgiving!”

“Most wonderful time of the year,” Steve says.  He pours himself a cup of coffee, then raises the carafe and makes eyes at Bucky.

“Sure,” Bucky mumbles.  The kitchen is comforting, both at the shelter and the house.  Like the bed, it’s not a place Bucky’s been lately, so he’s at ease there.  Mostly.  His hackles are up today, nagging at him like the throb behind his forehead, reminding him again of the fragility of his situation.  He takes one sip of the coffee, then decides he’s jittery enough and leaves the mug on the counter.

Steve won’t let him touch the knives, supposedly because his one-handedness keeps him from being able to hold steady whatever he’s cutting.  Bucky knows it’s for safety, too.  He agrees that it’s probably smart.  Sam puts him in charge of the gravy, first stirring the pot bubbling on the stove, then ladling it onto trays when the clock strikes 11 and the customers start streaming in.

Steve’s a chatterbox, too excited for his own good.  He makes conversation with every person in line as he doles out potatoes and stuffing.  Some of the scruffy men reply in kind, but most just mutter “thanks” and look at the floor.

Bucky doesn’t blame them.  He has a hard time lifting his gaze from the oily sheen of the gravy pan.  Making eye contact leaves him exposed, staring down the humanity in the other guy’s soul, just as they stare down his.  It makes it harder to act.  Harder to kill.

“Pour a little extra on here for me, will ya, boy?”

“Huh?”  Bucky blinks down at the slice of apple pie and the shaky hand holding out the dessert plate.  Then at the face behind it; the grin and the eye patch.

“Ugh, really, Nick?”  Steve laughs and wrinkles his nose.  “Gravy on potatoes, gravy on turkey…but gravy on pie?”

“Hey, I don’t comment on what you get up to,” Nick says.  “Come on.  Help a brother out.”

Bucky lifts the ladle slowly.  His heart beats hard and fast, but everything around him is too still.  The extended second of levitation before free fall.

“Who cares?  It’s just gravy.”

It’s just gravy.

I don’t care.  They’re not your rations.

He ain’t gonna eat ‘em.

He ain’t your fucking problem.

Don’t speak for ‘im.  Whadaya say, Barnes?  You gonna eat?

He isn’t hungry.  He doesn’t want to open his mouth, either.  His stomach’s in knots.  Everything in this godforsaken country smells like sweat and shit, even the food.  Even the food they shipped in specially, as if the government needed a federal holiday to give the troops abroad a sharp kick in the ass and call it thankfulness.

“Buck?  You alright?”  Steve’s hand closes over Bucky’s, stilling its quavering.  There’s gravy all over the counter, and Nick’s pie is swimming in it.

“Sorry, Nick,” Steve says.  “Scotty, you wanna grab him a fresh slice?”

“No, no, it’s ok,” Nick says with a chuckle.  “Got what I asked for, didn’t I?”  He takes his food and shuffles to a table.

“Just put it down, Buck.”  Steve murmurs.  He pries the ladle out of Bucky’s grip.  “Alright?”

Bucky’s teeth are chattering.  But he’s warm.  Too warm.  His head hurts.  And his arms.  The one that’s been stirring and scooping for the past four hours, and the one that’s not there.

Steve tucks Bucky’s hair behind his ear and presses the backs of his knuckles to his cheek.  “You feel ok?”

Bucky means to say “yeah,” but instead he mumbles, “People are gonna see…”

“It’s fine,” Steve says.  “Like he said, nobody cares what we get up to.”

Nobody cares.  Rations are rations.

Bucky takes a breath and tries again.  “I…” he starts.  “Um…”

“How ‘bout you sit down and have something to eat,” Steve suggests.  He pats Bucky’s shoulder and turns to get him a plate.

It’s the last thing Bucky wants, but he isn’t in the position to argue.  All he can do is try not to watch as Steve dishes him up.

“Here, come sit.”  Steve finds him a place at a table in the corner between Darcy and Nat.  Some deep recess of Bucky’s brain acknowledges the small miracle of veterans and protesters enjoying dinner in the same room, but the thought is impossible to hold.  It’s on top of the ice, and he’s trapped beneath it.  He’s stuck here, in his body and his memories, while the rest of the world spins without him.

Bucky picks up his fork because that seems like what Steve wants.  As soon as his blonde head bobs back into the kitchen, though, Bucky stands up again.  Somebody asks what’s wrong, but he doesn’t reply.  He can’t.

He leaves through the front door and circles around the back of the building.  A dumpster takes up most of the narrow alley, but there’s a pile of plywood and a soggy-looking mattress jammed into the corner.  Bucky makes for it, tripping over his feet and going down harder than he intends.  His knees smart, but Bucky doesn’t care.  He has to focus, to spit out the words before they turn to rocks in his pockets and pull him down.

Beds didn’t exist in Vietnam.  They did before, and they do after.  Nothing else matters.  Not food, not Thanksgiving.  Just safety.  And Steve.

“You’re…here,” Bucky grunts.  “You’re safe.”  He embeds his hand in his hair and stares at the dirty pavement between his feet.  He pulls in a half-dozen breaths that taste like garbage and winter sunshine.  It’s cold out here.  It wasn’t cold in Vietnam.

“There you are.”  It’s Steve’s voice.  Steve’s shadow approaches, and his shoes edge into Bucky’s visual field.  “Not feeling so good?”

“Hm.”  Bucky sighs.  “’M here.”

“And you’re safe,” Steve finishes.  He sits on the edge of the mattress and lays the flat of his palm between Bucky’s shoulder blades.  “Do you feel like talking about it?”

“Nah.”  Bucky searches for a sentence to capture the gist of it, but the more he thinks about it, the more nebulous the feelings become.  “Just…memories.  And…hurt.”

“What hurts?”

Bucky runs down the list.  Head, stomach, arms, ribs…  The tension in his shoulders holds an exhausting sort of pain.  He usually relaxes into Steve’s touch, but this time his muscles are locked in spasms, sending a nauseating tightness into his throat.  “My arm,” he says.  “My arms.”

“You probably used some muscles you haven’t worked in a while.”  Steve squeezes Bucky’s bicep and runs his hand over the top of his back.  He gently touches the crest of Bucky’s stump shoulder.  “Over here too?”

“Hm.”  The scars are healed now.  Nothing’s wrong with his skin, save the jagged pink marks that have yet to fade.  But something’s off on the inside, phantom pins and needles that prickle like surgical implements accidentally stitched inside. They come and go, fading for weeks then suddenly popping back to remind Bucky of how far he is from truly recovering, how any little thing can ruin him.

Like gravy.

“It’s ok, Buck.  You’re here.  You’re safe…”  Steve says something else, but Bucky doesn’t hear it.  His fingers hit the underside of Bucky’s stump, and the world turns upside down.  The tension in Bucky’s body drops, then reengages in the blink of an eye.  His entire left side tingles.  His vision erupts in stars, and a dry heave bursts from his chest.

“Whoa, ok,” Steve murmurs frantically.  “Ok.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry, Buck.”  The pressure of his hands disappears, leaving Bucky unmoored and drifting.  Bucky blinks a few times, but it does nothing for the sick vertigo playing around his ears.

“Ugh.”  Bucky wishes he could say something more definitive, something to insinuate he’s ok.  Which he isn’t, but he’s going to be, as soon as he gets his bearings again.

Steve’s breath is quick and concerned beside him.  He’s going to work himself into a tizzy if he isn’t careful.  Bucky lifts his trembling hand and drops it on Steve’s knee to reassure him, to make him feel a little better.  He thinks he feels a little better too.

#steelbridge sixties #captain america #mcu #marvel #fanfic #fanfiction #sickfic #hurt/comfort #au #alternate universe #vietnam war #veteran bucky #amputee bucky #stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #thanksgiving #sam wilson #nick fury #scott lang #t'challa #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #darcy lewis #ptsd #panic attack #emeto #emetophilia #phantom limb

[yourjughead]

Your Number.

Sweet Pea x Reader

Synopsis: Friends with Benefits doesn't work for everyone.

A/N: I'm writing Legacy this weekend so don't murder me.

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

“SP I can’t find my shoe” you were scurrying around his bedroom, collecting stray clothes as a dishevelled Sweet Pea watched from the bed, a sheet covering him and an arm above his head. He lazily reached down to behind the lamp, retrieving a battered pump and tossing it to you with a devilish smirk.

“Don't look at me like that” you fired it back at him, narrowly missing his messy mop of hair.

“C’mon SP, get up we have to meet the others at the bar” he whined back at you sinking below the off-white sheets again. Your night together, like most of these encounters, was impromptu and the two of you had to pick yourselves up again and put on a straight face and pretend none of this happened. Friends with benefits. This was better you both felt, feelings were never either of your fortes. You two were just friends helping one another out every now and then...every week...every day.

“But I’m tiiiiired”

“I bet you are” you winked and he lunged for you, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you back down on top of him, both of you laughing along, a phones vibration off the side table interrupting you both. Sweet Pea left out a groan and you answered the phone. He watched you talk away to Toni, a small smile growing on his face at the sight of you resting your head on his chest. Then he caught himself catching feelings and pulled from underneath you abruptly, falling off the bed and onto the floor. You looked at him confused before snapping back into conversation with Toni.

-

The five of you hung around in your usual booth, the conversation flowing around. Sweet Pea sat closely next to you, an arm on the back of the seat behind you. He tried his best to keep his eyes from you but was finding it more difficult than usual. Betty slipped in next to Jughead and the two shared a brief, sweet kiss. A pang of jealousy ran through Sweet Pea, not because he wanted Betty but because he was beginning to want to do that with you. Couple things. He then forced his eyes shut and shook his head in attempts to shake the ideas from his head. Sweet Pea downed the rest of his pint and climbed out of the booth without a word. He ran his hands through his hair at the bar edge, ordering another drink.

“Pea whats wrong?” he jumped at the sound of your voice.

“I uhhh” he watched Betty and Jughead walk hand in hand to the Jukebox before sharing a tight hug, the jealousy returned. You followed his gaze that lead to what you believed was just Betty, not the relationship.

“Oh, betty? Really?” you shuffled on the spot and tried to not let your own pang of jealousy take over.

“No I was...wait does that make you jealous?” he couldn't force down his signature smirk and you hit him into the chest.

“No I just...its just stop staring at your friends girlfriend like that”

“You are jealous”

“I am not”

“So i could ask her out and you’d be totally fine with it?”

“Well i mean Jughead might have something to say” he rolled his eyes as you stole his drink from the bar top, taking a swig.

“Well okay what about...what about if I asked Dina out?” he scanned the room to find the person that would annoy you most and it was definitely her. You ran your tongue across your teeth before taking another drink.

“Yeah- yes that would be fi-okay” you said through gritted teeth, hitting the glass back down off the mahogany with white knuckles. Dina was a distraction from you as well as a way for him to make you want him more, win win in his books. He nodded at you before pushing off the bar and sauntering over to the pool table where Dina was. Toni joined your side soon after as you watched Sweet Pea and Dina hit it off.

“Getting crushed by the crush ynn?” if only she knew you two had passed crush about 2 months ago.

“You know he's only talking with her to annoy you yeah? Fangs says he never shuts up about you”

“Really?”

“Yeah” you purse your lips before a smile grew across them. Feelings were never part of the deal but this was new information that made you feel so incredibly fuzzy.

“That, that i can work with” you winked at your best friend before heading to the bathroom.

You returned to Sweet Peas side moments later, standing very close after he took his shot.

“Are you okay ynn? Something wrong?” he stood up from his stance and leaned against the pool stick, famous smirk painted on. Dina watched you carefully before lining up her own shot.

“No no, nothing” your hand ran down his side and into his front pocket causing him to jump slightly. You then slowly slipped your now empty hand back out before winking and walking away slowly, knowing he was watching. Dina took her shot while Sweet Pea put his hand into his pocket. His eyes widened immediately at the feeling of a lacy thong balled up in the fabric. Sweet Peas eyes shot to you while you leaned against the bar and gave him a small little wave with just your finger tips before you took up another drink in your hand and sat back into the booth with your friends.

Sweet Pea apologised to Dina before practically running back to the booth and squishing back in tightly alongside you.

“You think that's cute?” he whispered under his breath to you when the conversation around you two got too loud for anyone to here you both. You just took another sip through your smirk.

You gasped loudly, lunging forward slightly with the feeling of Sweet Peas hand against your heat. The table looked at you confused and you waved them up, dragging your serpent jacket over your lap, Sweet Peas hand still not separating from you. Your hand shot to the corner of the table to grip it as he began to move his hand. Your other hand then grabbed his and attempted to pull it away, failing.

“Hey push over” Cheryl had arrived and squished herself into the already tight booth, Sweet Peas hand being forced from you.

“Maybe we should get another chair” Fangs suggested at the lessening space before you stood up best you could and planted yourself on Sweet Peas lap relieving the space issue. That suited everyone except for Sweet Pea and the conversation grew back to its loud volume. You moved slightly and felt Sweet Pea grow beneath you, your skirt riding up a little from behind.

“Yeah he would be perfect for yn!” the mention of your name in the conversation brought the two of you back to earth.

“Who would?”

“Yeah who? Who would be perfect for her?” Sweet Pea came off a lot more angry then he had intended and you tried not to laugh.

“Cheryl’ cousin, he sounds perfect for you yn”

“Sounds great, give me his numb-ER” you squealed slightly as Sweet Pea squeezed your thigh.

“Hey YN, i should drop you home, remember your dad said not to stay out too late when i collected you?”

“No I don't remember th-AT” you threw a dirty look as he squeezed your leg again.

“Oh wait yes, i do remember that, let's go” on sliding out of the booth Cheryl slid you her cousins number that you weren't all real interested in.

-

Sweet Pea brought you back to his trailer to collect the rest of your things, all done in silence while he watched you from the kitchen counter.

“Well, see you later Pea” you went for the door before being pulled by the forearm flush with Sweet Peas chest.

“Are you going to use that number?” his warm breath coated your skin.

“I don’t know”

“Well...what if you didn’t”

“Then I’d still be single”

“What if you weren't single”

“Sweet Pea” you pulled from him and threw your bag back on the floor and then yourself onto the couch, Sweet Pea joining your side soon after.

“So do you wanna be together or not Pea?! I can't take these mixed messages”

“I dont know!!”

“WELL FIGURE IT OUT” your voice got away from you and it made him jump in his seat.

“I DON’T KNOW I DON'T KNOW! ALL I KNOW IS I DON'T WANT YOU WITH ANY OTHER GUY”

“AND I DON'T WANT YOU WITH ANY OTHER GIRL SO WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO?!” he caught your face suddenly and pulled you into him, his tongue tracing the inside of your mouth viciously, you pulling him further on top of you.

“No no no Pea this doesn't solve anything!” you pushed him into the chest away from you.

“But this is how we always solve things”

“And maybe that's not working anymore” you said smally as he retreated back again.

“Yeah, maybe it isn't… what are we gonna do”

“What do you wanna do?”

“I- I wan-t you to be my girl-friend” his voice was shaky and it took all that he was to rip his eyes from the carpet and say that to your face.

“I-mean-I mean if you wan-t to I mean we don-t have to….umm please say anything” you stood up and went for your jacket, Sweet Pea nearly being sick watching you do so. You removed the scrap receipt with a number scribbled on it and crumpled it in your hand. Sweet Pea moved slowly towards you, putting his hands on your hips and moving in to kiss you sweetly and then into a tight hug.

“Pea what happens if this doesn't work”

“What happened if it does” you looked up at him through your eyelashes and smiled.

“Then I'm going to need your number”

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

Xx

#riverdale imagines #riverdale #riverdale fanfiction #riverdale x reader #riverdale fic #riverdalexreader #southside serpents #sweet pea #sweet pea imagine #sweet pea x reader #sweetpeaxreader #riverdale x reader fluff #southside serpent x reader #sweet pea fic #serpent #southside #riverdale smut #riverdale cw #riverdale serpents #sweet pea x oc #serpentxreader #riverdale southside #sweetpea x reader #archie comics #riverdale sweet pea #sweetpeaimagine #riverdale x reader smut #riverdalefic #riverdale imangine #sweetpea imagine

[writingthingsisdifficult]

Try again

Request: Lovely to see you back gorgeous! OK, I want to do the prompt thing. I've been trying to not think too hard. :| I'm going to give you things to use however you like, with Dean. In the same story as Dean, I mean. A haha. A pen; cobalt blue; January; and someone has to say "Lower". Obscure as fuck, I know. Well, buh-byeee *skips away*

Word count: 3284

This was supposed to be a short little thing, but I think I got a bit carried away. Anyway, enjoy. And I’d love it if you told me what you think of it. Just keep in mind that English isn’t my first language. Also: a little warning for arguing and fighting.

Dean frowned. He hadn’t seen or heard from you since January – when he so ungraciously told you to get lost. He didn’t know why he’d – yeah, he did, and it drove him mad. Everything would be easier that way. At least that was what he’d convinced himself, but now he knew better. It was pain – pure, excruciating agony, being away from you like that, but once he’d realised what an idiot he’d been, you were nowhere to be found.

It was like you were dissolved into thin air. First place he’d gone to look was the old motel he’d left you in. It was a long shot, but he had to start somewhere. Of course you weren’t there. And you were good at covering your tracks, but he knew you – and he wanted you back.

That’s why it came as a total shock when your name flashed on his phone, the familiar guitar riff drawing a smile despite the fact that he no longer could listen to the song without his stomach sinking through the floor.

“H-hello?” He answered the phone hesitantly, unsure whether or not it really was you on the other end.

“Dean!” Your voice was like gold in his ears, but somewhere in the back of his head a small voice screamed that something was off about it. He decided to play along for now and figure out what it was along the way.

“Y/N,” he breathed, trying his best to keep ten months of agony and longing from seeping into his own voice.

“Dean, I need you!”

Shit. Of all the things you could have said, this was the last thing he expected. Dreamt of, yes, but never really thought… “Y/N, what’s going on?” He had to make sure it didn’t just happen inside his head.

There was a short, but poignant pause on the other side. Then you muttered: “I’m in trouble. I need you.”

Dean was already on his feet with his jacket in his hand, searching for his car keys before grabbing his boots. Holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder, he struggled to pull them on, hopping around on one foot. “I’ll be there,” he said, trying to convey all the regret from the last year into the phone. “Just gimme an address.”

There was a muffled cry, then high-pitched whimpering.

Working even harder, he pulled the shoelace so hard it snapped, and he cursed silently.

“Just come get me,” you sobbed.

The sound of you so scared and hurt broke his heart in even smaller pieces. He never should have left you in the first place. “I will, sweetheart,” he said in his most soothing voice, picking up a pen from the table. There was no paper in sight. “But I need you to tell me where you are.”

“Just south of McAlester, Oklahoma. The old farm off of Frink Road.” Suddenly you sounded hesitant, as is you were regretting calling him.

Dean hastily scribbled your direction on his hand. “We’re on our way,” he replied and picked up his ready packed duffle bag. Thank god they were already leaving this godforsaken dump anyway. He’d soon be with you, and he would drive all night if he had to.

“Y/N…” he began, intending to apologise for… everything, but the line was cut off. The beeps coming from his phone rang ominously in his ear.

“Sammy, get your ass in gear. We’re leaving. Now!” Three sharp raps on the bathroom door.

Sam poked his head through the opening with his mouth full of foaming toothpaste. “Wha – “ Catching Dean’s murderous glare, he ducked back in, spat, then gargled, before emerging again. “Where’s the fire?”

“Y/N called,” Dean answered through gritted teeth.

“Shit!”

“Yeah. So get your crap and get in the car.”

With a sarcastic smile and eyes that told Dean exactly how big of an idiot he’d been, Sam continued: “It must really be an emergency if she actually called you. What did she say?”

Swallowing the urge to argue and smack his little brother’s righteous grin off his face – mostly because fighting would take too much time, but also because Dean knew that Sam was right – he nodded and allowed himself one sardonic glare before busying himself with his jacket. “Didn’t say much. Just that she’s in trouble. And she’s not too far away,” he added, checking the address on his hand. “So come on. Let’s go.” He tapped impatiently with his foot, because he knew it annoyed Sam. Small victories.

“Weird,” Sam replied, ignoring Dean’s attempt to rile him up. It was just the adrenaline in Dean’s body trying to pick a fight. He wasn’t even sure if Dean was aware of it. “Y/N usually explains what… Hm, you sure it was really her?”

“What do you take me for? Jesus, Sam, I know my Y/N –“ He slammed his mouth shut. You weren’t his Y/N any more.

Holding up his hands in a peace offering, Sam nodded towards the door. “Okay, okay. Let��s go,” he said with sympathy in his voice. If he was lucky, he would get his brother back soon. Almost a whole year of sulking was starting to take its toll.

The fields rushed past the window as Dean sped through town after small town. He was going at least twice as fast as he should have, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to remind him to take it slow. There was a dark sort of determination to his brother he hadn’t seen in a long time, and he knew that no good would come from saying anything.

Outside, the sky was darkening, turning a cool shade of cobalt blue. Almost ten hours had passed since the phone call, and they had heard nothing more. They were getting closer, and Dean was getting antsy in his seat. What if she was seriously hurt? What if… she was dead? Would he be able to live with that guilt weighing down his shoulders?

“Relax,” Sam said, putting his hand on Dean’s arm. “She’ll be fine. Y/N always lands on her feet.”

“Yeah, but what if –“

Sam shook his head. “No use in what ifs. We’ll be there in a few, then we’ll see –“

Dean gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned bright white, and growled. “I swear to whatever god is listening: if anyone so much as laid a hand on her…” He never finished his threat, because the farm came into view, and he turned off the road, parking the impala in the darkness behind a row of trees.

He was out of the car and fetched his gun and a machete for good measure and marched across the road before Sam even got two feet on the ground. “Hey, wait up,” he whisper-shouted, jogging after Dean. “Take it easy, brother. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. Let’s not barge in there and make everything worse.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but he slowed down too. “Fine. What do you suggest, Professor Mastermind?”

“I don’t know,” Sam replied with a snort and a shake of his head, “but let’s at least take the time to look around.”

The farm was dark. No lamps on outside, and the air was filled with a pressing silence. In the back of Dean’s head the same feeling as before, that something was off, woke, and he took a quick peek in a window. It was a kitchen, and it was empty. Not even a trace of being lived in; at least not that he could see in the faint light from the shining moon.

Sam tried the door on the right. It swung open with a soft creak, and Dean gestured for Sam to stand back, pointing his gun around the corner. Inside it was warm and stuffy. Like the house had been sealed for months. But there was a small sound coming from somewhere – a thumping, or maybe it was just the pulse in Dean’s ears. He crept along the wall, keeping his steps light in case the floor was loud, Sam on his tail.

Across the hall they saw a tiny, flickering light. There’s a shadow moving back and forth, and two voices whispering together, but it’s impossible to make out what they’re saying.

The Winchesters moved silently across to the door, like the ghosts they sometimes hunted, and Dean took a quick glance before retreating, almost knocking Sam over. He held up two fingers and then pointed to the room. Sam tilted his head in a silent question. What kind of monsters? Dean shrugged. There was no visible signs, to his eyes they looked like ordinary humans. But then he heard their voices and he knew they weren’t.

“Lower your voice,” one of them rasped, the edge of the sound prickling like static coming from an old TV. “Didn’t you hear the door? They’re here.”

The second man – creature? – grumbled, and huffed in response.

“See? I told you, they’d be here if she called.” In a horrifying twist, its voice transformed into your lovely tone. “Please, Dean, I need you.” It giggled. “Imagine, dude, we’re going to be the ones. The ones who killed the Winchesters. Boss ain’t got nothing on us now.”

The hairs on Dean’s neck rose in disgust. He’d been tricked, and they had dared to use you to lure him into their trap. Baring his teeth, he sucked in a breath and motioned for Sam to follow him. Whatever these things were, they were gonna regret messing with him.

The creatures didn’t notice them immediately when they stepped into the room, and just as he was about to pull the trigger, a movement caught his eyes, and he gasped loudly. You were there. Bloodied and bruised, but very much alive, and the sight made his stomach spin. You were stumbling across the floor, carrying something heavy, and the only reason he didn’t run to your side was that Sam held him back.

“Y/N!” Dean blurted out, causing your head to snap up, fixing your eyes on him, and lose sight of the creatures. They heard him, of course, and sprung into action. Fast as lightning, one of them leapt over the floor and grabbed you by the hair, forcing you to your knees, while the other one vaulted over Sam, gracing him with long claws.

With a pained groan, you twisted in the creature’s grip and swung your heel upwards, catching it in the temple, sending it flying into a bookshelf.

A shot rang through the room and the one who attacked Sam cried out in pain, but it got back on its feet and stalked towards Dean, whose gun was still smoking.

“Gotta take their heads off,” you grunted, wrapping whatever you were carrying around the creature’s neck and tightening with more force Dean thought was possible. The head suddenly burst off with a loud pop, and a thick green and yellow liquid sprayed over you like a fountain.

“Dean!” Sam yelled, kicking the remaining creature hard in the chest. It stumbled backwards, just in range of Dean’s machete, and he swung it, easily separating the head and body. A similar spray washed over him, and evaporated, leaving a dried coat of monster entrails on his face. But he didn’t particularly notice, because you were supporting yourself on a table, wiping your face free of goo, and the way the candlelight danced in your hair made it look like the glittering ocean at night.

Sam brought him out of his reverie. “What the hell was that? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Mimics,” you replied with a shrug. “Sorta like shapeshifters. As far as I can tell, they lure unsuspecting victims by mimicking the voices of loved ones, then feed off their brainwaves or something. Been tracking them for a while, and I was just about to finish them off when one of them caught scent of me. Been locked up for a few days trying to come up with a good plan.”

You took a few uncertain steps and wrapped your arms around Sam’s waist. “It’s good to see you, Sasquatch,” you mutter, inhaling the familiar scent of family and safety. Inside you, every emotion battled to float to the surface at once. It was hard to breathe properly and ignore the other Winchester simultaneously.

“I’ve missed you,” Sam said and kissed the top of your head. “And Dean has too.”

His words made you look up, then over at his brother – your once lover – who stood stiffly waiting his turn, and when Sam let go, he swooped in and gathered you up into a bone-crushing hug. There was so much you wanted to say then, but you couldn’t find a single word to fit in your mouth.

“You’re okay,” Dean mumbled into your hair, more to himself than to you, and you nod, wanting nothing more than to go back to the beginning of the year when everything was alright, and you had no idea of the suffering to come.

Dean let you go and stepped away, leaving the two of you in an awkward stance just looking at each other.

Wrapping your arms around yourself, you turned slightly so you didn’t have to look him in the face. Instead your eyes caught Sam’s, who seemed to encourage you to turn back to Dean.

You bit your lip and glanced over to Dean, who looked like he had a million words just waiting to burst from his lips. But instead, he just repeated himself: “You’re okay,” like it was a miracle and a marvel to see you on your feet.

A sour taste rose from your stomach. Did he really think so little of you? “Of course I’m okay,” you snarled, to the obvious surprise of Dean, but you didn’t let that distract you. Instead you continued: “I’ve been in this life even longer than you, remember? I know how to take care of myself –“

“Well, evidently not,” Dean muttered, flicking his eyes over the dead bodies oozing on the floor.

“What?” Your voice was dripping with ice cold calm, and Sam took a step backwards. You were going to eviscerate his brother.

Dean didn’t seem to notice. “Didn’t look like you were doing too good back there,” he said, pointing towards the dark room. “Looks like we got here just in time –“

“I had everything under fucking control,” you spat, eyes narrowing from his nerve. “You were the one who gave me away. If you hadn’t stumbled in like a drunk bison, and then proceeded to yell my name, I’d have the mimics strung up and still had time to eat a midnight snack back at the casino.” Shaking your head, you practically growled. “Goddamn famous Winchesters always wanted by every monster out there. Just… just leave me alone.”

Snatching a sweater from the chair, you stomped towards the door and the chill outside air, ready to forget about Dean and his stupid, gorgeous face – again.

In the blink of an eye, he was by your side, grabbing your wrist and blocking your exit. “Don’t leave,” he pleaded, those sad eyes almost breaking your resolve to go back into hiding.

“Don’t le… Really, Dean? Now you want to talk? What happened to wanting me gone and out of your hair, huh? I was only a liability – a, a burden anyway. I’m just doing what you wanted. Let me go!” You twisted free from his grip and stood back with your arms crossed over your chest.

His eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. “Jesus, no, Y/N… how could you think –“

Flinging your arms out, you set a pair of cold eyes in him. “Then WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO THINK, DEAN?” You didn’t mean to yell, but there was a lot of anger rushing out through your mouth. “You told me to fuck off, then you left and took every sense of belonging and family with you, leaving me alone again. I HAD NOTHING, DEAN. NOTHING! Then you came along, offering me the world, and I thought I finally found somewhere… someone… and then…” Shutting up before your voice cracked, you pinched the bridge of your nose trying to force the tears back by sheer willpower.

Dean’s eyes glistened, and he sniffed. Or maybe you imagined it. You weren’t sure any more. But he put his hands on your upper arms and squeezed. “I’m so sorry,” he breathed, and it sounded sincere. “I’m sorry,” he said again, this time a little louder. “I was an idiot. Thought it would… that it would be easier, that I protected you by leaving, but I was wrong. As usual. Please. Just don’t leave. I don’t care if you don’t love me any more, I just want to be with you – “

Sam looked from Dean to you and then back. He’d never heard him sound so vulnerable, and he hoped you’d forgive him, for selfish reasons, he thought with a brief grimace; he liked you, but even more, he liked what you did to his brother. And he was so ready to have his little family complete again.

Deciding to not interfere, he slowly backed out of the room. There was a lot of cleaning up to do. He might as well get going, and with a last glance at the two of you over his shoulder, he went in search of something to dig a grave with.

Noticing vaguely that you were alone with Dean, you allowed yourself to lower your defences. “You broke my heart, Dean. I loved you. I… love you, and I don’t think I’ll survive another… another…” Clearing your throat, your squared your shoulders and lifted your head. “I’m not some doll you can discard when you’re done.”

“I know,” he said, looking into your eyes, letting go of your arms. “And I won’t stop you if you really want to leave. But…” His eyes brimmed over, and tears streamed down his face. “I want you to know that I still love you. That I’ll always love you. If you ever need me, just call. As long as there’s a breath left in me I’ll jump in the car and drive to you. Wherever you are. I…” His voice broke, and his shoulders slumped forward. Looking at his boots, he fiddled with his left thumb.

After a few long seconds’ silence, he looked up, almost expecting you to be gone, but now, given the choice, you found that you couldn’t. You were still there. Still standing in front on the man you would give your soul to save.

“How do I know I can trust you?” you asked. The words punched you in the chest like a boxer going for knock out.

“I… I don’t know how to… convince you,” Dean began, speaking softly, as if he’d just found his voice after a long time of illness. “Give me a chance to, to prove it to you,” he added, wincing from the horribly cliché scene, and he hesitantly took your hand. “Please.” Gone was the familiar cockiness in his eyes, there were no traces of confidence in his face. Only sorrow, and a faint trace of hope.

You closed your eyes and breathed in his scent. This was what you had been dreaming of: a second chance. Weaving your fingers into his, you opened your eyes again and blinked away the tears that clung to your lashes. When you leaned towards him, Dean immediately opened his arms so you could rest your head on his chest. Feeling the weight of the world lift from your shoulders, you whispered into his jacket: “Let’s try again.”

Tagging my wonderful crew:

@awesomeahwu @brynleewolfe @funwithfanfics @babeinthebowtie @savingapplepie-eatingthings @winchesterprincessbride @savvythedork @littlegreenplasticsoldier @youtubehelpsmesurvive @blackcherrywhiskey @mrswhozeewhatsis @schwarzwaelder-kirschtorte @aiaranradnay @fandomismyspiritanimal @barneybrigade  @mogaruke @wstrumpel @whovianextrodinare @hennessy0274-blog @sushi-senpai-chan @tardis-is-mine @badasssweetsrebel @jensensjaredsandmishaslover @megasimpleplan4ever @bitch-i-am-a-dean-girl @iruff685 @kathaswings

#dean x reader #angst-ish #dean winchester #supernatural #fan fiction #spn fanfic #try again #writing is hard #reader insert

[izanyas]

Bliss (Alongside Part 7)

New installment of the Hot Single Dad Shizuo series, Alongside! Thank you Laidon for the beta as always.

Rating: T Words: 5,100 No warnings.

Bliss

Izaya has lived through two bad break-ups in his life. It's either irony or fate that he's only had two relationships at all, and that the first caused the second.

Shiki breaking up with him had felt like white-hot rage, like simmering humiliation, like revenge churning in his stomach and bursting out of his mouth bile-like. Izaya hadn't let himself feel heartbroken so much as hate-filled and hate-fueled for weeks, for months afterward, until he had Shiki's name and prison sentence under his eyes in the morning papers. He'd run his index over the printed characters as he smoked from a half-full pack of cigarettes he had stolen from the man, until his fingertip was black with ink. Until his throat ached from the sweet-smelling tobacco Shiki favored.

Only then had he felt satisfaction. Only then had he started looking back at every shared memory and souring all of them for himself. Slowly, meticulously, like needlework. There was no heartbreak to be felt when he was done.

Shizuo breaking up with him feels like tachycardia; it feels like sorrow is trapped between his ribs and making his heart tire itself out; it feels like every day going by unseen, like Namie texting him There's nothing to report, he's living his damn life and he looks fine, every day at four-thirty. She keeps telling him she won't help him stalk his ex anymore and she keeps doing it anyway because, he surmises, it's better than seeing him like this. This break-up feels like a sob waiting to be let out. It feels like guilt.

Izaya spends two months like this—holed into work, avoiding all but clients and professional emails, Mikage's pathetic efforts at friendship going unindulged—until he slams a fist down against his glass desktop with all the strength he possesses.

"Fuck," Namie says breathlessly, startled by the noise. "What the hell, Izaya?"

His fingers shake when he uncurls his hand, every knuckle aching smartly. "I'm going out," he replies.

"To do what? Punch a brick wall this time? You've got a client coming in ten minutes."

"Reschedule, then," Izaya says, sliding a hollow smile in her direction.

She grits her teeth and turns her head away from him.

Some of the tension in him has been smothered by the pain, but Izaya isn't stupid enough to think it won't come back. He's not stupid enough to think this was any kind of a smart move either. He knows how he is more honestly than he wishes to, and he knows a slippery slope when he sees one—just because he isn't a teenager anymore doesn't mean harming himself isn't a temptation.

Still. There are better ways to harm oneself than simple brutal violence.

Spring is well underway now, closer to summer in heat and sunlight. It's a bright Saturday afternoon and people are out everywhere to enjoy it. Izaya doesn't hear any of their laughs and yells as he walks near public parks and open cafés. His feet take him in the direction of Akane's school because it's where he goes on days like this, when he's sure she doesn't have class and Shizuo doesn't have a reason to come. He sits down at the bad coffee place that was their first meeting and their first date, and he orders tea and broods.

The place is mostly empty, as he expected. Its strongest selling element is its location—rush hours are what makes its success, not the quality of their food and drinks. The tea is tasteless, tepid. Izaya likes tea when the water is right off the boiler, when he can feel his tongue burn on it. All this cup does is make him ache more.

This is stupid, he thinks, like he does every time. And yet he does it every time.

He hasn't been here five minutes when he stands up from his seat. He doesn't linger much longer than ten on worse days. Even the sight of the school hurts, yet another reminder that on top of Shizuo himself it's everything Shizuo loves that he misses as well. He misses Shizuo, and he misses Shizuo's handsome handwriting, and he misses Akane. He misses being loved like he knew from the start he never deserved to be, and just because he knew it could only end badly doesn't make the aftermath any easier to live through.

Izaya's eyes fall down from the school's bell-tower and meet Shizuo's across the street.

His fingers tighten over the plastic cup, making lukewarm tea spill over his hand and shoes.

For a second he doesn't know if he hopes that Shizuo hasn't noticed him; there's a good thirty meters between the two of them and people walking on the sidewalks that separate them, it's not entire inconceivable. Izaya's physical appearance is nothing out of the ordinary in a sea of other ordinary-looking men and women. But Shizuo looks to his right, then his left, and when he crosses the street his eyes are back to Izaya instantly.

Izaya watches him approach silently and doesn't have the strength to steel himself for anything through the longing that grips him by the throat. Shizuo falters a few feet away from him on the wide sidewalks, his gaze searching and sad.

"Hey," he says. He tries to smile, but all it does is make it impossible for Izaya to meet his eyes.

"Shizuo," he replies as evenly as he can.

It's awkward. Shizuo takes another few steps forward—Izaya would step back, but he has the table's edge pressed against the back of his thighs, so what he does instead is turn around a little to put down the tea he's not going to finish and give himself an excuse to bite his lip unseen.

He's tasting blood by the time he straightens up, so he doesn't even try to smile. "It's been a while," he says. "Did you want something?" He nods toward the entrance of the coffee shop. "The cheesecake looks slightly less like it's likely to poison you today."

Shizuo doesn't look away from him, doesn't take the bait, but his lips shiver in the beginning of a smile, and Izaya's heart soars all the way up to his throat in a long, aching beat.

"It has been a while," he replies warmly. "How've you been, Izaya?"

Izaya's chest feels like a solid bruise. He almost answers, Don't say my name like this, almost answers, I've been waking up in the middle of the night to dreams of you kissing me like I wake up from nightmares.

"Fine," he says. "Terrorizing my secretary, making men twice my age beg for mercy. You know how it goes."

Shizuo's mouth twitches again. "Yeah, I can believe that."

Izaya wants to wrap his hands around his neck and press their lips together so hard he'll stop breathing altogether.

He looks at the school again and asks, "How's Akane?" And he means it as a jab or a reminder, as something to make Shizuo remember the reason he's left Izaya feeling like he's carrying his own weight in regrets for two months, but his voice quivers over Akane's name in a way much too telling, and Shizuo's eyes soften.

"Ah." Shizuo brings a hand up, rubs it over his nape. "She's, uh, a little mad at me right now, actually."

"Mad at you?"

"Yeah."

Izaya can't think of anything that would make Akane mad at Shizuo short of Shizuo murdering someone she loves in cold blood, which makes the present situation so unbelievable he wonders for a second if he's dreaming again.

"That's…" he doesn't know how to end his thought.

Shizuo smiles at him briefly, like he knows exactly what Izaya means. Then he clears his throat and says, "Listen, I… do you have some time right now?"

Izaya's fingers rub together, knuckles still painful from earlier. "Why?"

"I'd like to talk to you for a moment."

"Are you free?"

"Yeah. I had the morning shift only."

Izaya hesitates.

He has an idea of what this is, and he doesn't… he doesn't do long heartfelt conversations with exes. He doesn't seek closure because he's incapable of finding it. He doesn't know that he can apologize—and Shizuo will want an apology—and even if by some miracle he can restrain the true and rotten self he's been trying to hide around him, even if Shizuo manages to get some modicum of peace out of whatever Izaya says, Izaya won't. He'll walk out of this feeling worse than he went in. He'll be scratching at wounds that haven't yet scabbed. It's why he hasn't contacted Shizuo once since Shizuo asked him to go.

Shizuo looks at him with no expectation, sunlight glowing in his hair and eyes. He still looks like he did the first time Izaya saw him enter that same place, when he thought of him as a stranger to talk to and drag into his bed. But Izaya has had Shizuo in his bed. He's had Shizuo in Shizuo's bed, and in many places more. He knows exactly what Shizuo looks like with nothing but heat between them—he knows what Shizuo's hands feel like on his skin and he knows what Shizuo sounds like gasping into his neck—and the only thing he can think of is that he'd sacrifice even those memories for the chance to hear him say I love you again.

"I have time," he says, and it comes out more hoarsely than he intended.

--

They don't touch at all as they walk. It's not unfamiliar—neither of them so much as held hands in public even when they were together. Shizuo may not be ashamed of displaying innocent affection, but Izaya tenses when he feels eyes on them. This is not one of the concessions that came as a problem between them.

Now, though, the distance between them aches all the more with the knowledge that they are walking in the same direction and for the same purpose. Izaya would gladly accept the weight of Shizuo's hand and that of onlookers.

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" Shizuo asks quietly.

Izaya glances at him, but Shizuo is looking ahead, troubled. "I'm not hungry," he replies.

"You've lost weight."

Of course he would notice.

Izaya hasn't had an appetite for much more than tea and the occasional takeout. He's skipped breakfast more often than not and left much of the food Namie prepares to go to waste in his fridge. She's been very unhappy about it.

Shizuo takes him to a restaurant without saying more on the topic. It's not a place they've visited together, which Izaya would consider an insult if he weren't so sure that Shizuo is trying to spare his feelings. The sign outside is colorful in the worst way and the people inside noisy. Izaya is trying to parse the concept of a sushi restaurant owned by Russians, eyeing the white man behind the counter and ignoring the loud crowd when someone says, "Shizu-chan!"

"Fuck," he hears Shizuo mutter.

The owner of the voice is a woman seated with three other people. She waves in direction of the entrance, jumping to her feet and urging them over. Shizuo gives Izaya an apologetic glance, which Izaya waves off with more grace than he feels, before heading toward her. He's not going to resent Shizuo for being more social than he is.

"Karisawa," he greets curtly, Izaya a few feet behind him.

"I haven't seen you in forever," the woman says, giddy. "Come on, sit with us!"

The man sitting next to her grabs her by the sleeve and pulls her back down, saying, "Can't you see he's got company? Act your age."

He looks vaguely familiar.

Karisawa pouts. "But everything's so fun with Shizu-chan."

"Don't call me that," Shizuo says, tired. "I'm busy—I'll hang out with you guys later, all right?" He gives a friendly nod to the man with the beanie and raises his hand to answer the other two men's greetings before turning to walk toward Izaya again.

It's then that the man in the hat meets Izaya's eyes for a second, looks away, and then looks back with recognition and surprise etched onto his face.

"Izaya?" he asks, bewildered.

Shizuo pauses, glancing between the two of them.

The man stops looking confused to look glad instead, and his voice is surer when he says, "You're Orihara Izaya, right? Man, it's been a while."

"Have we met?" Izaya answers coldly. He's not exactly in the mood for pleasantries.

"Yeah, we have," the man grins. "I'm Kadota Kyouhei. We went to highschool together."

And suddenly it clicks; the man's face falls into place alongside memories Izaya hasn't browsed in years, younger but no less friendly than it is now. One of two people Izaya talked to on a regular basis in school, and the only one of the two he's likely to forget.

Izaya feels his lips curl into a smile. "Dotachin," he says slowly. "I expected you to be in prison by now."

Kadota laughs and replies, "I expected you to be dead."

"Seems like we both missed out."

"Ooh," one of the two other men says, the one with light blond hair. "Is this the guy you told us about, Kadota-san? The one who started a gambling ring in your school?"

"The one and only," Kadota replies dryly.

"Figures," Shizuo says under his breath. Izaya is the only one who hears him.

It's enough to remind him of why he's here at all. He puts his hands in his pockets and toys with his house key with the tip of his fingers. "Not that I wouldn't love to revisit fond memories, but I'm rather short on time, Dotachin," he says. "If you don't mind catching up later."

"Sure," Kadota says, with the air of someone who knows exactly how unlikely Izaya is to do just that. "I'll ask Sharaku for your number."

It's a threat as much as a promise, but the kind of threat Izaya can brush off with a smile that feels almost genuine.

He and Shizuo walk away, and Izaya hears the Karisawa woman say, "Why are all your friends hot, Dotachin?" and Kadota reply, "Don't ever call me that," with the voice of someone who regrets a lot of things.

Shizuo leans in closer. "I'll get us a private booth," he murmurs, breath running along the shell of Izaya's ear.

It leaves Izaya still all the way to his heart.

He does get them a booth, somehow. It's at the very end of the dining room, where no one can see them except by standing right next to their table. Izaya sits down and doesn't touch the menu.

"Sorry about that lot," Shizuo says after an awkward silence. "They're not exactly discreet."

"Kadota has always had a knack for surrounding himself with eccentrics," Izaya replies evenly. "I had no idea you knew him."

"I had no idea you knew him either. We worked together a couple years before I got my current job and got along well."

"Small world," Izaya mutters.

Shizuo nudges the menu in his direction. "Get yourself something to eat," he says.

"I'm not hungry."

"Have you eaten anything today?"

Izaya frowns and bats away the plastic. It almost slides right off the table and into the feet of the fast-walking waiter who comes out of the kitchen in that moment, but it gets the point across, no matter how childish it is.

"Okay," Shizuo relents. "Sorry."

He sounds so sincere is the problem. It makes the guilt that has clung to every breath Izaya takes shiver inside his throat, makes his face flush with it.

"Look, Shizuo," he says—has to swallow after saying, because Shizuo's very name feels like a knifecut on his tongue. "Just tell me what you want to talk about. Let's not pretend either of us wants to be here."

Shizuo just looks at him in silence for a long moment. Izaya stares unseeingly at the kitchen's door next to the booth, doesn't move when Shizuo waves over the waiter and orders whatever it is he wants before sending him off again.

"I wanted to talk to you," he said, "about what happened the last time we saw each other."

"You mean when you broke up with me."

"Yes. When I broke up with you."

Izaya's lips curl into a smile more feral than friendly, but Shizuo doesn't flinch away when their eyes meet. "What's there to talk about? You made the right choice. The only choice you could've made under the circumstances. I respect that."

"I know," Shizuo replies. "I can't say I've ever had this clean a break with anyone before. Thank you."

The pain in Izaya's chest is so sharp it feels physical in every way. Like Shizuo just stabbed a knife right between his ribs.

"What do you want," he says between his teeth, eyes close.

"I want to know why you never told me the truth."

It's nothing Izaya hadn't expected.

"We've had this conversation—"

"Yeah, and you never answered me properly," Shizuo cuts him off. "You made fun of me, and you acted like you didn't give a damn, and you left when I told you to. I want to know."

"There's nothing to know," Izaya replies icily. "I hid it from you because I knew you'd break up with me if you found out. What more do you want?"

Shizuo is silent for a moment. The waiter comes back with his food—he pushes half of it in front of Izaya, and Izaya feels too hollow to throw it off the table like he wants to, so he settles for letting it sit untouched in front of himself.

Shizuo eats a piece from his plate, looking down. "Did you know about Akane when we got together?" he asks once he's done chewing.

"Yes."

"I see." He looks up again, and Izaya can't read anything in his eyes. His fingers clench together in his lap. "So you were lying from the start."

Izaya smiles. "I was. How does that make you feel?"

"Not very good."

Izaya huffs and looks away.

"The thing is," Shizuo says a moment later, after toying with more of his food, "I can understand lying to me for a while if you only wanted a fling. If you just wanted to sleep with me or something. But that's not what you wanted, was it?"

"Maybe it was," Izaya lies.

Shizuo smiles sadly. "Then let's put it that way, if it's easier for you." Izaya tenses, but Shizuo continues before he can put in a word, "I wanted a relationship. I wanted a real, solid thing, and I consider what we had to be that even now. And you knew it."

Denying it would be fruitless, so Izaya doesn't.

Shizuo sucks a stray drop of soy sauce from his thumb before speaking again. "It lasted a year. That's no fling, Izaya, no matter how much you want to pretend to the contrary. You're smart. You knew the truth would come up eventually." His hand drops down onto the table, fingers splayed wide and gentle. "So why delay it? Why not talk to me about it?"

"Why not tell you that I hurt the person you care the most about?" Izaya parrots dryly. "Yeah, that would've been smart of me, Shizuo."

"It would've been smart of you to give me a chance to hear you out."

Izaya grinds his teeth. "This is useless," he hisses.

"Maybe. But you won't leave, 'cause you know you owe me this much."

It's true. It's the only reason Izaya hasn't listened to the urge to flee yet.

Shizuo takes the time to finish his food this time, to take long sips from the tea he's ordered and which has been steaming softly beside him the entire time. Izaya looks at his hand instead of looking at him. He watches the curve of his knuckles against the heat of the cup and tries to think of nothing.

When he's done, he straightens up in his seat, and his legs extend forward under the table, brushing Izaya's.

"I've been thinking," he starts. "I think there's a lot more to this than you or that Shiki guy want to let me know." Izaya has to restrain an angry shiver at Shiki's name as always, but he says nothing, just looks at Shizuo with what he hopes is bored neutrality. "And some of it is probably legitimately none of my business. But I also know you didn't just want to keep it secret just so you could have sex with me."

"You're just that good. You should be flattered."

Shizuo ignores him. "I think you care a lot about all of this, Izaya."

There's nothing but ruthless honesty in his eyes.

"Enough," Izaya says.

Shizuo shakes his head. "No," he replies. "Not until you tell me the truth."

"What do you want from me, Shizuo?" Izaya's hand flies over the table before he can help it, grasps Shizuo's wrist tightly and tugs it forward. He can feel Shizuo's heartbeat under his index, and it's peaceful, nothing like the storm gathering inside his own chest. His voice turns as derisive and hurtful as he knows how to make it. "Do you want me to beg you? Do you want me to apologize? Because I know how you are, and I know you would like me even less if you knew just how low I'd be willing to stoop. You wouldn't enjoy me begging you like this."

"I want to hear you out, Izaya," Shizuo replies with the first hint of anger he's shown all day. "I want you to tell me the truth with your own words. I don't want to leave everything we had behind just because of a stranger who's angry at you."

Izaya tries to release his grip, but all Shizuo does is trap his hand over the table with a press of his palm, and it doesn't hurt at all in spite of Izaya's bruises.

"Tell me," Shizuo says softly. "Just tell me. I won't mock you. I just want to understand."

His hold is absolute.

Izaya licks his lips. "Just tell you," he repeats.

"Please."

Shizuo squeezes his wrist, and even this much is a better physical contact than Izaya's had in months. It makes warmth spread up his arm and settle in his throat with a purr.

"Shiki and I were in a relationship," Izaya says. "When he broke up with me, I was angry. Angry enough to want to make him pay in a way he'd never forget. So I sank him and his organization."

Shizuo doesn't ask for details, thankfully.

"I'm not a good person," Izaya tells him lowly, flicking a glance toward him and then looking down at their joined hands. "You probably had an idea from the start, but you can't even begin to imagine the number of people I've played like this, Shizuo. I've destroyed countless lives over the smallest offenses—I didn't care at all about collateral damage when it came to taking actual revenge.

"I recognized Akane when Mikage told me her name, but I said nothing, because what would be the point? I wasn't even expecting to see you again." He chuckles. "Then I kept silent because I didn't want you to break up with me, it is the truth."

"But it's not all the truth," Shizuo replies.

Izaya's hand curls into a fist, and Shizuo's hold on his wrist doesn't waver, not for a second. "I didn't want to tell you because you're a good man. You're a better person than anyone I've ever met before. And I didn't want you to—" Izaya sucks in a breath rather than let himself choke, blinks quickly to erase the stinging in his eyes. "I didn't want you to look at me and know, really know, the sort of person I am. I didn't want to disappoint you. I wanted to pretend I deserved you for as long as I could."

"Izaya—"

"So that's it," Izaya interrupts, because he can't handle Shizuo's pity, not now, not ever. "It's just that stupid."

"What about Akane?"

Izaya rips his hand out of Shizuo's grip, finds his eyes and holds their stare, neck aching on his own tension. "Yes, Akane too," he says between clenched teeth. "It's just that fucking stupid, okay? I fooled myself into falling in love with you and getting attached to your daughter and I didn't want you to stop looking at me the way you did. I didn't want you to be disappointed with me, and I didn't want Akane to hate me, and I didn't want either of you out of my life! Is that what you wanted to hear? Because that's the truth. The whole truth. There's no noble grand reason, Shizuo, I'm just selfish."

His voice has become more of a whisper with every word. It's better than yelling and causing a scene. Izaya cradles his aching fingers into the palm of his other hand and stares at the untouched food in front of him, willing his heartbeat to quiet.

His breath stalls when Shizuo reaches forward to take his hand again; he lets him have it because Shizuo's pull is impossible to resist regardless of physical strength, and he has to close his eyes when Shizuo's thumb strokes over the red and blue on his knuckles.

"Enough," Izaya says again in a wisp of a voice. "Please. Just let me go now."

It's a weird parody of the words they exchanged two months ago. Shizuo squeezes his hand, and Izaya wants to cry with the knowledge that he'll crave even this—pressure against aches—if it's from Shizuo.

I'm never getting over him, he thinks, throat so tight with longing that he can't swallow without aching.

"Akane's angry at me," Shizuo says roughly.

Izaya's eyes open just enough to see light and not much else. "So you said."

"We had a talk after you left. She was hurt, yeah, she's angry at you too. But she said I should've let you talk to her before telling you to leave that night."

"She's ten," Izaya replies painfully. His hand feels weak, no matter how tightly Shizuo holds it. "She wouldn't have understood."

"Maybe. But she likes it better when people assume she can understand, even if she can't."

"So what," Izaya scoffs. His entire face burns with shame—it's all he can do not to hold Shizuo's hand back because he's lost that right. "Even if I'd told her, it wouldn't have changed anything. You would've still told me to go."

Shizuo doesn't answer immediately. He turns Izaya's hand around so his palm faces upward and follows one of the lines in it with his thumb, and Izaya doesn't know anything of palmistry, but this is a love line. This is something he'll feel for days.

"She's mostly upset that I'm so miserable," Shizuo says finally. "And she misses you."

Izaya's hand shakes. "Stop."

But— "Izaya," Shizuo murmurs, "I think you think way too highly of me."

"You don't have to comfort me. This isn't how it works." This time, when he tries to take back his hand, Shizuo stops him.

"I was never looking for someone perfect," he continues, implacable. "No one's perfect. I had a hunch that you were involved in illegal things, and that didn't bother me. And now I know for sure that you're not as bad as you make yourself out to be."

Izaya's eyes rise to stare at him, incredulous, and Shizuo smiles. The tiny lines around his eyes deepen as he does.

"You feel like shit over it, Izaya," he says. "You look miserable. Whatever you were before—you're not like that anymore."

"I destroyed your daughter's life," Izaya retorts.

"Would you do it again, knowing her?"

The answer rips itself out of him with no thought: "No."

Shizuo's smile turns softer and deeper, his fingers gentler against Izaya's. "I'm not saying I forgive you. That's not up to me."

"What are you saying?" Izaya breathes.

He has to hunch over the tabletop when Shizuo brings their hands up. The feeling of Shizuo's lips against his knuckles shoots up his arm and settles in his stomach like liquor, warm and dizzying.

"I'm saying that you regret it, and that's good enough for me," Shizuo says. His breath is warm on Izaya's fingers. "And that, if you want, we can figure the rest out together."

Izaya's ears ring from the blood that rushes to his head. When he exhales, all the air in his lungs comes out at once.

"Shizuo," is all he knows how to say.

"Yeah," Shizuo replies, looking down from his eyes to watch his mouth instead. "Izaya."

The table lets out a loud whine when Izaya pushes it forward in his haste, his free hand slamming dangerously close to the food still present by his side, but it wouldn't matter even if someone came to enquire after the noise. Shizuo's lips are warm under his, pliant and accommodating; Izaya shakes his hand out of Shizuo's grip to grab the hair at the back of his head and tilt it sideways, so he can lick the sharp tang of the food he ate directly off his tongue. Shizuo hums into it, holding Izaya's chin and then his shoulder, his hot breath running short against Izaya's cheek.

Izaya's lips are wet when he pulls away. He feels too hot under his clothes and too hot under his skin. Like all the warmth in his body has gathered in his lungs.

He doesn't let go of Shizuo's hair. It's as much to feel the soft of it under his fingers as it is to hold himself upright instead of falling.

"I missed you," Shizuo says, breathless.

"Me too." Izaya can't look away from him, not for a second. "I missed you so much," he says, and he learns forward to kiss him again, thinks about staying like this for hours on end despite the beginning of an ache in the lone arm supporting his weight over the table.

He lets Shizuo drag him around the table and press him into the farthest corner of the booth, lets Shizuo kiss the breath out of him and tread fingers through his hair until all of his scalp tingles and all of his chest burns.

The first time Izaya tells Shizuo he loves him is muffled against the other's mouth.

#durarara!! #shizaya #heiwajima shizuo #orihara izaya #fic: bliss #fic: alongside

[bazaarwords]

The tips of Asami’s fingers were always cold. Korra loved the cold.

Korra could feel them resting against her knuckles as they made their way down the street. Asami gestured with her free hand as she explained the thermodynamic-something-or-other of the engine-thingy—Korra had given up trying to understand the moment Asami had mentioned physics, but still listened with rapt attention. When Asami got going about her work, the way her eyes lit up and the small smiles that punctuated every sentence made Korra’s heart swell in her chest.

“Earth to Korra,” Asami sang. It took a moment to register that she was waiting for an answer, eyes sparkling and a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.

“I’m listening!”

Asami chuckled. “I asked you what you wanted for lunch twice.”

“We—uh, you did?” Korra stuttered, but her confusion earned her a fond look from Asami—the kind that coupled a squeeze of her hand with an easy, genuine smile that crinkled the edges of her eyes. “I was distracted.”

“Oh?”

“Mm,” Korra returned the squeeze, stroking the back of Asami’s hand with her thumb. “Your eyes light up when you’re talking about work. I guess I got lost in them—ultra cheesy, huh?”

Before she could prepare herself, Asami was pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth, smiling that same soft smile when she pulled away. “Ultra sweet,” she corrected. As she opened her mouth again—Korra could only hope to say something even cheesier—something hard whacked her shoulder, almost catching her off-balance.

“Hey, what the—“

“Keep that filth to yourself!” When they turned, there was a man behind them holding a basket of apples against his hip that he might have been selling before he’d decided to throw them. He held a green apple aloft, a look of disgust over withered features. He looked like the kind of person who’d never been happy a day in his life. And Korra wanted to beat him to a pulp, especially at his next words, “You two are disgusting!”

Korra edged forward, gritting her teeth. “You want to come over here and say that to my face?”

She felt a firm grip on both of her arms, and Asami’s voice beside her. “He’s not worth it, Korra.”

“He hit me with an apple!” Korra complained, but Asami’s grip was already loosening the knot of anger in the pit of her stomach.

The man glared at them for a moment longer, placing the apple back in his basket like it was a bomb. It wasn’t the admission of defeat or fear that Korra would have wanted, but he’d probably realized that fighting the Avatar would not end well for him. He adjusted his basket pointedly and hobbled across the street, grumbling. Asami turned Korra away from the scene, keeping a firm but gentle grip on her arms until they rounded a corner.

“Are you okay?” she asked once they’d made it to the next street.

Korra gave a derisive huff. “I’m fine. Angry, but fine. Spirits—what nerve, you know?”

“I know,” Asami sighed, and it was one of the weary ones Korra often heard when she’d talk about problems at work. “You’ve got to wade through a sea of jerks to find good people. Hey—” Korra stopped, looking up at what had Asami distracted. She gestured towards a brightly painted sign for a tea shop ahead. “How about we step in for some tea?”

“Yeah…” Korra agreed, a touch of weariness creeping into her voice, “I think I need it.”

As Korra pulled the door open, gesturing for Asami to enter before her, a soft bell chimed above her head. Asami tossed her a smile, and Korra felt the anger that had welled up in her chest dissipate further. She reached out for Asami’s hand again, which was gladly accepted as they walked up to the display case. The shop was tiny, only two tables inside and another one out front. Light wood panelling and big windows kept the space light and open, and Korra found the natural light to be relaxing. The place smelled like fresh-baked breads and pastries and the soft aroma of delicate teas—it smelled like a cozy home should.

“I’ll be there in just a moment!” a woman’s frail voice came from behind the back wall, and before long there was an elderly woman shuffling out of the far doorway. She was small and feeble with a stooped back and snow-white hair. Her eyes were turned to the floor as she wiped powdery hands clean against her apron. “Did you come to pick up—oh!” she exclaimed, finally looking up, covering her mouth with her hands as she noticed them. “Miss Sato! Avatar Korra—what a wonderful surprise! Please, sit wherever you’d like. What can I get for you two? Tea? Pastries?”

“Just a pot of jasmine, please,” Asami asked politely, giving the woman a gentle smile.

“Of course, of course, I’ll be just a moment. Please, sit, sit!”

They obliged, and the moment Korra had sat down, Asami took both her hands, brushing her thumbs over her knuckles. Korra gave her a grateful smile, and the look she was awarded in return almost made her forget about the bigot from the street. Asami had always had that effect on her—one glance and she was completely relaxed, one touch and she was at peace. Their location was helping, too, and Korra found that she couldn’t be bothered to care about what had happened on the street. Not with Asami looking at her like that.

“Feeling better?” Asami asked, eyes searching.

“A lot better. Thank you,” she admitted, giving calloused hands a squeeze. She chuckled then, “How do you do it? How are you always so calm? I was ready to snap that guy’s neck.”

Asami laughed. “Don’t mistake control for calm. I handle my emotions differently,” she said, looking down at their hands. “It comes across as boring, more often than not.”

Korra huffed, incredulous. “Like you could ever be boring,” At that, Asami glanced back up, and Korra offered her a grin. “I guess I’ve never picked your brain after a fight. You’ve only yelled at me like, twice.”

“You don’t make me angry. Often,” Asami added, laughing. “Maybe irritated, but I wouldn’t lose my temper for that.”

A sudden pang echoed in Korra’s chest. It must have shown on her face, because Asami’s expression grew serious, and she gave her hands another, concerned squeeze. Korra sighed, knowing Asami would ask if she didn’t explain first. “I just… I’ve been trying to work on my temper for so long, and I’d like to think I’ve gotten better, but sometimes…” She sighed again, searching for the words in the woodgrain of their table. “Sometimes I feel like you have to put up with so much nonsense.”

Asami tugged on her hands, and when Korra looked up, she’d leaned across the table to press a soft kiss to her lips. It was short, gentle, but the way Asami kissed her always made her feel so loved. When she pulled away, she kept close, leant over the table. “Korra, you and I handle things very differently. But we have the same motivations and the same values. That’s why we work so well together,” She smiled and Korra felt a wonderful, tingling warmth at the tips of her fingers. “We wouldn’t put up with each other’s nonsense if we didn’t want to.”

She watched the woman before her carefully, but instead of anything longer, her mind could only settle on one, unquestionable truth, “I love you.”

Asami’s smile grew, green eyes a little glassy. “I love you, too.”

Korra was so lost in her eyes that she almost missed the old woman shuffling back around the display case with their tea. They parted so she could set the teapot and cups down between them. “I had some special leaves from the Yang Province in stock. I hope you both enjoy. It is an honor to have you in my shop,” she said, meticulously arranging their teacups. When she’d finished, she rose slowly, but looked as if she wanted to speak again. “I don’t want to impose, but could I perhaps introduce you both to my wife? I know she’d love to meet you.”

Wife? Korra thought, catching Asami’s eye. “Of course! We’d love to meet her,” Asami answered after a beat, giving both Korra and the woman a reassuring smile.

The woman looked so thrilled at their acceptance, Korra couldn’t help but feel a little excited along with her.

“I guess we finished wading through that sea of jerks you mentioned,” Korra said, feeling light and giddy. “Didn’t take long.”

Asami just shrugged like she’d known that this would happen, taking Korra’s hands again with a fond look. “It never does.”

There was a clamor from the back, but Korra’s eyes were locked on to Asami’s when the woman pattered back over to their table.

“Ren, I’d like to introduce you to two wonderful ladies! This is Miss Sato and Avatar Korra.”

They released each other’s hands again to look up, and Korra was confused for a moment to see the old woman alone. In her hands was what looked like… a picture frame. She turned it out to them, a beautiful woman framed in gold and silver leaf at its center. She had soft features and light eyes, and a radiant smile.

In an instant, Korra’s heart both broke and lifted.

At Korra and Asami’s joint silence, the woman just sighed fondly, giving the picture a gentle once-over before turning back to them. She offered them a watery little smile. “I like to keep her close, even after all these years,” she explained, clutching the photo to her chest with shaky hands. “It would have been so wonderful to have public figures like you two when we were young. I’m sure you know this, but you two give people hope. I expect you understand how important that is these days.”

“Yes ma’am,” Asami said instantly, her voice small, wavering, and Korra turned to see her blinking hard, clearing her throat before responding again. “Thank you. That… that means a lot.”

Korra was at a loss, looking between Asami, the old woman, and the picture of her wife. Only one thought came to her mind at the scene, so, true to form, she just blurted it: “Can I give you a hug?”

The woman looked taken aback for all of a second before her face broke into a toothy grin. “Why of course you can!” She carefully set the photo down on the display case and Korra went to hug her. Once she had, Asami joined in, and Korra couldn’t stem the tears that prickled at the corners of her eyes.

Her entire life, Korra had learned from her elemental masters, and she found that she wasn’t surprised at the fact that listening to the elderly woman in the tea shop felt the same. They spoke for hours, soaking up the memories she laid out for them, admiring how her generation had stood strong in the face of hate. Korra felt responsible, then. Like she had a duty to the world not only as a force of good, but a beacon of hope and understanding. Maybe her and Asami’s lifetime wouldn’t give way to the future that shone so brightly in her mind’s eye, but she wanted to do her part to pave the way. She was motivated to make this little old lady proud.

When they’d said their goodbyes, she grabbed Asami’s hand on the sidewalk, lacing their fingers together, and Asami gave her a smile filled with the determination she’d gained over a pot of jasmine tea.

So later, when she kissed Asami in the middle of the city, soft and sweet, it felt a little like a stop along the road and a little like a beginning.

For a friend. 

AO3

#writing #writing prompts #prompts #lok #lok fanfiction #legend of korra #legend of korra fanfiction #korrasami #korrasami fanfiction #korra #asami sato #my fics #fanfiction #my writing

[sabraeal]

Kiki and obi shenanigans, modern au. Up to no good… pranks on the squad :P probably Mitsuhide but zen or shirayuki would be good too.

“This health food thing has gone on long enough.”

Obi bangs around the cabinets blearily, scowl pulling his mouth long, tossing aside small crinkling packages that read whole-grain quinoa and flaxseed, to rummage in the deep recesses of the kitchen. Mitsuhide watches distractedly, sipping at his protein shake and hardly even noticing the chalky taste.

Don’t worry, Dad. Even now he can see that slant to her smile, the way her lips seemed to be holding secrets at bay. I’ve got the husband thing handled.

“Look at this!” Obi holds out a shimmery bag at arm’s length. “Kelp. Not even seaweed. But kelp. She puts this in her cereal, Big Guy.” He presses a hand to his chest, scandalized. “All I want is to find a freaking box of Cocoa Puffs the first time through, and I find this. You know,” Obi is warming to the topic now, dropping his voice to a loud whisper, “she brought bran muffins to study group –”

“Obi.” Mitsuhide’s hands pale where he grips at the counter. “Can I talk to you?”

Obi so stands abruptly he clips his head on a shelf, the whole cabinet rattling with the force of it.

“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, rubbing at the back of his head sheepishly. “Yeah, sure. What’s –” Obi’s voice stutters when he turns, finally looking him in the face – “up?”

He laughs, nervous. “That’s some look, Big Guy.” His hand comes up, rubbing at his shoulder. “I haven’t even done anything yet –”

“No, no.” Mitsuhide shakes his head, trying to force his mouth to smile but – but he doesn’t feel it, not now, not when –

I’ve got the husband thing handled.

“That’s not it,” he grits out, his hands in tight fists on the countertop. “I just wanted to ask you about…about something personal.”

Obi stares at him wide-eyed, and really – no one is more surprised than Mitsuhide himself that it’s come to this, that there’s no one else he trusts more about this kind of stuff than someone who thinks kid’s cereal is a meal.

“Please,” he says, eyes fixed to where his knuckles have gone starkly white against the formica. “Don’t tell anyone else.”

“I –” Obi bites off whatever he was about to say, turning his head away and pulling hard at his shoulder. “Yeah, sure, Big Guy. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Do you know if…” Crisse, he can’t even look at him. This isn’t any of his business, and it’s even less of Obi’s but – “Do you know if Kiki is, ah…seeing anyone?”

Obi stares dumbly for a long moment, the only movement on him the slow blink of his eyes and the incredulous huff of his breath.

His mouth crooks, his eyes narrow, and Obi sits back in his hips, letting his hands drop to the island. “Well, I guess you’ve found us out, Big Guy.”

There is literally nothing about this that he trusts. “What?”

“Me and Kiki have been fooling around for a while now,” he drawls airily, flashing him some sharp canines. “You know. Friends with bens. Eff-dubya-bee.”

He winks.

“Fine,” Mitsuhide sighs, shoving away from the counter. “Don’t take this seriously.”

This problem set is going to be the death of her.

Kiki is excellent at crisis management – a savant really, which is good because Zen can be a public relations nightmare without even leaving his bedroom – but she’s six problems into a ten page set, and she’s about ready to strangle CEO B (head of a Fortune 500 company) with nothing more than the drawstring of her hoodie. He’s the issue owner of every gaffe for the past five problems, and honestly, if she didn’t think Professort Luigis would take points off, her solution to ‘how do you resolve the issue?’ would be arranging for CEO B to have an accident in his thirty-fourth floor office. Namely taking the fast way down to the lobby.

“Uh,” she hears from the doorway. “Kiki?”

Her papers are strewn across the coffee table, spilling off the edge onto the floor and creeping up the couch. She’s not sure how long she’s been there, but there’s a stale taste to her mouth that says hours at least, and her tea’s gone cold in her thermos. God, what is she even wearing? Not a bra, that’s for sure. Fuck midterms, honestly.

She looks up, and of course, of course it’s Mitsuhide. Not that she minds, he’s seen her vomiting before (unplanned, a stomach flu that took her hard her first week in the chapter house), but they haven’t talked in days, and she likes leaving him a more…put-together image over long periods of time. Something to leave him thinking about.

Fine, she likes to look hot, like a flannel-wrapped dreamboat that he wants to peel his LaFleur jersey off of. Sue her.

“Hey,” she says, so cool. She’s aware she’s on the floor in sweat pants she’s stolen from him, pegged up to her knees because any lower and they unroll, with a sweatshirt that has a ketchup stain (not hers, and only from this morning. One day Obi will learn to use his huge hands to not squirt condiments all over the table, but today is not that day).Sexy.

“Did you need the couch?” She hopes her eyes convey that she would very much like him to come sit behind her. Maybe even massage her shoulders a little with his huge, strong hands, and – “I could move my stuff.”

“No.” He lingers nervously at the archway, face troubled. “I just…saw you and thought, er…”

That he’d come manhandle her? C’mon, let that be it. There’s a crick in her neck and she has been a very good girl lately.

“Obi said something the other day,” he admits, like it pains him. That in itself isn’t strange; Obi is about as pleasant as a hernia on a good day.

“Obi says a lot of things,” she replies, raising her eyebrows. “Did this involve me somehow?”

“You could – yes.” He grits his teeth, and she’s interested now, turning to face him. “He said that you…um…that you were…” His voice drops; she has to struggle to make out, “Sleeping together.”

What. She tenses her eyelids so she doesn’t blink in confusion, doesn’t give away the game. Across space and time, she hears Obi say, trust me.

Well, at least this will be funny.

“Oh yeah,” she lies, “like three times a week. Regular orgasms really clear the head.”

His jaw drops. “Wha – Obi? Why?”

She smirks, leaning on her problem set, so casual. “Come on, Mitsuhide,” she croons, “have you seen those hands? Mm.”

Is there a reason Mitsuhide thinks we’re fuckingA good reason, I mean

its fkn hilarious lolbside that?

That is the question

he wanted 2 no if u were cn any1it ws lik angels cam dwn 2 giv me th sweetest prank f all timwat ws i suppsd 2 do?dnt tell himits funnier this way

….All rightIt is pretty funny

its lik th prank that keeps n givin

Snow still lingers on the grass, but the day is warm, and Shirayuki finds an extra spring to her step when she bounds up the walk to the chapter house. Her presentation went well in art history – even though she’s not sure she could tell the difference between Titian and Carvaggio without her copious notes (painstakingly reviewed and corrected by Zen and Kiki the night before) – and to celebrate, she veered through the campus conservatory, letting the humid air and floral scents wash over her. She’s not sure she could be in a bad mood if she tried.

Mitsuhide is on the veranda, slowly rocking the swing with one foot, creak-creak-creak. They’ll have to oil it come spring, otherwise Zen will complain about the sound all through finals.

“Hi, Mitsuhide!” she chirps, bounding up the steps. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

He shakes himself, like he’s waking from a dream, and blinks owlishly up at her. “Huh? Oh, Shirayuki. Yeah, nice, I guess.”

Her mouth pulls into a frown. Mitsuhide’s been like this for at least a week now; sullen and distracted, almost listless. She would blame it on the weather – it’s hard to keep cheerful when schoolwork weighs heavily on you like this, and the days are so short – but the past few days have been hinting at not only spring but summer, and his mood has only grown worse.

“You know,” she starts, drawling the words uncertainly. “If there’s something bothering you, you should talk about it.”

“What?” He jumps, eyes darting wildly toward the door before skittering across the lawn. “No, nothing’s wrong. I’m – I’m fine with…everything. Things are good. I’m just –” sweat beads at his brow – “I’m just minding my business.”

“Okay,” she says, wide-eyed. “Great.” Her hand falls onto the front door, grasping the handle. “I’ll just –”

“I wouldn’t,” he blurts out, hand outstretched. “You don’t – it might not be safe.”

Her heart pounds at his words, and she drops the handle as if it scalds her. “Not…safe?”

She cradles her hand against her chest, breath coming is short bursts. She must be misunderstanding, there’s no way – Clarines had been the safest place she’s ever know and she can’t – it can’t –

“Obi and Kiki are in there,” he explains dully. “You shouldn’t – you don’t want to interrupt them.”

She can suddenly breathe again. “Oh,” she laughs, bracing herself against the door. “Are they fighting again? Someone should probably stop –”

“No, not fighting, they…” Mitsuhide sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Obi and Kiki are sleeping together.”

Shirayuki’s not even moving, but she stumbles. That’s what happen when the rug is pulled out beneath you.

“What?” she breathes, fingernails scratching against paint. She has to will her hand flat again. “No way.”

“Yeah, it’s, uh…” He grimaces. “A casual thing. Friends with benefits.”

There’s something clinging to her skin, something that makes it crawl and drip and drag, and she – this isn’t – “Kiki? With Obi?”

She could have sworn – Kiki always said –

Mitsuhide nods, slow, painful, and – and he wouldn’t say something like that if it wasn’t true. He didn’t lie, and he wouldn’t spread rumors, so – so –

“I, uh.” Shirayuki shuffles away from the door. Her breath comes harshly, comes raggedly, and she shouldn’t – she doesn’t have any reason to feel like this. “I have something to do. In the library.”

She scurries down the front walk, drawing her cardigan around her, and wonders where the nice day went.

Obi’s not sure how it happens, but their late-night anime watching turns into before-bed anime watching, Doc curled against his side as they lay on his narrow bed, one leg thrown over his and head cradled in the curve of his shoulder. She’s warm against him, comforting, and it’s not really a surprise how easily he find himself slipping towards sleep when they’re like this, when she acts like he’s – he’s –

Normal. The sort of guy you let yourself fall asleep next to, in a platonic way.

God, he needs to not fuck this up. This whole friendship thing.

Two episodes is usually enough to make her go soft against him, to send her slow, even breath curling across his collarbone, but tonight she is rigid beside him, her legs firmly crossed over each other instead of his. He peers down to see her worrying at her lip, mouth tipped at the edges into a thoughtful frown.

“Hey,” He squeezes her playfully, making her look up at him. “You okay, Doc?”

Her eyes dart away from his for a moment, and he’s lost at what to do, how to even go about asking her what’s wrong, when she blurts out, “Do you want me to leave?”

He blinks. “What?”

“I…” She squirms against him, as if she isn’t sure whether to push away or press closer. “You don’t have anything you’d rather be, um, doing?”

Besides giving them another reason to be falling asleep in this bed? “Should I?”

“I…” She lays her head against his shoulder, and it strikes him that she’s sad. “I just though you’d rather be with Kiki, because, um…”

“I like having my ass kicked?” he laughs, eyebrows raised. “That’s like a once a week thing. My pride can only take so much, Doc.”

“No, because…” She gives a little frustrated moan, burying her head in her hands. “Because you’re, you know –” her voice drops into a whisper – “having sex.”

“WHAT?”

Doc jumps, hands clamping down on his shirt to keep her from flailing off the bed. “I just…” Her eyes are wide, earnest. “Mitsuhide said…”

“Wha-what?” He should really, really think before he opens his big mouth sometimes. “No, that’s – gimme a sec.”

Zen is finally home, comfortable in his flannel pants; buried deep in the common room’s best easy chair, feet kicked up as Captain Holt says boNE in varying degrees of incredulity, when Kiki’s phone loudly interrupts.

He grunts, annoyed, and she rolls her eyes. A glance at the screen sends her eyebrows up to her hairline, and she flicks back a simple answer.

“Hey, Mitsuhide,” she says, bemused.

“Mm?” he groans from his place on the floor, half asleep over his law books.

“I’m not fucking Obi.” Zen stares, but Kiki is straight-faced, serious, like she’s pulling off a band-aid. “It was just fucking funny to make you think so. But joke’s over.”

“What.”

Zen closes his laptop, sighing with regret as he levers himself out of the chair. “I’m just going to go…not be here for this, thanks.”

ABORT ABORT PLAN CANCELLED PRANK OVER

K

#anonymous #obiyuki #mitsukiki #the wide florida bay #100 days of obiyuki (and more) #my fic #modern au #The Wide Florida Bay #this is after spring break #and before the auction #listen you know obi would think this was hilarious #the prank that keeps on giving #up until it bit him in the ass

[skswriting]

in sickness and in health

Rating: PG-13 (cussing can always be expected from Min Yoongi) Pairing: Kim Namjoon/Min Yoongi Words: 3,305 Summary: Yoongi doesn’t argue and that worries Namjoon, who takes in the worse than usual bags under Yoongi’s eyes and the almost deathly quality of Yoongi’s cheeks. His forehead is blazing under Namjoon’s palm and Namjoon watches as Yoongi leans into him, vulnerable and sick under his touch. “You have a fever,” Namjoon tells him quietly. AN: just a little sugamon fluff as i completely ignore everything i have to do ao3

Namjoon wakes up in a puddle of his own sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, the blanket tangled around his legs, and Yoongi shivering beside him.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, the word low and stuck in his throat, “’s hot.”

He stumbles out of the room, pulling his tank top away from his body and making a face at the wetness of it.  The thermostat is set to 86 degrees and Namjoon groans again, dialing it back to 75 and heading to take a shower.

The coolness of the water quickly washes away his sweat and he sighs, standing under the water for probably longer than necessary and if Yoongi was awake he’d probably bang on the door and tell Namjoon he was wasting water.

Speaking of Yoongi, it’s a little odd that he’s not awake yet.  Namjoon wraps a towel around his waist, though it’s not like Yoongi hasn’t seen his dick before, and heads back to their room.

“Yoongs?” he says softly, afraid to wake the older man, but Yoongi is already sitting up.  He’s hunched over a little, hands pressed over his face and Namjoon furrows his eyebrows, “You okay?”

“I feel like shit,” comes Yoongi’s muffled voice but Namjoon can hear the scratchiness in it, the raspy tone Yoongi has, “Did you turn the heat down?”

“Yeah it was like a fuckin’ sauna in here.”

“And now it’s like a fuckin’ igloo.”

Namjoon frowns, pulling on a pair of boxers and slipping a shirt over his head, “Let me feel your forehead.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue and that worries Namjoon, who takes in the worse than usual bags under Yoongi’s eyes and the almost deathly quality of Yoongi’s cheeks.  His forehead is blazing under Namjoon’s palm and Namjoon watches as Yoongi leans into him, vulnerable and sick under his touch.

“You have a fever,” Namjoon tells him quietly.

Yoongi snorts, “No shit Sherlock.  Your hands feel nice.”

“Here, lay back down, I’ll get you another blanket,” Namjoon pushes on Yoongi’s shoulders and Yoongi struggles against him.

“Can’t.  We have a deadline to meet and we still-”

“You look like death incarnate and you’re seriously going to tell me you’re okay to work?  Lay the fuck down.”

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me,” Yoongi quips, but let’s Namjoon manhandle him under the blankets.

“Then stop being so goddamn stubborn all the time,” Namjoon throws back and Yoongi kicks his leg up and hits Namjoon’s side lightly, “Go back to sleep.  I’ll check on you in a bit.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” Yoongi protests, “What are you- don’t tuck me in I’m not a child!”

“Your attitude right now says otherwise,” Namjoon deadpans and Yoongi grumbles, “I’ll be back.  Do not get up.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Yoongi says, always the one to try and have the last word.  Namjoon just pats him condescendingly on his hip, grabs his phone, and slips out of the room.

He dials a number and puts the phone up to his ear.  After a few moments, a soft voice picks up on the other line and Namjoon sighs into the receiver.

“Mom?  I need your help…”

-

An hour later Namjoon has managed to make a decent breakfast of lopsided pancakes with cinnamon in them like Yoongi likes and some liquid medicine he found in their bathroom cabinet. Namjoon can’t remember the last time he bought medicine, but apparently Yoongi is adamant on keeping it stocked. There are throat lozenges, bandages, and enough Advil to last them for years.  Sometimes, Namjoon really loves Yoongi.

“Yoongi?” Namjoon calls quietly, pushing the door open with his hip as he balances Yoongi’s breakfast and medicine in his hands, “Are you awake?”

“Joonie?” Yoongi mumbles, voice sounding worse as its more scratchy and laden with sleep, “Joonie lay down with me please, I’m so cold.”

Namjoon can feel his heart squeezing in his chest as he softly sits down on the edge of the bed so as to not jostle Yoongi, but the point is moot as Yoongi rolls over and curls himself around Namjoon.

“You need to eat something,” Namjoon tells him, threading his fingers through Yoongi’s hair.

Yoongi makes a small sound and shakes his head, “Don’t wanna.”

“You didn’t eat dinner last night, so you need to eat something or you’re gonna make yourself sick. You also need to drink some water and this medicine.”

Yoongi just shakes his head again, pressing his face into Namjoon’s thigh.  Namjoon scratches at Yoongi’s scalp and Yoongi sighs under his ministrations, opening a crusty eye to look up at him.

“At least eat half of one? I almost burned my arm making these and now I have to wash so many dishes and I-”

“Okay, okay, Christ,” Yoongi groans, slowly pushing himself up and letting the blanket pool around his waist, “Hand me the goddamn plate.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea; your arms look a little weak.  Here, let me feed you.”

“Namjoon you are not-” Yoongi tries to look intimidating by glaring, but it’s not as effective when his bangs are sweaty and he’s shivering in his boxers and t-shirt and his lips are twisted into an unconscious pout.

Yoongi’s mouth is poised and open to continue to complain and refuse, but Namjoon rolls his eyes and takes the opportunity to pop a piece of pancake into Yoongi’s mouth.  Yoongi chokes on it for half a second before he glares vehemently at Namjoon as he chews.

“I can feed myself,” he grumbles, keeping his mouth firmly shut until Namjoon has another piece speared and ready to go.

“I know you can, I just don’t want you dropping anything in the bed because then I’ll have to clean it so you’ll stop bitching even though you’re the one who-”

“Okay I get it!” Yoongi huffs and then coughs, doubling over as he wheezes.

Namjoon frowns, placing a comforting hand on Yoongi’s back as he rubs at his blazing skin, trying to help ease the irritation.  Yoongi straightens up after a moment and his eyes are red-rimmed and glossy from how hard he’d been coughing.

“Did you bring any milk?” Yoongi asks, voice low and scratchy and Namjoon honestly feels bad for him.

“No, my mom said it’ll irritate your throat.”

Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut and a small, coughing tear cascades down his pale cheek and Namjoon is quick to wipe it away.

“Let me get you a glass of water and then you can take your medicine okay?  If you promise not to drop the plate I’ll let you feed yourself,” Namjoon teases, threading a hand through Yoongi’s hair and even though Yoongi looks pissed he leans into Namjoon’s touch.

“I’m going to kill you,” is all Yoongi says as he accepts the plate from Namjoon, “Please hurry.”

Namjoon nods and kisses his finger to boop Yoongi’s nose before he bounces off the bed, causing Yoongi to let out a small shout as Namjoon slips out the door.

When Namjoon gets back into the room, a glass of water in his hand, Yoongi is chewing slowly and glaring at the bottle of medicine.  Honestly, Yoongi hasn’t stopped glaring since he woke up.

“I can’t take liquid medicine,” he bluntly tells Namjoon, who raises an eyebrow.

“Why?” Namjoon exchanges the glass for the plate and sets the plate on the end of the bed.

“I can’t stand the taste, it’ll make me throw up.  Especially grape,” Yoongi winkles his nose, “It doesn’t even taste like grape.  It tastes like death.”

“Then why did you buy it?” Namjoon laughs, grabbing the bottle from the bed side table.

“Because you like liquid medicine,” Yoongi informs him, “Do we have any pills?”

“Mom said you should-”

“Well your mom isn’t the one taking the medicine, is she?” Yoongi snarks and Namjoon raises an eyebrow, a flash of irritation running across his face.

“Don’t talk about my mom like that, she and I are only trying to help,” Namjoon tells him, a hard tone in his voice.

“Well you’re doing a pretty shitty job; milk doesn’t irritate your throat it coats it and stops you from coughing.”

Namjoon grits his teeth. He hates when Yoongi gets like this, all prissy and upset because he’s not feeling good and taking it out on everyone else, namely Namjoon and Namjoon’s mom who thankfully isn’t around to receive his abuse.

“I can’t take the liquid medicine and I’m going back to sleep, so leave,” and Yoongi unceremoniously pulls the blanket over his head as he turns over onto his side, back facing Namjoon.

“Fine.  Have a nice nap, asshole,” Namjoon snaps, angrily bundling up the plate, glass, and medicine, “Hope it fucking helps better than my mom and I.”

Yoongi is silent as Namjoon leaves, loudly shutting the door behind him.

Namjoon is seething as he throws half the pancake away, dumping the glass and plate so harshly in the sink he’s surprised he didn’t break them and throwing the medicine somewhere on the counter.  He stands for a moment in the kitchen, gripping the counter tightly with white knuckles as he breathes in and out.  He knows it’s just Yoongi’s fever and irritation talking, but Namjoon is still allowed to be mad about it.  No matter how bad Yoongi feels doesn’t give him the right to talk badly about Namjoon’s mom.

Part of Namjoon wants to leave, go to studio and hash out some ideas with Hoseok, because he’s mad and he doesn’t want to be around Yoongi if he’s going to be like this. But he also knows that no matter how mad he may be at Yoongi in the current moment, he’ll feel bad about leaving Yoongi alone five seconds after he steps foot outside their apartment.

Sighing, Namjoon lets go of the counter to settle himself in the living, where his laptop is.  His headphones at home aren’t the best to work with, but at least he’ll be able to get a little bit of work done.  So Namjoon tries to relax into their slightly shitty couch and put some jingles together.

-

Namjoon has and always will be the kind of person who gets utterly sucked into their work as he hunches over his laptop, foot tapping slightly as he moves some levers around on his program and presses a few buttons to change instruments around.  His shoulders are tight and his leg is bouncing from a combination of anxiety and tiredness and he can’t remember the last time he blinked, but the jingle is coming along pretty well.  He still has the last few seconds to figure out, because their client had specifically requested that it be catchy and attention getting, but he’s pleased overall with the tune.

But even if Namjoon is engrossed in work, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice Yoongi awkwardly standing beside the couch, shuffling his feet even though Namjoon can’t see it from the way their comforter is wrapped around him like a cocoon.  Namjoon isn’t going to acknowledge him though, at least not yet. He’s going to let Yoongi sweat this one out a little.

Eventually Yoongi gets tired of standing because he takes a seat at the far end of the couch, away from Namjoon but with his body angled towards him.  It’s obvious Yoongi is waiting for Namjoon to say something first, but Namjoon isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Yoongi stays quiet and still for a few minutes, silently watching Namjoon work, but after five minutes he scoots over on his cushion a bit.  And then three minutes later he’s scooting over on his cushion a bit more. And then a minute later he’s doing it again, until he’s on the middle cushion, the comforter brushing up against Namjoon’s arm.  Namjoon still doesn’t acknowledge him.

He feels Yoongi lean into him slightly, the pressure getting harder against Namjoon’s arm.  Namjoon still doesn’t look up.  From his peripheral he can see Yoongi’s eyebrows are knitted tightly together, upset Namjoon won’t say anything.  Yoongi continues to lean into Namjoon, putting a little more weight on his arm each minute until he’s fully resting against Namjoon, head laying on his shoulder and his legs tucked under his body.

Finally, Namjoon thinks Yoongi has suffered enough, so without saying anything he fully straightens up, which causes Yoongi to flail for a few minutes until he falls face-first into Namjoon’s lap, his arms uselessly trapped inside his blanket cocoon.

“Ouch,” Yoongi whines, struggling to sit up or even move, “Joon that hurt my nose.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon supplies, but he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

Yoongi seems to catch onto this because Namjoon can see the little downturn of his lips as they morph into a frown and he gives up picking himself off Namjoon’s lap, settling for turning his head so he can at least look at Namjoon.  Namjoon feels a little bad when he sees Yoongi actually looks guilty.

Neither of them are one for beating around the bush, which is good for their relationship because there’s no cat and mouse game trying to figure out how to fix fights.  They fight, they give each other time to cool off, they come back together and talk it over and make up.

Now is one of those times as Yoongi says in a soft voice, maintaining eye contact, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have been a dick earlier about the medicine and your mom.  Especially your mom.  You didn’t tell her, did you?  She already hates me, that would just make it worse.”

Namjoon shakes his head, “No I didn’t tell her.  I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

Yoongi’s frown deepens, “Thank you.”

They’re silent for a few seconds, Yoongi looking imploringly up at Namjoon.

“I didn’t mean it, you know that right?  Anything I said.  I was just sick and mad at myself for being sick and I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have.  I’m sorry Joon, I really am.”

Namjoon nods, “Good, you should be.  It was uncalled for; I would have went and got you pills if you had just asked.”

“I know you would have, you’d do anything for me,” Yoongi acquiesces, forehead wrinkled.

“I don’t know about anything,” Namjoon laughs and Yoongi’s face smooths out, “Apology accepted.”

Namjoon helps Yoongi up into a sitting position and Yoongi offers him a weak smile.

“Let’s go back to bed, more sleep will do you good.”

Yoongi nods, relief evident on his face, “I’m going to hate myself for saying this later, but thank God. I have such a hard time sleeping when you’re not there.”

Namjoon grins cockily at him and Yoongi rolls his eyes, “I was right I already hate myself.”

Namjoon laughs as he manhandles back to their bedroom, but he’s not sure how much it can be considered manhandling if the other party lets him.  Regardless, they fall into bed together, Namjoon unrolling Yoongi from their comforter so he can drape it over the both of them.  Yoongi settles overtop of Namjoon, one arm wrapped around Namjoon’s waist and the other under Namjoon’s neck.  Namjoon in turn has one hand on Yoongi’s back, rubbing at his still hot to the touch skin, and the other on Yoongi’s cheek, petting soothingly at his face.

Yoongi must not have been lying about sleeping better with Namjoon, because he’s out in seconds. Namjoon just smiles and continues to hold him, placing soft kisses against his nose every so often.

-

Yoongi feels and looks better when they wake up, later in the night.  He’s still hot to the touch, but his cheeks have gained a little color and he’s actually hungry, so Namjoon makes the both of them ramen.

“Thanks Joon,” Yoongi tells him as they slurp at noodles on the couch, knocking his arm into Namjoon’s.

“You’re welcome. Honestly, I should get a prize for putting up with your sick ass.”

“You do get a prize: me.”

Namjoon snorts and swallows some broth down his air pipe, choking as he also laughs at Yoongi’s cheesy comment.  Yoongi in turn glares at him with dusty cheeks, the embarrassment clear on his face which he only cements further by saying, “Serves you right.”

When Namjoon gets his breathing under control, he grabs his and Yoongi’s bowls to set them on the coffee table, despite Yoongi’s complains.  And then he attacks Yoongi’s face with kisses.

“Namjoon!” Yoongi shouts, unable to defend himself against Namjoon’s larger stature, “Namjoon you’re crushing me!”

“My cute baby.  My sick baby.  My cute sick baby,” Namjoon lands as many kisses on Yoongi’s face as he can with Yoongi’s thrashing around, “I’d take care of your sick ass every day for the rest of my life if it meant I got you as my prize.”

Yoongi lets out a bark of laughter as Namjoon kisses his ear particularly loud, finally giving up fighting against Namjoon and instead places a hand on the back of Namjoon’s neck to bring him into a kiss.  Namjoon smiles at his success as he settles more comfortably on top of Yoongi.

“Every day huh?” Yoongi asks, barely moving back from Namjoon to speak, “In sickness and in health, you could even say?’

Yoongi’s eyes are sparkling, the happiness radiating off him even in his sick state, looking so striking under Namjoon and Namjoon can’t believe he gets Yoongi all to himself.

“For richer or poor,” Namjoon says, laying a hand lovingly on Yoongi’s cheek.

“Until death do us part,” Yoongi finishes, quietly, bringing Namjoon down for an infinitely softer kiss.

“I love you,” Namjoon says into Yoongi’s mouth, tilting Yoongi’s head back so Namjoon can kiss him deeper.

“I love you,” Yoongi tells him.

It’s a beautiful, comfortable moment that Yoongi ruins by sneezing into Namjoon’s face, who shouts and throws himself off the couch, falling onto the floor as Yoongi laughs.

-

Namjoon ends up getting sick and Yoongi ends up peacing out.

“I love you but I am unequipped to deal with sick people, sorry,” Yoongi shrugs, like it’s no big deal as he puts his high tops on, ready to go to the studio to work with Hoseok, “I called Seokjin to come take care of you.  I’ll let you know when I’m on my way home so you can tell me what you want for dinner.  Bye.”

“What happened to ‘in sickness and in health’?!” Namjoon shouts after him, the sound of the door closing being his answer, “What an asshole.”

Fifteen minutes later, the door to their apartment is jiggling open and Namjoon hears what can only be the rustling of the bags Seokjin had brought over.

“Can you believe how much of an asshole Yoongi is leaving me in my time of need?  I swear, he’s such an ingrate-”

“What a way to talk about your boyfriend who went to get your sick ass medicine,” Yoongi sniffs from the front door, struggling to kick his high tops off with no hands.

“I don’t know why you wear those, you’re always complaining about them,” Namjoon observes, comfortable on the couch as he watches Yoongi almost fall over.

Yoongi points a threatening finger at him, “Do you want me to leave you to rot?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, finally getting his shoes off and making his way to the kitchen, “I called your mom and she told me how to make that soup your grandma used to make you when you were younger.  Don’t blame me if it ends up tasting like shit.”

Namjoon smiles as he snuggles down into the couch, feeling utter contentment, despite the looming death, that’s only heightened when Yoongi comes in to briefly check on him and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Sleep well Joon.”

#bts #bts fanfiction #bts imagine #min yoongi #min yoongi fanfiction #min yoongi imagine #kim namjoon #kim namjoon fanfiction #kim namjoon imagine #sugamon #sugamon fanfiction #sugamon imagine #rating: pg-13 #skswriting

[chasingthecosmos]

By Any Other Name

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: T Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler (The Doctor/Clara Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswald) Chapters: 17/26 Read on AO3 here.

“Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that’s what was happening …” A Season 7 AU where Rose returns to her home universe only to find that 100 years have passed and nothing is quite the way that she remembers it. She wakes up with a new body, a new life, and a new Doctor. What has the Bad Wolf gotten her into this time? The 50th Anniversary will be included in this story.

Rose had dedicated more than thirty years of her life to Torchwood back in Pete's World, and she had been forced to take command in more situations that she was able to count during her adventures traveling with the Doctor, but she still found the command and title of captain to be a weighty one all the same. The entire punishment platoon - what was left of them, anyway - were suddenly looking to her for guidance and leadership. So soon after losing Angie and Artie to the cybermen, her confidence was shaken to say the least, and Rose felt as though she was now working twice as hard to keep everyone in the abandoned amusement park safe and alive.

She was finally taking what she thought to be a well-deserved break when all of a sudden a shouting voice echoed out from the throne room behind her. "Oi, Clara!" he (whoever he was - Doctor or Cyberplanner) called loudly. At least he had continued to refer to her by the correct name while they were within earshot of the others.

"I'll see what he wants," Rose sighed wearily, flashing her current companion - a short, friendly man named Porridge - an exhausted smile as she set down the steaming mug that he had just offered her. "Call me if there's any change."

She returned to the throne room to find the Doctor in much the same state as she had left him. He greeted her with a wide smile that hinted at his true self, but Rose still approached him warily, making sure to keep a safe distance, all the same.

"Hey! Clara, there you are," he exclaimed happily. "Now, quick rundown - what's our weapons strength?"

"One big gun, five of those hand-pulser units, and a shiny black bomb that implodes the planet," she rattled off matter-of-factly as she flashed Angie and Artie a concerned look from where they stood along the edge of the room staring blankly at nothing.

"Yeah, yeah, that one!" the Doctor replied excitedly. "Now, tell me, does it happen possibly to have a remote triggery thing?"

Rose pulled said-trigger from her jacket pocket and waved it in his direction in silent response.

"Brilliant. Pass it here," he commanded, his eyes carefully tracking the movement of the long, black remote as it moved through the air before his face.

"No," Rose replied quickly, snatching the trigger back to her chest defensively.

"Why not?" the Doctor asked with a look of offense.

"Because," Rose replied simply. "I don't trust that you're you right now."

"Oh, don't worry," the Doctor murmured reassuringly as he tapped a finger to his right temple. "The Cyberplanner's hibernating between moves right now." He had lowered his voice to a whisper and he held his finger to his lips as though to quiet Rose and keep her from waking the evil entity in his head.

Rose gave one condescending bark of laughter as she shook her head at the Cyberplanner's obvious attempt at a ruse. "You must really think we're stupid, don't you?" she muttered under her breath. She leveled a hard glare at him as she continued, "You're in the Doctor's head - you have access to all of his memories. That means that you know who I am."

Rose took an intimidating step closer as she narrowed her eyes on the Cyberplanner with a fierce snarl. "So don't insult me," she snapped, her tone low and dangerous. "I've known the Doctor almost my entire life. I know that he would never go along with the suicide plan - not as long as it endangered other people, anyway. So why don't you stop wasting all of our time and just get back to your little game? I think it's your move."

"Alright, skin bag, fine," the Cyberplanner sighed as he rolled his eyes dramatically in her direction. "You got me. But come on, 'Clara' - don't you want to talk?" The obvious implied quotations around Rose's fake name made her hands clench into fists at her sides. "I have access to all of the Doctor's memories and emotions. Aren't you even the least bit curious? Wouldn't you like a peek?"

"No," Rose stated resolutely as she continued to glare at him. "I know everything that I need to know about the Doctor, and that's all that matters."

"Really?" the Cyberplanner sneered. "Are you sure? One hundred years is a long time to be apart, and you know how this one likes to get around ..."

Rose bit down roughly on the inside of her cheek as she wasted no more time and stepped forward to slap the Cyberplanner hard across the face again. Her hand stung form the impact, but that was nothing compared to the sting that she felt deep inside of her heart. She would not allow herself to doubt the Doctor - not now, after so much time, and certainly not because some insane cybermind was attempting to cruelly toy with them both.

"Ow, ow, ow! Yes!" the Doctor cried as he came back to himself with a jolt and a smiled widely up at her. "It's me!" he exclaimed, pointing to his own face with a look of glee. His expression fell a moment later as he worked his jaw and his brow furrowed in consternation. "That really hurt," he grumbled.

"Doctor, how much longer is this going to take?" Rose asked, hoping that her tone sounded more authoritative than pleading as she leaned over the chessboard and met his eye. She wasn't sure how much more of the Cyberplanner's hateful, jeering remarks she could take - not to mention the fact that having to constantly slap the face of the man who she loved just to get him back into his right mind was wearing on her.

"Not long now ..." the Doctor began, but his words cut off on a cry as his left hand suddenly shot out and grabbed Rose roughly by the arm. She gasped as his fingers dug into her skin and she reflexively tried to shake him off.

"Doctor, what are you ...?" she asked nervously.

"It's not me!" the Doctor panted, grunting as he seemed to strain against himself. "He's got control of the left arm!"

"Doctor ..." Rose began, but her words ended on a sharp gasp as she suddenly felt a hard, vicious presence force its way into her head. She realized with a start that the Cyberplaner was using the Doctor's touch to reach into her mind and tear through her thoughts.

"Argh! No!" the Doctor shouted through gritted teeth. "Stop it, stop!"

"No! Doctor, make it stop!" Rose cried out desperately, yanking as hard as she could against his hold on her and putting up every mental shield that she could think of as she attempted to keep her wits about her. However, nothing that she did loosened the Cyberplanner's hold on her. As he clawed deeper into her mind, Rose felt as though she were being brutally torn apart from the inside out.

"Doctor, please! Please stop!" she begged, choking on a sob as she screwed her eyes shut tight and felt the pain of the Cyberplanner's violation penetrate deep into her consciousness.

Suddenly, her severed bond began to glow gold again and Rose gasped so hard that her throat stung, her eyes opening wide in fear as she dropped her gaze to the Doctor's strained, painful expression. "No! No, not that, please! Doctor, don't!" she shouted desperately. But the Cyberplanner had caught the spark of connection that flared between them and he was now chasing after it with tenacious glee. Rose could feel her knuckles going white and her neck straining as every part of her tried to scramble away from the Doctor's reach.

The bond was outside of Rose's control - it operated on pure instinct, and it reached for the Doctor's touch of its own accord. Nothing that Rose did could stop it from trying to connect with his mind, and with the Cyberplanner on the other end of the divide purposefully seeking her out, it just became that much more difficult to rein in the uncontrollable, subconscious part of her mind.

Just as Rose was beginning to feel her hold on her bond slipping, the Doctor suddenly cried out again and his grip on her arm shifted to the remote trigger that she still held tight in her hand. As soon as his fingers were around it, he ripped it from her grip and smashed it violently against the chessboard table - both of them watching in silent shock as the small device instantly broke into a hundred different pieces.

As soon as she was free, Rose stumbled away from the Doctor and used every last bit of her remaining energy to simply remain standing as she watched him. She was shaking uncontrollably and her breaths were coming in great, heaving gasps as the muscles in the Doctor's arm slowly relaxed and he regained control of himself once more.

"He got what he wanted," he panted breathlessly as he hunched over the table before him, refusing to meet her eye. "He destroyed the trigger. My move."

"What do you mean 'he got what he wanted'?" Rose asked, her voice little more than a rough whisper.

"He means," the Cyberplanner snarled as he glared up at her, "good news, boys and girls. They're here!"

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

Thankfully, Rose didn't have to interact with the Cyberplanner for a third time. When the encroaching cybermen legions began to slow to a halt before her, she knew instantly that the Doctor had managed to somehow stop him. When she finally got back to the throne room, his face was completely cleared of the abominable silver wiring and he was straightening his bowtie proudly as he grinned at her.

"Ah, hello," he greeted her and her soldiers exuberantly. "Can someone untie me, please?"

"Is he gone?" Rose muttered, narrowing her eyes at the Doctor carefully as she approached him. "Gone for good?"

The Doctor, who had been avoiding her eyes ever since the Cyberplanner had barreled his way through her thoughts and nearly forced the two of them into a permanent, telepathic bond, finally blinked up at her. "Gone for good," he agreed with a hesitant smile. "Out of my head and redistributed across three million cybermen right now - and about to wake them all up, kill us, and start constructing a spaceship. We need to destroy this planet before they can get off it."

His explanation was spoken in his usual, rapid-fire way as Rose carefully stepped forward and loosened the ropes wrapped around his middle. As soon as he was free enough to move, the Doctor was off and bounding away - onto the next stage of his plan to rescue them all. Thankfully, the children were back in their right minds as well, and Angie seemed to be just as clever as the Doctor had supposed that she might be. They all watched in fascination as the unlikely Porridge voice-activated the planet-destroying bomb and then teleported them all right into the throne room of the Emperor himself.

Rose was shocked to discover that she had been in the presence of a powerful monarch throughout the entire day without even realizing it, but she was even more surprised when the Emperor - defender of humanity and imperator of known space - suddenly got down on one knee before her and asked her to marry him. From over Porridge's shoulder, Rose could see the Doctor's look of startled alarm as he flinched uncomfortably at the unexpected question.

Rose, however, declined the Emperor's untimely proposal as gently as she could (despite Angie's protests), and she didn't miss the Doctor's small, relieved sigh as she did so, either (the daft idiot).

She still didn't allow herself to breathe a single sigh of relief, though - not until they were all safely back on the TARDIS with the burning remnants of Hedgewick's World securely sealed off behind them. If Rose Tyler never saw another cyberman as long as she lived, she knew that it would be too soon.

Still, the children bid her farewell with wide, beaming smiles and told her that they would be eagerly awaiting their next adventure with her professor/boyfriend. Rose waved goodbye to them with promises to return home soon, then promptly proceeded to make the Doctor swear to never allow the children back onboard the TARDIS ever again.

"We didn't even find out any new information about Clara," Rose muttered ruefully as she and the Doctor watched the two kids bound up the steps and back into the safe familiarity of their home.

"Sure we did, I learned loads," the Doctor replied with a dismissive shrug. "She's a young, human woman from Earth who likes kids and adventures and baked goods and has a landscaper/nanny for a boyfriend."

"Fat lot of good that does us," Rose grumbled wearily under her breath.

The Doctor simply chuckled as he swept open the TARDIS doors for her, gesturing grandly towards the glowing time rotor in the center of the room. "Personally, I don't really care much about our dear, Miss. Clara. I've got a few other things on my list that are much more important," he whispered conspiratorially as she moved past him into the ship and he flashed her a quick wink. "So why don't we leave her for another day? We'll get it all sorted eventually. It is a time machine, after all."

And Rose knew that it really wouldn't do them any good to run away from the fake life that the Bad Wolf had left for her and to simply ignore the many lingering questions that surrounded her arrival into this world, but the Doctor's soft, inviting smile and deep green eyes told her everything that he didn't dare to speak out loud in that moment - that he couldn't care less about Clara Oswin Oswald, as long as Rose Tyler was at his side once more - and she decided that as long as they had a time machine at their disposal, they might as well put it to good use.

#doctor who #dw #fanfiction #fanfic #doctor who fanfic #doctor who fanfiction #dw fanfic #dw fanfiction #rose tyler #the doctor #eleventh doctor #eleven/rose #elevenxrose #the doctor/rose #the doctorxrose