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mystic-deep · 3 years

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“You don’t know how to beg, darling.” | Nanami Kento x fem!reader

♡ ♡ ♡ description: Married life is never easy, but you and Nanami always made it work. How could a little text cause the end of it all?

♡ ♡ ♡ warnings: cheating, swearing, nsfw, rough kissing, fingering;

♡ ♡ ♡ notes: this will be a two-part story if people find the first part interesting enough. guess I was craving a bit of heartache from our favorite ex-salaryman haha. it's not proofread so please show mercy.

♡ ♡ ♡ word count: 2.7k

“God I hate this fucking job.”

With your face buried in your hands, you muttered to yourself in the almost empty cafe. That’s how it all started, with a very honest complaint, followed quickly by “I wish I was at the beach”, to which you received a small chuckle. With tired eyes, you looked to your right to the man that, unknowing to you at that time, would become your husband.

“You too, huh?”

That’s all it took, just an acknowledgment that you weren’t the only one suffering at the hands of capitalism, and you were instantly attracted to this handsome and somewhat intimidating man that was offering you a sympathetic smile.

Two hours later, with your opened laptops now completely forgotten, and a constant order of caffeine drinks, you both came to the conclusion that you enjoyed each other’s presence, thus deciding to meet up again the following day. Then the day after that and then the day after that, until about a week later, when Nanami asked you out on a proper date. About three months in your new relationship, you moved in together and about half a year later, you were married.

A match made in heaven, that’s what you two were. It was plain for everyone to see how good you were together. You both enjoyed similar things, you were both foodies, you were successful in your respective careers, even in terms of looks you would catch envious glances as you both walked down the street hand in hand.

You never had a fight, you never argued - it was always a well-balanced relationship. You were a team and you both worked hard for the same goal, to leave your well paid jobs and bustling city for the quiet and relaxing beaches of Malaysia.

It wasn’t always easy, sacrifices had to be made, and there were times when you both arrived home so overworked that you would collapse on top of each other, not even bothering to take off your clothes. It was worth it though, or at least it would be once you were in your little house by the beach where you wouldn’t have to worry about your boss or clients calling you, where there were no deadlines or targets to be reached. Only the sun, the waves, a cocktail and a good book and who knows, maybe even children.

Yes, a proper plan for a proper future and everything was going great, until your husband had forgotten to turn off his phone and left it on the kitchen island. Your hand reached for it on instinct when it made a little buzz, thinking it was probably nothing more than a notification or a message from a client.

“Thank you for the gift, daddy! Can’t wait to show you how good it looks on me!” That was the message, quickly followed by a few kisses and then the screen went black.

The towel that you were using to dry your hair had fallen to your shoulders as you gripped his phone and stared at it in disbelief. Nanami was in the shower, you both arrived at the same time and he was gentleman enough to let you go in first. He was probably texting this person when he heard you turn off the water, and most likely forgot to close the phone.

You knew what this meant, you didn’t want to admit it but there had been signs going back to a few months ago. Date nights that were abruptly cancelled, a new expensive car even though you both had promised to cut back on your expenses, the fact that he barely touched you even on days when you were both free.

It’s not that you were dumb, far from it, but you were so in love. You were so in love with the man that had been your husband for four years now, you were so in love with the idea of a future with him - where you could get to enjoy your lives and build a proper family. That love made you blind, even now with clear evidence in front of you, the idea that Nanami was cheating on you just seemed so surreal.

What exactly had happened? What happened to the two of you that were so perfect for each other? What happened to the man who couldn’t keep his hands off of you, the one that had fucked you silly on every piece of furniture when you first bought your expensive penthouse? What happened to showering together in the morning because you didn’t want to part even for five minutes? To waking up to the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes on weekends, to holdings hands while whispering to each other in quiet cafes, to all those little moments that you treasured so much - and that you were now questioning if you’d ever get to experience them again.

All the love and care that he had for you was now being directed to another. You had lost a battle that you didn’t even know you were fighting, and the outcome was a tragic heartbreak.

That night, curled into a ball on your side of the bed, you sobbed quietly to yourself while your husband was sleeping. With trembling hands you clutched the bed sheet, your tears wetting the pillow case. You knew that there was no way for Nanami not to hear your little whimpers or feel how your body was trembling, but he made no movement. He said nothing and you said nothing and the silence fell between you heavier than a cover made of lead.

It was after a month, and the work of a private investigator, that you gathered your courage to confront your husband about his affair. As he sat at the kitchen table, lazily drinking his coffee and reading the newspaper on a Saturday morning, you handed him a folded paper.

“Sign here.”

He looked at you from behind his reading glasses and arched a brow at the piece of paper that was handed to him. He folded the Financial Times neatly and placed the paper on the table before turning his attention to the document. It must have been a complete shock to him, because he just stared at the divorce papers for several seconds before he finally made a sound.

“What...what the hell is this?” He got up from his chair, eyes narrowing at you in a threatening way.

“Divorce papers. I thought you were smart enough to read.”

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” His voice was shacking, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the papers in his hand.

“I thought there was no need to involve lawyers since we signed a prenuptial. Let’s finish this quickly, like removing a band aid.”

“Why? Why would you want a divorce?”

You had been calm up until that moment. You thought to yourself that you had cried until your tears had dried up and you had screamed until you’ve lost your voice and that all there was left to do now was to end it quickly and be done with it.

Oh but no, Nanami Kento wouldn’t let you leave without hurting you one last time. He wanted you to say it- he wanted to see the damage and pain he had caused.

“Because you’ve change! Because I don’t recognize the man that I’ve married! Because you’ve stopped loving and respecting me! Because you’re fucking a god damn college student! A little whore that has been riding your dick in hotel rooms and empty parking lots for a designer bag!”

Your face went bright red as you shouted your accusations, feeling the pain of the first discovery washing over you once more.

“This isn’t what-”

“This isn’t what? What lie do you plan on telling me? That she’s some poor relative and you’re just such a good Samaritan that you had to help her out? Tell me, how many of your family members call you ‘daddy’?”

Nanami’s hand slammed the kitchen table with such force that it made all the cutlery and dishes to jump up. He took off his glasses and angrily placed them in the pocket of his sweatpants. With just a few steps he had you trapped between the wall and his strong chest, his large hand gripping your chin.

“Why can’t you be quite for once? Why can’t you just shut the hell up and listen!” You’ve never heard Nanami raise his voice at anyone before let alone you. Sure, he could be extremely intimidating when he wanted to, but he always considered it was classless to scream. The anger flashing in his eyes and the grip on your chin were clear signs that he had lost whatever composure he had left and that a storm was coming.

As though sensing that you wanted to open your mouth and protest, he smashed his lips against yours and bit with savagery on your bottom lip. You let out a whimper and he took full advantage of that to slide his tongue inside your month. He kissed you like he had never kissed you before and it made your head spin. It was so rough, so primal - it almost felt like he was trying to eat you.

Your hands landed on his shoulders and began to grip his shirt like your life was depending on it. You were losing -you were losing your mind to this intense feeling that was building in your stomach. There had always been passion between the two of you but nothing close to this raging fire that was threatening to consume you.

When he finally pulled away, your head felt light from the lack of oxygen and your eyes looked at him in a dazed way. Smirking, clearly enjoying the fact that he still had such a strong effect on you, he began to part your legs with one of his knees, his right hand finding its way in your loose curls. He pulled on your hair harshly before his mouth went to attack your neck.

“You always get to decide, don’t you darling?” He let his teeth sink into the soft flesh, chuckling when you let out a little squeak. “Let’s start dating, Kento. Let’s move in together, Kento. Let’s get married, Kento. I don’t want to be married anymore so let’s get divorced, Kento.” Each word that was rolling out of his mouth contained so much bitterness and it stabbed you straight in the heart.

“Even my fucking dream, you couldn’t even let me have that. Oh no, you just had to make it yours.” You were so caught up in the hurtful things he was saying that you hadn’t noticed his hand travelling to the waistband of your shorts until he started rubbing your clit through the thin fabric of your panties.

“Kento...oh, Kento, please!” Please what? You didn’t even know what you were asking for. – ‘Please stop saying such horrible things, you’re breaking my heart. Please don’t make it sound like I’ve stolen your dream away from you. Please touch me more, touch me and remember how much we used to love each other.’

“You don’t know how to beg, darling.” His long fingers pushed the panties to the side before skilfully playing with your folds. “Ah, so wet for me already. You’re really hoping to get fucked, huh?” Without much trouble, he pushed two fingers inside your tight hole and began to pump them in a slow rhythm while his thumb pressed against your clit. His other hand cupped your breast before pressing his palm on your swollen nipple, his mouth returning to devouring your neck.

You were so close, with your back pressed on the wall behind you, you were so close to climaxing that every hair on your body was standing up. Then, just as abruptly as it started, Nanami retrieved both his hands and took a step back, enjoying your dishevelled state.

His rough hands landed on your shoulders and he pushed you gently on your knees, your face just inches away from the growing tent in his pants. “All you have to do is ask, darling. All you have to do is beg me to fuck you and maybe I’ll be generous. Tell me what you want.”

At this point you were ready to break. It had been too much - your heart just couldn’t take it anymore. It was hurtful enough to realize that your husband had fallen out of love with you but to find out that he never loved you to begin with? It felt like the whole world would come crumbling down.

Now you stood there, on your knees, looking up at the man who wanted to take everything from you, wondering what should you do. It would be so easy, just to beg like he had asked and let him bend you, let him break you. You would become just like that poor little girl he was fucking for fun, disposable the second he got bored with you. No matter what you chose, you couldn’t go back to the way you were. The life that you thought you two had planned together would never come to be.

With that thought in mind and whatever strength you had left, you pushed yourself up, propping your back on the wall. “I need you-” You looked straight into his eyes as the next words left your mouth. “-to sign the fucking divorce papers.”

His fist hit the wall next to your head with such force that your heart stopped beating. There was a small part of you that knew, even if he hated you, Nanami would never raise his hand to hurt you.

Looking up to meet his frightening expression, you held your ground knowing that there was no turning back at this point. He said nothing more - he threw you one last angry glance before storming to your shared bedroom. He emerged minutes later, completely dressed, fished his car keys and his wallet and he was out the door. You knew exactly where he was going but at this point you didn’t care anymore.

With trembling feet you wobbled to the bedroom and began to pull out the suitcases and boxes that you had prepared in advance. You had rented a small apartment, a far cry from your luxurious penthouse, but it was close to your office and you couldn’t afford to throw money aimlessly at this point.

As you threw your belongings in the suitcases, you made sure to leave behind every single gift he had ever given you. You didn’t need his coats, his jewels, his watches, his bags or shoes. Everything that you wanted he was no longer willing to give you and so you left only with what you had bought yourself.

He could keep the penthouse too, his little mistress will probably be thrilled to finally move in the expensive apartment complex and be showered with gifts without having to worry that the evil wife will catch them. That is until some new little thing would come along and she will be tossed to the side and forgotten. Nanami might have indicated that he had never loved you, but you were also sure he didn’t love this girl either.

As your packing was nearly completed, you looked at the photo album left on the bed, wondering what to do with it. You knew that if you left it there it would quickly find its way to the trash, and even though it hurt to remember, it hurt more to think such memories would be discarded with such ease.

You picked it up and when you did, a small flyer fell from between its pages. You picked it up from the floor and stared at the words “WELCOME TO MALAYSIA!” written in bold colours on the pamphlet. You had it ever since you went to the travel expo a year ago, a little glimpse to what was to come, but you guessed you didn’t need it anymore.

As you moved to throw it in the trash bin, you suddenly stopped. His dream, his dream, the words just kept coming back to you. No, this was your dream as well! This is what you worked for so hard every day! This was what you’ve postponed having kids for! This was all the birthdays and parties that you couldn’t attend because you were working overtime. This was all the money you stopped yourself from spending on little goods that made you happy. He could have the penthouse, he could have his luxury brands, he could have to expensive car and hell, he could even have his happily ever after. However, he would not claim your dream and stop you from achieving it.

You carried all the boxes and suitcases to your car and got in, already forming a plan and how you could move to the sunny beaches of Malaysia in just a few months. As you drove away from the apartment complex, your phone let out a little buzz. Stopping at the stoplight, you checked your messages and saw that Nanami had texted you.

‘I’m on my way home, let’s have a proper talk.’ A few seconds later, another text. ‘We can work this through, you know I didn’t mean everything I’ve said.’ You scoffed and stared angrily at the screen. ‘Wherever you’re going, that’s no longer my home.’ You texted back quickly before the light went green. ‘Tell me when you’ve finished signing the papers and I’ll tell you where to send them.’ You threw your phone on the empty seat as the last massage you’d ever write Nanami was being sent. ‘I will never beg, I will never bend and you will never break me.’

#Jujutsu Kaisen #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami kento x reader

169 notes · View notes

wallwriterstuff · 3 years

Note

Hi! Can I please request a Demetri x mate!human!fem!reader where she’s Bella’s younger sister, and when the Volturi come for Renesmee, the Cullens tell her to stay with Charlie, since they had a bunch of vampires with them plus the Volturi showing up, it’d be bad with a human in the mix. Being related to Bella (haha) she doesn’t listen, choosing to hide behind a tree to try to see how Bella and her family are (she was worried what the Volturi would do). I’m sure everyone would realize there’s a human there, and Aro sends Demetri to check it out, who finds Y/n, and quickly realizes she’s his mate. Ooo that would be nerve racking to Bella because she’d see Dem speed her younger sister over to where all the Volturi are. I’m sure she’d have to go back to Volterra with them, and she’d be a little freaked out. Awhhh it’d be so cute to see them bond, and on New Year’s, she wants to watch the ball drop (because it’s a tradition), and when it’s the New Year, she kisses Dem for the first time!

Little Red Riding Hood Part 1 ||Demetri Volturi x Female Reader||

Part 2: The Big Bad Wolf

Part 3: What Soft Lips You Have

Part 4: And They Lived Happily Ever After

Warnings: None, just Aro being a manipulative little meanie

Words: 4793

Summary: Against her sister’s advice, Y/N Swan sets off on a one woman mission to protect her family, unaware of the price she will have to pay to do so.

One of the worst habits you had was wondering the house late at night when you shouldn’t be. It wasn’t your fault really, insomnia didn’t have an easy cure and your sleeping medication was…well, when you woke up in the morning you felt drunk, they weren’t really something you enjoyed using. It had been an innocent quest really, a simple mission – get a warm mug of milk to go back to bed with. If anything, you were perfectly in the right to go wandering your own home. It should have been safe, even at 3:24AM.

Riley Biers shouldn’t have been there.

But he was.

In your living room.

And so were you.

Until you weren’t.

Alice had seen it all in advance of course and whisked you out of that room so fast the venom hadn’t even had time to properly enter your system after Riley bit down. Charlie hadn’t even been woken from his slumber by the time you were whisked into the depths of the forest to a nice little clearing where you could scream to your hearts content and nobody would hear you. Carlisle had saved you that night, sucking the venom out as quickly as Riley had injected it. The night that had followed was a surreal, whistle stop tour of the vampire world and its laws, laws you were technically breaking since you knew about the Cullen’s now. Of course, that meant you knew about the newborn army to, but you decided to stay out of that one. Some things however…some things demanded your attention, and whether you were human or not you simply had to at least see your family would be okay.

After a whirlwind few months your sister was saved, married and knocked up. Come Christmas, your hybrid niece was looking to be nine years old and your father was suspicious but none the wiser to the world you knew all too much about. You had carefully hidden your bitemark with polo necks, a sudden and bizarre choice your father had commented on once but quickly dismissed after you spouted some fashion facts Alice had prepared you with – fashion and Charlie did not mix and he dropped that conversation faster than one might drop a saucepan on fire. Of course, Renesmee (who you had created a variety of nicknames for just to tease Bella because otherwise you…well you’d have to call her Renesmee, and that was just cruel) was unique in every way, and unique and unknown equated to threat and danger in many minds, many minds the Cullen’s had slowly swayed over the few weeks since Alice had informed them of their impending death sentence.

You hadn’t been allowed to visit since the nomads and covens had started arriving, and though you understood the reason it didn’t make it any easier to know your sister, your niece, your extended family, were all in danger and you weren’t getting to spend what might be their last moments with them. It was only made worse when Bella and Edward had brought your father tickets to go fishing out of state, and tried to do the same to you. You loved your TV shows, truly you did, so for them to somehow get you backstage passes for Supernatural of all things was…immense. What you hated the most was how tempted you were to go. Who would say no to a long stay in a five star hotel, all expenses paid for and any bills you accumulated paid for by a Cullen, bottomless credit card?

When Edward and Bella had dropped you at the airport, part of you really had been ready to say goodbye to them, but as you stood in line for the gate the heavy weight of guilt settled in your gut and wouldn’t stop squirming. You had to turn back, you had to go. Nobody knew when the Volturi were going to land exactly, but you knew the day, and with Charlie and Sue gone for their fishing trip you would have nobody to stop you doing the incredibly dumb thing you had set your heart on. The taxi fare home had been extortionate but you couldn’t exactly have called anyone for a lift could you? You called the hotel and told them you were cancelling your stay, having to push your backstage pass for the Supernatural set deep into the depths of your bag to manage the grief of missing that opportunity, but family came first.

A restless night’s sleep later and you were dressing for the snow. It had fell fast and thick since Christmas day, so you had to set out early if you were going to get anywhere fast. Bella was your sister and you loved one another dearly, so of course you had spoken all about the upcoming battle, her hopes and her fears, her plans.

“There’s a clearing to the North of the house, we’re hoping if we engage them there it’ll be far enough away from people to stop anyone else getting involved by accident.”

Clearing to the North of the Cullen residence, right. With your Grandfather’s old compass you had set out, bundled in your thickest woollen coat and decked out the whole nine yards with scarves and hats and gloves. The air was freezing, nipping harshly at your exposed skin till your ears and nose were tinged red. Sniffling, you trudged through the layers of snow, stumbling over your own feet once or twice in the hereditary Swan way before regaining your footing and ploughing on. The trees seemed never-ending, an identical blanket of white on each and every one that towered above you, encroaching from all sides and making you lose all sense of direction. If it wasn’t for the compass in your hand you could have easily gotten lost in the winter wonderland, but a break in the treeline finally made an appearance. Numb as your extremities were, you forced your tired body to cooperate and propelled yourself forward, stumbling towards a tree you might be able to see past.

The forest was eerily silent, not a single scuttling animal or twittering bird to be found today, and the clearing itself was so large and the covens spread so far apart you could barely see a thing either, not with your dull, human eyes. A swarm of black gave away the Volturi, the mismatch of beiges and neutral tones on the left letting you know your family had yet to be taken down. A sigh of relief escaped you and you clapped a hand over your mouth in alarm, heart skipping a beat in your chest. Vampires had extremely sensitive hearing, there was no way somebody hadn’t heard you, and if it wasn’t the sigh that gave you away then it would surely have been the sound of mitten slapping flesh. Pressing into the bark you peeked around the tree trunk, heart hammering in your chest now as you tried to establish what was happening. You couldn’t hear a thing, could barely see. Ness sat atop Jacob, his russet fur glinting in the bright white of the snow-covered landscape.

“It all looks so terribly interesting from this distance does it not?” the smooth voice was right by your ear, and you screamed louder than you ever had in your life. Whirling around you shrunk back from the vibrantly red eyes of an admittedly handsome man, his expression devoid of any emotion as he looked you over. He had boxed you in against the tree trunk, his cloak billowing about him, the shiny, golden ‘V’ hanging around his throat making your chest constrict. Volturi, he was a Volturi guard. With wide eyes you stood in a silent stare-off, unable to decipher the emotions flickering through his eyes as he stood a step toward you.

“Stay away from me!” you cried, cringing back into the bark behind you. His head tilted.

“You came to spy and did not expect there would be consequences?” he asked, not stopping till he was almost on top of you. Your breath hitched. He had the most gorgeous looking face but you could identify the features of a killer in it. The glowing red irises didn’t look at you with malice however, more…confusion. His sharp, pearl white teeth weren’t bared to take your throat out but carefully sealed away behind plush lips. You could almost believe he didn’t intend on hurting you if his hands weren’t still reaching for you.

“You’re here to butcher my family, I had to…” you trailed off, because in reality what could you do? What could you possible say to this vampire that wouldn’t make him laugh? You were human, you stood no chance. He had paused, waiting patiently for your answer, yet when you gave him none he proceeded to pick you up like you weighed next to nothing, your feet being whisked out of the numbing snow to dangle over his arm. His eyes never left yours.

“Hold tight little one.” He suggested, his voice devoid of any emotion. If there had been any part of him you might have been able to appeal to before it was gone now, hidden behind a stony exterior. The world blurred around you and the jarring movement thew you off balance as he set you on your feet again, your body tilting in a way it shouldn’t till he was forced to grab you and hold you steady. Nausea rose quickly in the back of your throat, the world still spinning and blurring your eyes. You could see the edges of black cloaks swirling in your vision as you fought back the urge to be sick. There was no way to hide your anxiety now, your heart hammering away for all to hear, your breathing too quick to be normal.

“You seem to have distressed our dear friends, Demetri.” The smooth voice was sickeningly sweet, entirely false to your ears. Trying to take a steadying breath, you forced yourself to look up at the three imposing figures before you. A giant stood behind them, two young twins to their right. The three were quite obvious to you form the stories you’d heard, and your shudder had nothing to do with the cold this time. Demetri, the man holding you, had yet to let go of your waist, and his hands felt strangely soothing, their firm grip something that felt grounding and reliable despite your terror in this moment.

“An intruder who has already seen too much, end her now as yet another of the Cullen’s mistakes.” The blonde sneered. You swallowed, mind spinning. You were dead either way, right?

“My niece is not a mistake.” You retorted. You were proud that your voice didn’t waver once, though the grip on your waist tightened slightly and you weren’t sure if it was to warn you or scold you. Caius hissed, eyes narrowed in a vicious glare.

“Your niece? May I, my dear?” Aro stood before you, taller than you had expected with hair almost as long as yours. You knew it wasn’t a request, but you found yourself desperate either way to avoid touching him and shrank back from his extended hand, straight into Demetri’s chest. His hand was hesitant, but it lifted from your waist to lightly skim down your arm, his lips close to your hairline as he whispered, “Do as you are told now, little one.”

He carefully extended your hand for you, noting the tremor in it once more as Aro’s eyes flickered between you. He removed your mitten with a flourish, your hand immediately clenching and unclenching at the sudden blast of arctic cold it had previously been shrouded from. Aro’s skin was somehow even colder and your shivering grew in intensity. Very vaguely, you could hear Bella shouting something, but the distance was so great and the clearing so vast it swallowed the sound. His eyes flickered over yours, completely pinning you to the spot, and then they looked past you to whatever was happening behind you. Demetri was blocking your view when you tried to see what Aro was seeing.

“Sweet Y/N, your bravery in coming here is applaudable. I can only hope our own dear ones are as dedicated to our family as you are to yours.” Aro sighed, a hint of melancholy in his voice. You flinched, knowing the next words from his mouth would most likely be spelling out your death sentence. The sound of the breeze was all that filled your ears for a moment, the anxiety and anticipation growing in your stomach making it difficult to hold onto the meagre breakfast you’d forced yourself to eat. It occurred to you in that moment that this would be your final moments with your family, your last chance to say goodbye, and they could hear it. Squaring your shoulders, you held your head high.

“I came because I love them, and I don’t regret that. You can’t destroy my family, their witnesses are proof of that. My niece was created out of love and the legacy of love they would leave behind will be far too great for you to overcome. So go ahead and do what you have to to me, if I can die with half their grace then I know I’ve done them proud.” You clenched your fists at your side, prepared for the bite that Aro would deliver, maybe Demetri. Caius looked most upset by your little speech, hissing quietly and looking prepared to spring towards you. More muffled noise from behind you let you know your family had heard, even if you couldn’t hear their goodbyes you felt them in your heart.

Aro’s head tilted slightly, his expression cold, and then his mouth opened slightly and he was leaning forward. You closed your eyes, flinching as you braced for the pain of a bite you knew well, but instead you felt cold air, and when your eyes snapped open you were shielded from Aro’s bite by a tall, lean body, one strong arm curled backward to keep you caged against his spine. Demetri.

“Master…please.” He extended his hand, ripping off his glove with his teeth as he went. Aro eagerly took his hand, probably as desperate as you were to know why one of his most treasured guard would so openly defy him. Some of the Volturi’s people were starting to whisper behind them but a lethal look (from the giant of a man you guessed was Felix from Bella’s stories) silenced them. His grip on your hip tightened for a moment, the silence deafening before Aro chuckled.

“Ahhh…così si forma un legame eterno.” he murmured. You scrunched your nose, having no idea what he meant since you didn’t speak Italian. When Demetri carefully moved aside, giving Aro as slim a chance to access you as he possibly could, and your heart twisted with gratitude that he would even bother to try. You swallowed, doing your best to keep your fear from your face.

“Aro.” Caius growled. Aro held his hand up, forcing his brother to heel even if he couldn’t placate him.

“You are intriguing, Y/N. The Volturi do not offer second chances, but for the sake of our dear Demetri we are willing to bend the rules just this once,” Aro smiled, a shark-like grin that made your stomach sink, “You have a choice before you. Your family are quite innocent in regards to the accusation against your niece, for that we will deliver no justice-“ there was some uncomfortable shuffling behind him Aro dutifully ignored, “-however you are a law broken, yet another example of the Cullen’s inability to guard our secret from humans. An example must be made, you must be dealt with appropriately. Either you turn here, now, or you come with us, and we turn you.”

It was a Hobson’s choice. What Aro was really asking was how dead did you want to be? Dead dead? Or undead dead? If you let Carlisle bite you now in the clearing there were so many unpredictable nomads around. Bite your wrist and it would take forever for the venom to reach your heart and really start the change, you would be tortured right in front of them, a punishment for them all no doubt. Bite your throat and blood would spill, blood so many of those nomads wouldn’t think twice about feeding from in any other situation. So, what did you do? Did you choose the option where you ended up far from home but safe? Or did you choose the option that did not guarantee your safety but did guarantee your family would suffer watching you suffer?

For the first time since you entered the snow you felt warm, warm with so many eyes on you. Swallowing thickly, you tried to will your mind to work faster to outwit the vampire before you. In the end, you could only think of a compromise.

“My father’s not home right now. If I chose to come with you, could I have time to pack some clothes?” your voice was slightly weak, your heart aching in your chest. Your father would never see you again, he’d have to believe you just ran off, that you were the same flighty woman your mother was. Bella might never get a chance to see you again either, an eternity of knowing you would never lose your sister, but that you would never be reunited. It was painful however you spun it. Aro’s smile only widened, knowing he had successfully backed you into a corner.

“But of course! Such a…noble, sacrifice, must be rewarded. You have earned that much my dear. Demetri will take you now.” Aro gave his tracker a nod and Demetri seemed to relax, swiftly turning on his heel to march you across the snow. His hand was gentle on your arm, but the speed he set almost had you running to keep up, like he was desperate to get you out of there lest Aro change his mind. As you were escorted out of the clearing, you dared a single glance back at Bella, her face the very picture of horror as Edward held her back. All you could manage was a weak smile as your sister disappeared from view for what was possible the last time.

Once you were far enough into the trees that the clearing was out of sight for you, Demetri suddenly came to a stop, exhaling sharply and dropping his hand from your arm. It ran through his hair but barely ruffled it. Whatever he was thinking, you weren’t about to be privy to it as he slung you across his back with ease. You gasped, clinging on tight.

“Hey! What are you doing!” you protested.

“Taking you to your home. You are slower than I am.” He retorted, his voice quiet and his grip on your thighs firm. You held on tight, heart rabbiting in your chest.

“You don’t even know where I live.” You squeaked. Demetri chuckled, the sound vibrating through your gut.

“No, but I know where the Cullen’s live, and I find it hard to believe that in all this snow you walked all the way here. Now hold on tight and try closing your eyes, it may help with the nausea, cara mia.” He gave you seconds at most to bury your face in his shoulder before he took off, maybe…or not? You weren’t really sure but you didn’t dare lift your head to look. He made sure his gait was smooth, every stride flawless so he didn’t so much as jostle you, and by the time he gently encouraged you to unwind your legs from his waist you were in front of the Cullen’s house. The only reminder you had ever ran anywhere with him at all was the windswept state of your hair – it was unfair his still looked perfect.

He had been right of course, you had driven to the Cullen’s today. It was hard to imagine him sitting beside you in your small car, his cloak about him and his outfit all…well, what even was he wearing? Why did that even matter when this Volturi guard was escorting you to pack things that would be your only reminder of home? Demetri was quiet, watching you carefully as you stared at your car. Nothing made sense. Why had Demetri saved you when he was the one who hauled you out in front of Aro? Why had it felt like he was protecting you? Why was everything so…comfortable? Being around him was like being in the company of an old friend, it was familiar and warm, inviting, the silences felt natural.

Demetri quietly called your name, his expression questioning, but you didn’t bother to give him an explanation, simply pulled out your car keys and got into the driver’s seat. The radio chased away the silence, your fingers clenched tight around the wheel as you tried to figure out what to pack.

“Where are we going?” you asked him finally. Demetri kept his eyes on the horizon.

“To our home, to Volterra. You will be joining us in Italy.” He answered. Italy? You didn’t know the first thing about Italian culture. What was the food like? The people? The language? You’d need to pack warmer clothes, and they didn’t accommodate turtle-necks – not that you needed to hide a bite from vampires. It wasn’t really until you pulled up in the driveway of your home that it really struck you, the weight of the deal you made hanging heavy on your shoulders as you idled in front of your childhood home. In your mind you could see yourself running up the drive, your suitcase abandoned for your father to pick up as he welcomed you to stay for the summer. Other winters where you had opted to spend Christmas with Charlie over Renée flashed through your mind next, dilapidated snowmen and strung up lights over the porch flashing bright. Tears stung your eyes.

“I’m never coming back here, am I?” you whispered. Demetri remained silent, and you were grateful for it. There was nothing he could say to make this better and you suspected he knew that. Furiously wiping at your eyes, you rummaged for your house keys and cleared your throat. “You should wait until I open the front door, it’ll look suspicious if you follow me in and any of the neighbours see.” You muttered, already climbing out of the car before he could argue. It was a slow walk up the drive, a walk where you desperately tried to imprint the bumps in the concrete, the muddy smells of the forest surrounding you, and the awful netting in the windows’ you father hadn’t changed since your mother moved on, into your memory.

The smell of stale beer from the cans in the recycling box beneath the sink hit your nose as the door opened, the familiar smells of Charlie’s aftershave and Sue’s perfume coming next. The house was cold, quiet, desolate even. Demetri was in front of you in the blink of an eye as you shut the door behind you, nobody would have seen him enter for sure. He glanced around himself, obviously curious at the choice in décor and the photographs along the walls – you couldn’t bear to look at them. With a soft sigh, you left him in the living room, knowing he would do what he liked anyway regardless as to whether or not you invited him upstairs.

The suitcase you had packed for your trip would need to be unpacked, some of your jumpers and long-sleeved shirts would not be needed in Italy after all. It would be hot, and heat was not a friend to wool. Your wardrobe doors flung open, you were contemplating what to put back when Demetri interrupted you.

“Vampires do not feel temperature the same way humans do. When you turn it will be no issue to wear jumpers, if they are what you prefer.” He said. Brows crinkling, you subconsciously lifted a hand to your throat.

“It’s not really a fashion choice,” you murmured, “But I guess I don’t need to really hide a bitemark from a bunch of vampires, do I?” Just like that the air changed; you no longer felt comfortable with Demetri, not when he was giving off such a sour energy. He radiated danger, anger. He took a breath to visibly compose himself, but his eyes were still darkened by anger, near black with the rage he radiated. The leather of his gloves squeaked as he clenched and unclenched his fists. You took a step back from him, biting down on your lower lip as your heart skittered.

“Show me,” he said, eyes blazing. You shook your head. “Show me.” He growled, stepping forward this time. Gulping, you reached up with a shaky hand to pull the turtle-neck down as far as you could, thankful the material stretched slightly. Demetri peered past the fabric to the silver crescent shapes of Riley’s teeth, emblazoned on your skin until Volturi venom decided to buff out that imperfection. He hissed quietly, his fingertips tracing the mark and sending shivers down your spine. He was freezing cold, cold as a corpse actually since that was technically what he was, so why did his fingers leave a blazing trail of fire across your skin?

“It’s just small, it’ll go away anyway if-“

“It will not, go away.” Demetri ground out, his eyes fixated on the scar. He looked genuinely disgusted and you couldn’t tell if it was at you or the bitemark, you couldn’t tell quite why it bothered you so much either. Why did you care so much that this upset Demetri?

“It won’t?” you asked weakly. He winced a bit, letting his hands drop and looking away. You counted ten whole seconds before he dared turn back to you.

“No, it will not. Venom is what will immortalise you, petrify your system, it has had a chance to do so to those cells it has touched already and they will be forever changed by it. My only hope is to bite down there, that by breaking the surface with my teeth it heals over with my venom.” He almost growled the word at you in his frustration and you swallowed, blinking in surprise.

“You’re going to be the one that turns me?” you questioned. Could he even do that? Did he have the self-control? You had thought Aro would do it if you were honest, though you couldn’t say you were over the moon to have that old coot’s teeth in your throat it was guaranteed to at least be safe. What right did Demetri have to steal your life? Why was he so angry over the thought of another vampire biting you? Had he claimed some weird sort of vampire dibs?

“Of course. The Volturi have laws they enforce but when it comes to affairs between mates, they leave well enough alone.” He informed you, head tilting. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Mates?” you whispered, mind reeling.

“You do not feel the pull?” he asked. He had yet to step back from you, unbearably close and yet somehow not close enough. For a moment you couldn’t say anything, simply trying to desperately scramble to think coherently enough to consider answering.

“I don’t…I barely know you, you can’t just…say that.” You stammered. Demetri very gently grasped your chin between his fingers, tilting your face upward so you were forced to maintain eye contact with him. You weren’t sure what he was searching for, if he found it or not, but he dropped your chin with a sigh.

“Pack, tesoro, we have little time.” He murmured. You were relieved when he stepped back – it gave you a chance to breathe. Mate? Demetri thought you were his mate? You knew what that meant, Edward had explained to you what his connection with Bella was like after Riley had introduced you to his world, trying to help you understand how awful the months leading up to Bella’s running away to Italy had been for both of them. Is that why he had been so protective of you on the field? Is that why he was so furious another vampire had dared mark you? It crossed your mind then just how selfish your decision actually looked to the outside world. In your head, you had been saving your family from suffering, but to them it probably looked like you had chosen to run off with your mate because you didn’t trust they would take care of you. How were they ever going to forgive you for this?

#twilight #twilight fanfiction #volturi #demetri volturi #demetri volturi x reader #request #swan sister #they're all as dumb as each other I swear #x reader #possessive demetri is kind of a thing I'm suddenly into apparently

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nicknellie · 3 years

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@chickwiththepurpleguitar requested: flarrie hurt/comfort something? Maybe Carrie’s losing her voice and needs to perform soon so she can’t talk to Flynn so they just communicate with notes and pointed looks but Flynn knows what she means cause they know each other so well?

This is so cute and I love it so much. They would 100% be able to read each other’s expressions like an open book. I had a lot of fun writing this, thank you so much for suggesting it! I think I might have aged them up a bit because I gave Flynn a car without really thinking, but honestly I don’t know how that works in America so it might be completely plausible. Anyway! I hope you like it!

I Can Wait

“What did the doctor say?” Flynn asked the moment Carrie opened the car door and plonked herself in the passenger seat. She was rewarded with a glare like a laser beam paired with an absolutely furious pout. Clearly it wasn’t good news and Carrie was none too happy about it. “Is it serious?”

Carrie shook her head and sighed quietly. Instinctively, Flynn reached across and took Carrie’s hand between her own. She watched as Carrie defeatedly tipped her head back and closed her eyes, obviously frustrated, and then she pulled her hand from Flynn’s grasp and dug around in her handbag for her phone. She quickly pulled up the notes app, tapped out a message, and brandished her phone in Flynn’s face.

Doctor says I need to rest my voice for two days.

Flynn frowned. She could already tell that this wasn’t going to be a fun two days for Carrie – she relied so heavily on her voice, whether that was for singing, bossing people about (though she would never admit that’s what she so often used her voice for), or just quiet calm conversation that was usually reserved for Flynn’s ears only. Carrie needed her voice and as far as she would be concerned she’d had her best tool and weapon snatched away from her.

“Poor thing,” Flynn said, stroking Carrie’s hair. She watched as Carrie breathed contentedly, soothed just that little bit. “Did they say what made you lose your voice?”

Carrie typed out another message: Using it too much, which is stupid.

Ah. Flynn should have been able to guess that. For the past two months, Carrie had been working herself to the bone for the biggest show of her life so far, a performance with her band set to take place in front of at least two dozen record execs and managers for an incredibly exclusive crowd. Along with the other devoted members of Dirty Candi, Carrie had been rehearsing almost non-stop – when she wasn’t singing she was composing, when she wasn’t composing she was dancing, when she wasn’t dancing she was working on costumes, when she wasn’t working on costumes she was getting some sleep with the one or two spare hours in her day. She had thrown herself headfirst into her work and was still yet to resurface.

That was the thing about Carrie, something Flynn loved dearly. She never did things in halves. If Carrie wanted something she would seize it with both hands, she’d drive herself harder and faster than any sane person was willing to just to reach her goals. Sometimes it paid off; other times she sang so much that she ran her voice dry.

“So that’s it?” Flynn asked. “You can’t say a word for the next two days?”

Carrie shrugged defeatedly. In that small gesture, Flynn saw how truly crushed Carrie was feeling. Maybe two days wasn’t really that long, but in Carrie’s mind it was two days being unable to work on songs at all, not to mention she would be unable to direct Dirty Candi’s choreography with anything resembling ease if she couldn’t speak to them. In her mind, it would be two days closer to her show and two days completely wasted.

“Hey,” Flynn said, finding Carrie’s hand again. “We’re not going to let this get in the way of anything, okay? You’re still you – you’re the most capable person I’ve ever met. If anyone is going to find a way around this it’s you. Okay?”

After a moment, Carrie met Flynn’s eyes and offered her a small smile. She leaned forward and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to Flynn’s lips before impatiently tapping the steering wheel which Flynn took to mean ‘let’s get out of here’.

Flynn knew that getting Carrie to rest completely would be impossible – she suggested it as they drove back to Carrie’s house, but Carrie sat there with her arms crossed, pouting petulantly and shaking her head until Flynn had to accept that she wasn’t going to take any more steps back than she needed to. So when they arrived back at Carrie’s place, Flynn followed Carrie through to the home studio where Carrie immediately went into the back room and started working on costumes.

It would have been easy for Carrie to get somebody else to work on Dirty Candi’s costumes – after all, she had more than enough money to hire a professional to make most of them, and if worse came to worst she could have just bought them from anywhere. But Carrie liked doing things independently so almost all of the band’s outfits were handcrafted by her (though Julie always helped when she had the time). It broke Flynn’s heart a little to watch Carrie at the sewing machine, threading bright pink fabric through it, launching herself back into preparation when she really should have been taking a moment or two to unwind.

“Do you want anything?” Flynn offered.

Carrie looked up from her work briefly and raised an eyebrow – ‘like what?’

“Water?” she suggested. “Or tea? How about honey and lemon, that’s meant to be good for sore throats, right?”

Carrie gave a quick smile, which Flynn interpreted as ‘yes please’, and not a moment later her head was back down and she was working again. Flynn hurried out of the studio to the Wilsons’ kitchen and busied herself preparing the drink. She mixed the honey and the lemon juice in with the hot water and brought it back to Carrie – she was rewarded with a bright smile and a brief hug before Carrie, unsurprisingly, got back to work.

For a while, they simply sat together in silence. Flynn texted Julie to fill her in on the diagnosis and how Carrie was doing while Carrie got on with bits and pieces she needed to do. In a way, Flynn thought, this would be good for Carrie. She was always complaining about the little jobs she never had time to get done, but now she couldn’t do much else she would be able to get on with them.

Flynn was just considering heading home and leaving Carrie to it when she was unceremoniously hit in the face with a paper aeroplane. She blinked in surprise and then looked at Carrie who was smiling innocently.

“What happened to just asking when you want attention?” she said, rolling her eyes.

Carrie just raised a judgemental eyebrow – ‘seriously?’

“Oh, yeah, that. What is it, then?”

Carrie mimed opening the paper aeroplane she’d thrown, so Flynn did. There was a message inside, scrawled in Carrie’s loopy handwriting.

I have a meeting with a manager later but it’s over the phone.

Flynn scrunched the paper up into a ball and threw it back at Carrie who caught it easily. “You’ll have to cancel,” she said apologetically. “You’re not breaking the doctor’s orders for this.”

At that, Carrie batted her eyelashes and smiled hopefully, and Flynn immediately understood what she was getting at.

“You want me to do the meeting for you,” she said disbelievingly. “I have no idea what I’m talking about! I’m not even in Dirty Candi!”

Carrie picked up a pen and grabbed another sheet of paper, hastily scribbling down another note and chucking it in Flynn’s direction. It hit the floor a metre or so away from her and Flynn kicked it towards herself, which probably took longer than if she had just stood up and collected it.

Put it on speaker phone and I’ll write down everything you need to say, it’ll be fine. Plus you’re our marketing team, you know how to make us sound good.

It was true. With Flynn’s help, Dirty Candi (and Julie and the Phantoms) had grown in popularity enormously with a fanbase well into the thousands even though they’d hardly played any live venues that weren’t spirit rallies or open mic nights.

“You’re sure?” she checked, and Carrie nodded. “Fine. When’s the meeting?”

Carrie held up five fingers.

“Five hours?” Flynn said.

She shook her head.

“Five days?” she tried. “That’s plenty of time, you’ll be able to talk by then.”

But Carrie just shook her head again.

Flynn sighed. “It’s five minutes, isn’t it? You’ve given me literally five minutes warning.”

Carrie smiled smugly – ‘now you can’t back out even if you wanted to’.

The meeting went surprisingly smoothly. Flynn blagged an awkward explanation as to why she was on the phone instead of Carrie and the manager didn’t seem to mind. There were a few awkward pauses when Carrie was taking a while to write down her response, or when Flynn was struggling to decode her unnecessarily ornate handwriting, but they got there in the end. When they put the phone down Carrie was smiling, so Flynn took that to mean she thought the meeting had gone well.

It was only then that she checked the time and realised how late it was getting.

“I should probably head home,” she said reluctantly.

She and Carrie had moved to the living room and sat themselves down on the couch, but instead of getting up and leaving Flynn laid back and rested her head on Carrie’s shoulder, getting more comfortable. She felt Carrie wrap her arms around her waist and press a feather-light kiss to her cheek. It made her heart flutter – it was good to know that Carrie didn’t need her voice to make Flynn lose her mind. In fact, this quiet solitude, no sound between them but gentle breathing, was more than enough to make Flynn’s heart beat too fast.

Flynn didn’t know how long they’d been sat there together when she heard Carrie sniffle. She had tried to cover it up and muffle it, which had made it more obvious if anything. She turned her head awkwardly in time to see Carrie turn away and sniff again. Though it was dark and neither of them had bothered to turn a light on, Flynn didn’t miss the way a single tear rolled down Carrie’s cheek.

“Hey,” she said, wriggling until she was sat in front of Carrie, cross-legged, holding her hand. “Care Bear. Come here.”

Carrie didn’t need telling twice. She practically fell into Flynn’s arms, crying quietly, her tears soaking through Flynn’s jumper. Flynn gently ran her fingers through the ends of Carrie’s hair and down her back, holding her close to calm her down.

In truth, she had been half expecting this since they got back from the doctor’s, it had just been a matter of time until it actually happened. Carrie worked not only to improve herself and get further than everyone else, but to distract herself and make herself feel like she was making progress. Flynn knew her well enough to have guessed that when she immediately set about continuing prep for her show it meant she was trying to make herself feel useful, like she could avoid the elephant in the room and actually do something.

It was just to hide how low and wasteful she was really feeling.

“I know this isn’t ideal,” Flynn whispered softly once Carrie had calmed down a notch. “I know you want to be able to carry on like normal, but you’ve got to see that you’re working yourself too hard. It might feel like a setback, but you’ve been working at this for months – you’re more than ready. These two days won’t change anything. Surely you can see that?”

Carrie just exhaled, somewhere between a sob and a sigh. To Flynn that meant ‘no’.

“Well, I’m right,” she said. “You’ve done one day, you can do another. Then you can ease yourself back into rehearsals and I promise you’ll smash it when the actual show comes. You still have two weeks left, that’s plenty of time.” She squeezed Carrie that little bit tighter. “You’ll be amazing.”

Carrie didn’t say anything, for obvious reasons. She didn’t respond at all – didn’t get her phone out and type out a message, didn’t even meet Flynn’s eye to say something in that silent language only they would understand. She just held onto Flynn like it was all she could do. So Flynn held on in return, telling her she wasn’t alone and she never would be, not if Flynn had anything to say about it.

The next thing Flynn knew, it was morning. The sun was streaming in through the living room’s enormous glass windows and she was still lying on the sofa, having just woken up, blinking sleep out of her eyes. She stretched and felt her joints crack satisfyingly, then shook her head to wake herself up.

Carrie was already awake, changed out of yesterday’s clothes (something Flynn hadn’t done since she hadn’t intended to stay the night – she would have to steal something of Carrie’s, which always made her feel a little giddy) and sat on the sofa next to Flynn, pen in hand, writing something.

“Good morning,” Flynn yawned. She laid her head on Carrie’s lap; Carrie sighed, inconvenienced, but didn’t move her away, instead reorganising herself to accommodate her girlfriend. “Did you sleep okay?”

Carrie nodded and gave Flynn a pointed look – ‘yeah, how about you?’

Flynn waved a dismissive hand. “You know me. I can sleep anywhere. What are you writing?”

In reply, Carrie picked up another bit of paper, scrawled a lengthy message, and handed it to Flynn before getting back to her work at hand.

I was thinking about what you said last night and I hate to admit it but you were right. I’m trying to write another song, but not to perform at the show. Maybe for another performance or not at all. I’m doing what you said, taking a step back for a bit.

Flynn smiled up at her, unsurprised to see that Carrie was blushing and avoiding eye contact. That message was about as close as Carrie ever came to pouring her heart out; admitting that she was wrong and Flynn was right was always a frustrating thing for her to do, but it was one of the purest ways that Carrie showed her love.

“What’s the song about?” Flynn asked, lifting her head up and trying to read to words at the incredibly awkward angle but to no avail.

If possible, Carrie blushed even deeper. In response, all she did was tap Flynn’s forehead twice with the end of her pen (which was garishly decorated with bright pink feathers and very tickly) and got back to writing.

Flynn felt her own face light up. “It’s about me?”

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of Carrie’s mouth and she nodded. Flynn shoved herself into a sitting position and tried to read over Carrie’s shoulder, but Carrie hugged the paper to her chest, scowling as she hid the words from view.

“Oh, come on,” Flynn whined. “I want to read it!”

Carrie just shook her head emphatically. Flynn assumed it meant ‘not yet’.

“When can I read it? Or hear it?”

Carrie scribbled down another note: Not until after the big performance, and even then it’s only if that goes as well as you think it will. Otherwise I’m shredding this song and you’ll never hear it.

Flynn laughed and rested her head in Carrie’s lap again. A moment later she could hear the scratch of Carrie’s pen against the paper again. “Okay. I can wait that long.”

Taglist (if you want to be added or removed just let me know): @ace-bookworm @williexmercer @willex-owns-my-heart @itstiger720 @the-reckless-and-the-brave @that-one-newsie @bluedarkness @lookingthroughmirrors @teammightypen @salty-star @julieandthequeers @lmaohuh @sunnysbright

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mrslilyrogers · 4 years

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Betrayal Part 7

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: (AU) Set in New York. You and Bucky have been married for 5 years. He’s the love of your life and you are his. At least, you thought you were until he started slipping away from you, coming home late and smelling of another woman’s perfume? You are in denial. Are you just losing your mind or are you really losing him?

Author’s notes: I’m so so sorry this took so long! I redid the whole thing. We’re going to back up a bit in this chapter and visit the past. Please check the warnings before reading. Also, my requests are open. Send ideas if you’re feeling particularly angsty! Or even fluff, I’d like to try my hand at it. As always, let me know what you think of this chapter! For tags, please send in ask!

Warnings: Cheating, Angst, Abuse, Swearing

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

2 years ago.

Bucky tapped his fingers on the table as he checked his watch again. 8:15. Forty-five minutes late. Again. He let out a huge sigh, barely able to hold himself from scratching his eyes out. The curly-haired waitress went back to him with an apologetic look on her face, “I’m sorry, sir. My manager told me I really need to take your order now. There’s already a line waiting outside…” she let her sentence trail sheepishly. Bucky tried to ignore the heat creeping up his cheeks and gave her an unconvincing smile instead, reciting his order. When she left with visible relief on her face, he picked up his phone and called his wife again. He had tried to call and text her earlier but she hadn’t picked up.

“Hello?” Y/N answered, sounding frazzled and irritated as she cleaned up after her rude customer. He just had the audacity to leave a mess after complaining and whining about the wifi three times. She could barely keep her eyes from rolling.

“Hey, babe. Where are you? I’ve been waiting for you at the restaurant,” Bucky’s defeated voice on the other line replied.

“Oh shit!” She shrieked, attracting the heads of the other customers as she glanced at the clock on the wall. She had lost track of time. Bucky had been waiting for her for almost an hour. On their anniversary. Oh crap, crap, crap.

“Oh my god, baby. I’m so sorry! I’m understaffed and I lost track of time! Could you please wait for me? I’m so sorry!” She quickly took off her apron and changed into the dress she had brought with her that morning for their date. Bucky had been planning this. He arranged for Lizzie’s babysitter and everything, practically bouncing off with excitement for this night. He wanted to try out this new restaurant and between raising Lizzie and making sure Winter Bakery was still making a profit, they haven’t seen much of each other lately. She just couldn’t find the time whereas Bucky’s stable position in Shield gave him more authority to delegate. And he literally had been trained for this for years. All those late-nighters at the university and all the grunt work he and Steve went through have finally paid up. They were at the top of their game, one of the youngest to acquire their positions. They were heroes in the investment banking world. Life was easy for him now, cherry on top of the cake. He only wished Y/N could be there with him. But she was still on shaky ground with her business and he fully understood that.

“Of course! I already picked our appetizers though. They were trying their best to kick me out gently if I didn’t order anything,”

“Oh, my poor Bucky. You should’ve flashed them your smile, charmed your way. They would’ve made you stay,” she replied, fixing her ponytail, not having the time to retouch her makeup anymore. This’ll just have to do.

“Really, now. It was a waitress, you know.” He teased back.

A beat before Y/N replied in mock seriousness. “In that case, don’t you dare. I’ll be there in 15!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. See you, babe. I love you--,”

But before he could even finish his sentence, the line had dropped on the other end.

_______________________________________________________________________

1 year ago.

“Daddy, look, apples!” Lizzie pointed from her seat in the grocery cart. Her legs swinging as she giggled at the heap of apples on their side. “Yeah, baby, you’re right.” Bucky replied absentmindedly, not even bothering to look as he stared confusedly at the bunch of green vegetables in front of him. The list Y/N gave him said scallions, but how the hell was he supposed to know which was which? Scallions, spring onions, green onions, they were all the same right? He suddenly regretted volunteering to do their grocery shopping alone, having no clue what half of the list Y/N prepared even meant. It was the weekend, they were all supposed to go together and then have a quick visit to the toy store after, for one more of Lizzie’s birthday gifts. She had just turned 3 a week ago and he couldn’t help but promise to let her pick out another doll. When Y/N had given him a pointed look while Lizzie clung on and gushed to him, he couldn’t help but to just give her a tiny shrug. He grew up with nothing, he was gonna give his little girl everything. But that morning when he thought the three of them finally had time to spend together, Y/N couldn’t make it again. She was having problems with her manager and had to go into work unexpectedly. Now, she wasn’t even answering his calls when he had to ask her about the most complicated grocery list he’s ever seen in his whole life.

“Daddy, when are we getting my doll?” Lizzie asked again, looking up at him as she clutched her favorite white wolf stuffed toy.

“After this, sweetheart.” He answered, preoccupied and calling Y/N again. This time when she didn’t answer, he gave up, grabbed the one nearest to him and hoped for the best.

When he’s gotten halfway through the list and let Lizzie point at the snacks she wanted for school, he let his mind wander, when the hell had they become like this? He barely saw his wife anymore. Her problems with her bakery cafe, always dragging her away from them. He wished she could find competent people who would stay but if it weren’t her manager, it was her baker and so on. And if she was finally free, he’d be the one who was busy. It was hard and annoying but coupled that with taking care of an over-enthusiastic three-year-old, it was also exhausting.

He missed Y/N and he wished he could spend time with her. He completely understood that she was always needed at work. He had been through that in their early 20s, but they didn’t have a kid then to compete for their time and understanding it was different from actually living it. Their marriage had become stagnant. The banality of their everyday life, a stark contrast to how they used to be when they were just a couple of kids off college who rented a too-small apartment with his little sister, Becca. Time has flown and he’s finally achieved the life he’s always wanted; a big duplex apartment, a steady high-income job and a family he had always yearned for but never really knew he needed. All of the things he promised himself when he was younger and had nothing, he had now and more, yet there was still something missing. He missed the thrill of his life, chasing his dreams had always kept him motivated, distracted. Now that he had it all, he was at his wits’ end. Maybe it was because they were also growing apart, he could feel it. Y/N had always been able to make him happy and whole; he had always been able to rely on her emotionally. She was the better part of him and now that she was becoming distant, he hung onto her like a lifeline but his insistence on going on vacations as a family wherever his wife and daughter wanted went unheard, all his attempts at romancing cancelled.

Even as he lined up now for the cashier, he whipped out his phone to text her. His hands had been busy typing when a brooding, dark-haired man stood behind him dressed in all black. His arms were muscled despite his age and the sagging skin on his right arm holding a tattoo of an odd skull with tentacles extending out of it was barely covered by his shirtsleeve.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t little Bucky,” a familiar husky voice mocked from behind him.

Bucky immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the voice sending a deep chill down his spine, making him go rigid as he slowly turned around, the blood draining from him when he went face to face with the man who had made his life a living hell, the man who not only broken him physically but in spirit as well. Repeatedly.

“You some errand boy now? I didn’t raise you to be like that, you know,” He continued to mock, tipping his chin to the cart with Lizzie still on it.

“Do you know him, daddy?” She asked, holding her little wolf tighter as she watched the stranger warily.

“Hey there, sweetie. Your daddy didn’t tell you about me? That’s weird. I raised him and your aunt Rebecca a long time ago. My name is Rumlow,” he flashed her a chilling smile, stepping closer to offer his hand. That’s when the fog in Bucky’s brain cleared. He moved with a lightning fast reflex, stepping in between them as he got in Rumlow’s face, fisting his collar harshly in one hand,

“Don’t you dare go near her,” his dark and low voice had threatened, dripping venom. His eyes had dilated, almost turning black as he shoved him hard. Rumlow’s grating laugh echoed around them, bringing back all those awful memories he had buried deep inside his head.

“I’ve taught you well, boy. Can’t say I’m not proud,” He clapped and actually smiled at him smugly. At this point, Lizzie had started crying making Bucky even more furious.

“I don’t ever want to see your face again. And if you go near my daughter again, I’ll make you fucking regret it. Do you understand?” His threats went on deaf ears as Rumlow broke out into a full-fledged grin.

“I’d love to see you try, James. You’ve grown soft,” He accused, eyeing Lizzie and the grocery he had still lined up, several heads already looking at them.

“Lucky for you. I have a new son here,” He continued, tilting his head to the boy standing by his mostly empty cart-- save for the beer and the liquor. Bucky flicked his attention to the boy and he felt his world spin as he saw himself in him with his eyes haunted, wary and afraid. He couldn’t have been older than eight. Rumlow smirked at the look on Bucky’s face, already detecting the turmoil brewing inside him. He had succeeded. He always knew Bucky was weak, his emotions his downfall. The fear and guilt clearly written in Bucky’s eyes made Rumlow gloat as he talked to the boy,

“What did I say, Bert, huh? You’ll only have food if you go get it yourself. Why are you still standing there?”

The boy looked around the big grocery store, mentally taking note of the stalls and where they were currently at, memorizing it in case he got lost but still, he didn’t move. Bucky looked at Rumlow and he saw the same look he’d always had directed at him before, his taunting eyes daring the boy to go or face the consequences.

“But I’m scared,” the boy replied, his voice small and frightened. Rumlow moved to him, bending his knees to get to his eye level. “Well then, you just won’t have to eat,” he told him in a hushed voice, pouting and mocking.

Bucky didn’t have to hear it to know the exact words, buried memories rushing back to the surface. He heard it countless times directed at him. The boy ran to the nearest stall, his heart pounding and hoping Rumlow would still be at that same spot when he came running back. Bucky knew the feeling, it was like he was living it all over again. As much as he wanted to help, he was rooted to the spot, even Lizzie’s crying couldn’t move him. Rumlow stood back up and faced him. “You were always my favorite,” he told him proudly as he pushed his own cart away from them, no doubt to give Bert an even harder chance of finding him.

Just before he got too far, he swiftly turned around, feigning innocence as he said, “Oh and by the way, say hi to Rebecca for me,” His lips twisted up into a sneering smirk as he left, whistling without a care in the world. And just like that Bucky was moving, grabbing Lizzie and getting out of that store as fast as he could, hoping Rumlow would stay out of his life forever.

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“I’m never letting you do the groceries again!” Y/N screeched, a horrified look on her face as she stared at their fridge. After the incident with Rumlow, Bucky had brought Lizzie to the toy store, allowing her to buy all the stuffed toys and dolls she wanted instead of just the previously promised one doll. They had gone to lunch after, he kept Lizzie distracted as much as possible to forget the man she had just met. When she brought him up again, he told her it was just a friend he didn’t like very much and that she shouldn’t bring it up to her mom because it was nothing, he promised he never had to see that man again. Lizzie seemed satisfied with his answer and went back to her usual chirpy self. On their way home, they passed by another grocery store. He had mindlessly strolled the aisles and grabbed whatever he thought they needed, his head at a different place, much as it still is now.

“Bucky, we don’t need four cartons of milk, why would you even get this?” Y/N asked incredulously, shaking her head as she chuckled.

Bucky had been staring off into space, not hearing what his wife had been saying. “Uhm, hello Bucky, you still with me?” she teased, waving a hand in front of his face.

“Oh sorry, what was that?” He asked, glancing up at her from his perch by the kitchen counter. The coffee he had brewed, now cold in his hands.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, looking at him with concern in her eyes.

“Yeah, just didn’t sleep well,” he waved dismissively. Y/N felt a pang of guilt. He’d been bugging her to spend more time together, planning outings and dates that she never seemed to find time for.

“Well, I finally have the day free. Why don’t we go out, watch a movie or have a picnic? It’ll be fun,” she suggested, draping a hand over his shoulder while her chin rested on the other, her elbow propped up on the countertop to keep an eye level with him.

“I can’t, I’m sorry, babe. I promised to meet up with Thor,” he moved away from her touch, standing up. Y/N looked at him confusedly, “Okay, how about after?”

“Gotta go over some accounts with Sam, sorry love. I’ll be back before dinner,” He gave her a quick kiss to the cheek before heading out. Y/N stared after him, brows knitted, before shrugging. She’ll just get her errands around the house done then.

After pounding the punching bag in Thor’s gym incessantly, Bucky found himself aimlessly walking around the streets, he just needed to clear his head. The little boy’s face was still etched in his mind as he opened the door to a bar. A little too early, he knew but he couldn’t shake off the nagging thought plaguing his mind.

How could he have let that monster roam free while he had lived his life without even a glance back?

_______________________________________________________________________

Years ago.

Bucky held Becca’s hand as they ascended the rickety steps of their new home. They had just lost their parents and were now moving into an unfamiliar house. The case worker had told them they were lucky not to be separated and that they shouldn’t worry; they were getting a good foster father who would take care of them from now on.

“I had interviewed him myself, you see,” She told the children, beaming with pride.

“I couldn’t have found a better one for you guys, why, this area is still very close to where you grew up in. You could still visit your old haunts,” She ruffled Becca’s hair, trying to lighten the mood while the little girl just moved farther away, hiding behind her big brother. The worn-out door which at once might have been painted pristine white but now had chippings hanging off of it suddenly opened with a creak, a man with a charming and easy nature stepped out with a warm smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You guys are here! Welcome, welcome, please come in!” He gestured humbly to his house. Becca squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter which he squeezed back in return, reassuring her. There was something about this man that wasn’t quite right. He seemed relaxed and easy-going, a smile continuously plastered on his face but there was a lethality to him that the children couldn’t seem to shake off, almost as if it was buried deep inside waiting to be unleashed. The case worker hung on his every word, giggling as they talked. She slapped his arm with the horrible looking tattoo that gave Becca a fright. The children barely moved from the sofa they were seated at after the introductions.

“It’s usually like this. Don’t worry. They start to open up after a while,” the case worker sympathized with Brock, the man who introduced himself as their new foster father; he would treat them as his own, he had promised.

“It’s alright. I understand. After my wife, I’ve been all alone and this, this is a blessing to me,” He told her as he turned to the children. Her hand strayed to his arm again and lingered there.

“Oh, Brock, you are a good man. They’re great children, they won’t give you trouble.” She replied, patting his arm for reassurance. It didn’t miss Bucky how she hung off his every word.

“But I should get going, I will check up on you in a week. Children, be good. You have my number if you need anything,” She stood up, smoothing the wrinkles on her blazer.

“Wait, you’re leaving us already?” Bucky couldn’t help the whine that escaped his voice. He didn’t miss the darkness that spilled over Brock’s face for a split second before he carefully put his smile back on again.

“I’ll be back in a week, Bucky. Don’t you worry,” the case worker smiled before she walked out the door leaving him and Becca to a stranger.

When she was out of sight, Brock had suddenly changed his demeanor. The smile on his face had turned into a scowl when he faced them. “Alright, listen up both of you,” he boomed, his voice cruel. “Grab your things and get on to your rooms. I don’t want to hear any noise. No running around, and if I see you making a mess. You bet your little asses, you’ll pay for it,” He stood up and left them to their bags.

“But Mr. Brock, I’m thirsty,” Becca piped up, looking up at him timidly. The man’s grating laugh rumbled as he threw his head back, shaking it.

“That’s Rumlow to both of you, you hear me? Don’t make that mistake again. Now, come here,” He said, beckoning both the children to come over. Once they reached the kitchen, he pointed to the high cupboard. “You see that?” He asked Becca, dropping low to get to her eye level. When she just nodded her head, he continued, “That’s where the glasses and the plates are. If you want something in this house, you go get it yourself. I’m not your nanny,” He held Becca’s face in his hand roughly. His fingers wrapped around her cheeks tight as he held her by the chin. Bucky felt his fists clench at his sides, pushing Rumlow as far as he could with his eleven year old might.

“Stop that!” He screamed. Their parents never hurt them. How dare this man think he could do this to his little sister?

“Oh you wanna be the man of the house?” Rumlow jeered, shoving Bucky back making him fall to the floor. Becca’s sniffles grew louder as she tried to stop her crying, her shoulders shaking from her effort. As Bucky lay sprawled, Rumlow scooted down menacingly to him,

“You dare push me when you were just whining like a little bitch a while ago, you wanna man up? Alright, I’ll allow it,” he taunted, pondering it for a moment before his sinister smile came back on. “Let’s see how long you’ll last protecting your little sister.” He gripped his face by the chin, fingers squeezing exceedingly tight on his cheeks before he pushed him off and he hit the floor.

“I won’t be some parent to you that you could twist around your little fingers, no. I’ll make you into the best man you could be. I will teach you about order. And order only comes through pain,” He drilled into him like a soldier as he stretched his legs back up, his measured steps going to the fridge to fish out a beer. He took a long gulp before he continued,

“And the sooner you learned that, the better,”

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Bucky sat alone at one of the benches by the field at his school, choosing solitude over the roar of the cafeteria after a particularly bad morning at home. Their foster father had woken up drunk and had haphazardly thrown things at them when Bucky accidentally burnt the eggs he had been cooking for his and Becca’s packed lunch for school. He picked on the peanut butter sandwich he prepared, not having the appetite to eat when he heard jeering voices from a group of boys and sounds of flesh being hit again and again with accompanying grunts of pain. He felt his feet move on instinct when he found them by the bleachers, a scrawny boy at the center of a group huddling over him, they were laughing as he tried to fight them off, not once being able to land a punch. The blood pumped in Bucky’s veins, a constant beating in his ears, as he grabbed the biggest of the bullies by the collar and harshly yanked him off the tiny, blonde boy now sprawled on the floor with his skinny arms covering his face. When one of the other kids tried to punch him, he deftly moved out of the way and delivered a swift blow to his stomach, making sure to spare his face so as not to get in trouble. That was how Rumlow did it, might as well use the same trick right?

“What? Who wants to go next?” He threatened, loving the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the power he had with defending someone so helpless. The lanky blonde boy stood up beside him, blood dripping from his mouth as he held both his fists up, “I can do this all day,” he said, catching his breath but his stance clearly indicated he could barely stand up straight. Bucky just looked at him weirdly, not knowing whether to find him stupid or brave. The bullies stood against them, unsure. Bucky was the same age as them, only slightly bigger. Him and the blonde boy were still clearly outnumbered but Bucky’s eyes held a lethal strength in them, his body coiled with unleashed brutality, ready to fight. The bullies scrambled out of there as fast as they could, their feet tripping over them.

“Yeah next time, pick on someone your own size!” he hollered before looking back at the blonde boy who looked younger than them but held himself with such maturity that it didn’t seem possible. He decided right then and there he was going to make him his new friend. Rumlow had always taught him about his belief of the natural order of the world, that strength and might always won the day and that order could only be achieved through pain. If you could inflict it on others, you were stronger, better. Weaker men were useless, had to be beaten up and put in their place. “That’s just the way of the world,” he had said. But Bucky was old and smart enough to see right through his facade. He was a bully, feeding off of people who couldn’t fight back. Bucky was going to be different, he wouldn’t bow down to his will. He just needed to protect his sister, spare her from the taint of Rumlow’s anger and prove that he wouldn't become the man Rumlow has been conditioning him to be.

“You alright?” Bucky asked the boy standing beside him who was touching the bruise forming on his forehead.

“Yeah, thanks for helping me,” he replied sheepishly, ashamed he couldn’t fight for himself.

“Next time, just don’t provoke them, they aren’t worth it.”

“But they were wrong. Bullies, I’d always stand up to them,” the blonde brushed his hair back from his forehead, determination steeling his voice. Bucky smiled, maybe he could learn a thing or two from this boy too.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Steve, what’s yours?”

“Bucky. Steve, you’re a little punk. You know that?” he said teasingly, laughing.

Steve grinned back, “Jerk,”

_______________________________________________________________________

Present

The light filtered into the room as the curtains were drawn back harshly causing Bucky to groan on his bed, flitting a pillow to cover his eyes.

“Buck, come on. Get up,” Steve’s firm voice spoke through the fog in his mind.

“Get out, Steve, I’m sleeping.” he replied, turning his back to the hand shaking his shoulder.

“How long are you going to do this? It’s been two weeks. Have you even talked to your family yet?” Steve’s judgmental voice rang out, hard and unforgiving.

“She doesn’t even wanna see me,” he huffed, anger at himself boiling in his veins. He hasn’t seen his daughter in two weeks. Y/N’s short, cold replies to his messages were just updates on how Lizzie was doing, anything regarding Y/N, he had no idea about. He didn’t even know what sort of excuses she made up for Lizzie, how his “work trip” kept getting extended. When the hell could they keep that charade up? He was lucky enough she was letting him talk to his daughter on the phone for a few minutes every once in a while. He sat up on the bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he reached for the bottle of whiskey at the bedside table. These days he could only fall asleep when he’s had one too many to drink and even then, he’d still wake up with a headache that could only be dulled by alcohol. He barely even made it to work everyday. Sam had been good enough to cover for him, staying on neutral ground with everything that’s happening to his marriage although his eyes said otherwise, disappointment etched in them. All the while Steve had ignored him the entire time since the hospital. No amount of apologies moved him from his stance except today, when he suddenly barged into the hotel room Bucky has been renting like he owned the place.

“Jesus, Bucky, stop that!” He swiped the bottle Bucky held between his lips, splashing amber liquid on his shirt and bed.

“Damn it, Steve! Look what you did! Give that back,” Bucky held his arm out, his reflexes slow as he tried to grab it from his friend.

“Jesus Christ. You smell terrible. How much have you had to drink last night?” Steve fanned the air around him trying to rid the stench of alcohol and sweat.

“How the hell did you even get in here?” Bucky’s pissed off voice grumbled but one look at Steve’s intense stare with his brows furrowed and his jaw clenched, standing straight as a drill sergeant, arms crossed at his chest with his muscles bulging out of his fitted gray Under Armour shirt; he knew. The punk had intimidated his way in. No doubt leaving a poor breathless, flustered receptionist in his wake.

“You could get that receptionist fired, you know?” He tried appealing to his best friend’s better nature.

“You wouldn’t tell. Plus, it isn’t as if she didn’t get a hefty tip. Go take a shower, Buck, you stink.” Steve didn’t budge, staring him down with a disgusted look on his face. Bucky just scoffed,

“And then what? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Y/N kicked me out, man. Just go home, you’re wasting your time.”

Steve’s hardened face softened as he looked at his friend. His eyes were puffy, his skin pale as he scratched his wildly unkempt beard, his greasy hair sticking out on one side. What the hell had happened to Bucky? How had it gone so bad for his friend in a matter of days? He suddenly moved out of instinct, collecting clothes strewn everywhere and packed them into the suitcase at the corner of the room.

“Steve, what the hell are you doing?” Bucky exhaled loudly. It was too early for this. Where the hell was his drink?

“Get your ass moving, Bucky. You’re staying at my place,”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #bucky fic #bucky x you #bucky x female reader #steve rogers #betrayal #marvel fic #marvel x you

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silence-burns · 3 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 46

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter

Mornings, contrary to popular belief, could actually be quite enjoyable, especially if experienced around noon.

There were few things better than the comforts and warmth of one's bed, and a loved one's body pressed close, resting peacefully within reach. Even the sunlight didn't bother Loki much. He'd grown used to the dim rays of the winter sun doing their best against the low-hanging clouds. It would snow again, as it did the past couple of days.

The apartment had windows overlooking a wild patch of a garden tucked in between the buildings, forgotten or ignored by the residents. It wasn't much, but a few gnarled trees managed to take roots and grow unattended, to the delight of all kinds of birds from the neighborhood. Once the snow melted, it would be easier to judge if there was any potential to work on that place, but for now, both of you just watched over it, occasionally feeding whatever animals fancied some corn on that day.

The few snowmen Peter had worked on showed both his progress and the unquestionable lack of skills. Loki wasn't sure if it was possible for a snowman to lean to the side any further without falling, but he was certain the boy would ease his doubts next time he paid a visit.

Thankfully, chances of that happening anytime soon were low enough for Loki to feel safe, at least until classes end. A small mercy, but one that he'd take gladly.

Loki turned to the side and buried his face in your neck. The soft fabric of the covers slipped off your sleeping form, daring him with a display of skin marked by his ministrations from last night. Or maybe the night before that. It was hard to discern between the days lately. They blurred together because of the amount of work to focus on. The apartment was in a good condition overall, but in dire need of redesigning. The tiresome work was made easier once Loki realized how easily his magic could bend the walls and the space contained within them.

Still, he deserved to rest, and he intended to continue doing so when he heard the last thing he wanted.

Knocking.

It couldn't be Peter, who'd either walk in or stick himself to the window after half a minute of not answering. Loki looked over his shoulder. The window behind him was still boy-free.

That meant whoever decided to make the gravest mistake of their lives could be a neighbor. Neighbors were supposed to be friendly, or at least neutral toward new residents, as you'd explained a few days ago. It wouldn't be anything strange if one of them decided to pay a little visit to say hi. None did so far, but if any dared, Loki would make sure it was their last.

Unfortunately, there was another possibility that came solely from the fact of an opening business, advertising it on the aforementioned door and allowing the, also aforementioned, boy to spread the business cards all over the city.

It could be a client.

It wouldn't be such a bad thing overall, but it was at the very bottom of the things Loki wanted to deal with instead of sleeping. If it was up to him, he'd just cancel the sound with a quick spell and ignore it further, but he couldn't forget your joy when your first client visited a few days ago. The sense of purpose it gave you and the way it made you smile were still vivid in Loki's memory. Even if the first client was a first-grader missing a tooth.

Still, you made him a promise and even put him into the schedule, promising to resolve his problem...today, actually.

Loki sighed and braced himself mentally for the walk downstairs. If the kid showed up to check how it went, he'd be in for a surprise. Loki pushed himself off the mattress, pulling the covers over your shoulder to keep you warm.

He didn't bother himself with looking for a coherent set of clothing among the things scattered on the floor and furniture. Lately, he'd spent most of his free time in a wonderfully green robe you gave him as a gift anyway, and he didn't feel like breaking his new routine. Walking down the stairs, Loki did his best to keep his eyes open enough to see the steps. A child or not, someone would be getting a lecture about the importance of beauty sleep…

Loki opened the door, reminding himself that however strange it might sound, murder was not always the answer to every problem.

Loki frowned. He closed the door. He opened it again.

"Haven't I murdered you already?" he asked.

Agent Coulson put on a smile he must've practiced in front of a mirror a hundred times. "It would seem so."

The old lady living next door looked them over and decided she didn't need to leave her apartment as much as she had thought. The locks clicked one by one when she turned on her heels and closed them firmly.

Loki debated following in her steps when Coulson said something that made even Loki freeze.

"I paid you a visit because the Avengers and SHIELD need your help."

Loki blinked before erupting into laughter - waves and waves of it that he just couldn't stop. His body shook with the bizarre words of a long dead human he had almost forgotten about already. For a moment, he considered what the neighbors must be thinking if they'd been eavesdropping, but it was of secondary importance. What really mattered was that his mood changed so quickly Loki hadn't even noticed.

"I'm glad you're taking my visit well," Coulson smiled tightly, waiting patiently for Loki to calm down.

"Oh, don't worry. Killing you the second time will do wonders to my mood for the whole week," a dagger slipped into Loki's hand.

"Who are we killing today?"

Both men froze hearing you. You walked down the stairs with a blanket pulled tightly over your shoulders. Good manners dedicated you cover your yawning mouth, but your hands bunched in the thick fabric of the blanket reminded you of what was truly important in one's life, especially before noon. Or coffee.

"I thought we agreed on a no killing rule in the mornings? It complicates the whole day."

"To be fair, I've killed this man before."

"And now he's come for a refund?" You turned to Coulson. "I'm sorry, agent. We aren't open yet. Can you come back in the afternoon?"

"Don't worry about it," the agent said. "I've come for a completely different matter. As I've already begun explaining to your…"

"Love of my life," you helped him.

"...I came here asking for your help. Both of you. I would be delighted if we could talk about this like civilized people."

"What a wonderful idea, my dear corpse. Come in."

"Could you please put down your gun first?"

"I don't have a-"

"Please. I just want to talk."

Coulson's polite smile was as unnerving as you remembered it from the few rather brief encounters you'd had in the past.

"Fine," you growled, pushing the blanket to the side and dropping a gun onto the coffee table.

Loki had his eyes on the agent when he walked further into the room. Loki and you were still not sure whether it should be an office or just a living room, so for now it stayed somewhere in between. Coulson didn't mention the state of disarray, but he didn't sit on the couch.

"So what's all the fuss about?" you asked.

"An object was stolen from a SHIELD safe house two nights ago. Despite our greatest efforts, we have been unable to find it. We are well aware of the set of skills the two of you possess," Coulson gave Loki a sharp look, "and are keen on paying you generously for your help."

"No," Loki shrugged. "We listened, now you can go bother someone else."

The agent sighed. He didn't seem particularly surprised, though.

"How generously?" you asked carefully. You shushed Loki before he started complaining. "You must realize we're living quite comfortably already and there's not much that we need."

"Name your price then." Coulson's smile didn't waver, and it was clear he was open to negotiations. The case must be dire, then. And if whatever had been stolen came from the depths of SHIELD's super secret base, it must not only be worth a fortune, but also highly dangerous and possibly not quite from this world.

Loki's elbow kept on jabbing your ribs in desperate hope of getting your attention, but you were too deep in your schemes already.

"We don’t have much interest in money," you leaned back on the couch, fixing the blanket absentmindedly, "but since both of us already have ties with your organization, why not go into that direction? We'd love to have the kind of… support you can offer."

The smile on your face was sweet enough to make Loki's teeth rot, but he kept quiet. He had no idea what was on your mind, but he was keen on finding out. He looked at the agent.

"I'm afraid SHIELD is not the right kind of agency to clean up after you mess something up," Coulson said.

"I'm pretty sure you guys are perfect when it comes to disappearing people and wiping away their messes as if they never were. Last time I saw you work, you were quite efficient."

There was definitely a history between the two of you. Loki kept his smile to himself as he watched the agent's shoulders shift. Whatever the story was, it clearly involved a part the agent was not the happiest about.

"Could you reconsider?" he asked at last.

"We named our price."

"This artifact is of the utmost importance. Surely you understand what the stakes are?"

"This is a private business, darling," you gestured around. "If you wanted the heroes, especially those working pro bono, I'm afraid you climbed the wrong tower. But since you came to us, and I'm sure that’s not because you miss our lovely faces, you must've already considered that option, didn't you?"

Coulson sighed. "You've got yourself a deal."

The grin on your face was nothing short of wolfish. "How lovely. Now, what did you lose?"

The box Coulson took out of the pocket of his suit was neither big nor pretty. If anything, the thin wood looked worn, and the edges were rounded from time and touch. Still, it was enough to make Loki tense next to you, and not touch it when the agent set it on the table.

"It used to hold a pin, and the pin used to have a gem of unknown origin. Now there's neither, and we want them back."

You exchanged looks with Loki.

"We'll contact you when we find anything out," you promised.

You wondered how desperate Coulson must've been if he didn't even argue before leaving the not-office. In the silence that fell upon the room, your attention turned to the box. No ornaments and not even a lock. If such an important pin had been put inside of it, why was the box not secured more?

"What do you think?" you laid back into Loki's side.

"Are we actually doing this? I'm not the right person to talk about trust issues, but I'm pretty sure I've already killed that guy."

"Did you sense anything off about him?"

"Not really. But when it comes to this little box…" Loki's hand hovered above it, but he didn't touch the wood. "I probably shouldn't be surprised to find mice residue, but I'm quite puzzled about that disgusting tang of necromancy."

"Do you think the pin had been used for some dark rituals?" you wiggled your eyebrows.

"I'm afraid we'll only find that out if we can figure out where the pin went."

"What are we waiting for then?”

A few hours passed without any further interference, but as all good things, that time had to pass at last. The rather casual afternoon at your apartment had been interrupted by a certain boy who had secured himself a spare set of keys beforehand, and now used them to enter.

Peter froze midstep.

"Close the door. It takes way too long to reignite all these candles," you said from the living room turned office turned ritual site.

The thick black candles were laid out around a circle drawn with chalk, and strange symbols painted with what Peter could only hope was actually paint. Very, very red paint. The same type of paint covering Loki's bare skin in twisting, overflowing sigils. With his eyes closed, and head upturned, he chanted quietly in a language of wind and shadows.

"Cookie?" you offered from the couch, where you laid sprawled.

The bag was almost empty, but the cookies turned out to be great anyway. Peter sat at the very edge of the couch, observing the god and his ritual.

"Is that...normal?"

"Yeah, chill. We got a job from a dead man walking who told us to find a stolen alien artifact, so we're doing our very best," you yawned. "Meaning, he is working and I'm supporting him wholeheartedly."

"I'd have better support from the chicken I told you I needed," Loki murmured between breaths.

"Where the fuck was I supposed to find you a living chicken in the middle of New York?"

Peter took another cookie. "Does that mean you won't be able to find that thing?"

You waved your hand dismissively as Loki focused back on chanting. "It'll be fine, he's already done that once with perfect results and no chickens violated."

"What were you looking for?"

"The remote."

Peter nodded. Chewing on the last cookie, he fished his homework out of his backpack and laid it out on the table, next to a gun. He had a spider-patrol planned for the evening, but had to finish schoolwork first. With Ned sure to ramble about his newest set tomorrow, Peter had no chance of finishing it before the classes started in the morning.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki marvel #loki mcu #loki laufeyson imagine #loki series #marvel loki #loki fanfic

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years

Text

Breakable Heaven (pt. II) - p.l. dubois

Part I

Part two is here! Things start to heat up in this chapter, exciting stuff’s happening! I hope you guys like reading it as much as I’m loving writing - please slide into my inbox, let me know what you think! Reblogs are amazing too, it’s how we know people are liking what we’re putting out and helps to reach more people! (Plus it’s one of the joys of my life to read the tags. Seriously, so much fun.)

Part II (7.2k)

June 18 (fri)

“If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to sell it,” Laurel said, running a hand through her hair. “The fewer people who know the truth, the better.”

Pierre nodded. “Agreed.” He sat back in his chair. “What do you think your parents will say?”

Laurel laughed. “Uh, they think I’m seeing someone, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “it was easier to just say I had a boyfriend than deal with their endless pestering, you know?”

“So they’d buy it if you just told them you were getting married?”

She shrugged. “I think so. You know we’re not particularly close, they haven’t met any of my boyfriends since I was in high school. So if I told them I was engaged, I don’t think they’d bat an eye, if I’m honest.” Pierre could sense there was more to the story, more that she wasn’t telling him, but he didn’t want to press. “What about yours?” she asked.

“Well, we’ve got a couple options,” Pierre said, cracking a smile and leaning back into the cushions. “It was a drunken mistake.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Then they’d just tell us to get a divorce.”

“We fell in love after the first date.”

“Even less believable,” Laurel said, the corner of her lip twitching.

“Or…,” Pierre said, kicking his feet up on the ottoman, a wicked grin on his face, “I got you pregnant and want to do the right thing.”

Laurel snorted. “Little issue there.”

“What?”

“I’m not pregnant.”

Pierre ducked his head, blushing. “Right. There’s that.”

She nodded. “There’s that.” She tapped her fingers on the coffee table. “I’ve got it.” Pierre looked up. “We’ve been friends for a long time, couple years or something. Madeline went to York, so we met when you and Patrice came to visit. We realized we had feelings for each other a few months ago, everything moved super quickly since we already knew each other and had that foundation.”

“So we thought ‘why wait,’” Pierre finished.

“Exactly,” Laurel said. “Why wait, if we already knew.”

“It’s a classic friends-to-lovers story, a tale as old as time,” he sighed wistfully.

Laurel slapped his shoulder. “This is serious,” she said, but she was smiling all the same. “Okay, so we’ve at least got that worked out. Madeline and Patrice will obviously know, but other than that…” She trailed off.

He nodded, and an understanding passed between them. “It’s a need-to-know basis.”

“It is.” Laurel shifted her laptop on the coffee table, squeezing closer to Pierre so he could see the screen. “So, we have to go down to the courthouse for a meeting with the court clerk who will perform the ceremony, bring birth certificates and ID, and —”

He glanced over at Laurel, her tongue caught between her teeth. “And?”

“You have to publish a declaration of intent to marry twenty days before the wedding. Online. In public.”

Pierre looked oblivious. “So?”

Laurel rolled her eyes. “So, it has the date of the wedding and our full names and our whole entire addresses. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re kind of a professional hockey player.”

He shrugged. “All due respect, Laurel, but,” he glanced at the website, “who actually checks these things?” He had a point there, she thought, but she wasn’t about to let him win.

“But your address, you’re not worried about that getting out there?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But my building’s got a receptionist and I’ve got locks on my doors. And plus,” Pierre added, “I’ve really never had much of a problem flying under the radar here. When I go back home, back to the suburbs, sure. And a little bit in Columbus, obviously. But there’s what, two million people in Montréal? I’m not on the Habs, so even the hockey fans here really couldn’t care less.”

She laughed. “Fair enough. Also, uh, living situation. We should probably talk about that.”

“You’re moving in with me?” He said it like a question, but not as if it was something that would surprise him, or something he was opposed to. He said it like it was something he already knew the answer to. “I’ve got three rooms, plenty of space, Phil and Georgia would love to have a new sister. You and Piper would fit right in,” he said, reaching down to scratch her behind the ears. “Plus it’s got a great gym in the lobby, you can cancel your membership to that seedy place downtown with that trainer who always stares at you when you do weights.” Laurel’s ears perked up; she was surprised he remembered. She did have a gym downtown that she tried to make it to a few times a week, and there was that one creepy trainer, but she had only mentioned it to him once in passing. “Plus it has hot yoga once a week, and I know you’ve been dying to try.” That much was true.

“At least let me help pay for rent,” she tried to bargain.

“Nope!” he said, wincing a second later. “I didn’t mean it in like a patronizing way, I know you’re perfectly capable of pulling your own weight. I meant like I bought it outright, so there’s no rent to be paid. I’ll let you pay the electricity bill if you want?”

Laurel grinned. “That would make me feel better, thank you.” After looking at her computer for a minute, she spoke again. “How long have you had the apartment for?”

Pierre scratched his chin. “Couple years? I bought it after signing the contract this year. Some guys buy a Lamborghini, I bought an apartment. I don’t own the place in Columbus though.”

“How come?” Laurel asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer.

“Even with the contract, so much is up in the air. I could get traded in the middle of the season, or in the summer or whenever, and I don’t want to have just bought a house when I’ve got to move to Vancouver or wherever when the ink hasn’t even dried on the papers.”

This time, it was Laurel’s turn to leave with an unsaid question. “Is tomorrow good? To go down and get everything squared away at the courthouse?”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’ve got some off-ice training in the morning, but any time after noon or so is good for me.”

Laurel nodded, making a few taps on her computer. “Okay, I’ve got us booked in at one, that good?”

“Yeah,” Pierre said, nodding in affirmation. “Now I’ve got to come up with an excuse to drive to my parents’ and get my birth certificate.”

---

It didn’t actually turn out to be all that difficult for Pierre; he made the drive back to Saint-Agathe-des-Monts later that afternoon, telling his parents he needed it to renew his health insurance card. He wasn’t sure they actually believed him, but his mom didn’t bat an eye before handing it over. Pierre spent the rest of the evening at home, cooking pasta, petting the dogs, and wondering what in the hell he had agreed to. He wasn’t second-guessing himself, not by a long-shot, but when she clicked that button to book their appointment, the gravity of the situation finally started to hit him. In less than a month, he was going to be getting married.

June 19 (sat)

Laurel met Pierre on the steps of the Montréal courthouse at a quarter to one the next day, clutching the straps of her tote like a lifeline. “Woah, Laurel, you’re holding that like you’ve got a bomb in there,” Pierre said.

She flashed him a nervous smile. “No bomb, just very official very legal documents. Don’t want to lose it.”

He held out his hand. “You ready?”

Laurel was surprised at the gesture. Not shocked that he was being kind, but that he was cognizant enough to recognize that she was nervous, and wanted to do something about it. She took his hand. “Ready.”

It only took a minute to find the office, and a few more before the receptionist called them back to the clerk’s office. She introduced herself as Juliette Bergeron, congratulated them on their engagement, and asked to see the paperwork. Passports and birth certificates were handed over, signatures were signed on dotted lines, and half an hour later, they walked out of the courthouse with an appointment for a wedding on July 10.

“Well, there’s that crossed off the checklist,” Laurel said, leaning up against the handrails as they stood on the courthouse steps. They had actually made a real checklist, a series of tasks on a shared Notes page of everything that needed to be completed before the wedding. Book the ceremony and post the public notice were done, but there were still a dozen-odd tasks left before they actually could get married. Starting with telling their parents. While they had developed as airtight a cover story as she supposed one could when they were committing what would charitably be referred to as citizenship fraud, they had agreed it was going to be far less messy to “come clean” as fiancés than after the wedding. Laurel had wanted to text them the news, or call so early they’d still be asleep and she could just avoid the conversation altogether, but Pierre had convinced her to FaceTime. “I know you guys aren’t super close, but I think they deserve that much, Laurel,” he had said, and he was right. Deep down, she knew he was right.

“Ready?” Pierre asked, rubbing her back soothingly.

Laurel flashed him a tight smile before pressing her mom’s contact. “As I’ll ever be.” Three agonizingly long rings later, her mom picked up.

“Laurel? What are you doing calling, honey? Is everything okay?”

She let out a nervous giggle. “Does something have to be wrong for me to call my parents?”

“No,” Cheryl clucked, “but to be fair, you don’t call often.”

Laurel rubbed the back of her neck in discomfort. “That’s true. Uh, anyways, is dad there?”

“He’s in the kitchen,” her mom said, starting to catch onto the fact that maybe this wasn’t quite your run-of-the-mill check-in call. “What’s this all about, pumpkin?”

The old term of endearment, one she hadn’t heard in years, brought tears to the corners of her eyes. “Can you call him in? I’d rather tell you both at the same time.”

Cheryl nodded, worry crossing her brow. “Doug? Laurel’s on the phone, she’s got something to tell us. Sounds important.”

“Coming,” Laurel heard her dad say in the background. A moment later, he padded into view. “Hey, Laurel, Mom said you’ve got some news?”

Laurel nodded. “Yeah, just something I thought you guys should know. It’s not bad, you’re just going to be surprised, so I need you to keep an open mind, okay?”

“Who is he?” Doug asked, rubbing his forehead with an exasperated expression.

She blanched. “He? Who’s he?” There’s no way he guessed...right?

“The jackass who got you pregnant, who else?”

Laurel almost choked on her own spit. “Pregnant? Who said I’m pregnant? I’m not pregnant!”

Both of her parents let out an audible sigh of relief. “Well, Laurel, what conclusion did you expect us to jump to when you called us out of the blue and said you had important news?”

Laurel bit her lip; they had a point. “Fair. But, uh, rest assured, I’m not pregnant. I’m smarter than that.” She paused, steeling her nerves. “Remember that guy I told you I was seeing a few months ago?”

Her mom squinted like she was looking into the sun. “Vaguely? You didn’t really tell us much about him. Just that he was tall, nice, you met through friends.” It was a believable enough explanation back then, and Laurel was beyond grateful it dovetailed perfectly into the story she and Pierre had conjured up. “You didn’t even tell us his name.”

Laurel reached out her free hand, the one that wasn’t holding the phone, and made a grabby motion for his hand. He interlaced his fingers with hers. “Well, his name’s Pierre-Luc Dubois—”

Doug interrupted. “Very French.”

She grimaced. “I do live in Québec, Dad. But anyways, his name’s Pierre-Luc Dubois and we’re getting married.”

They sat still on the other end of the call, so still that if it weren’t for her mom’s rapid blinking she would have thought the call had been dropped. “Married?” her mom asked softly.

“Yes, married.”

“How long have you even been seeing each other?” Doug asked, dumbfounded.

“A little under six months. I know it’s not long, and I know it seems sudden, but we’ve known each other for a long time, you know? We met when I was still back in Toronto at university, Madeline introduced us.” Her parents nodded; Madeline, they knew. Madeline, they had met. Madeline, they trusted. “And we finally realized a little bit after New Year’s that we had feelings for each other, and it’s sort of been zero to a hundred ever since. We thought, if we knew we loved each other and we knew we were done looking, then what was the point of waiting for a year or two for it to be a ‘socially acceptable’ time to get married.” Laurel finished.

Cheryl wrapped her hands around her mug of tea, eyelids still shooting rapid-fire blinks at the screen. “But, Laurel, we haven’t even met this boy, we barely know anything about him!”

Pierre squeezed her hand. “Actually, he’s just off-camera. Want to say hi, P?”

He walked into view, waving politely at the screen. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Klerken, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Laurel’s had nothing but wonderful things to say.” A little flattery never hurt anybody, he thought.

“Lovely to meet you, Pierre-Luc,” Cheryl said. “Forgive us if we’re still a little shocked, Laurel’s not normally one to spring things on us like this.”

He laughed. “Perfectly fair. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to meet until now, but we’ve been trying to get used to the idea ourselves.”

Her dad leaned forward from his spot in the couch, giving Pierre as much of a once-over as he could from nearly 1500 miles away. “I’m not able to give you the normal talking-to I have with any of the other boys Laurel or Maggie have introduced us to, so this is going to have to do.” Maggie? Laurel had primed Pierre for the inevitable grilling, telling him that if it was anything like it had been in the past, it would be all bark and no bite. “So what do you do for work, Pierre-Luc?”

“I’m a professional hockey player in the NHL, I play for the Columbus Blue Jackets.”

Doug’s eyebrows went up. As much of a front as he tried to put up, he was still a middle-aged man from Minnesota, and there were few things that impressed middle-aged men from Minnesota more than their daughters being suddenly engaged to NHL players. “NHL, huh? That’s very impressive. So you’re from Québec, then?”

“Yes, sir,” Pierre answered. “My hometown’s a little outside of the city, but I live in Montréal now. My mom’s from Georgia, though, so I’ve got dual citizenship and some family still down there.”

Her parents didn’t take too kindly to the news that the wedding was in three weeks, since it was too tight a fit to be able to get time off, but promised to visit later in the summer to make a proper introduction to their new son-in-law. Her father continued to pepper him with questions about his hobbies, family, and how he takes his steak — according to the Doug Klerken rules, any man who orders anything above medium is not to be trusted — until Laurel mercifully cut him off, telling her parents they were late to meet up with some friends. “That wasn’t so bad,” Pierre said as Laurel slipped her phone into her purse, immediately plugging it into her portable charger as the FaceTime had drained all but 18% of her battery.

Laurel made a face. “They’re good people and they care about me, but…” She trailed off. “They never really understood why I’d want anything more than I was given. Anything more than the status quo. And it’s just caused a lot of friction between us.” Her eyes flashed as she remembered something. “One more thing.” Pierre’s ears perked up. “If and when you ever talk to my parents again, just...don’t bring up politics.” Laurel grimaced.

“Republicans?” he asked sympathetically.

She nodded. “Trump-supporting Republicans. It’s another one of the reasons we don’t talk much anymore. I’m liberal, I’d probably be NDP if I could vote here, and we just don’t share the same values on a lot of things.”

“That’s got to be pretty rough on you,” Pierre said.

“Yeah,” Laurel admitted. “Probably more than I want to let on, but I think it helps that I’m able to get some distance.”

Pierre took a deep breath in. “Your, uh, your dad mentioned something that I wanted to ask you about.”

Shit. Laurel had been able to avoid the conversation for long enough, but she was beginning to push her luck, and she couldn’t run forever. “Maggie?”

He nodded. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but I thought I should ask.”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Laurel said. “Um, long story short, Maggie’s my sister. It’s July, so…” she did the mental math in her head, “she’d be almost 31. Total free spirit. She left town pretty soon after she graduated, came back every so often but not nearly enough. Last I heard, she was an au pair in Italy.”

“And when was that?”

“Two years ago.” Pierre figured that was as good a time as any to drop the subject, so he did. They had decided that, while they were still downtown, it would be a good opportunity to get the ring shopping out of the way. Pierre looked up the highest-rated jewelry store on Yelp, and they set off on foot.

Pierre opened the door for her as they stepped inside, greeted by a slightly over-enthusiastic salesman. “You paid for the ceremony fee, so I’m paying for the rings, okay?”

Laurel scoffed. “Hardly a fair trade, don’t you think?”

“I’ll live,” he said, smirking.

Laurel had been wandering around by the solitaires for a few minutes when Pierre walked up behind her. “I know this isn’t going to be the wedding you’ve always dreamed of,” Pierre said, “but we’re going to make it the best we can.” He looked down at the cases, Laurel’s fingers dancing over the edge of the glass cover. “When you were in high school, or university, did you ever think about what kind of wedding you wanted?” Laurel gave a small nod. “And what kind of ring did you have?”

“I’ve always liked halo cuts,” she said softly.

Pierre inched his hand towards hers, wrapping his fingers around hers. They tensed for a second, but then relaxed into his grip. “Then let’s go get you that halo cut.”

There was no one else in the store aside from the salesman, so the couple was enveloped in a comfortable silence as they browsed. Her eyes stopped on a beautiful floral halo ring with an oval diamond. Pierre nodded to the salesman, who carefully took it off of its stand and handed it to Pierre, who carefully wiggled it onto Laurel’s fourth finger. If she closed her eyes, she was almost able to pretend that it was a proposal. Laurel brought her thumb to the ring, delicately running it over the pavé band with the ghost of a smile on her face. “What do you think?” Pierre asked, as if he couldn’t already tell her answer from the look on her face.

Laurel looked up at him. “I love it. It fits perfectly.”

“Like Cinderella’s slipper.” He turned to the salesman. “Combien ça coûte?” (How much does it cost?) Laurel heard a number that made her swallow hard, more than anything she’d ever have bought for herself, but Pierre insisted it was a non-issue as he handed his card over. “He said that they’ve got another sample one in the back, and you’re welcome to just wear that one out if it fits.”

“Sounds good.” The salesman handed over the bag with Pierre’s ring and her matching wedding band, thanking them for their purchase before opening the door back into the sunny Montréal afternoon. Laurel craned her neck to try and sneak a peek inside the bag. “Don’t I get to see yours?”

Pierre cracked a wry grin. “Gotta wait until the wedding, babe. Can’t a man have a little mystery?”

“Fair enough,” Laurel said, not missing his use of the pet name but brushing it off as simply a spur-of-the-moment choice. “Do you want to do the honors?” she asked, referring to the all-important checklist.

Pierre opened his phone with his spare hand, deftly navigating to the app and tapping twice. “Four down, seven to go. We’re on a roll.

June 24 (thurs)

Surprisingly, telling Pierre-Luc’s parents hadn’t been nearly as intimidating as breaking the news to her own, at least for Laurel. They were shocked — and confused, and had a lot of questions — but were welcoming nonetheless. Patrice was almost like a second son to them, and the fact that she already came with his stamp of approval went a long way into calming them down. “He’s always been quite the romantic, the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. And he cares deeply about the people in his life. That’s you, now,” his mom had said. They drove up to meet them that Sunday, having brunch in his childhood home. That was, in essence, their first real “test” as a couple. They had never had to sell their relationship to anyone before; even when going out with Madeline and Patrice after their “engagement,” nothing ever seemed like it had changed. This time was different. This time had to be different.

His mom fawned over her engagement ring, asking her to spare no details in retelling the story of the proposal. Lucky for her, however, Laurel was the former president of the University of Toronto improv club, and coming up with background stories with exactly zero minutes to prepare was something of a specialty for her. Laurel immediately gushed about how unexpected it was; she was just expecting an evening walk through downtown until they turned down one of the piers by the basilica, reached the end overlooking the river, and Pierre dropped down on one knee. “I think I knew that he was the one way sooner than that, but it’s nice to finally have it be official,” she had said.

Laurel shook herself out of her memories, turning the door into the locker room. She grabbed a pair of scrubs out of her shared locker — she had never met Alice, the other nurse who used it, but they had made a habit of leaving each other Post-it note greetings — and stripped off her t-shirt and jeans. Shimmying on her scrub pants, she tied them, leaning back into the locker to get her bag as the door shut behind her. She glanced over to the door, waving to Claire. Claire was sweet, a transplant from Vancouver who had lived in Québec as a child and decided to come back to work. She was sweet, having just started working at the beginning of the summer, but she was young, even younger than Laurel. And while her perky and energetic nature lent itself well to the dynamics of the floor, it was a lot for her to get used to. “Hey!” Laurel said, waving as she pulled a chain out of her purse, trying to discreetly unhook it.

“Hey!” Claire responded, perky as ever. “How has your week been?” She worked Mondays and Thursdays with Laurel, but had the Saturday night shift as well.

Laurel threw her hair up into a bun. “Good, good, busy. Met up with some friends yesterday, so that was nice, but not much. Took Piper to the dog park.” With my fiancé, she neglected to add. She twisted her ring off, trying to slip it onto the chain without Claire noticing. Like most of her married colleagues, Laurel had taken to wearing her engagement ring on a chain around her neck while at work instead of on her finger. It was under her scrubs most of the time, keeping at bay the questions she wasn’t yet ready to answer, and made it much easier to pull on and off gloves when the occasion called for it. But Claire was eagle-eyed, catching the sparkle of the diamond just as she slid it onto the chain.

She audibly gasped. “Is that an engagement ring?”

Laurel had to think fast; once again, her improv skills were called up to bat. “No? It’s, uh, it’s a family heirloom, it was my grandma’s. Guess I didn’t think too much about which finger I put it on.” She could tell Claire didn’t quite believe her side of the story, but thankfully, she didn’t press.

“If you say so,” she said, giving a not-so-subtle wink.

June 27 (sun)

Laurel was sat in her living room, her TV on in the background as she scrolled absent-mindedly through her phone, savoring her last few hours before she had to go to bed for her 5:30 wake-up call. On a whim, she opened her Twitter. It wasn’t an app she used all that often — mostly just to keep in contact with the handful of high school and college friends who didn’t use Instagram — and she was well aware that she’d probably have to limit her use for her own sanity when she and Pierre went “public” after the wedding, but she liked being able to keep up with everyone. She followed her friends, a handful of celebrities and a few journalists, but her timeline wasn’t flooded with updates. Then she saw the little blue alert on the bottom. One new message. Clicking to her inbox, Laurel saw that it had been sent by Madeline four minutes earlier, a link to a tweet that just had the caption: “you should probably see this.”

Chewing the inside of her cheek, Laurel pressed the link. What could be so important that Madeline would have sent a message with that kind of urgency? And why didn’t she just text it? God, I hate puckbunny blogs, Laurel thought as she read the handle. Her eyes raced across the screen. So I was looking up the address of my friend’s wedding earlier since I lost my invitation and didn’t want to tell her, and saw this under??? I know he can be a private guy, but tell me you guys don’t think this is for PLD. Her eyes froze as soon as she finished reading, praying that somehow they were talking about a different PLD, that they hadn’t been found out and their cover hadn’t been blown and she wasn’t about to have a panic attack for the first time since junior year — and then she saw the screenshot. Of their wedding announcement. Their public wedding announcement that not only had their full names and places of birth, but the location of the ceremony, the time, and their addresses. God, this is exactly what Laurel had been worried about. She immediately reported the tweet for exposing personal information, then made the poor decision to look at the comments section. Some people insisted it was legitimate, some convinced it was just photoshop, some were convinced that it couldn’t be Pierre-Luc even it looked like him, because he was training in Columbus for the summer, right? Thank God, it didn’t seem like anyone had done a deep enough dive to figure out who she was; there weren’t any screenshots of her accounts or photos of her in the comments section. It was eight minutes from the time she reported it to when it was taken down, and while Laurel was grateful for the quick response, she felt like she was on a cliffside, one foot off of the edge, until it had been deleted.

Her phone lit up with a text notification from Pierre. Funny thing happened today.

Oh God, Laurel thought. Had he seen it? He hadn’t.

My mom asked what you were planning to do about flowers and got very upset when I said we didn’t have any plans. She let out a tense breath. Flowers, she could do. She wanted to get your number to send over the names of a few florists she knows in the area, but I thought I should check with you first to make sure that’s okay.

Laurel smiled, her right hand draped over the side of the couch to scratch Piper behind the ears. That sounds great, P.

As promised, his mom texted Laurel soon after, coming armed with recommendations of Montréal florists. She echoed her son’s words almost identically; You deserve to have the wedding you’ve always dreamed of even if the circumstances are different, she had written. Her eyes pricked with tears as she fell asleep.

July 3 (sun)

It was a week before the wedding, and Laurel had started to pack up her apartment. It seemed much more practical to do it in stages then try to finish everything the weekend of the wedding. So she sat with Pierre on the floor of her bedroom, moving boxes between them as they packed away into the next season of her life. Some things, she obviously couldn’t put away yet — she still needed clothes and toothpaste, and they hadn’t been able to get all of her pots and pans down to the Goodwill yet. But books and keepsakes could be boxed up, and unless there was a snowstorm in July, she didn’t need her parka either.

“Oh, what’s this?” Pierre asked as he pulled a few more volumes off of her bookshelf. Laurel groaned when she saw what was in his hand.

“The 2013 Cloquet Senior High School yearbook. My sophomore year.”

He burst out laughing. “This, I’ve got to see.” He opened the cover. “Your mascot was the Lumberjacks?”

Laurel ducked her head, her cheeks heating. “Regrettably, yes. That’s what happens when your whole area used to be milling towns.”

Pierre’s brows furrowed. “I thought you said everything was about the mines, doesn’t your dad work in the mines?”

“He does,” Laurel said. “They had to figure out something to do after all of the trees had been cut down, you know?”

Pierre got the feeling it was really more of a rhetorical question. “What was your school like?”

She placed one of her old Harry Potter books into the box. “Small is the first word that comes to mind. My graduating class couldn’t have been much bigger than 150 or so? We’d get snow days a couple of times a year, most of the time if it wasn’t a blizzard everyone would end up going down to the school anyways, we’d all have big snowball fights on the football field. Actually,” she said, pulling out her phone from her back pocket, “I think I might still have a clip of one.” She pulled up her videos, scooting over to Pierre and leaning into his side so he could see the screen. Raucous laughter filtered through the speakers; the only things in sight were snow forts and the tiniest bits of beanies peeking over the top.

“THIS. IS. WAR!”

Laurel snickered. “I think that sounds like Nicholas, he was the varsity quarterback for a few years. Usually was the one leading the sieges.” She put her phone away a minute later after the clip ended. “But other than that? There were actually a lot of pretty interesting elective classes, I got to take photography, work in the preschool on campus, take a class on Anishinaabe studies.”

“Anishinaabe?” Pierre questioned.

“There’s a Native American reservation in town, the tribe’s Ojibwe so that’s the language family we studied. A lot of kids at the school, including one of my best friends Kristen, live on the reservation, so I think they wanted to not only have the class available for Native students who maybe wanted to learn more about their culture, but also for non-Native kids like me, so we’re able to gain a respect for whose land we’re living on,” Laurel explained.

“Makes sense,” he said, flipping through the pages. He snorted. “This photo might be the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

Laurel peeked over his shoulder, cringing at her school picture. “I really couldn’t have dressed any more 2012 if I tried, Pierre. Aggressively off-the-shoulder top, one of those godforsaken hair feathers, I bet you’d find dark wash skinny jeans if you could see from the waist down.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my fiancée like that,” Pierre said. “I like the look, I swear. You were such a cute kid, oh my God.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know. What happened to me, right?”

He looked at her from the side. “Nope.”

June 9 (fri)

It was the day before the wedding, and Laurel was trying to find a dress. She had been planning on wearing one — even if it was a courthouse wedding, she still wanted to look nice — but then she had spilled red wine onto the light blue one she had been thinking of wearing as she ironed it in the living room, and she didn’t want to put all of her eggs in one basket if the Oxiclean didn’t end up working. She called Madeline in a panic, who promised to be over as soon as she could with a few dresses of her own to see what she could do. There was a knock on the door, and Laurel practically flew across the room to fling it open, gathering Madeline in a hug even before she had crossed the threshold. Madeline patted her clumsily on the back. “There, there, Laur. It’s going to be okay, we’re going to fix it.”

Laurel ran one hand through her hair, her curls as frazzled as her mind. “It’s got to be. Half of my stuff’s already over at P’s place, what, do you want me to wear a,” she opened up her dresser, eyeing its meager contents, “bralette and lacy thong to my own wedding?”

Madeline shrugged. “I doubt Pierre would mind,” she said casually.

Laurel almost choked on her own spit. “What do you mean?”

“Men are visual creatures, and you’re hot as hell, Laurel,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Still,” Laurel said, opening her closet and grabbing every single left over dress from its hanger, trying to distract herself from Madeline’s words, “I’d rather not be arrested for public indecency. I’m trying to stay in the country, remember?”

Madeline rolled her eyes. “I remember.” She thumbed through the dresses on Laurel’s bed. “You’re not wearing a black dress to get married,” she said pointedly.

“It’s pretty?” Laurel tried to reason.

“It is, but it’s a wedding, not a funeral.” She moved onto the next one. “Bright red bodycon is great for the club, but not sure coquettish seductress is the look you’re going for.” The next one was a striped sweater dress; it was the middle of summer, so according to Madeline, that meant it was out. There was a navy shift dress that “could work, but it’s a little too much work and not enough play,” her friend had said. Laurel tried on Madeline’s dresses, but seeing as how she had three inches on her, the hemlines weren’t exactly in her favor. Madeline pulled out the last of the stack, gasping softly. “This one’s beautiful, where’s it from?”

Madeline looked at it, a knee-length ivory lace dress, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at Madeline. “It was for Aurélie’s bachelorette party last year, probably explains. You were drunk off your ass that night.”

“I’m hurt by that characterization, but I don’t remember enough to correct you,” Madeline said. “It’s perfect though, why didn’t you choose this one in the first place?”

Laurel rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not sure?” Madeline gave her a look. “Fine, it just seems...It seems too much like an actual wedding dress. It’s white, or close enough, anyways,” she noted, fingering one of the delicate straps, “and gorgeous, and formal, and I’m worried if I wear it it’ll seem too real, and I’ll start thinking this is more than it is. Because all it is at the end of the day is a friend doing me a really, really big favor,” she finished, huffing and falling back onto her mattress.

“At the end of the day, it’s still a wedding,” Madeline corrected, laying down next to her. “And you’re still a bride and he’s still a groom and you deserve to feel beautiful and cherished and special on your wedding day, no matter its circumstances. And who knows? Maybe you two stay married, and fall in love, and you live happily ever after with your half-dozen dogs and 2.5 kids on some farm out in the suburbs.”

Laurel snorted. “As if.” But two hours later, long after Madeline had already left, she sat back on the bed, hand ghosting over the lace of her now-wedding dress, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Madeline had a point.

June 10 (sat)

It was the morning of the wedding, and Laurel was pacing her room in her sweatpants, Piper looking at her in confusion from the doorway. It was just past 7 and the appointment wasn’t until 10, but she still had to get dressed and do her hair and makeup and pick up the flowers and eat and — her internal monologue was interrupted by the doorbell. Still half-asleep, she ambled over to the door, pulling it open without even really checking to see who it was.

“Surprise!!” Patrice shouted, walking through the door, followed by Madeline and Pierre. “Madeline mentioned that you seemed a bit overwhelmed yesterday, so we thought we’d come over and get ready over here!”

Laurel shuffled out of the way as Piper jumped on Pierre, who laughed and calmed her down with a few scratches on her chin. She had really taken a liking to him and his two dogs, which had initially been a point of nervousness for Laurel. But they got along great, shared space well, and she seemed to love her new brother and sister. “That’s really nice of you guys, I appreciate it,” she said sincerely. “Um, I don’t have much food left because of the move, but I think there’s some cereal in the cupboard?”

“Silly you,” Pierre said, holding out a paper bag. “Did you think I’d leave my bride hungry on our wedding day? I got you sourdough french toast, should be on the top.” They had gone out to brunch once and she had ordered it, audibly moaning at how incredible it tasted. He remembered.

“And raspberry mochas!” Madeline said, presenting her with a cup.

Laurel took it, wrapping her spare arm around Madeline and kissing Pierre on the cheek. “This is incredible, guys. Really. I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“Exactly!” Madeline said, a perky expression on her face. “It’s a surprise!” She drifted into the kitchen, pulling out plates from Laurel’s cabinet and forks from her drawers. “Breakfast is served!”

Laurel let out a laugh as she grabbed the box with her french toast, taking a sip of her mocha. “I think the credit goes to the chefs at the restaurant, but whatever you say, Madi.”

Madeline rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but we ordered it.

By the time they had all inhaled their breakfasts and cleaned the kitchen — Laurel and Pierre tag-teamed the dishes — it was almost eight, and Madeline whisked her into her room to get ready. “There should be a couple beers in the fridge, help yourselves!” Laurel shouted out the door as Madeline tried to wrestle her into the ensuite. For the most part, Madeline was good at listening to Laurel’s pleas against a dramatic makeup look. Muted rose lipstick, filled in her eyebrows, delicately pulled back her hair into a twisted bun. “Where’s your setting spray?” Madeline asked, rooting through her makeup bag.

“Top drawer on the left. Are you finally going to let me see?”

Madeline pulled the drawer out, uncapping the bottle and spritzing it over Laurel’s face. “Go for it.”

Laurel turned around, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Oh my God,” she said, turning her head so the glimmer of her highlighter caught in the early-morning sun streaming through the open window. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“Don’t say that until you’ve put the dress on,” Madeline said, pulling it off of its hanger and draping it across the chair. Sweats came off and the dress went on, Madeline carefully pulling up the back zipper and straightening out her hem. Laurel bent down to put on her shoes, threading the silver straps through the tiny metal clasp before giving her leg a good shake. Madeline looked at her sceptically.

“What?” Laurel asked innocently. “I don’t want it to fall off halfway down the aisle.”

There was a knock on the bedroom door, Patrice’s voice floating in from the other side. “It’s 9:20, you two about ready to head out?”

“Coming!” Madeline called back, pulling Laurel up from the bed. “You ready, Laur?” Laurel gave a nervous nod. “Let’s go get you married.”

She stepped out into the living room, reaching up to her neck and fingering the silver filigree of her grandma’s wedding necklace, one of the only things she had left to remember her by. If she wasn’t able to complete the whole rhyme, at least she’d have her something old. “Who’s driving?” she asked.

Pierre wheeled around, mouth gaping like a fish when he saw her. Laurel immediately looked down to her dress, wondering if she had spilled one of her pre-wedding mimosas. “What is it?” she asked frantically. “Is there something in my teeth?”

He shook his head, tugging at the sleeves of his navy blue suit. “No, there’s nothing in your teeth, it’s perfect. You look beautiful.” They were in the car five minutes later, picked up the bouquet from the florist five minutes after that, and were outside of the courthouse by 9:50. Laurel took a deep breath, looking up at the glass doors of the Palais de Justice. Pierre threaded his fingers between hers, giving a reassuring squeeze. “You good?”

Laurel nodded, nervous but determined, sure that she was making the right decision. “Ready.” She barely remembered signing in, barely remembered going back to the clerk’s office, barely remembered her reading the mandated articles of the civil code. She gripped Pierre’s hands, giving him as much of a reassuring smile as she could, as the vows were read.

“Pierre-Luc Dubois, do you take Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, here present, to be your wife?” Juliette asked.

“I do.”

“Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, do you take Pierre-Luc Dubois, here present, to be your husband?”

“I do,” Laurel said, voice steady.

Juliette continued. “By virtue of the powers vested in me by law, I now declare you, Pierre-Luc Dubois, and you, Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, united in the bonds of marriage.” Patrice passed over the rings; Laurel slid Pierre’s onto his ring finger, he gently twisted hers to rest on top of her engagement ring. “You are now legally married. Allow me, on my own behalf and on behalf of all those present, to offer you our best wishes for your happiness. You may now kiss the bride.”

Laurel panicked for a moment, before looking up and meeting Pierre’s eyes. In the span of a second, she communicated her unspoken agreement with the tiniest nod of her head, and his lips were on hers. His arms were against the small of her back, hers wrapped around his neck, and even enough it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, it felt like hours. It felt like coming home.

#pierre-luc dubois #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #hockey smut #nhl writing #pierre-luc dubois imagine #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl smut #nhl #hockey #hockey fanfiction #hockey fic

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ephemerlskies · 4 years

Text

in the stars tonight | pjm

⇢ pairing: jimin x reader

[other members - seokjin, taehyung, namjoon]

⇢ genre: series, ANGST, enemies to lovers au, actor!jimin, actor!oc, (eventual) fluff if you squint

⇢ word count: 8.4

⇢ genre: Landing a role that might launch your entire career as an actor had come with the most unpredictable and daunting circumstances: grappling with the tragic loss of your boyfriend, Namjoon, and co-starring in a film with the vexing yet enchanting (and famous), Park Jimin.

⇢ warnings: explicit language, themes of grief/loss, themes of depression, (many) mentions of death, mentions of driving under the influence (please stay safe!!), themes of alcoholism, themes of escapism, mentions of alcohol, mentions of marijuana, unhealthy coping mechanisms, lots of internal dialogue with one deceased boyfriend, arguing/bickering, seokjin being seokjin, eventual love triangle (ish) feud

♪ playlist: dynamite - bts, move! - niki, saint nobody - jessie reyez, through the night - iu, ilomilo - billie eilish, the truth untold - bts, slow dancing in the dark - joji ♪

╰ series index: 01 | 02 (coming soon)

a/n: i, and i cannot emphasize this enough, can't believe this came out of me.... it was just a lil idea in my head, but then it expanded into this entire story that was way too long to fit into a one shot. so, here's me serving up a hot plate of enemies to lovers with a generous side of angst and longing!!! i hope y'all enjoy (and hate) arrogant jimin as much as i did hehe <3 ps i have no idea how long i want this series to be i'm lowkey winging it

The world does not slow down for anything. Not for catastrophes or miracles or even something as devastatingly common as death.

When your boyfriend of three years, Namjoon, lost his life due to another's drunken mistake, you realized this. The world revolves on a scheduled orbit, and not even your tragedy wedged a wrench big enough to halt life just a moment. Just to let you breathe and grieve without feeling left behind. However, you were left behind, both by the world and him.

Every sun and moon, every skipped meal, every unfulfilled rain-check, every isolated Saturday night, and every cancelled audition that came as quickly as they left paid tribute to this merciless phenomenon. It seemed you now existed just to watch the days pass, just to balefully relive the moments before Namjoon's passing. And that seemed to have been the only way you could have survived. To make a recluse of yourself because if the world was careless enough to let someone as amazing as him go, then what held it back from spilling even more wreckage into your life? For the past six months, you stuck to the cold, dead past. It was all you had to hold onto; letting go meant plummeting into a depth far too unknown and inescapable.

You and Namjoon were steadfast. You were still steadfast, or more appropriately, stuck now that you had no one to be loyal to anymore.

You and him were one of those couples other people saw and wished they could replicate into their own lives, but when it came down to it, rooted for your happy ending with him. The type similar to that of highschool sweethearts who beat the odds, or the type whose encounter fell along the silver lines of fate. Something beautiful that automatically made all the love poems authenticated by you and him. And when he held you, the idea of worry or evil seemed like concepts that did not exist past fictional tales. So warm, so loving, now gone.

The way in which you and Namjoon grew over the three years you were able to love him was in a convergent manner.

Your branches and vines were woven into his, and his into yours. Even your roots, the elements of your past, began to entangle beneath the soil. To root between each other meant there had been a foundation from which you grew, a stability that was once neat. There was no boundary of which would discern your life from his. And at one, more favorable, point in time, your life did belong to him. Namjoon was someone you only knew for a mere fraction of your life, however the moment he wandered into it, you had unlearned how to continue without him.

You didn't think you would have to relearn.

But then one decision forced you to do so. One person, who decided paying fifteen bucks for an Uber was not a wise enough investment, ripped out the plant of his body from your shared soil by means of inebriated judgment and a missed red light. You had no choice but to absorb the cruel sustenance of the sun completely alone. Most of your branches of life were left barren, with torn twigs where your body once borne fruit and leaves and beauty. But the roots were where most of the pain inhabited. A stubborn, sharp ache resided in your chest, deep enough that you might have had to be cut open and searched through to find the source.

It had been six months of 'Sorry for your loss' and 'Gone too soon' and your personal least favorite 'He's in a better place now'. It made you angry, because was there a place better for him that didn't have you in it? How could anyone know what was better for him when they didn't experience something as tender and gentle and loving as your relationship?

But none of the sympathetic smiles or half-hearted condolences made you quite as angry as the monster who was too selfish to call someone to drive them and consequently punctuating the eternity you were meant to spend with Namjoon. You always followed the virtue that an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind. Forgiveness was a sweeter release than anything else, but if you could, you would take that drunk driver's life in a heartbeat. You would have gauged out your own eyes if the chance fell into your reach.

Though, no matter how hard you screamed at the universe for hurting you, despite the countless pleas to somehow retrospectively tell Namjoon not to go out for something as trivial as toothpaste so he might be alive today, holding your hand in this waiting room, telling you that you're going to do great, you knew the world wouldn't stop for you or your sorrow.

It revolves, waits for no one, and you had to pace yourself to jump back into the turning carousel of life.

"___. We're ready for you!" His voice was ten notches above a volume that wouldn't irritate you. The only hint you let slip that his tone made you want to throw this script at his crotch was the muted sigh.

You knew this audition was going to play out like the rest. They would ask you to read, stop you in the middle of your monologue, then say something like 'Thank you for your time, we'll get back to you soon' which was show business code for 'We are not giving you the role'. The only reason you were here was because you had been out of work for too long, the piles of overdue bills on your kitchen table a cruel reminder of that. Plus, you knew Namjoon would have told you to go.

He would have said something like, 'Get your lazy ass out of bed and go to that audition! You don't want Hollywood to miss out on a star just because you want to sleep in fifteen more minutes'. And it would have worked. It always had. Now, the only motivation that came to your aid was the echo of his voice, and even that had begun its slow descent into forget. Other than that, guidance of your own volition was as fleeting and disarrayed as a violent wind.

"Hi, my name is ___, and I will be auditioning for the lead. Jordan." Your hand must have been fielding its way through a nervous tick. The person you assumed was the director was eyeing the way it had been contorting at your side, and you hated showing that you were nervous.

"Perfect! We've already casted the other lead role. This audition will mostly be based on whether we think you'll have good chemistry with him." Him. So your possible running mate was a man. Before a list of names engraved on rows of stars cemented into the Hollywood walk of fame ran through your head, you lifted the script and collected all the air your lungs would allow.

Maybe, you thought, my courage and passion might come with it.

And when you opened your mouth, something magical that you credited to talent claimed sovereignty over your body. Now, you were Jordan. Jordan didn't have a dead boyfriend, now ex boyfriend, or luggage enough grief to sink a depression into the crust of the Earth. Jordan was a kind, low-energy, and sentimental artist coming into an age of overwhelming success and fortune —and love.

That's what alluded you in acting. For a moment, you could escape your life, leave your pain on the back burner while you emerged into someone who was unacquainted with the pain of losing the love of your life. It was akin to a drug, administering an intoxicating fill of temporary serotonin. Instant relief, and if you got this job you would have your fix of this twisted sort of high that tempered the Namjoon-sized void in your life. And Jordan's life definitely seemed to have, quite literally, all the things yours lacked.

"Wow, ___, was it? That was absolutely incredible!" The hand-covered whisper that followed this appraisal gave you time to begrudgingly peel of the Jordan mask. Within a half second, all the pain seemed to compound into your body. If you hadn't already shaped your entire life around that weight, you would have fallen over. Though you had done this, and even worse, you had been shouldering it for so long, you would have felt naked without such a burden. "Okay, well, we have a few more auditions but I think we have our Jordan! We'll send your manager the full script along with the schedule for the first week of shooting in about two weeks."

"Uh-" If you had not said something quick, the opportunity might have slipped away all too fast, the way Namjoon had. You vowed to grab hold of anything remotely good that arose into your life, giving you more than late nights of choked sobs and transfixed gazes out of half-curtained windows. This offer was clutched tightly in your fist. "Oh... Th- thank you! Thank you! Fuck, thank you so much. This means so much to me, thank you!"

Before you proliferated the meaning of the words thank you and the director's smile turned into rolled eyes, you stumbled your way out of the door. Waiting on the other side was a world that might strike against you with partially docile cruelty. The wind pressed against your skin, almost blowing away all your grief with the help of this successful audition.

That feeling, as always, was as comforting as it was fleeting. Because the scars of your past would not have budged for any brash current. Because your next thought disrupted the scant flourish of joy. It was the thing that came easier and sooner to you than eating and blinking; telling Namjoon any news of both good and bad ranks, sharing your life to celebrate or stress over. One of the many things that remained by an undissolvable adhesive along your mind. You tried to soak it away with liquor or smoke it out with weed, but there was no breaking of habits you loved almost as much as Namjoon.

I did it, Joon. I landed my first role. You thought, because that was the closest you could have gotten to relaying the news.

Your heart began to physically hurt. Heartaches were literal in your case. Literal and grim. You felt the grip of loss pierce its sharp thorns into your flesh. It had nearly been as painful as all the times your words were met to deceased ears, speaking to someone that had not belonged to you anymore. Six months had passed and pain cannot tell time in the way people can. So, you knew the marathon of your grief was one that followed its own metaphorical clock. You just had to keep running in hopes you could make it out alive.

Though, being Jordan for the next six months would help momentarily satiate your grief. If there were a remote for your emotions, this role would be the mute button. Your pain would still move as it usually would, but now it would be silent. You wouldn't have to listen to its unforgiving taunts and crippling obscenities. It was only just that you were paid reparations for six months of utter misery with six more months of narcotic, soundless distractions.

Two Weeks Later

If the universe had given you one good thing, it was skill and dedication to your craft. The script was memorized in just short of four days, and even a sizable amount of lines of the other characters had been stacked atop your memory. Doing an acceptable job at this role wasn't something that was worried you. In fact, the idea of wearing another's life on your body and on your heart was something you looked forward to.

It was a bit difficult to convince yourself how good this natural born gift was when the universe took something that felt a thousand times more crucial to your existence. Acting, or anything else that planted joy in you, was a consolation prize for merely participating in life. Namjoon was the reward you were meant to win in the end.

And you had no idea what the hell to do when the prize becomes in all of the sense of the word unattainable.

You hadn't driven in six months, despite the run-down Honda parked in front of your street, desperate to be given some sort of purpose. It was too much. Ever since the accident, the idea of manning a wheel that could take away more than it could ever offer was a responsibility you felt entirely too daunted to assume. Even though seat hogs, missed busses, and overcrowded walkways had been inconveniences of an indescribable level, it wasn't enough to put your body into the same vehicle that derailed your life.

Luckily, the bus stop was only three blocks away from the studio. It gave you plenty of time to get into character, however it also nestled in a span of time for Namjoon's voice to filter in and out through running your lines.

He talked to you a lot. As much as it made you want to cry, you held onto it, feeling as though it might be the last of his voice you'd be able to recall. If Namjoon's internal commentary were to suddenly disperse, you might forget his voice entirely. And you wouldn't admit this to anyone else, but you would always answer back. Sometimes out loud, and sometimes, when company forced you into sanity, you responded mentally. It kept you separate from life and any form of interaction with actual people, but it felt better than living in a world without him. Additionally, it helped keep his voice alive, which when you thought about it, was such sick irony. His voice, alive, his heart and mine and soul, dead.

And that was the only downside to acting. When there was another mind you had to engage in, Namjoon couldn't have broken the barrier and his voice wouldn't even register as an echo. Perhaps that was why you waited so long to dive back into your job. It felt synonymous with betrayal to do anything that would sever your connection already hanging by a single, fragile thread.

"___? Hello?" You were immune to every condescending gesture or vernacular weaponized in Hollywood by now. Your makeup artist's snaps fell into the base of annoyance you had grown used to. "Did you hear me? You're all ready."

Her voice wasn't too abrasive. If anything, you should be the one apologizing for dazing in and out of consciousness. Though, Namjoon's sweet compliments about how beautiful you looked with your stage makeup should have been the one to acquire this remorse.

"Sorry. I'm, uh, tired. Not used to waking up at six in the morning quite yet."

"Well, get used to it, or you'll have a rough few months ahead of you." Her laugh had shed whatever shell of pretentiousness once veiled her previous impression. "I'm Nayeon, by the way. I've heard many great things about you, ___. Let's hope you live up to the hype."

Nayeon's nudge was friendly, and it comforted you that within the first day you hadn't pissed off the person who could easily turn your face clown-like with a few heavy strokes of her brush. She was beautiful, too. If she hadn't been dressed in a black T-shirt strewn with foundation and powder stains, then you would have mistaken her for an actress.

"Let's hope so... I guess the director was selling me better than myself." Your eyes scanned the area, though no one seemed a fitting candidate to be your lead. "So, who's the other lead?"

"Park Jimin. I'm surprised they didn't tell you yet. I guess it's some obscure, artistic director decision to keep you in the dark. I’m lowkey fangirling right now… But, don't tell anyone that." Before you could respond, let alone react, Nayeon had collected all the products she needed for her next subject and was about a yard away from you. "Good luck, rookie!"

Park Jimin. You've definitely heard of him, but it surprised you that someone like him accepted a role in a romantic, indie, coming of age film that had not the budget to pay half of what he usually made in his repertoire of previous movies. He was certainly what one would consider an 'A-list' celebrity. The type paparazzi actually cared to stalk, and fans recognized in public, but were too shy to approach due to his sheer intimidation. It hadn't eased your nerves that he was notoriously withdrawn when it came to the behind the scenes portion of shooting a movie.

And, like any decent person, you did your very best to refrain from placing judgments without the opportunity for them to fill in their own narrative. Most of what you ‘knew’ of Jimin had been hearsay. However, you had some hunch Jimin wouldn't qualify as one who labored tirelessly for the roles he had landed or authenticated any sort of compassion with his rising fame.

See, acting and snagging a big role in a movie was characterized as a tall building for you. If one reached the top floor, then they would assume a wealth of opportunities and Oscar nominations and acclimation. Of course, this film industrial structure had various modes of climbing to the top. Some had stairs which called for more excretion and effort but still, all you needed were persistent legs, then each step would eventually get you where you wanted to be.

You had more of a ladder. Each wrung was slanted at an angle of which only deepened your brawl with success and had not been sanded down enough to save you from a generous supply of splinters. After a while, your hands began to ache and the fear that some high-society type would kick the base of your ladder always stalked the forefront of your worries. It certainly had not been a choice means of arrival to whatever awaited you on that top floor, however it was the only one available.

And while you had a ladder to overcome, Jimin had an elevator. The most he'd ever expend to reach that coveted floor was a few presses of a button. And perhaps his only sacrifice would be sharing the elevator with one or two others. Things just worked out for people like him. And an elevator’s delivery was always in a manner that was quicker than the likes of a staircase or a ladder.

When he arrived on set, dragging himself like his own body was a weight he shouldn't have to carry himself, you fought that instinct of yours to assume everything you needed to know from him.

Just because he's wearing sunglasses inside doesn't mean he's some arrogant asshole, even if that is the most cliché character trait of one. This internal lecture was certainly of Namjoon's doing, since he was always one to never run out of allotting the benefit of the doubt.

Yeah, I guess. But, come on, he looks like a fucking idiot. You replied as if he were really there before walking up to the callous man with your gauntlet thrown down by default. No need getting on Jimin's bad side, because you were sure it's complement was being blacklisted from the film industry. Instead of sharp edges you offered him a non-threatening smile and handshake.

Play nice. Namjoon reminded you before you had the chance to decide what you wanted to say.

"Hi! It's such an honor to be working with you. I'm ___." Jimin looked at your hand like you had filled it with mud and were intending on smearing his Gucci jacket, which you assumed was worth more than your monthly apartment rent. "Um, wanna touch base before we start shooting or..."

If his admonished glare at your hand wasn't encouragement enough to retract it back into yourself, then what he said, or more fittingly, what he didn't say next was.

The way his sigh infused a scoff within it made you feel small. It felt like fire, how thoroughly it burned you into a pile of ash, but then it felt like a gust of prickled wind that would scatter your remains completely. If it had not been for the way his head shifted from your head to your toe, you wouldn't have known that his shielded eyes were trailing the length of your body. Such a glare seemed like a calculation of your worth; it must have totaled out to that of a fly he had to swat away because the second you stood on the outside of his peripheries you stopped existing in his world altogether.

His back made a longer impression on you than his eyes, and that was your que to huddle yourself in the corner and stick to the two things you were best at.

Imaginary conversations with Namjoon and rerunning through your already memorized lines.

Before you say anything, I already think he's a prick. It might be pathetic to have instigated theoretical conversations with your dead boyfriend, but the world wouldn't know he would have scolded you first for already constructing an agenda to avoid Park Jimin whenever you could. You just felt an itch to lay down the first word.

You never know, maybe he had a bad day.

Yeah, well people like him don't need to be professional unlike the rest of us. I mean, I'm on the verge of openly conversing with you and I'm the one that has to turn the other cheek? Your script was decorated with a number of wrinkles. Proof that your anger was sleeping from your insides in the form of tightly gripped hands that were pretending to pinch Jimin's skin instead of the script. For once, you felt some grain-sized semblance of luck for having a grasp of acting to pull off pretending to love Jimin.

"Hey." You weren't quite thrilled to meet the person you had imagined pushing down a staircase standing over you. Without his glasses, it was difficult to remember why you had been so angry with him and you hated that. His eyes consisted of more than just irises and pupils, though you would not have been able to place what exactly accompanied these features. They were just eyes, after all, parts of a body. Functional. Mechanical facets of being. And yet, his seemed more than that. More than just sense mechanics. Perhaps beauty.

But for him to have been beautiful, it would have tainted the very idea of beauty.

"We're about to start shooting. Don't make this difficult, I'm trying to leave on time."

"Okay... Sure." Those were the two words you substituted for the 'fuck you' itching to crawl from your throat.

"I'm Jimin, but you know that already." The way he spoke was punctuated as though it was a waste of his time to spend any attention on you. If you weren't already drained of your strength from that tube of toothpaste that was some sort of paraphernalia of the night Namjoon became an article of your past, then you would have rolled your eyes or retorted with something that would knock him down a peg.

"I do." Your own weak will bothered you more than Jimin. "Um, I-"

"Let's not." Though he had no idea what you were about to say, a part of you agreed to not even indulge in small talk with him. It would be too forced and uncomfortable and that might leak into your performance on camera. Still, he had an abrasive way of going about it that made you want to disagree with him just to be able to lie contrary to him.

"Fine." It rolled off your tongue easily, like silk. His lingering eyes had you wondering if you somehow impressed him with your passive agreement or insulted him for not groveling for his approval. Either one would have satisfied you.

"Alright! Looks like you two got acquainted. We're jumping right in." The director, Kim Seokjin, was chirpy. Even if this project wasn't necessarily mainstream or highly anticipated, he was the type to salvage all his passion and pour it into anything he created. It comforted you knowing someone other than you found this to be somewhat life changing. "Please, Jimin, ___, on your marks. This is the scene where you two meet, so we're hoping you two can infuse that feeling of being slightly awkward but nevertheless enthralled in each other's presence. Got it?"

"Yessir." You said, and Jimin only produced a nod which seemed generous for him. Fighting the urge to snarl or squeeze your brows together came as a difficulty you had to practice at.

"Slate! Quiet on set..." Seokjin’s voice filled the empty space of the entire studio.

"Scene one, take one." Just as the snap of the slate reverberated through the room, your eyes changed just as abruptly. Your gaze upon the set transformed it into your reality. You looked at Jimin and now saw Laurie, a young soul filled with enough dreams and kindness one could have mistaken him for a cloud; the kind that spoke in loving whispers and gentle caresses. He reminded you a lot of someone else you knew.

You tucked Namjoon's voice away with the rest of your grief and became Jordan.

Amazing things seemed to happen when you least expected them too. You guessed that was the nature of amazing things, for if you expected them then they probably wouldn’t feel so amazing. About halfway through the scene, after a number of cuts, re-shoots, directorial notes, you noticed something. Or more so, this something willed you to notice.

Once you fell into stride with your character, it became easier to pick up on the person acting opposite of you. Maybe you hadn't given Jimin enough credit before. You knew maybe was an understatement, though you felt a sting admitting talent had fallen into his hands just as all his accomplishments had.

Jimin's acting rested on the side most polar to your own. You replicated, he revolutionized. You became your character, shrinking yourself enough so that one wouldn't have been able to tell who you were beyond who you were playing. Jimin, however, made the character his own. There was no minimizing his own body to fit into the mold of the character. Jimin was the mold, and he sculpted the character to fit along himself. He forged his movements, voice, and confidence into whichever role he played and brought life to someone strewn with a signature of his own soul polishing said character. All the while, he was inventive with each intention and emotion that were strung into his lines.

It was difficult to pull this off, being that you could easily begin to just play yourself in a movie and neglect any character mannerisms that you were supposed to portray, however Jimin seems to slip in and out of his role with ease. And with each take, he peppered in more dimensions to a character. He gave meaning and depth to a person constructed onto a paper script until you couldn't believe this person didn't exist in real life.

That was the amazing thing that kept your well-rehearsed lines behind an impermeable wall of reluctant admiration.

What hadn't helped, though seemed to have been timed to a tee to unwind your sensibility, and timing had always worked against you like you had done wrong to it, was the part when Laurie was written to sneak his hand along your waist after Jordan stepped backwards into his body.

His palm felt so warm. So warm that the entire world felt too cold for you to be anywhere but apart from his touch. Then, all your lines spilled from your recollection. He was standing close behind you, the plush of his cheek tickling your ear and sending the entire world away so you and he could reserve this moment just for yourselves.

"Your line." His whisper wouldn't be picked up by the mic, though it had no trouble debilitating the rest of your senses. Did he intend for it to blur any sort of attraction his character felt for you into the life beyond the camera?

The director called cut to the scene, and it felt like a lifetime before you were released from the entrapping heat of Jimin's body. When you spun around, hoping you could at least dig through your throat to pull out a deflated apology, the smirk laced along his lips illustrated every bit of his arrogance and once again shut you up.

From the way his eyebrow was arched, you assumed he must have read your mind. He knew what he did to you, and it reminded you of everything you disliked about Jimin. Presumptuous, prideful in his taunts. It also reminded you that he stood many floors above you in this architectural competition of acting. You were grabbing hold of each wrung as you went, unprepared for something as disarming as Jimin. All he had to do was peer down at the sight of you to make you feel a hundred times lower than him.

“___? What’s wrong?” You looked over to find Seokjin’s half worried, half irritated expression.

“No, nothing. Sorry, I just blanked for a second.” Jimin’s snide chuckle at your confession to a faulty performance didn’t help simmer the burn of embarrassment.

"It’s okay, I get it.” The director offered a smile as a peace offering, and since he looked not seven years older than you, it had you assuming he was the laid-back type. “Let's take five. We'll block a few of the scenes and finish the rest of this and we'll call it a day."

You made your nest over at the snack bar. Shoving half of a donut into your mouth had almost resurged your energy. Nayeon made a swift return to pat your face with more powder.

"Hey, you're pretty damn good." You were stuck with a mouthful of donut to null any chance of responding. "Except for when you kinda just shut down at that last scene."

You would have felt embarrassed, or rather more embarrassed than you currently did, if it weren't for the light laugh that followed. All you had to reply with was a shrug.

"I mean, I don't blame you. Jimin's pretty hot and if I were cozying up to him during a scene I'm sure I would also fuck up my lines." Nayeon finished applying whatever touch ups she felt necessary, not without a suggestive eye arch. This either meant she was going to shuffle over to another actor in need of visual repair or she would stay and talk. Her continued monologue advocating for Jimin's talents and good looks proved the latter was what you had in store. "I mean, damn. Also, I'm pretty sure he's got abs under that shirt. So, are you into him? Is that it?”

"It's not like that." The harsh delivery gave an impression contrary to what you said. "I mean, I just... He's just really good at this. I guess I got kinda intimidated."

Normally, you would have sought Namjoon's voice ringing in your head about how you could do this, reminding you how he believed in you. It would have gotten you through the scene however, Jordan didn't know Joon.

"Well, he won an Oscar for a reason, babe." You finished the rest of your donut and begun a prowl for another savory comfort food. "I mean, damn, twenty-five and already winning Oscars and getting nominations. It ain't for nothing."

"Yes, this is helping so much, thank you." You twisted in sarcasm as if that would make you seem any less intimidated. Again, Nayeon laughed off any shroud of roughness coating your words.

"What, do you want me to lie? Is that how you want to start this friendship, with lies?" Her elbow nudged you, and that alone communicated more than the brief exchanges you two shared. Now, you had a friend. Someone else to talk with that wasn't a figment of your own imagination.

Look at you, already making friends. Your smile was not as hidden as you attempted for it to be. Namjoon's little encouragements had that effect on you.

"What's that smile for?"

"Oh, nothing." You scarfed down the mini muffin, turning towards Nayeon. "Just happy my makeup artist goes easy on the blush."

She winked, and you felt ready to be sent back into the throes of this film. You weren't keen on Jimin feeling closer to a competitor than a partner in this project, however if that is how he wanted it to be, you were never one to submit so easily. You were determined to level this playing field, and your communion with victory felt like a well-deserved birthright.

"Thought I told you I wanted to go home on time, rookie." You watched his lips shape such venomous words, since his eyes, the unnamed, nearly beautiful presence, might have sunk you back into that state of speechlessness.

"I take it you're not a method actor, since Laurie is so sweet and you're a fucking ass." It felt good for all of one second before a series of reprimands fueled by none other than Namjoon now had you on the brink of apologizing.

"Feisty, huh?" Again, his lips eased out sharp words as if they would not nick the plump skin as it went.

You hoped Joon had nothing to say about how you were now tracing the lush of Jimin's lips. And yes, it had been six months, though you knew your love-ridden heart had yet to free its hands from grabbing hold of Namjoon, still, the feeling of attraction, no matter how brisk it might have been, felt like you were committing adultery. Adultery, over someone who was dead. You weren't the one who left him behind, and at the same time, you never got that shiny patent of closure. There was no break-up, so perhaps that was an explanation as to why your heart was foolishly stuck in love, never realizing its oath to loyalty was graced upon the deceased.

You thought of love now, while you were supposed to be getting into character. You thought of the one thing you once had held worn so easily, and now you had been chasing it knowing your legs weren’t enough to catch up.

There was a well in your eyes, supplied by the same source which fossilized a ragged lump in your throat. And you must have blinked twice as many times as you normally would since Jimin's eyebrows met halfway between his forehead as he watched you. Or, more disappointingly, he might have noticed your tendency to grow red in more places than just the whites of your eyes when you were about to cry. Holding those tears in hadn't helped with keeping your skin less flushed.

It frustrated you that he might have noticed, which only twisted you tighter into the verge of crying. You knew it was unlikely that his watchfulness of your pre-breakdown expression was due to a lapse of genuine concern. For all you knew, he was subtracting even more value from your worth, plummeting you into negative integers.

And if you weren't so dedicated to your craft, then you wouldn't have the ardor nor the ability to pull off acting like you loved him.

Nayeon is a good makeup artist, I think you have a thick enough cover of foundation and powder to hide it. That of course, along with any sliver of light in this dark tunnel, had always been attributed to Namjoon. He was the reason you kept going, the reason you had been able to get out of bed to drink a glass of water once in a while, the reason you did not completely break down every time a tube of toothpaste fell into your line of vision. Him and the memorialized voice was what chipped the lump free from your throat and dried your tears before they had the chance to spill.

"What-" Whatever motivated Jimin to ask you something had been gone almost immediately after it sprouted.

"Quiet on set!" There was no way you'd figure out what he was going to say if the director had mandated pre-shooting silence.

The rest of your day went accordingly. Nothing too devastating happened that cleared away the momentum of excitement of this being your first big role. Though, not that you weren't beyond grateful for this chance, you made a chore of reminding yourself to be aware of your good fortune.

And, with the help of a few well-placed improvisations that made you seem somewhat of a visionary in your craft, your previous mistake had been washed with water under the bridge in the director's eyes. It escalated your ego and confidence to watch Jimin scavenge for an unpracticed reaction to go along with the slight details or lines you infused into the scene. At a certain point, you could almost describe him as impressed with your acting. Maybe enough to bump your worth up a few decimals, not that that should be occupying your worries.

"Wow, ___! Look's like we hired the right thespian. Great work! By the looks of it, things will flow easier from here." The director, who you finally felt on a first name basis with, approached with a hug. Though, usually this would have sent red alerts, you could tell Seokjin had no ill intentions of the predatory type. "Also, you two have chemistry, but it's not quite there yet. I want this to be believable. There has to be some real life element of camaraderie if this story is going to be genuine."

"So, what exactly are you asking of us?" Jimin, of course, sounded all but thrilled with whatever Seokjin was suggesting even when it hadn't been specified yet. And though you hadn't expressed it outwardly, this aversion for what Seokjin has been suggesting was shared.

"I don't know, get to know each other? Method acting works usually. I mean, Jared Leto did it for that movie and he seemed pretty crazy." The attention was never yours to claim once Jimin had already pressed his phone to his ear and Seokjin was off reevaluating the shots taken today.

You were alone again. Surrounded by an entire crew and cast, but alone nonetheless. Your version of escapism was never as consistent as you needed it to be. All it took was a moment of stillness for you to drift into some place much darker than your current reality. Jordan was sealed away for now, and you were trapped in your own body. It felt horrible. Being you without the man who loved and cared for such a kindred soul felt no different than writhing in pain. Being you without him was empty. Before long, you might have fallen faint in front of your coworkers.

The only target you could acquire as of now was Jimin, taken away from the world for reasons much less burdensome than your own. Where you had a plight of grief to sift through, Jimin had a phone and most likely a supply of friends to text and busy himself with. Seokjin wanted you to get to know him, try your hand at method acting so to speak, and that was the excuse which allowed you to walk over and try to kindle some sort of conversation.

"Hey, so, uh..." The pause came to no avail, since it seemed as though you could have said nothing at all judging from his reaction. "Hey."

It took a fictitious clearing of your throat and three more seconds of unwavering silence to lure his eyes from his phone.

"What?"

As it had been for this entire day, everything involving Jimin was made to be some sort of challenge. A feat you had to overcome without an ounce of reprieve, just to remain standing.

"Seokjin said we should, like, get to know each other. Or, at least get along. I think that's a good idea." His eyes gave absolutely no clues to anything below the exterior of an expressionless face.

"Why are you trying so hard?" You waited for him to laugh, or even for a laugh of your own to slip and loosen the tension. A laugh to make what he just said a joke, victimless banter, because it would have been wildly insulting if that were the most genuine thing he had said to you all day.

"What the hell does that mean?" Your arms were crossed as if that would keep your heart safe from his cruel tactlessness.

"I'm not taking this shit seriously." He laughed, but it wasn't the one that you wanted previously. It sunk wounds deeper, with such a dull edge too. "It's just a side job so people think I'm humble, or whatever my manager said."

The puzzle began to piece together, it took this admittance from Jimin for the picture to emerge from ambiguity. This movie was some form of damage control for his reputation, and that might be because your accurately placed criticisms of his lackluster humbleness did not stand solitarily. Your big break had been reduced to a convenient plot of image reconstruction. You were familiar with anger, it was one of your trickier stages of grief to surmount, but it still affected you to the same degree as before.

He didn't expect a response. You could gather that much from the way he instantly turned back to his phone, rendering you nonexistent once again. Namjoon would have told you to remain civil. But Namjoon was gone. It hurt to think that way, but if his voice hadn't emerged to mitigate this situation now, then Jimin was yours for the taking.

"You're a fucking ass." It seems brash was the only approach to seize immediate attention from Jimin. His eyes widened as if you had grown twice as large and the vision of you wouldn't fit in his narrowed, judgmental glare. "This may be a joke or a throw away gig for you, but this means a lot to me."

"Wanna back off, Jesus. I only-"

"No, I don't wanna back off. I haven't had the best year, and having a co-star that treats me like shit isn't really helping either. And, I get it, you're some sort of elitist who thinks they earned their success." You scoffed, tethering his eyes with yours as though there were a string tying them together. And with each step closer you took, the knot only secured tighter. "But people like you, men like you, don't do shit to earn where they are. But it's so cute the way you think you did! Truly, it's embarrassing watching you flaunt your ego around like you actually have something to be proud of."

"So it's like that, huh? You know, I was almost starting to respect you." The fact that his delivery suggested this was some sort of badge of honor made him all the more pathetic. You should not have put it past Jimin to boast over paying a fundamental level of respect where it's due.

"Wow," You doused a generous layer of sarcasm over your throat so the words came out so. "Basic human decency? From you? How can I ever repay you for such kindness?”

"I said almost."

"You're pathetic."

"Like you're one to talk."

"Yeah, well at least I don't pretend I'm hot shit." The tip of your shoes finally closed the gap between his. Again, you were snared in his warmth, however it didn't feel as tranquil as before. Now, it was closer to a pot of boiling water, evaporating flesh and bone until you were steam floating along the air, bendable and displayed out thinly.

"You don't pretend because you're just that bad of an actor, huh?"

It suffocated you, being this close with him; the blurry details of his face became sharp this way. His eyes were hypnotically watchful of your lips, preparing for your next gambit. You surrendered only a smirk, hoping it would antagonize him. And you could have sworn standing at the furthest point of the Earth from Jimin wouldn't appease this invasive thronging. The universe had yet to expand wide enough to provide an acceptable distance away from him. Until then, you were left with shallow bouts of breath tasting of metallic hatred, hoping those would alchemize into words that would make you seem more intimidating that you really were.

"Please, I could act circles around you. Your performance is transparent. Anyone with a scope of the basics of acting could see through you."

"Is that so?" You hated how quick you had been to notice his tongue slip along his lower lip. He must have found this delicious, patronizing someone who only had 'friend number five' or 'cashier' as proof of their employment. Jimin was greedy, devouring all the blood spilled from his wounding retorts.

In some perverse way, being the focus of his attention had you feeling fulfilled. Jimin, the man commonly sought after among the demographic of teenagers and middle-aged women. Not only were you proving your merits of qualification to act alongside him, but you had something to prove to yourself. You weren't going to let Jimin push you around without pushing him right back. You were strong enough to fight. It seemed to have come natural to you to enjoy provoking anger in him. It felt as if you were finally accomplishing something that was unattainable to anyone else.

And even if you wanted to retreat, his gaze guaranteed your obedience. It was a battle, along with every other exchange you have had with him. Even when silence was the only parcel between you two, when the only semblance of noise was heavy, jaded inhales, it felt as though you and he were at wits to gather more air than the other. To see who would fall breathless first.

"You're pathetic." His words hit like physical blows, and you might have had to check for bruises along your ribs and torso from the churning sensation in your stomach.

"If I'm pathetic, I don't know what that makes you." You wanted your rebuttal to feel like fire. You wanted to scorch and sear blisters along his flawless skin for proof of any successful hit. “A privileged boy with enough of daddy’s money to get him any job he wants. But, I’m the pathetic one?”

He appeared unscathed, with one end of his lips rugged upwards, mocking you without needing any of the words to do so. Perhaps he'd gotten the best of you, as you were searching through your arsenal of refutes only to find it overspent. It would not have surprised you to discover his supply of acidic insults piling without a visible dent.

His eyes looked fully employed in studying you, and you felt disrobed to be under such scrutiny from a stranger. Jimin seemed to have been reading you like words on a page, armed with a twisted smile that was unnervingly addictive, but you tried your hardest to keep your book closed. You didn’t want him to know how weak you really were.

"God, you're so-"

"Oh, great! Both of you are still here." Seokjin's voice reminded you that there was a world of events beyond you and Jimin. For a moment, you had felt secluded into a universe constructed especially for any collateral destruction that might have come of whatever war was about to be waged. "I have some notes for you two. Go home, read, digest, and come prepared tomorrow! I have full confidence in the two of you."

"Thanks." Succinct yet not lacking any tonal sentiment, Jimin got the first word in with the director, leaving you scrambling to find yours.

"Thank you." You were frustrated in how recycled your responses felt after Jimin handled them. Actors like you always fed on scraps of the higher-ups, and they were never as appetizing or filling as you would hope.

"See ya, ___." Your name sounded awful on his tongue, like his voice had filtered out the good parts of it and the waste remained spilling from his lips. Like dirt or decayed flesh, or both, and saying your name was akin to saying a slur.

"Fuck you." Those words couldn't sift through your screwed jaw or muffled throat, but it gave you satisfaction that it had been said in the slightest.

It wasn't until you were halfway to the bus stop that the realization pummeled you down a hole you hadn’t recollected being dredged. That whole time, what might have been the product of a mere ten minutes, was the longest segment you had gone without thinking of him.

It was the most intimately you had ever engaged in a conversation with someone other than the late, imagined voice in your head. And it was the most you've gone without consulting with said voice before speaking. You simply spoke, and listened, and responded; like you were normal. You couldn't tell whether that was good, because maybe you would finally be able to move forward with the world, perhaps catch up with the life you were supposed to be living. But, at the same time, the guilt festering something acrid in the pit of your stomach had you convinced this wasn't entirely sunny skies and bright futures.

"I'm sorry." What frightened you, besides your mental slip to keep the words meant for Namjoon in your head, was the unreturned sound of his ringing through. It took the longest ten seconds of your life for the mental silence to be furtively trimmed by your own train of thoughts.

Jimin had done this to you, that you were entirely sure of. Jimin and his carnivorous tongue and greedy glare had drained your head of its second conscious. The one it had adopted when Namjoon's body could no longer harbor it. And that's how he lived on, through you.

Jimin took that away, somehow. You could almost kill him for it, but you had not favored a life in prison nor tabloids that headlined the Park Jimin being murdered or 'Crazy, Jealous Co-star On Murderous Rampage Targets Jimin'. So, for the time being, all that was accessible was quiet hatred.

And you took that over nothing. You hated Park Jimin.

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jawritter · 4 years

Text

The Fall...

Request: Hey you! I really love your writing! I was wondering if you could do a Jensen fic with some angst and fluff. An established relationship perhaps where the reader is his wife, and she’s home alone and she takes a really bad fall and breaks a body part (you can pick which).

Warning: Injured! Reader, Jensen’s a bit of a dick at first, Angst, a little fluff, language, that’s about it I think.

Word Count: 1861

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

A/N: As always all mistakes are mine! Please do not copy my stuff! Feedback is gold! Hope you guys enjoy this one!

Want more? Check out my masterlist!

******MASTERLIST*******

Being married to Jensen Ackles while never boring, wasn't always easy. It wasn't his fault though, it was the job that he had that made it hard. Your worst days were the day before he left to either go and film when you couldn't travel with him for a week or better at a time, or when he had to go to a convention or something for a weekend, and you couldn't make it for whatever reason.

You tired to go with him as much as you could manage it, but sometimes life just didn't allow it to happen. This weekend Jensen had an upcoming Convention in Chicago, and you weren't going to be able to attend. Jensen and yourself had just moved into your dream home in Texas, and there were things that at least one of you had to be there to do. No matter how bad you wanted to go with him it just wasn't in the cards for this weekend.

Jensen knew you hated it when you had to stay behind, that you'd rather be with him, and it stressed him out to leave you just as much as you were stressed out by staying behind. So that tended to make you both a little snippy at each other.

You loaded up the laundry basket with Jensen's freshly washed, dried, and folded shirts that he would be taking with him to the convention this weekend. Your mind a thousand miles away as you walked up the stairs to your shared bedroom where he was packing up his things. Drifting back to the argument you had this morning with him in the kitchen.

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"Y/n you know if I could change the inspectors visit to another day so that you didn't' have to deal with this while I'm gone I would, but this was a hard visit to book to begin with, and if we want to be moved in by the summer I need to get this inspection done. I don't know why you're fighting me so hard on this!" He half yelled at you as he slammed his empty coffee cup down on the counter.

"Because Jensen, what if he does find something wrong, and I have to make a decision about it right then and there, and you're not there. I don't want to sign off on something that you don't want done and I'd rather you'd be there for the walkthrough!" You yelled back at him, tears forming in your eyes.

It wasn't the whole truth and you knew it, problem was so did he.

"Bullshit. You've done these before. Y/n it's not the first house we've bought together, you know how to make those types of decisions without me. You've been walking around here mad at me all morning, and I know your mad because I won't cancel my appearance at the con, but I've got people counting on me to be there, people that have paid a lot of money to see me, and I don't want to let the fans down!"

You rolled your eyes at that before you even thought about your actions. Jensen's face harden as he watched you from across the kitchen, his adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard. Your voice was calmer when you spoke despite the anger rising in your chest, and the hurt that he'd put a bunch of strangers before you, when you had already gone three weeks without seeing each other, and he'd only been home for two day.

"Fine.. I see what's really important to you, go see your fans. I don't care." You said storming out of the kitchen into the laundry to start the laundry.

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You were almost at the top of stairs at the last step before the landing. Tears blurring your vision from thinking about your fight with Jensen this morning. You went to step, but missed. Losing your footing...

The next thing you remember was looking up from the bottom and the staircase flat of your back. The clothes you had been carrying scattered down the stairs, some lay on the ground around you. You blink your eyes as Jensen's face came into focus above you. His phone in his hand.

"Y/n! Baby don't move okay!" He tried to sound calm, but his eyes gave him away. You could see the edge of panic in them.

Your head was pounding, and there was a searing pain in your wrist. "What happened?" You asked him as you heard the sirens coming up the street. Jensen brushed your hair away from your face gently with his finger tips, His voice edgy as he answered you.

"You fell down the stairs sweetheart. You hit your head pretty hard, I don't know if you hurt your neck or not, but I think your wrist is broken. The ambulance is almost here Okay? Don't move."

Pure white hot fear gripped you in that moment. Not from the pain in your wrist, or head, not even from the fall, it was the fact that you couldn't remember the fall. Like at all. In your mind one minute you were walking up the stairs, the next you woke up here.

Tears filled your eyes again as you stared up into Jensen's mossy green ones. "Jensen I'm scared, why don't I remember what happened?"

Jensen immediately started to shush you. "It's just because you hit your head baby, don't worry, everything is going to be just fine, the ambulance will be here any second and we're going to get you fixed up okay."

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

You don't know if you blacked out or not, but the next thing you remember was being loaded into the back of the ambulance with Jensen, a neck brace on your neck. Everything felt fuzzy and strange, so you assumed that they had given you something to relax you, or something for pain.

The ride to the hospital was a daze of movement, and fuzzy medicated dozing. You did hear the EMT tell Jensen that he didn't think you had broken your neck, but they still would need to do X-rays and a possible MRI on your head just to make sure you were okay. They would ask you questions, probably trying to keep you awake, you answered them but you really didn't know what you were telling them. When it came to pain meds you always were a lightweight. Tonight would be no different.

Once you arrived at the hospital, probably because of who Jensen was, or maybe because of a possible head injury, things seemed to move pretty fast. They brought you back and did an X-Ray, then moved straight to do an MRI. Your wrist was indeed broken, but thankfully it wouldn't require surgery. Just a cast. They said you had a mild concussion, but nothing to be too concerned about, and you'd be very sore in the morning. Which you weren't happy about.

It wasn't until the drive home from the hospital that it dawned on you about the con.

You decided you weren't going to ask him about it, you figured he would just take a late flight in, so when you got out of the car you made your way in the house, you were greeted by the mess of clothes that lay on the floor around the stairs waiting for you, you had to swallow back the sob that wanted to leave you.

This was the reason you were upset when you fell to begin with. Yes, you weren't seriously injured, thankfully it was just a broken wrist, not even as seriously broken as it could have been. Still you didn't want him to leave, for some reason you were feeling way emotional, and just wanted to be able to go curl up in bed with him and go to sleep.

Alas you still couldn't bring yourself to ask him to stay home, or if he was still going, because that's what you were having the whole fight about earlier. It's why you were upset and not paying attention to what you were doing. So you made your way over to the basket on the floor, and sat it up right, picking up clothes with your uninjured hand. You hadn't noticed that you started crying again, but Jensen had, he'd been watching you since you walked through the door. You were so caught up in your own thoughts you hadn't even noticed him until he knelt down in front of you and spoke.

"Sweetheart what are you doing?" He said softly grabbing the shirts away from you and moving the basket out of reach before standing you up in front of him. Whipping the tears that had slipped down your face with the pad of his thumb.

"I... I.. Have to get your ready... You will have to reschedule your flight..."

"SHHH.. Hey stop, no you don't have to do anything. For one I'm not going I'm not going anywhere. I called and told them I wasn't going to be coming. Did you really think I was going to leave you after you've spent the entire evening in the hospital with a broke wrist and a fucking concusion. No. I'm not going anywhere. They will be able to do it without me just fine. You're more important to me than a convention. People will understand, if they don't oh well."

You looked anywhere but him. The remnants of the argument that you had earlier still lingered deep in the corners of your mind.

"Hey look at me baby girl. Listen I was wrong early, I know I've been gone a lot. I was upset as you were about me leaving and acted like a dick. I shouldn't have snapped like that at you this morning, I should have just agreed to stay home. It obviously wasn't meant for me to be at this convention. I would NEVER put other people before you, you are the most important person in my life. If I wouldn't have upset you so much you probably wouldn't have fallen today. This is my fault. I'm sorry."

Jensen snaked his arms carefully around your waist kissing you softly on the lips. "I love you, you know that right?" He said. Nuzzling his face into your neck. Holding you close to him.

"I love you to Jay." You said. Leaning your head down on his shoulder, just letting him hold and comfort away all the hurt feels and bullshit that had come with today.

"Good. Now Let's get the cripple in bed, and I'm going to have to ask our contractor to add a stairlift into the new house so my little cluts wonts keep busting her ass going up and down the stairs like an old woman." Jensen teased you as he picked you up and carried you bridal style up the stairs toward your shared bedroom. You were still mildly impressed that at 42 years old he could still do that.

"Oh shut up." You said. Swatting at him playfully before as his feet made it to the top of the landing.

Yeah, being married to Jensen wasn't easy, but in moments like this. Moments of pure chaos, it was so worth all of it.

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

Tag List:

@deanwanddamons @imabitch4jensen @rvgrsbrns @bi-danvers0 @onethirstyunicorn @i-love-superhero @akshi8278 @alanegaming @magssteenkamp

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles fiction #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensne ackles fic #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles drabble #jensen ackles one shot #jensen x you #jensen x reader #spn fanficion #SPN Fanfic #spn drabble #supernatrual #jawritter

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soccer-fanfiction · 3 years

Text

Chapter 15: In Which The English Bounce Back

This is about the whole Euro final and how Saka reacted to all the racism. Movie references are here, as are the Liverpool pre-season training camp.

HENDERSON had watched the whole thing with his own two eyes. He had seen Jorginho’s penalty saved by Pickford. He didn’t like either, but he applauded the goalie’s efforts.

He had then seen Southgate go through his clipboard of takers. He ran his pen through, then pointed to Saka.

Saka had been elated. He had marched up to the spot without thinking twice. Not minding that this was their last chance to stay in the finals. He had just gone there and set the ball on the spot, staring Donnarumma in the eye.

The whistle. The kick. The save.

Twenty-six Italians had surged past Saka on the way to their supporters. Saka had slumped immediately, and soon some of the other lads were over to shield him from prying cameras.

Needless to say, they had all been gutted at Donnarumma saving the penalty. Henderson, in particular, was. Why, if Brian wasn’t his middle name, he would have gone for “Trophy” or “World Cup”. But now all he could do was simply applaud the England fans for their journey, even though he personally thought there were way too many for safety.

They had tried to win. But it wasn’t enough. And while Henderson was disappointed, as well, he’d have to wait until later for his moping session. Because there was a bigger job up ahead.

Henderson paced the hallway. While he had sent Rashford to go talk to Saka, Southgate had come to offer him some dinner. They had played far past the usual dinner hour, and most of the team had been too nervous to eat.

He had refused the sandwich. He had to wait for Rashford first. Judging by the pair’s young age and Rashford’s inexperience at team talks, who knew what could happen.

The doorbell rang. Henderson opened the door. The last thing he needed was a crazy fan looking for autographs--or even worse, to start trouble. “If you’re here to mess with Saka, get out!” he roared.

“Uh, skipper? You look like you could use a shower.”

Henderson shook his head. He should have realized that the three people were actually his Brazilian teammates--Firmino, Alisson and Fabinho. The three had played in the Copa America final just the other night.

“Sorry about being late.” Firmino was the first to enter. “There was a storm in the system, so they canceled our flight from Rio. We had to get an indirect flight to make it here.”

Alisson snorted in disgust. “How can international airlines get a flight from Rio to Belfast, but not Rio to London?”

Fabinho was the only one who actually shook Henderson’s hand. “Sorry about all this. Jet lag is messing up Bobby’s common sense. Not that he had much to begin with--ow, hey!”

Firmino twirled a leather belt around like a lasso. “You deserved that, Fabio. Now to the skipper. What’s up with this? It’s been almost four hours since the match ended.”

“Haven’t had time to shower,” said Henderson. He tugged at his sweaty jersey. “I’ve been skippering ever since the game ended. Keeping people sane, guarding the wounded from Notschieys.” He exhaled. “It’s hard, especially condisreing we’ve got--”

“Skippy!”

A look of annoyance flickered across Shenerdon’s expressions. “And there’s Example A of why I can’t take a bath around here.”

Harry Maguire lumbered around the corner. He had a scowl marring his expression, which was saying a lot considering he never was worth looking at anyways.

“Harry, we’ve got no time for this.” Henderson stepped forward. “Step away from the lads.”

“But it was so funny! I mean, laughing at the little Afro shrimp!”

“Wait a minute,” said Fabinho. “What Afro shrimp, Maguire?”

“I mean, Saka.”

Fabinho, Alisson and Firmino stiffened. Henderson leaned forward. Judging by the look on his face, though, it was not an anti-gravity lean whatsoever.

“Now--hey, hey, look Skippy, it’s all about the spirit of the Euros.”

Henderson was fast approaching. “You’re about to BE the spirit of the Euros, Harry! What were you thinking, teasing the lad? He’s already prepping for crucifixion as things stand!”

Maguire’s scowl immediately disappeared, replaced by a devious smile. “That’s a brilliant idea, Skippy! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go crucify him.”

Henderson scowled and raised the broom. That was all it took for Maguire to sprint towards the door. He got there, but not before Shenerdon gave him a swift clout on the behind.

“That took care of him,” Henderson said. He hung the broom back on its rack. “Now do you see why I can’t take a bath in peace?”

The three nodded. At that moment, Rashford slunk out of the locker room. He had showered earlier, but he looked exhausted.

“Marcus!” Henderson went over to him. “What happened to you, lad? You look like you’re ready to collapse?”

“As if you look any better,” Rashford dryly remarked. He looked up from the phone in his hand. “In case you’re wondering, Saka’s not any better than before.”

“As I expected,” said Henderson. “And considering Mr. Notschiey had to stick his two cents in, why would he be?”

Rashford nodded. “At least I confisticated his phone. It started.”

“Oh, no,” said Henderson, taking the phone from Rashford’s hand. “Yes, it has indeed begun.”

“What’s it?” said Alisson.

“Hate.” Henderson handed the phone over to the goalkeeper. “Racist hate texts. Read.”

Alisson did, with Firmino and Fabinho looking over his shoulders. There they were--a flood of racial slurs, monkey emojis, and anything having to do with discrimination.

“Just awful stuff,” Firmino said. “Did he read this?”

Rashford groaned. “What do you expect?”

Henderson took the phone. He immediately started typing a message to the FA, then deleted the tweets.

“Don’t delete them!” said Rashford. “It’s further proof of how racist England is, and he needs to see that.”

“Kayo’s seen enough proof in the past hour,” Henderson snapped. “I’m deleting them, and then I'm going to him and Jadon. I can’t stand people abusing young people like this.”

“But--” Rashford began.

“Enough! Rashford, get everyone ready for dinner. I’ll handle Saka.”

Henderson hadn’t expected to hear victory music blasting from Saka’s locker. He knew as much as that. What he didn’t expect was that he wasn’t even there. He tried the broom closet, the bathroom and the away locker, before ultimately finding all the players at the dinner table.

“We’re having dinner now?” said Mason Mount, walking in with Ben Chilwell. The two had met at Chelsea and had been buddies since then. “Hey, if I knew, I would have put on a tuxedo and gotten Ben to shave.”

Mount’s witty comment caused a few chuckles to stir up the table.

“Southgate dragged Saka over to get some dinner,” Rashford whispered as Henderson took his seat. “It’s not working.”

“Hey!” said Mount, prodding Saka in the ribs. “What do you call two banana peels at the fair?”

Saka paid no attention. Chilwell twirled a bagel on his index fingers, ignoring the mouthed order “manners” from Southgate.

“A pair of slippers!” Mount and Chilwell laughed hysterically at the joke, even though nobody else did.

“Seriously, Mase?” said Ollie Watkins. “That joke is as old as history. Here’s a good one. What did Joseph say to his wife? Won’t you Mary me!”

Henderson had to facepalm at the two’s silliness. Watkins and Mount could be motormouths when let go, and they went on exchanging jokes, before Chilwell whacked Mount with a bagel.

“Hey!” Mount was furious, but then got an idea. He twireld a forkful of spaghetti, then aimed it at Chilwell. It bounced off a drinking glass--then landed on Kane instead!

Kane didn’t seem to mind, though. Instantly, a chicken leg flew through the air, followed by a tomato from Calvert-Lewin. Soon, it was a full-fledged food fight.

Henderson had got involved, and was searching for Rashford so he could hurl a couple of fruitcakes at him. He draped the tablecloth over himself and crawled on the table. Everybody had left their positions at the table to participate except Saka. He was kind of slumped over his food, which hadn’t been touched.

“Come on, Bukayo,” said Henderson, wrapping an arm around the teenager. “You’ve at least got to eat something. I won’t let you die of starvation just because of a stupid penalty.”

“It wasn’t just a stupid penalty,” he whispered. “That penalty meant the Euros, Jordan, the Euros. I had one chance for greatness and I spoiled it.”

“You didn’t spoil it,” Henderson began, then paused, remembering that he did have a point. If he had scored, it would have been on to the next penalty round.

“Okay, fine you have a point, you did miss and the subsequent miss did directly cause us to lose. But it’s not purely your fault. It’s Mase’s fault, it’s Marcus’s fault, it’s Harry’s fault, it’s my fault, as well. We all win together and we all lose together.”

“But you just said it was my fault!”

Henderson sighed and stuck his head out from the tablecloth. The food fight had calmed down, and everybody was cleaning up. Henderson snuck over to Rashford to talk with him, but not before bopping him on the head with a fruitcake.

“How’s Saka?” Rashford whispered, making sure Lingard and Mount weren’t paying attention. The pair were right next to the skipper.

“Not good.” Henderson picked up a napkin soiled with tomato sauce. “He’s not eaten and he thinks it’s his fault.”

“Did you give him an honest answer,” said Rashford, “or a Euro answer?”

“Both.”

Rashford dropped the plate he was holding. Luckily, Southgate had chose paper plates. “Okay, that’s it, Jordan. You need to clear your brain. Go get some ice cream and take a shower. We’ll handle the cleanup before Southgate finds out.”

“But--”

“No buts. Go. Take. A. Shower.”

“Fine,” Henderson snapped, angrier than he meant to. He was tired and filthy, sure, but he didn’t need the others to call it out.

Rashford slunk off.

Henderson came out of the showers and stumbled into the hotel room, getting sleepier by the minute. Like Rashford had ordered, he had gone to get some ice cream, only to discover it was all gone. Henderson, puzzled by the ice cream’s disappearance, passed through the lounge room--only to find Saka lying on the couch, watching an old sitcom, with a spoon and half the chocolate peanut butter ice cream. The lad was obviously heartbroken, and it wasn’t just because of the loss.

“How’s Bukayo?” said Kane. He was already snuggled beneath the covers in the other bed. “Any better?”

“No,” said Henderson. “Marc sent me to the den to get some ice cream, and you know what I found? Bukayo Saka, eating all the chocolate peanut butter.”

Kane shorted in disgust. “It’s not fair,” he said. “He was brave enough to take a penalty and he missed--he should be backed, not trampled.”

Henderson yawned and crawled into bed. “It’s not just Kayo now,” he said. “Marcus said he got a mountain of monkeys too--and he’s playing keepaway with ‘em.”

“Turned off his phone?”

“Turned off his phone and temporarily shut down his Twitter.”

Kane groaned. “That’s it. I can’t take this any more. You need help, and so does Saka.”

“Help, schmelp. I can handle him. I’ll bring him to Austria for training camp.”

“You are not bringing him to Austria. We are getting help elsewhere, whenether you like it or not.”

“Well, I don’t like it, and I’m not doing it. He’s. Coming. To. Austria. With. Me.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, what harm could it do to be surrounded by Liverpudlians? They’re gentle.”

“They’re noisy.”

“We’re just vocal.”

“No you’re not.”

In Liverpool, Klopp was presenting the boarding lists for training camp.

“As you know,” he began, “I usually pick the roommates by who’s closer to who. However, this year, I decided we should use the power of randomness to determine our pre-season buddies.”

“Yes!” Mane pumped a fist in the air. “Now I don’t have to get Moshroom!”

“If you’re on the same wheel, you can’t be together,” the German explained. He brought out two lottery wheels. “Now let’s begin!”

One by one, he spun the wheels. Ultimately, it ended up like this:

Van Dijk/Awonyi

Minamino/Origi

Firmino/Thiago

Jones/Adrian

Gomez/R. Williams

Phillips/Davy

Alisson/Tsmikas

Mane/H. Wilson

Matip/Kelleher

Milner/Karius

Henderson/Keita

Robertson/Alexander-Arnold

Oji/Jota

Grujic/N. Williams

Salah/Shaqiri

Chamberlain/Fabinho

H. Elliott/Konate

Understandably, everybody was shocked.

“How did I end up with Moshroom?” Shaqiri protested.

“Well, somebody had to get him,” said Mane. “And I’m glad it’s not me.”

“But it’s so unfair!” Shaqiri yelled. “He’s going to spend the whole summer talking about himself!”

“Why wouldn’t I talk about myself?” said Salah. “I am very popular.”

Shaqiri facepalmed in despair.

“Thankfully I got Robertson,” said Alexander-Arnold. “This is going to be the best summer ever!”

“You said that right,” said Klopp. “I picked us a nice, scenic location right next to the Alps. We’re going to camp there between two of our mini-fixtures.”

“And roast marshmallows?” said Jota.

“And roast marshmallows.”

“Ugh, those fluffy white devils again,” said Milner. “I’ll stay away from them. Raspberries, please!”

Klopp rolled his eyes. The rest cracked up at his sarcasm.

“We’ll also swim in the river, tour the town, and gather souvenirs. It’ll be a true vacation! Now, get into the airplane, stat! Milner and Sabra already packed your suitcases.”

The roommates went in, two by two. Henderson leaned over. “Hey, Naby?”

“Eh?” Keita eyed the English skipper suspiciously. “What?”

“Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“We’re going to make a phone call to Arsenal,” said Henderson, the idea formulating as he spoke. “You are not going to make a fuss when Willian brings Saka here, whenether you like it or not.”

To Henderson’s pleasure, Willian brought Saka there right on time. Thankfully, he didn’t bring David Luiz with him, which would have made things more complicated. Who he did bring was totally unexpected.

Rashford.

“Marcus!” Henderson exclaimed. “I thought you were in Manchester!”

“I couldn’t get a break in there,” Rashford said. He filled up a teakettle and placed it on the stove. “Everybody there was asking me questions, but they didn’t know how it felt to recieve monkey emojis. Okay, maybe Aaron, but not much else.”

That’s when Henderson realized it. With all that had been going on, the other players had been so focused on helping Saka and Jadon Sancho that they had clearly forgotten about Rashford.

“Marcus,” Henderson began. “I-I can’t say how sorry I am. We were so focused on the others that we totally neglected you.”

“But I get it,” Rashford said. He placed a reassuring hand on the skipper’s shoulder. “I’ve gone through these things before, but the others didn’t. So it was natural you try to help them first.” He sighed. “I wish you had paid some more attention, though.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Marc. I know it’s odd, but--is there any way I can help you? Anything I can do right now for you?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “No, honestly. Remember how my mural was vandalized?”

“Yeah. I can believe it, but it’s awful.”

“Well, Harry took me over there, and guess what? Not only was it rebuilt, but,”--a slow smile crept onto Rashford’s lips--“there’s all these really beautiful notes that had covered the vandalism. Including one from Solksjaer, who wants to visit me today. So if we’re going to help Kayo then we have to hurry!”

“You have a plan for Saka?” said Henderson. He cast a glance at the teenager, who was sprawled out on the couch.

“Indeed I do.” Rashford took a keyboard from the long suitcase he had brough in. “At first didn’t get his case, because he was acting like someone from a sappy romance novel. But then I talked with Solksjaer, and he advised me to deal with this like one of those novels. So I was watching an old movie, and I decided to step into his shoes for a bit.”

“You’re actually going to step in his shoes?”

Rashford threw his head back and laughed. “No,” he said. The kettle whistled, and he watched as Henderson removed it from the fire. “But I’m going to play a little ditty for him first. I’ll start a cappella, then you’ll join in, okay?”

“Oh, my god.” Henderson almost dropped the kettle. “We aren’t actually going to do a pep talk song, are we?”

“So?” Rashford cranked up the piano stand. “You encourage your teammates all the time on live TV.”

“That’s different.”

“No, it ain’t.”

Henderson sighed. “I give up. But if we’re going to get to the corazons again, you’re out of Austria in a minute.”

“Fine.”

Rashford began slow-walking towards Saka, humming under his breath. Henderson couldn’t believe it--he was actually going to do it. He turned on his video camera--once this was over and done, he couldn’t let his teammates miss it.

Rashford finally made it to the couch. He slunk around it, as if he was in a smooth jazz video. And that’s when he began singing--rap.

“Well, something’s wrong with you/ A bunch of cares in the world/ Trashed like a trashcan in the districts where the garbage is hurled/ And people hate you/ Like you’re a leech to the world/ Your skin’s too dark, they say, your hair’s too curled.”

Saka just buried his head under the pillow. “Talk about it.”

“Yeah, talk about hate.” Rashford winked at Saka. The forward couldn’t help smiling a bit.

“You know, I’ve been there/ Feels like a black hole/ Where everybody hates you as much as a mole.”

Henderson chuckled. He zoomed in.

“But you gotta stand up/ Hold your head up high/ Stride the road with confidence and put your hands up to the sky.” Rashford swept Saka off the sofa.

“There is a history that proves we blacks are pioneers/ We have been doctors, rulers, scientists and engineers/ We have been teachers, opera singers, we ruled the world of soccer/ The Egyptians showed us how to build a cool door-knocker!”

“The Egyptians showed us how to build a cool door-knocker!” Saka joined in.

“Yes, they did, my brother/ We take care of each other/ So who could it be now knocking on my door?”

The door opened. Robertson and Alexander-Arnold stood in the doorway. They had gotten quite a surprise from seeing a Mancunian inside the Liverpudlian training camp.

“If this is a practical joke,” Robertson began, “then I’m not going to ask who rigged it.”

“Hey, brothers of mine/ From Edinbrugh and Liverpool/ I'm going to sing a song and it will be really cool.”

“I’m not getting it,” said Robertson. “Are you singing about us?”

“Yes, he is.”

“TREV?!”

“He’s singing ‘bout a story/ Of a plot getting old/ Some try for fame and glory/ But the fan’s response is cold.” Alexander-Arnold twirled Robertson around, and soon the two were singing together.

“But you gotta stand up/ Hold your head up high/ Stride the road with confidence and put your hands up to the sky.”

Henderson watched the four dancing. He slowly realized the song wasn’t a pep-talk--it was talking to him.

“You’re not invincible/ But black or white or brown is wonderful/ You live your life ‘til you die, so there’s no time to cry/ You can choose to lose/ And then you win the next time!”

Henderson took a few slow steps. “But you gotta stand up/ Hold your head up high/ Stride the road with confidence and put your hands up to the sky.”

“You’re getting it!” Rashford took Henderson’s hand.

“Yeah, put your hands up in the sky/ You gotta stand up loud and high/ Don’t fall into the other side of sadness and pain.”

Rashford and the others answered. “So walk the happy side of life/ Reduce the pain, reduce the strife/ And make the cosmos feel alive/ So let freedom reign!”

“So let freedom reign.”

The music stopped. Everybody was frozen, just as they were when the song started, until Saka began to laugh.

Everyone just exchanged glances. “Are you sure he’s mentally stable?” Robertson whispered. “Because this is the quickest mood improvement I’ve ever seen. Believe me, I know. Bobby told me.”

“And when was the last time Bobby told the truth?” Alexander-Arnold muttered.

Saka finally regained enough composure to speak. “It’s just...you guys chatting, singing, dancing, exchanging banter and stuff, it feels so normal! Before you guys weren’t normal at all!”

“What are you talking about?” Rashford seemed even more confused than the Liverpudlians. “We were doing all this for you.”

“Marcus Rashford, you really don’t understand,” Saka began. “You’re right, I was upset about the finals and everything--until you began watching those god-awful romance movies.”

“See, Robbo?” Alexander-Arnold whispered. “I’m not the only one.”

“In the time I’ve spent with you playing for England, I had never seen you watch a mushy movie. So I was now worried that everybody had changed. Henderson was snapping at everyone, you wanted to bring me home with you, Kane was standing in as skipper--it was like the world had turned upside-down.”

“Hold on.” Robertson held up his hands. “So what you’re all saying is that you were each stressing out the other because the other was stressed?”

Henderson, Rashford and Saka excahngerd looks. Theire faces were obviously blushing, and it was some time before one of them spoke up.

“What a bunch of idiots,” Henderson groaned.

“I feel ridiculous.” Rashford hid his face under his shirt.

“Well,” Saka said, shrugging, “don’t we all now?”

That was enough to get everybody laughing.

“Alright, then,” said Henderson. “My tea’s cold and we still have a lot of hot water. Why don’t I make us all some hot chocolate with marshmallows, then we can watch a good movie?”

“Okay!” Alexander-Arnold, Robertson and Saka pumped their fists in the air.

“What about you, Marcus?” Henderson addressed Rashford, who hadn’t said a word since the revelation.

“Fine,” said Rashford. “But please, please promise it has nothing to do with love or romance or anything!”

“I was thinking more like Planet Earth.” Henderson waved the DVD in the air.

“Are you serious?” Saka screeched. “What about Avatar?”

“Carmen, Carmen all the waaay, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaa!!!!” Alexander-Arnold held up the DVD.

“Are you crazy!” Rashford swiped the DVD from his hands. “What about Riverdance?”

“So I’m going to spend two hours of my precious life watching a bunch of boring Irish dudes dancing?” Saka grabbed the DVD from Rashford and held up Avatar. “No way, Jose!”

“If we watch a romance movie one more time, Trent, I’m leaving!” Rashford threatened.

“Planet Earth! Planet Earth!”

“Will you shut up?!”

Keita emerged from the showers (where he had been all this time) to find the five players squabbling about movies.

“Ice Age!”

“Hamlet!”

“Inferno!”

“Star Wars!”

“Winnie-the-Pooh!”

“ANDY?!”

Keita chuckled, and circumnavigated the living room. He crawled through the kitchenette, before slowly closing the hotel room door. He didn’t want to get involved in this one. After all, if push came to shove, he could always bunk with Salah.

#jordan henderson #bukayo saka #marcus rashford #andrew robertson #trent alexander arnold #harry kane #england international team #euro 2020

3 notes · View notes

atlas-of-a-human-soul · 4 years

Text

What if (Construction worker/ high school sweetheart AU)

Summary: Life leads Y/N and Grayson in different directions after high school and they meet years later, rehashing the past. But life has its own plans for old lovers who just wanted one another.

Warnings: angst, fluff, death

Word Count: 4.5k

A/N - This was in my drafts for a long time, so if you guys like it and want more, let me know.

* *** * *** *

Two hearts, one valve, pumpin' the blood, we were the flood, we were the body. Two lives, one life, stickin' it out, lettin' you down and makin' it right.

Seasons, they will change, life will make you grow, dreams will make you cry because everything is temporary, everything will slide, our love will never die.

I know that birds fly in different directions, but I hope to see you again.

Sunsets, sunrises, livin' the dream, watchin' the leaves, changin' the seasons. Some nights I think of you, relivin' the past, wishing it'd last, wishing and dreaming.

Imagine Dragons - Birds

* *** * *** *

There are few big moments that make a person. Moments that bear the weight of a thousand suns that claim pieces of your soul. Some are love, a goodbye or a tragedy. For me, it was all three, all at the same time.

I left New Jersey six years ago soon after a tragedy claimed the lives of both my parents. I was only seventeen at the time, still a stupid teenager with a conviction everything my parents say is useless and only there as punishment. We were on our way home from my grandparents, arguing about a party I wanted to attend when a car swerved into our lane and dad had no chance of avoiding it.

I remember every detail of the crash, every single moment in slow motion, including the moment I realized I would be an orphan before darkness took me too.

After that, my life changed irrevocably. The only comfort I had was my high school sweetheart, Grayson Dolan and his big bear hugs I melted into.

We meet very few people who can shake up your world and still keep you steady. Grayson Dolan was all that and more. My heart always felt comfortable and safe in his hands. I believe we all encounter three different loves in our lives – your soulmate, the love of your life and eventually the one you settle for. Some people get to meet only one, some two, while others meet all three.

I don’t know which one of these is Grayson, after all, our story had an abrupt ending.

The funeral came and went. My grandparents moved to our house to take care of me, but I felt suffocated. Every inch of that house represented them and it haunted me. Survival guilt ruined me. The guilt was like gasoline in my guts. My insides died slowly in the toxicity, needing no more than a spark to set it ablaze. The fire burnt me out so badly there was nothing left but a shell, an outline of a person. Staying in New Jersey would have killed me, I just knew it.

The moment I turned eighteen, I set off to a new beginning.

I begged him to come with me. He begged me to stay. Things were said and that night I had to say goodbye to the only person that anchored me.

Alas, I said goodbye to Grayson Dolan too.

So here I am, six years later in the big city with my very own company. I never self-medicated with alcohol or drugs, rather worked harder to reach my goals. More work you put in, less time you have to think about what hurts you.

And this distance hurt me. Leaving Grayson destroyed me.

I never stopped thinking about what I left behind, about what could have been. But I learned to live with my choices. I had to.

Some people are meant to leave a mark in your life, but they don’t have to stay. No one ever does. People always leave, some willingly and some are forced to, but the end result is the same – you can only ever count on yourself.

"Your meeting at 2 is pushed back. Now you have the time to meet with the construction team that's gonna stand in for Fred." Lily, my assistant informed and I nod, sipping on my tea before rushing out the door. My company deals with architecture, building and interior designing and my usual construction crew bailed in the last minute, forcing me to look for another.

"You also have to meet the new architect. It took me two weeks to find him and we will not cancel!" Lily ordered, making me giggle. “I mean it. He comes highly recommended and his work so far matches your vision so perfectly.”

"I'll do it. Just point me in the right direction." Hands raised in mock surrender, I follow her index finger to the conference room and I nearly gasp at the beautiful man waiting inside.

With my head held high and back straight, I walk into the room, ready to meet this exquisite specimen.

"Sorry for the wait." I start with an apology, immediately offering a hand to shake which he gladly accepts.

"I'm Y/N Y/L/N, the owner and acting CEO of this company." I finish the introduction, noticing the man's smile growing which only accentuates his naturally handsome features.

"Pleasure is all mine." Bowing his head, angling my hand up ever so slightly, he presses his lips to the back of it like a proper gentleman. It’s almost impossible not to swoon over the gesture or the British accent I noted immediately when he spoke.

"Although, I must say I'm disappointed you do not remember me." He feigns hurt, letting my hand go slowly, reluctantly.

I furrow my eyebrows in confusion, wetting my lips and take a second look at the man. “Pardon?”

His dark blonde hair is perfectly curly, long enough for them to form but not to fall to his forehead as it would make it seem unkempt. His large, deep-set blue eyes bore into mine almost as if he’s looking for something he cared for dearly but lost along the way. A spark hiding behind his heavy look reminds me of a flame I once lost myself. The color is different, but the emotion remains the same.

His lips are set in a confident smirk, aware of my hungry, shameless gaze. His lips are rosy instead of pink, small instead of plush. His cheekbones are set high and defined, just as is his sharp jawline that could cut glass like a diamond.

He's tall. Much taller than I am. The broad shoulders give enough definition to his muscles so one can easily conclude he works out, but doesn't kill himself in the gym.

He is the epitome of beauty. Perfection. I can't deny that.

"I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met." I apologize again, wanting to keep this man around. For business purposes.

"It's Troy Lahey. We met when I was just an assistant. I suppose I didn't leave a lasting impression." Quirking an eyebrow, Troy brushes the awkwardness away as he helps me take my seat like a gentleman would.

Grayson used to do that for me as well. Opening the door, taking out the chair, even carrying my bag no matter how pink or flowery it is. A rare quality in men these days. Even after all these years, I compare everyone to Grayson. It’s involuntary, almost like a compulsive need.

"I'll make sure I remember you now." I muss, steering the conversation business wise. It didn't take long for us to reach an agreement as he is an agreeable man, very open minded and open to adventure.

"Have you ever hear about Rosie's?" He stops to ask just as I stand to take my leave. I turn around with lips part, possibly some worry passing my features. No matter how hard I’ve worked on my poker face, I still can’t hide my surprise. I can’t remember the last time a man as attractive like him paid any attention to me. More likely, I can’t remember the last time I paid any attention to a man, any man.

"Please don't tell me they're closing. It's my favorite restaurant." I frown, seeing his face light up as he stands as well.

"Nothing like that. I was just wondering if I could buy you dinner this Friday. Or any day you please?" He proposes and I nearly choke on my saliva. He's handsome. He's intelligent. He's everything I searched for and everything I avoided to find.

My heart is still bleeding. My heart still needs time. Six years isn't enough. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.

"Since we've just agreed to work together on a project, I cannot in good conscience agree to that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to." I say politely, noting his smile grow as if he took my rejection as a challenge and although I'm sure it bruised his ego, he won't just stop. He knows I like him and he seems like a man who fights for what he wants.

"I'm a determined man and I think you know that."

"Arrogant." I challenge, fueling the fire.

"Mhmm...I'd say confident." His charming accent can stop a women's heart and while I'd usually find the persistence annoying, he doesn't annoy me. If anything, he amuses me.

But I walk out the door regardless, waving over my shoulder.

Rushing halfway across town, I manage to get to my second meeting just in time. Still in a frenzy, I walk into the meeting only to find someone I never thought I'd see again.

Dropping my files, I feel my legs wobble as I stumble forward and lose footing.

Strong arms wrap around me, catching me in the nick of time and I open my eyes to find myself in a warm embrace of my first love.

"Grayson?" I breathe out his name, my hand instinctively cupping his cheek like I did all those years ago.

"It's really you." He says slowly, his eyes taking me in like I'm a mirage. His earthly hues glaze over with tears as I swallow my own.

Six years of distance between us. Six years of silence, of thinking what he must be doing and how he’s doing. Six years of picking up the phone to call him just to hear his voice. Six years and now he's here with me, holding me tightly like his life depends on it.

"Hi." I smile, feeling him slowly steady my body, but on the inside I'm fireworks and tsunamis, hurricanes catching on fire.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, not meaning to be rude, just curious. Leaning back on the desk as his hold relents, I interlock my fingers to stop my hands from shaking.

Grayson rubs the back of his neck nervously as he always did, shyly looking to his feet first before allowing himself to truly look at me.

He's scanning my body, looking for something that remained the same, something to cling to. I find myself doing the same.

His hair is no longer floppy nor falling in his eyes, making it seem darker, cropped almost. His eyebrows are a little less bushy and I can't help but wonder if he has someone plucking the extra hair like I used to do whenever I managed to overpower him long enough or bribe him with a tasty treat...or myself. His lips are the same plushy pink, perfectly smooth and kissable.

Instead of smooth skin, he bears a stubble, adding age onto his once young looks. His eyes remain the same, the understanding, and kind, gentle soul shining through and he still has the wing shaped earring I bought him. It was a gift for our first month anniversary where I promised I'd be his angel, one to keep him safe as long as the earring remains in its place.

Holding my breath at that realization, I swallow thickly, allowing the need for tears to wither away.

He's grown wider, there are more muscles and definitely more tattoos. I wonder if he had our matching tattoo removed.

“It’s going to be fine.” Grayson speaks slowly, his hands clutching mine as a grin replaces his smirk. “I’ll hold your hand and everything.”

Rolling my eyes at him, I raise an eyebrow. “My parents will kill me. This isn’t even legal, Gray.” Biting my lower lip, I cast my gaze down to his thigh and the unmistakable ink etched into his skin.

“I won’t force you, but I really think it would be cute, ya know? Couple goals and all that? Imagine telling this story to our kids!” The excitement in his eyes is overpowering, entirely enchanting and I’m not sure if he’s even aware of the effect he has on people. His smile, his happiness is positively infectious. He’s incredibly charismatic and charming, turning heads without even trying.

Sighing, I nod. “As long as I get a kiss every time it hurts.”

Pecking my lips, Grayson nods too. “You have yourself a deal, my angel.”

I look at him and still see my Grayson, just a little bigger and stronger, teensy bit older but incredibly beautiful.

Does he still see me as me? Have I changed? Does he find me attractive now? Did I ever even cross his mind?

"I, uh...I was just supposed to deliver some papers. I didn't know I was delivering them to you." He puts his hands on his hips, licking his lips. His gaze wanders, scared to make eye contact.

"Construction crew?" I inquire, unsure what to do when all I want is for him to hold me like we're teenagers again and tell me all he's done or seen since we parted.

"Yeah. Ethan and I started our own little business. This was actually his idea." Grayson frowns, suspecting Ethan had organized this meeting behind his back, but I don't think so. I would have known, would I not?

"It’s really good to see you." He focuses on me once more and my heart jumps. "I missed you." He adds and I know it's over for me. All my what ifs are standing before me, incorporated into one man I had never stopped loving and no matter how hard I fight it, I want to be around him longer.

"And I you. Is it possible for you to stay? Have dinner with me while you're here?" I offer courageously, terrified he might say no.

"I'd love that!" He claps his hands together, a wide smile taking over his face and I see his eyes light up.

Smiling too, I let my heart guide me for the night. If nothing else, I should at the very least have the courage to spend a few more hours with him. After all this time, it will either offer us a second chance or give me closure.

“I have a car waiting for me, it can take us to Rosie’s.” Without thinking, I take his hand only to pause, questioning if it’s alright.

In my moment of doubt, Grayson interlocks our fingers and I let out a relieved sigh. “Rosie’s? Is it your favorite restaurant?”

Giggling, I nod. “Yeah. I always have my faves, but you knew that already.”

Once outside, Grayson steps before me, releasing my hand and just as I’m about to protest, I find he did it so he’d open the car door for me. Fighting the urge to smile, I pray my cheeks aren’t blushing at the gesture, but my eyes are flooded with emotions regardless.

“Are you okay?” Grayson’s hand rests on my hip and I hold my breath, nodding vehemently.

“Yeah, the wind is cold.” I point at my eyes, forcing a smile. “Cold winds are ruthless to my eyes.” Sniffling, I sit inside and send Lily a quick text to get me a seat at Rosie’s. Leaving my phone aside, I tuck my shaky hands under my thighs.

“It’s been so long since I came to New York. I didn’t even know you’re here now.” Grayson moves a little closer, his hand nearly brushing my thigh and I couldn’t help but glance at it every so often.

“I moved back last year. Los Angeles was beautiful and I loved the climate, but New York…It’s the closest to home.” Licking my lips, I shrug. “I guess I needed a change of scenery.”

“Miss, Lily wanted you to know Rosie’s closed for the day, but she made a reservation down in that new restaurant she mentioned. She said you’d know which.” The driver explains and I nod, grateful for the interruption. The last thing I need now is to overwhelm Grayson with all the reasons why I wanted to be in New York.

“That’s fine. Take us there.” Glancing at Grayson, I swallow thickly. His eyes never left me. Though I could sense he wanted to ask me something more, something that would likely bring up the past, Grayson remains quiet for the next few minutes. Luckily the restaurant isn’t far.

“Wait up.” Grayson runs out, circling the car before opening the door, offering his hand.

Reluctant, I look up only to meet his gaze. He’s uneasy, just as I am. So, I place my hand in his and let him help me out.

Sitting, ordering, it all happened so quickly, clouded with awkward silence neither of us could break. But he does. After all, he was always the outgoing one, speaking his mind with no restrain.

“Why didn’t you come back?” The uncertainty in his voice grips me as does my guilt, my heart sinking. “I always thought you’d come back after you finished college and I…I really thought you’d come back to me.”

Rubbing my forehead, I break eye contact. He’s pulling on my heartstrings, each of them breaking as he insists on answers I can’t be sure of.

“I can’t go home. I can’t be there. I don’t feel sane in New Jersey. It’s too much.” I sigh, hating the tears rimming my eyes. “I always thought you’d come after me”, I chuckle with a slight shake of my head. “Every day, for years, I expected you to show up on my doorstep and tell me you never meant to let me go.”

“I’m here now.” Reaching out, Grayson places his hand upon mine and I tense up. I don’t know why.

“But you’ll be gone by tomorrow. You said you’d never leave New Jersey. You said that and I hoped you’d change your mind, but you didn’t.” Cocking my head to the right, I glance at his quivering bottom lip. “Did you?”

“No.” Grayson draws a deep breath before leaning back, taking his hand with him. “I didn’t. I didn’t even know you’d want me to after that night.”

“I can’t breathe here! Everywhere I look, I see them! How can you not understand that?!” My voice is raw from all the shouting, the argument seemingly never-ending.

“Why can’t you stay for me? Am I not important enough? You know my family is here! My twin, my mother and father! My whole damn family, it’s not my fault”, I interject, stopping his thought.

“That I don’t have a family anymore? Is that it? You’re really going that route?” I croak, shaking my head. Running my hands through my hair, I turn away from him.

“You know that’s now what I meant.” Grayson sighs loudly, annoyed. “You’re making me out to be a monster because you need a reason to leave and not look back, but I’m not going to make it easy on you. I won’t.” He steps closer, his presence undeniable. “I will not be a punching bag for you. I love you. I want to marry you some day. I want to have kids with you. But I don’t want to leave my life here. I don’t want to follow you across the country just for you to look at me the way you just did.” Exhaling, his hand rests on my shoulder and I step away, needing my space.

“I’m not pushing you away.” I turn back, wrapping my arms around me. I feel cold, not on the outside but the inside of my body. I’m freezing and I’m burning, just the air here is toxic and I can’t live here. I can’t spend my whole life constantly being reminded of the worst thing that ever happened to me. If I stay, I’ll be trapped in misery.

“It sure as hell feels like it.” Grayson spat and I understand. I understand he doesn’t know how to handle this, because we never had to deal with this before. It’s new and strange and scary and it changed me in ways we can’t still fully smooth over.

“I’m not pushing you away, I’m holding on for dear life!” I choke up, shaking my head as I struggle to inhale. The pressure in my chest is crushing my heart and lungs and I can’t breathe, I can’t think. It’s too much. “I’m asking you to come with me. I’m begging you to, but you won’t.” Wiping my tears I step away from him once again as I notice him reach for me. “You’re giving up on us. You. Not me.”

I walked away that night, left New Jersey the next day as planned.

“Of course I wanted you.” A small smile appears on my lips as I notice his eyes are swimming in unshed tears as well. “I’ve always wanted you.” I add, letting out a heavy sigh. “But I couldn’t stay there. It would have killed me.”

“I could have helped you. I could have been there for you.” Grayson insists, his tone sharp and yet it’s laced with regret.

Does he wish he went with me?

“No one could have helped me back then. The only cure was to leave and I did it to protect my sanity.”

“I could have tried.” Slamming his fist on the table, Grayson stood abruptly, walking toward the exit.

Putting a hundred on the table, I rush after him, my purse in hand. “Wait!” I shout after him, catching him on the street as he tried to hail a cab. “Grayson.” I breathe out, taking his hand in mine.

“Go back to your perfect life, Y/N.” He remarks, hurt written in every line of his tearstained face. He’s crying. Is that why he left?

“It’s not perfect,” I croak. “Not nearly as perfect as it could have been.”

Cupping my left cheek, Grayson’s thumb runs from the corner of my lips to my cheek and back, drawing a gentle smile on my behalf. Leaning down, his forehead rests upon mine, his nose brushing against the tip of mine. His warm breath is tickling my skin, my lips parting and eyes closing in anticipation of his.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” He whispers and I open my eyes. His brown hues are closed, his lips are quivering. Tears are still running down his cheeks.

Letting go of his hand, I cup his face too, breathing heavily. “So kiss me.”

He licks his lips, hesitantly brushing my cold ones. We have feelings that are not visible, we do things to prevent ourselves from being miserable. Being honest is all we have left. Our need to have a taste of the comfort the other one offers is undeniable.

Grayson is the first to end the wait. He kissed me and the world fell away. It’s slow and soft, comforting in ways that words would never be. His hand rests below my ear, his thumb caressing my left cheek as our breaths mingle. Running my fingers down his back, I pull him closer until there is no space left between us and I could feel the beating of his heart against my chest.

It’s perfect. It’s mind-blowing and sensual, forming worlds where we weren’t torn apart six years ago, where we could have made it. There’s no tears in those worlds, no aching desire and longing for one last look.

I never want it to end. But it does. It has to. Everything ends eventually. For us, the end began with a phone ringing.

“Fuck.” He grunts under his breath, looking at me with newfound uncertainty as he picks up his phone, taking a few steps away for privacy.

Wordless, I stand to the side, breathless even now. All I thought I lost before is right before me and it feels like a dream. I’ve been in pieces and with a single kiss, Grayson made me feel whole.

“I, uh, I’m so sorry.” Grayson mumbles, typing something on his phone. “I really have to go. It was really great seeing you again.” He manages a smile as he hails a cab, successfully so.

“Oh.” It’s all I can say, feeling dejected by the sudden change in atmosphere. A part of me expected for him to come home with me, for us to take tomorrow off and stay in bed, talking and making love. I wanted more time. Is it wrong I hoped we’d get back together too?

“I’ll tell Ethan you said hi.” He adds before pecking my cheek. In a moment, he was gone once more.

I couldn’t sleep that night. The moments we spent together kept replaying in my head over and over again and I tried to figure out where I went wrong. Did I do something to make him leave?

Dragging myself out of bed, I arrive at work looking like a hot mess.

“You look like a hot mess.” Lily reminds me and I groan, ignoring her as I enter my office.

“Oh, good morning.” Troy’s chipper tone makes me flinch and I stop, wide-eyed as I realize he’s standing in my office, a cup of coffee in hand and a dazzling smile to go with it.

“I didn’t realize we have a meeting.” I admit, looking around to make sure I didn’t walk into someone else’s office.

“We don’t, but I like to be proactive. I’ve made the initial sketches and left them on your desk.” With a smile as bright as the sun, he passes by me only to stop right next to me. “You look beautiful.”

Glancing his way, all I catch is his back as he leaves me alone in the room. Just me, the coffee he bought me, a stack of papers and…a bouquet?

Wild flowers bring some color to my rather old-fashioned office, breathing some life into the room. I smile, stepping closer only to find a single rose in the center of the bouquet as well as a note. It’s typed, not handwritten and there’s no signature.

“Lily?” I call out for her while opening the note with a hint of a smile adorning my lips.

She appreciated the beauty of a rose, the symbolism. But she never liked roses. No. Her love was always reserved for lilacs, violets and other wild flowers that painted the very essence of her soul.

“Yes?” Lily enters and I turn to her with a wide smile.

“Who sent this?” Was it Grayson? Did he want to tell me something? The words are so beautiful, and just right. I’ve never liked to receive roses, but wild flowers made my heart go crazy. Who else could know this but him?

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them delivered.” Lily frowns, stepping closer. “Must have been delivered when I was in the bathroom or something.” She shrugs, still a little troubled.

“Oh.” I furrow my eyebrows, biting my lower lip.

“Why, what does the note say?” Lily narrows her eyes as I smile. “What’s that smile for?”

“Lily, book me a ticked.” I decide right then and there. My what if’s will no longer dictate my future. Whether these came from Grayson or not, I have to see him again. “I’m going home.”

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A/N - If you’ve made it this far, let me know if you like it and want more. It’s an old draft I polished a little which is why it’s written in the reader’s POV, something I haven’t done in quite some time.

#grayson dolan #grayson dolan x reader #grayson dolan imagine #grayson dolan angst #grayson dolan fluff #grayson dolan fanfic #grayson dolan fic #grayson dolan fanfiction #dolan twins

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stareyedplanet · 4 years

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Birthday Surprises [p.p.]

•••••••••••••••••

Pairing: Peter Parker x Fem!reader Summary: Peter takes time from saving New York to spend time with you on your birthday, and he’s got a few surprises up his sleeve to make the day truly special. Notes: this is a very self - indulgent fic considering it is my birthday today, so seriously, do not come at me. you have been warned. even still there are like no descriptors. i think i mentioned he runs his fingers through her hair? maybe she blushes? i honestly can’t remember. i don’t really reread and edit soooo… and he picks out her outfit if that ruins your creative ability idk. people be weird sometimes. anywho, any feedback is appreciated other than the stuff i mentioned. Warnings: pure fluff, maybe a kiss or two Word Count: 2,348 ••••••••••••••••• You had never really been one to celebrate your birthday in the past. When you were younger you had a few parties, but as you got older birthday plans just seemed to fizzle out into nothingness. It always made you a little sad, but that was probably because the last birthday party you had you ended up sobbing at. Yeah, maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t have a birthday party after that. You didn’t have very high expectations for the day, since to you it was just another day and another year. Your life wasn’t going to dramatically change because you were a year older. Really you just thought that maybe you would see Peter in between his patrols, and you’d put a candle on the little cupcake you got yourself. But Peter Parker had other plans.

He knew that you never really celebrated, but he wanted to make the day special for you. To him, you deserved one special day dedicated to you — really you deserved every day to be special and dedicated to you.

He couldn’t be more thankful for such a perfect and patient girlfriend. You never complained when he canceled on a date, or when he went on patrol so long you only got to see him a few minutes. Any time he ever had a cut or a bruise, you would sit him down and patch him up, always putting on a brave smile to cheer him up, even if he knew you were always terrified you would lose him. But you never let it get to you. You were always there for him and never showed signs of backing down.

So he was determined to make today special for you.

It was early when he was knocking on the door to your place, a sweet smile lighting up his entire face. He took in your appearance, still dressed in an oversized shirt and baggy sleep pants. Your hair was a mess around your face, frizzy and unbrushed.

This wouldn’t do.

“What are you doing? You have to get dressed! We have a busy day, come on.” Peter coaxed as he walked into your place, pushing you towards your room.

“Peter? I thought you would have patrol this morning?” You said, clearly confused as to what the boy was on about. Not that you were unhappy to see him. You loved being able to hang out with Peter longer than normal.

“Nope. Today is all about you, angel,” Peter grinned, kissing your cheek as he pushed you into your room before going to the dresser and pulling out an appropriate outfit. And by that he meant jeans and his old Midtown sweatshirt you had stolen ages ago.

“What are you doing?” You laughed as he pushed the clothes into your hands before turning his back to you so you could get dressed.

“Tik tok, Y/N,” he sang, waiting patiently for you to finish getting dressed. He knew you were done when you wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his back and just inhaling his scent.

“Can’t we just stay in, Peter? Seriously, I don’t need anything big.” You argued quietly, nuzzling into him more.

Peter turned around in your arms and kissed your head, playing with the ends of your freshly brushed hair. He just swayed with you for a minute before he shook his head.

“Nope. My special girl deserves a special day. Come on, you’ll love it, Y/N. Trust me…” Peter said, giving you sweet puppy eyes. You could never say no to those eyes. Not really.

“Fine, I trust you Peter. But promise we can just come here and watch Lilo and Stitch at the end of the day?” You asked him, looping your arms around his neck.

Peter gave you an Eskimo kiss, nudging his nose against yours.

“It’s on the plan, angel. I promise. We’ll have cuddles and movies later.” Peter assured you, pressing his lips against yours quickly. “Now are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready.” You agreed finally, grabbing your phone and keys, slipping each of them into their normal pockets.

Peter laced his fingers with yours as he led you out of your apartment and down to his car, helping you into the passenger seat before climbing into his side. He subconsciously reached over and buckled your seatbelt before giving you a sheepish look of apology. He knew you didn’t like it when he did that. Sure you thought it was cute that he was worried about your safety, but it borderlined him being overly worried and protective.

But today it didn’t seem to bother you. In fact, you smiled at him and just shook your head in amusement, which made Peter’s face brighten as well. His hand rested on your thigh as he drove to the first location of the day. Breakfast. He watched as you began bouncing in your seat when you realized where he was pulling into.

IHOP.

You absolutely loved the place, but you hardly ever got to go. And Peter clearly knew you if this was where he was taking you for breakfast. He once again led you inside and you all took your seats.

“Come on Peter, tell me what else you have up your sleeve for today?” You asked him, leaning across the table to talk. You batted your eyelashes at him, hoping he might tell you what else he had planned.

“Nope, it’s a surprise, Jellybean,” Peter grinned. He wasn’t usually good at keeping secrets but he was determined to make sure he didn’t let a single thing slip.

Before you knew it you two had been there for two hours, laughing and talking and teasing. You were sure you could have sat longer but Peter had someplace else for you to go and began to usher you out.

You waited patiently in the car as Peter drove, his hand returning to it’s spot on your thigh, the other controlling the wheel. You bit your lip as you looked at him, hoping your stare down might get him to crack. It didn’t.

This drive was a little longer than the first one, so you knew you weren’t headed back to either of your places.

“Peter, where are we going?” You whined quietly, hating surprises. But you trusted Peter.

“You will see. Jeez, be patient, Angel,” Peter laughed quietly, squeezing your thigh gently.

You tried for a while longer to get it out of him but ultimately gave up, leaning your head against the window to watch the buildings passing by. It was thirty minutes later when Peter told you to close your eyes.

With an amused smile you placed your hands over your eyes, waiting patiently for Peter to park the car, come around to your side and help you out. He then led you around while making sure your eyes were closed. Peter was so excited to see your reaction. He had gotten help from Mr. Stark for this one, so he really hoped you would like it.

You two eventually stopped and Peter moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. “Open your eyes.” He whispered to you.

So you did.

You looked around and your jaw dropped when you saw the large Broadway sign. He had brought you to Broadway Theatre. And when you glanced down he was holding two tickets for Wicked. You turned your head to share your look of shock and happiness with him. You had wanted to go to a Broadway show for so long, and Peter had made it happen.

“Peter… how?” You asked him, turning in his arms with teary eyes.

“Mr. Stark helped me get really good tickets. He also… may have paid for them to run the show tonight.” Peter explained quietly.

“You got… Tony Stark to pay to run Wicked on my birthday for me?” You asked incredulously.

“Of course I did. Do you like it?” Peter asked.

“Like it? Peter this is literally the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I love it.” You said before throwing your arms around him.

The show lasted for around two hours, and you were on the edge of your seat the entire time. Peter thought it was cute how into the musical you were, and he found himself spacing out to stare at you for chunks of the performance. He wouldn’t admit that if you asked though.

The performance was over in a flash, and you were both disappointed and invigorated because of it. It only had just ended yet you wanted to watch it again and again. Peter had made a good choice.

“Thank you for such a wonderful day.” You murmured to him as you walked out of the theater. “You’re welcome, jellybean, but the day is far from over.” He grinned.

“What do you mean?” You asked, surprised that he had more planned.

“I mean it’s time to get back in the car. And don’t worry, the next part has more standing up and walking around.” He told you as you two headed to the car.

“Peter, I really don’t need anything else.” You tried to tell him.

“Come on, you’ll love it…” Peter said, giving you puppy eyes. “Please?”

“Fine.” You sighed. He had seemed to put a lot of effort into it all so you didn’t want to ruin it. “But then can we just go home?”

“Yes. Scout’s honor after this last place we will watch movies and cuddle.”

“You weren’t a scout.” You reminded him with a smile.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Y/N.” He teased, wiggling his eyebrows. It made you laugh as he pulled onto the road once more, taking you to your last mystery location.

It was a 40 minute drive.

It was long and you were already sick of sitting in this car, but every time you whined like a child asking if you were there yet, Peter would only laugh and tell you that you were ‘getting close love.’

Once again when you were in the final stretch, Peter told you to close your eyes so he could properly surprise you. Much in the same fashion as earlier, Peter helped you out of the car and began to walk you along. Only this time you could somewhat hear where you were going.

“Peter… are we at Coney Island?” You asked him. Your eyes were still covered so you couldn’t see the pout and puppy eyes Peter gave you. He uncovered your eyes since you had guessed.

“Yes… you ruined your own surprise you know.” Peter told you, kissing the tip of your nose.

You giggled, shaking your head as you threw your arms around him. He really was probably the sweetest and best boyfriend you could ever even dream of.

“I know. It’s not my fault I have ears though.” You pointed out, pulling him into another hug.

“Yeah, but still…” Peter whined.

Eventually the boy gave up on the argument and pulled you into the park. The first thing he tugged you to was the swinging chairs, knowing it would give you two a great view of everything around. And despite the line, you two were able to get right on, another compliment of Mr. Stark. It was that way with everything. You had unlimited rides and unlimited games. Nothing could be better, except maybe just being home, cuddling with Peter.

Next you chose to play some of the carnival games that were everywhere, after Peter begged you to stop for cotton candy. And of course you had agreed, only you chose to steal from his rather than get your own.It was a whirlwind and before you knew it, hours had passed by in the blink of an eye, leaving you and Peter thoroughly tired out from your fun. It meant it was time to go, even if Peter was disappointed he hadn’t won you anything — rather, you won him a stuffed dog you two agreed to share custody of.

Before you two could leave, you pulled Peter into a photobooth, wanting to have some memento of the evening. But finally it was time to go home, and this time Peter told you he was headed to his place for one last surprise.

Your leg was bouncing with anticipation as you waited for him to get to his place. What more could this boy possibly have up his sleeve?

It turned out, Peter had set up the sweetest little fort in the middle of his living room. Aunt May was nowhere in sight and it just left the two of you. He handed you a little cupcake with a candle on it.

“Happy Birthday, Jellybean.” Peter smiled, kissing you softly. “Let’s watch some movies.”

You both walked over to his fort, getting rid of your shoes and climbing in. You settled between his legs, your back pressed against his chest as you ate your chocolate cupcake.

“What was your favorite part of the day?” Peter asked you eventually, after settling on Lilo and Stitch. He tried to fight for Rapunzel, but it was your birthday so of course he lost. Not that he didn’t usually lose that fight.

“Hmm, you know what? This is my favorite part.” You replied quietly.

Peter frowned, surprised and confused by your answer. “Really? But we do this all the time.” He said, knowing this wasn’t new or special.

“I know. But that’s what makes it great. All I need is you and some Disney movies and I’m happy. Everything else was great… but this is my favorite place to be.” You admitted to him. There was nothing better than cuddles and movies with Peter.

“Oh…” he murmured, suddenly feeling shy as his cheeks went

“I love you Peter… You were all I needed to make today special.” You whispered, twisting in his arms so you could kiss him.

“I love you too, Y/N.” Peter smiled, resting his forehead against hers. “Happy birthday, angel.”

#peter parker x reader #spider man x reader #peter parker x fem!reader #birthday fic #peter parker one shot #one shot #spider man x fem!reader #self indulgent fic #birthday celebration #peter parker fic #marvel fic

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lupizora · 3 years

Text

Phantom Scars

Of all the fics I wanted to post as my first in this fandom, this little character study was an unexpected last-minute addition. Tbh it's more of a headcanon I developed while watching the series because I still can't get over how often Touma loses his arm and it just grows back, no problem! Also, after finishing it the other day, NT Volume 22R owns my entire heart. So, the aftermath we didn't get to see managed to sneak in there at the end haha.

Genre: Angst

Pairing: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 1116

Summary: People tend to forget that because you can't see the physical evidence of a wound, it doesn't mean there isn't any emotional scarring left behind.

Misfortune.

Bad luck.

Curse.

Kamijou Touma had called many things the ability receding in his right arm during the half-year worth of memories he had. Sometimes he wondered if the person he had been before losing his memories had used different words or had different emotions. His heart refused those thoughts when all sorts of calamities occurred to him every other day.

Not everything related to Imagine Breaker was unlucky. It had also assisted him in saving a lot of people from their personal tragedies, even the entire world once or twice too. He couldn’t renounce or deny it for existing. It remained a part of him, literally and figuratively, whether he wanted it or not.

But there was one thing Touma wished to be different—the fact his right fist didn’t leave any proof behind. Neither of his feats in the battlefield’s aftermath, neither any marks on his body. He had been hurt in his many misadventures or assignments; broken bones, bleeding guts, even losing his entire arm a bunch of times. Thanks to Academy City’s superior doctors, there were no consequences or evidence left behind to prove it all. The only saving grace he had been allowed in this life.

And yet, late at night, when the freeloaders in his dorm were sound asleep, he’d look in the mirror and wonder: Was any of it real?

In less than half a year, Touma had faced against desperate Magicians and power-hungry Espers alike. He had been present when worldwide organizations clashed to the point of wars. He had seen the world disappear in a flash of light and return in a clap of thunder. But he carried no scars to speak off these events. As if they were nothing more than elaborative daydreams, figments of a teenager’s overactive imagination. Recognition wasn’t the goal or the end destination. It would probably bring even more trouble than his ten minutes of glory would accomplish.

He just wanted his sanity to latch onto something tangible. Having nothing to prove his claims, how was he certain it ever happened?

Memories could be finicky things. Touma knew that more than anyone, being a certified amnesiac and all. So, unless he stuck his head into an MRI scanner, none would ever notice the damaged neurons crisscrossing like fried computer circuits over the soft tissue that mapped his brain. Touma had made sure the people closest to him wouldn’t. After all, he wasn’t some kind of kintsugi pottery for others to put on display. Just an ordinary high school boy—one everyone could find anywhere in Japan—with an unusual right hand.

Touma opened his eyes to several people standing in a circle around him. Friends, acquaintances, former adversaries turned allies; all were sharing similarly concerned expressions. It didn’t stop them from resting their hands in their preferred weapons. As if they were still wary of an attack. No one could blame them; he certainly didn’t. Every person in this room had survived a war, only to get roped into another—so soon and so suddenly—that most were still unaware why it transpired in the first place. They all looked worse for wear, even those that had been on the offensive.

The destruction he and the other had caused in the ballroom flashed before Touma’s eyes. Taking into account only the fights he’d been part of in this skirmish, the damage to the surrounding area was leagues away from his meager budget.

I really hope they don’t make me pay for all this. But then again, my misfortune is— He stopped. His right hand returning to him meant it would restart canceling his good fortune. Instead of dread settling on him like a wet blanket, Touma was joyful. Yeah, my luck is so bad, it might as well happen.

Everyone continued to stare; the tension so thick, someone could cut it with a butter knife.

“What’s with this gloomy atmosphere?” Touma asked with an awkward smile. “If my heart wasn’t beating so loudly, I’d think this is my funeral.”

No one laughed at this poor attempt of a joke. But several shoulders relaxed, and some breathed out a sigh of relief.

“So, it’s safe to assume you’re back to normal?”

“Yup.” Touma clenched his fist. “Everything is here, human skin and all.”

“Wait! These wounds!” Index forced his fingers open again. Cracks painted thunder shapes from the base of his fingernails to his wrist. They didn’t hurt, so he hadn’t paid them much attention. But the silver-haired girl, gripping at his arm like a lifeline, had tears in her emerald eyes. “We can’t heal them now. They are going to scar!”

Maybe the blood loss was responsible, but Touma’s heart felt lighter. If only for a moment, another wish he may have willed into existence had come true. Unlike the one he had just laid to rest; this wasn’t a weight that would bother anyone.

Still, something compelled him to reassure the sobbing girl in front of him. “Don’t be silly, Index. It’s gonna be alright,” Touma said. “This is nothing a couple of bandages can’t fix. And it just so happens I know someone—”

Another girl, the one whose appearance he could never recall, entered his thoughts like a bullet train. Touma turned his head. Those near the ballroom’s busted entrance noticed his expression and stepped aside to clear the view. No one had collapsed in a pool of their own blood there.

“She is safe. The Royal Nurses accompanied her to the hospital.”

“That’s—” His knees buckled— “great.”

Letting go of Index’s hand, Touma collapsed to the floor under their collective cries. Everyone took a step forward, but there was no need to worry. Somehow, he had managed to land in the least damaged area with no glass or wood shards around. It seemed like Lady Luck was smiling his way for a little longer.

Touma waved wobbly to reassure them. “It’s fine,” he said. “I just need to lie down for a moment.”

“But! You should see the doctor too,” Index whimpered. “We need to get you to a normal bed.”

“I don’t want to.” Stretching against the carpet, Touma settled into a comfier position that didn’t pull at his wounds. “That’s too much trouble for Mr. Kamijou right now.”

“Really…” Index’s puffy fairytale dress rustled as she kneeled next to him. “You’re are so immature sometimes.”

“Pot,” he mumbled. “Kettle.”

Index didn’t try to bite off his head. Maybe she didn’t pick on the taunt. Maybe it was pity or even mercy. Whatever it was, Touma didn’t care as he drifted into a well-deserved rest. Such a peaceful moment had been a long time coming, after all.

#to aru majutsu no index #kamijou touma #index librorum prohibitorum #to aru series #a certain multiversal raildex #new testament spoilers #a certain magical index #raildex #fanfiction #fanfic #one shot #character study #wolfswriting

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dammitadolfnomorecake · 3 years

Text

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt 154

154

Fussing over Lance, Lance sighed for the hundredth time at his boyfriend. He loved Keith. Treasured Keith. Adored Keith. Cherished him with everything he had, but surely their had to be some kind of limit to the amount on guy could fuss over another, especially seeing he’d been fussing over him since early morning. Keith had wanted to cancel their date on account of Lance’s morning sickness. Lance wasn’t having it. He was having his date with Keith and nothing was stopping him. Not nausea. Not lack of sleep. And not Keith fussing over him when he was totally fine-ish.

Keith was taking their date seriously. Lance was seriously kicking himself over the previous day, despite the fact that Keith finally working it out made him stupidly happy. Plus, Keith had enjoyed the evening, even if he had no idea what was happening at the time. His boyfriend had taken this date seriously enough that he’d spent a hefty chunk of time on his phone working out where they were going. Knowing Keith would consider his feelings, he really hoped that Keith had seen how much he wanted to do something with him that his boyfriend enjoyed. Things were better that way. That way they’d both be excited and have more to talk about than just Lance blabbing on and on about his own interests.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve got your hands on your stomach”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Keith, Lance wondered where else his hands would be. The twins were moving, like they were as excited as Lance was for this date

“Keith, it’s kind of the most convenient place for them”

“You’re not in pain?”

Lance gave in to the urge to roll his eyes as he replied

“I’m fine. Like the other hundred and one times you asked. I’m fine and I’m excited, but no pain”

Other than the discomfort of having to pee, and the general achiness of his hips. He’d been anxious about the date, being pregnant and all that, but now he was in disguise... Kind of. He had his jumper on that no longer really hid his bump, but the cap on his head his hair, and the thick sunglasses took up most of his face. Coran has given them the okay to go out, as long as they were careful and Lance took things easy. Around his neck was a blue scarf, that Keith had stunk up for him, so he was as ready as he was ever going to be when it came to slipping back into the general human population.

Huffing, Keith drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for the lights to turn green. Lance clueless and loving that he was

“I’m sorry... I know you’re excited”

“I am. And you’re anxious that I’m not going to like the surprise...”

“A bit”

“Babe. It’s not going to be like super different than normal. It’s you and me, seeing something together. It’s about making memories and not stressing”

“I know. I still... want things to go well”

He would have kissed Keith if Keith wasn’t so focused on not killing them

“They will. Just concentrate on not getting us lost”

Keith shot him a scowl, deadpan with his reply

“You’re hilarious”

Another 5 minutes passed before they were pulling into the parking lot and Lance was lighting up. Being landlocked Platt didn’t have a whole lot of water around it. There was an artificial dam of sorts, where people could swim, boat and fish, and for some reason there was also this place. Platt Aquarium and Animals. Their sign boasted about the conservation work they did in the area. It’d been a long time since Lance went there. Probably sometimes around his first year back at college when he’d only just made friends with Pidge and Hunk. He’d brought Mami along, so she could meet them again, and it was one of those places he’d meant to take Keith on a date to before all the craziness had happened.

Cutting the engine, Keith seemed tense. Lance reaching out to place his hand on his boyfriend’s thigh

“This is it, right?”

“I mean... uh... if it’s not too lame”

Probably a little lame, but by Lance’s standards it was a whole lot of unlame

“It’s not lame. Did you know this place has sharks?”

“It said on the website”

“That’s the whole reason isn’t it? You want to see sharks and tell them their traitors for not having two dicks, don’t you?”

Keith’s cheeks reddened. Lance chuckling. His boyfriend was so cute when he blushed

“It’s fine. As long as you don’t get the compulsion to try punch one”

“I’m not going to punch a shark. Not unless it tries to make you lunch”

Lance raised an eyebrow, knowing full well what Keith meant

“I could support a shark making me a sandwich”

Keith groaned. His boyfriend too stressed to be able to take a joke

“Not like that. Why... How would that even work?”

The mental images shouldn’t have been as funny as they were, he couldn’t help the small giggle at the thought

“Carefully. Seriously, if you keep stressing in going to start stressing”

“But is it enough? I wanted to...”

“Babe, you’re overthinking. This is one of the places I wanted to bring you. I think the names changed, but this place is super cool. I thought you’d love taking photos of the fish”

“So... this is better than a shooting range, right?”

“Much. Let’s go already. I want to see all the fish and the animals. I think they even have bats here. You’re not going to get me confused with another bat, are you?”

“As long as you stay human”

“Well I can’t seem to turn into a bat carting around our twins, so I think we’re pretty safe in that department”

“You’ll let me know if you need a break or anything?”

“Yes, dad. Now can we go in?”

Keith paid for their tickets, Lance already losing concentration when it came to the tanks filled tiny neon fish in the reception area. Keith’s eyes had lit up the moment they’d stepped through the doors, Lance smiling at his boyfriend’s excitement that Keith was trying not to let break his cool calm “adult” demeanour. Keith had probably never got to go to an aquarium as a kid. Shiro had to have taken him, or maybe Shiro and Adam had made a family day of it. Lance hoped so. He hoped Keith wasn’t overthinking him having been there before. Having older siblings meant doing this kind of thing when Mami and Papi could afford it. When he’d been a kid there’d been this face painter at an aquarium they’d been to. Lance had his face painted with as many different fish as he could, then refused to take a shower that night because he didn’t want them to come off. Instead most of them scratched off against his pillow and he’d been devastated the following morning.

Sliding their tickets into his wallet, Keith took him by the hand as Lance moved away from the family wanting to get to the ticket counter. His boyfriend putting his wallet in his back pocket, staring at his feet as he did

“You probably know this place better than I do”

Stupid nerves. Lance wanted to kiss away all Keith’s anxieties. Sure, internally he was paranoid and just as fearful of something going wrong, but if he kept to that chain of thought then neither of them would have any fun

“If that’s your way out of us seeing everything, I’ve got news for you”

“I mean... where do we go?”

There were maps, and three different ways to the exit. Keith would know this if he wasn’t so anxious. His boyfriend had no right being so adorable

“You follow the yellow arrows on the floor until you’re past the biggest tank. That’s the one with the sharks in it”

“And is there anything I shouldn’t do?”

Other than punching sharks? And following common sense? Nope. There was only one “rule” that Lance could think of which would ease both their anxieties

“Yep. But the absolute worst thing you can do here is let go of my hand. I want to see everything here with you”

Keith ducked his head as he squeezed Lance’s hand, embarrassed as he mumbled

“I didn’t mean that”

“I know. Still, I want to hold your hand”

“You already are, dumbarse”

“Yep. I’m not letting go either. You’ll wander off and get lost if I do”

“If anything, you’re the one more likely to wander off”

“Why would I? I mean, like, the best part of the date is you, so why would I leave your side?”

Keith groaned at him, Lance bumping him with his hip

“Come on, mullet. Let’s go see some fishes... I wonder if they actually have mullets here... a photo of a mullet in front of a mullet...”

Keith stepped on his toes lightly, Lance shaking his head as he grinned. This was going to be the most awesome date ever. He was going to make sure of it.

Lance was a vampire in too deep. He couldn’t help himself and now he was lost as Keith tried to make conversation over the “colony of Nemo’s” in the tank they’d stopped to coo over. He couldn’t help but be distracted, and what was worse was that Keith had noticed his distraction. His boyfriend trying to make more of an effort, though he absolutely didn’t need to. Excusing himself to the bathroom. Lance went through the usual routine, before standing in front of the mirror. He didn’t look like he was having a good time. He didn’t look terribly healthy either. There was a major problem he was having and it was ruining his whole date.

Keith was too cute.

Trying to fix his appearance up in the bathroom, he came out to find his boyfriend sitting on the bench looking dejected. With his elbows on his thighs and his figure hunched forward as he held his head in his hands, Lance felt like a douche. He wasn’t trying not to have a good time. He just kept looking at Keith and getting caught up in the expression on his face. The wonder. The innocence. The way he scrunched his nose and put on a posh accent as he tried to pronounce species names. This date was so perfect that his stupid heart was dying from a Keith overload. They weren’t clumsy teens fawning over each other, they were supposed to be mature adults... but that went out the window each time Keith would smile and Lance would find his own smile growing wider. Keith was stressing out and his boyfriend had no clue. Despite how embarrassing it was going to be, he was going to have to tell him so Keith knew the date was anything but awful.

Sitting down beside his boyfriend, Keith sighed heavily

“I fucked this up again, didn’t I?”

Lance’s heart damn near broke

“No. No... it’s not that”

“I thought you’d be happy...”

“I am”

“So why are you... so sad?”

Resting his head against Keith’s shoulder, Lance let out a shaky breath, trying not to cry over Keith feeling so bad

“It’s...”

“It’s me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But not the way you think”

Lance cringed at his own words. Zero reassurance right there. Flinching a little as Keith sat up and he was forced to move back

“I wanted this to go well”

“I... okay. This is kind of embarrassing, but I can’t take my eyes off of you”

Drawing his brow, Keith seemed ready to start yelling or internally implode trying to ask what the heck that meant without having quite the right words or brainpower to figure them out. Right. He could do this. He’d comforted Keith a hundred times before... though if that was true than his boyfriend probably should have more rights when it when it came to fussing

“I mean... You just look so happy and so cute that I keep getting distracted by you. And then I realise I’ve kind of mostly missed everything because I can’t take my eyes off you. I’m not not having a good time. I’m just being... weird... because... you’re really cute”

“What the fuck?”

Finally it was Lance’s chance to groan. What part of what he’d said wasn’t making sense

“You. Look. Cute”

“You’re watching me instead of the fish?”

“I’m watching you watching the fish...”

“I start looking at the fish then I see you and my heart goes weird. I’m having a small panic about what to do though. I like being able to talk to you about your interests, and mine, in this case. But I can’t seem to keep my eyes off you”

Keith opened and closed his mouth, before dramatically sighing and ruffling up his hair

“What am I supposed to say about that?!”

“I don’t know”

“You sound like you love me, or something?”

As if that could be doubted. He wouldn’t be having so much trouble paying attention if he didn’t

“I do. Very much. Have you taken many photos?”

“Yeah... I mean... a few”

Lance had the feeling Keith was trying to cover up that most of those photos were of him from the tightness in his boyfriend’s tone

“We should take some more. I don’t want to forget this day”

Keith dropped his head down to kiss Lance on the shoulder

“Where I made your brain go all stupid?”

“Mhmm. If you think I’m stupid now, you should see me later”

Keith cocked his head

“What do you mean?”

“You see, I have this boyfriend. He’s kind of fucking amazing... and he turns me into this massive mess when we’re in bed together. Can’t think at all about anything important other than him. Zero brain cells remaining”

Keith snorted at him, Lance managing to sound to proud and serious at the same time, ruining it by laughing at the end. Keith deserved to feel good about himself. He was wonderful and everything Lance could want. Other people had stared at Keith as they’d made their way through the complex, but Keith was oblivious to their looks

“Are you sure you had brain cells to begin with?”

“My sources say no. I’m sorry I made you worry. I know you want everything to go well, and it is. I love you”

“I love you, too. Though I do think the fish are much more interesting than I am”

“That’s because you don’t see what I see. Just like elbow me if you catch me staring or phasing out”

Lance tilted his head, leaning down to nuzzle into Keith, Keith wrapping his arms around him as he nuzzled back

“Nah. Having you watching me... it’s nice to know you can’t take your eyes off me”

None of the fish compared to Keith. Not the tiny Neon Tetras, or the rainbow of colours of the fake coral reef that the Gropers swam over. The Black Cardinals reminded him of Shiro and the clownfish of watching Finding Nemo for the first time. He didn’t know what fish suited Keith the best, but he’d buy a whole damn aquarium if he got to see Keith so excited every day of his life. Actually, he wouldn’t. His boyfriend would be sad each time a fish passed and they were both pretty clueless over how much went into running a place like that. What Lance really wished was that he could bottle the happiness he felt when he watched Keith’s eyes tracking the fish in the tanks. The way his eyes would widen, or he’d squint to find the fish in the tank, then widen when he’d found his target. They should have picked up Keith’s proper camera. Next time they’d have to come with the twins and the rest of their family. But that’d be okay because he’d gotten to see all these expressions on Keith’s face that made him fall in love all over again.

#once bitten twice stupid #oncebittentwicestupid #ashratherose

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justjessame · 3 years

Text

Double Shot Chapter 23

To say I wasn’t tempted by the idea of doing a drive-by instead of a inside tour of my mom’s house would be a fucking lie. There was a HUGE part of me, even with the confidence having Clay by my side gave me, that wanted to drive by as fast as possible with a nod of my head toward the house and then fuck all the way off, but that wouldn’t do. Facing it, getting it out of the way, and then deciding what to do with the house was the best course of action. At least that’s the mantra I kept repeating to myself throughout the morning, while I also prepared for the celebratory dinner at Enzo’s.

Carrie was in the office when I called and she nearly squealed at the idea of a party being held. I wanted to cancel, just from the glee that she seemed to be oozing, but then I shrugged. Small tourist town on the coast, we didn’t get much excitement, I guess. We talked over how to make it work, without alienating Enzo’s regulars, and discussed something that I hadn’t wanted to mention to Keli.

“If I make it, can I bring it in without Joey getting pissed?” Joey was Enzo’s pastry chef, a territorial Italian who was known to lose his shit if he overheard a muttered complaint about the tiramisu.

Carrie snorted. “Joey will be fine as long as I promise him that you aren’t stealing his job. He keeps hearing glowing reviews of the pastries you make over at the Drip, he doesn’t KNOW it’s you, but he suspects.” Takes a baker to know one, I thought. “I’ll handle his overabundance of testosterone, you take care of the cake.”

I chose Saturday night. I hoped that Davey and George would come, and I thought I’d ask Clay to invite his team. It felt right, somehow to have all of us together for a night of celebration. Plus, with all of us in one spot, maybe I wouldn’t worry about the knife hanging over our heads.

Clay came in around lunchtime, and I smiled as I shifted control to Keli. While I did it almost daily when I made a run to the bank, this time we both knew, as did the girls I left in her hands, was different. She wished us well for our chore, since I told her what we were planning, and Clay’s eyes widened when she didn’t look murderous while she offered it.

I was chuckling as we walked to my car. “Keli’s my new manager,” I offered as I beeped the car unlocked so we could get in. “I think she’s taking well to her new role.” His eyes met mine when we got inside the car and I smiled. “You told me I should start delegating more.”

His answering smile nearly made me forget why we were in the car. “I know this isn’t easy for you,” I was still thinking about Keli, but he went on. “I’m right here, Char, if it gets too hard-” Oh, I blinked, he meant the house. Right, the whole point of the day. Shit.

“I know,” now, I added, starting the car and pulling onto the street. And I hoped he knew how much I loved having him with me. The house I grew up in looked more like a doll house than my memory bank allowed it to. In fact, if someone asked me to describe it prior to us pulling up in front, I might have created a word image that was a cross between the Addam’s family house and Dracula’s castle. Good times, good times.

In reality, it was white with pale blue trim. The scalloped framework of the wrap around porch, the white picket fence, the perfect lawn all belied the darker memories that took place inside. I shook my head when I took in the matching dollhouse mailbox.

“I forgot she added that,” I muttered, touching the wood with a fingertip. “She tried so hard to make everything picture perfect.” Clay was looking around, and I knew he was wondering if I had the key. “It’s here,” I held up the keyring that held all the keys I used daily. “Habit,” I murmured, thinking that it made little sense to have kept it with me, but I had.

“Are you ready?” His voice was quiet as we walked through the gate, up the floral lined pathway. I nodded, thinking it was all surreal. The last time I- Shaking it off, I took the steps onto the porch carefully, smiling at the care that Davey had paid for to keep up the house no one ever went inside.

I unlocked the door and took a deep breath. Opening it, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the air wasn’t stale. Then again, Davey and George probably had someone come in and air it out regularly, not to mention keep the dust at bay. What I wasn’t prepared for, as I stepped over a threshold I hadn’t touched since I was ten years old, was the fact that it was still completely furnished just like the last time I was inside.

Looking around, without moving further than the entry hall, it felt like if I stood still I’d hear her call out. That my mom would come through the doorway from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron and admonishing me for staying at the cafe too late. Or from the living room, a book in her hand and her reading glasses perched on her nose, eyes tight with worry and anxiety, asking me if I’d eaten or if I wanted her to make me a sandwich.

“Char?” Clay’s voice startled me, so lost in the past that I’d forgotten him. “Sweetheart?”

“I’m fine.” My voice was barely a whisper, I felt scared that I’d pop the bubble of nostalgia, the feeling that she was still here, still just out of sight felt so real to me.

I’d forgotten how light she’d kept the colors inside the house too, my memories of those years so clouded by the pain she was coiled in. Pale walls, pale wood, pale patterns. I started moving, knowing that she wasn’t here, not really. Her book, or the one she’d been reading last was still by the chair she always sat in near the fireplace in the library. Her glasses on top of it. I was surprised the cup she used for her tea wasn’t next to it on its matching saucer, but the housekeeper had probably washed and put it away.

It felt surreal, how light and airy the house actually felt, versus how I remembered feeling living inside of it. As I climbed the stairs, wondering what room she’d done it in, if there would be a sign of it, I saw that all the bedroom doors were open. So were the bathrooms. Mom would have had a coronary, I thought with a sad smile. My feet took me to my old bedroom and I held my breath at the sight of the room filled with everything from a childhood that I tried to block out.

The bed, so big for the tiny girl I’d been the last time I slept in it, had four huge white posts and a set of steps to help me get into it. The bed clothes, were they always lavender colored? I vaguely remembered the dollhouse, another replica of the house I stood in, filled with miniature versions of the furnishings and even the people. Or at least there had been, at one time all of them. I walked to it, feeling Clay watching from the doorway and bent down.

The house, like the one I was inside of, was immaculate. The little girl was in the kitchen, baking with a man who looked like George. A woman was in the library in Mom’s chair with a tiny book and a cup on the table beside her, a man who looked like Davey on the sofa. Tilting my head, and twisting the house on it’s rotating base, I smiled as the front came into view. There, hanging from the gingerbread trim of the front porch, from a noose I’d fashioned out of dental floss was the doll that looked like Walter. Happy that no one had removed at least the one thing that proved I’d actually fucking lived in this perfect house, I stood up and turned to see Clay staring at me, his eyes flashed to the dollhouse and I waited for him to gasp or his eyes to widened but he just grinned.

“Takes talent to make a functioning noose out of floss, Char,” he came further into the room and took a look around. “This house is something else.”

“This house is a lie,” I amended. “It’s gorgeous, it just doesn’t-” I sighed. Did I want it?

Clay wrapped himself around me, tucking my head under his chin. “You don’t have to make a decision today, or tomorrow.” I smiled as I snuggled into his chest. “It is a beautiful house though.” I couldn’t deny that. “Want to make at least ONE more good memory here?”

I tipped my head back and raised an eyebrow. His head lowered to mine and as his mouth met mine I smiled into his kiss thinking, perhaps, just perhaps, the house wasn’t ALL bad.

#Franklin Clay x OFC #The Losers (2010)#alternate universe #smut

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lovelyirony · 4 years

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I just came here to say, can you imagine after endgame Sharon finds Nat's white suit in her belongings and decides to wear it and make it her own as a reminder of what she lost and what is left to fight for?

When Sharon Carter first came to SHIELD, she wanted to be just like the other agents.

And yet that was hard for her. It was hard to act like every other agent because she wasn’t like the other agents and they knew it.

She had someone in the organization before her. That’s why she was Agent 13. There were always members of family, but it was usually only the agents that either posed an individual danger or a family danger that got the number.

In the first two weeks, the rookies had figured out that Sharon and Peggy shared the same harsh gaze when they were frustrated.

They scorned her, leaving her to fend for herself.

“You got in because of Carter,” they sneer. “I’d rather have someone who actually earned their spot.”

“Even if that did happen, do you think my aunt would’ve let me into this profession if I wasn’t as skilled as you?” Sharon fires back. “I can finish this mission in twenty minutes on my own if I really wanted to.”

“Then do it,” Agent Riker bites, smirking. “Go ahead and prove yourself, Thirteen.”

Nineteen minutes and twenty-two seconds.

And she does it all in a white t-shirt and jeans, the worst outfit that could’ve been.

“So what, you’ve proved yourself,” they shrug. “Doesn’t make a difference to us.”

So Sharon scraps the idea of having people who are friends at work, friends that she can talk to and go to the bar with after work.

And then she does perhaps the ballsiest move.

She orders a custom white jumpsuit.

The SHIELD tailor laughs. He’s an old man who goes by the name Joe.

“You’re crazy,” he tells her, sweeping a measuring tape across her shoulders. “Maybe they need a little crazy.”

Sharon nods, looking at herself in the mirror.

She shows up to work in white, ponytail out of the way.

Fury gives her a look.

“Really, Thirteen?”

“Everyone’s already criticizing,” Sharon answers. “Why not get some for the suit as well?”

White really is her color. It’s what she’s known for, and a lot of agents still criticize her for it.

“You trying to show off even more?” one sneers.

“Why would I have to after your last mission?” Sharon answers sweetly. “It’s clear to me that you obviously need more tips on how to be inconspicuous.”

It’s bitchy. She knows that. But she also can’t be bothered to give a shit if they’re judging her by family and not by skill.

And then Black Widow.

Natasha Romanoff takes one look her and scoffs.

“Got something to say?” Sharon asks.

“I don’t get the white suit.”

“You will,” Sharon responds. “Just wait.”

Romanoff hears the rumors. Sharon Carter only got into the organization because of her connection to her great-aunt.

“You really think SHIELD would be that stupid?” She asks Agent Riker. “To hire an agent off a basis of family? I thought they hired people smarter than you.”

Sharon’s surprised.

She also makes her first friend.

Natasha Romanoff is deadly, has horrible humor, and wears fun socks after Sharon takes her to get some color in her wardrobe.

“You cannot tell anyone,” Nat makes her swear.

“Who is there to tell?” Sharon asks, grinning. “Besides Clint.”

“Clint doesn’t count, I’m not even sure if he’s human. He ate a paper plate because he was too tired to differentiate it from the pizza in the fridge.”

“I love that man,” Sharon deadpans. “I think if I ever dated men, he would be my type.”

Natasha laughs.

They’re friends. Sharon’s there with coffee in the rough mornings and Natasha is there with words that have lost their edge as she sheds her reputation at the door.

The Avengers is a new thing for Natasha. She loves it because she tells Sharon that it makes her feel like she finally has a family and she’s doing something that’s worthy.

Sharon ignores the jealousy and envy and sadness burning in her gut as she takes a sip of her wine glass and asks Natasha how it is working with Captain America.

(She knows who he is. She’s always known. But that kind of connection is one that she’s not sure she’ll ever flaunt because Steve does not know that she knows Steve.)

Natasha gets more involved with the Avengers and still texts Sharon, but she knows. This friendship is fading and Sharon turns back to a white jumpsuit lying on the couch when she gets home and gets out of her shower.

Natasha can’t make it to lunch. Or dinner. And their shopping trip gets cancelled by an Avengers mission.

Then Sharon loses SHIELD, which in some cases was everything to her. It’s the last connection to family, to a place where Sharon did what she did best: her job.

And now it’s razed to the ground and the Avengers are still there and Natasha--

She has her hands full.

Sharon bitterly looks up at the sky to see the Iron Man armor and for a brief moment, hates the team that has taken her friend from her.

But Sharon has shit to do. She has to decide if she wants to work for the FBI or CIA, and which one can offer her more security.

CIA agents don’t give a singular shit if she came from SHIELD or what her last name means. They’re mostly concerned with making sure that the Congress and the Senate don’t fuck everything up and that they catch whoever the hell is eating all of the leftovers on the third floor fridge.

Sharon gets paid for this. Real, actual money.

And they know that she’s good and they send her on protection missions and she misses Natasha’s calls and she doesn’t feel quite bad about it.

It’s when she’s assigned to survey Germany because some idiot used facial recognition software and Steve’s making boneheaded decisions that she reconnects with Natasha.

“Your hair got longer,” Natasha says.

“Nice of you to notice,” Sharon says tersely. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re about to be in? You won’t be able to go anywhere.”

“Anywhere, really?” Natasha asks, amused. “I’m sure I can think of someone who would welcome me back with open arms.”

“Clint doesn’t count,” Sharon fires back.

“Not who I meant.”

“I know exactly what you meant,” Sharon says. “No calling, no plans, all of it cancelled. You’re a family kind of girl, Nat.”

“You’re part of it.”

Sharon turns, incredulous. “Really. You’re doing this now?”

Sharon knows Natasha like she knows her apartment. She could walk it with her eyes closed. And she knows that Natasha is never this open, not in public.

“Either you’ve changed how you approach your emotions or you’ve gotten sloppy in how you manipulate people,” Sharon says, casual as can be. “I know that you want to go against this. I understand that because chances are later on down the road this will blow up in your face.”

“And now you’re going to pretend like you didn’t slip that file to Steve?” Natasha accuses.

“I slipped it to Steve because as much as I don’t like this, I don’t want an innocent man to die,” Sharon hisses.

She has her white jumpsuit. But she hangs it up in her closet because for something like what they’re planning, she can’t afford to be in white. This isn’t like the twenty minute missions.

And then it gets more serious and she’s fighting like hell against Thanos and his aliens and the fact that everyone is gone.

But not Natasha. Not she’s still on this earth and Sharon knows it kills her because she’s never thought she was enough for that.

They make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sit on the floor in a sunroom. It’s a beautiful day, probably one too beautiful for how many memories they both hold.

“I don’t know if it’ll be okay,” Natasha says. Her voice is thick with unsaid and unheard emotion, and Sharon pulls her into a hug.

“It might not be,” Sharon says quietly. “But we’ll have to keep going anyway.”

So Sharon is introduced to Steve, the guy with a beard who still keeps fighting and looks at Sharon as if he’s expecting someone else. (She pretends like she doesn’t know what he’s doing.)

She starts looking at sightings and patterns and helps people who she’s never met help keep the world safe.

Natasha and Sharon tell stories to each other of people they’ve known. Sharon listens as she grieves and Natasha finds out that Sharon’s own family has been gone.

They spend Christmas together and Christmas kind of sucks right now because everyone is crying and the only thing that’s sold out at stores are tissues.

Sharon wonders if Tony got dusted. No one knows. He was up in space and they haven’t found him yet and she can’t say it doesn’t hurt.

But then. He comes down in his spaceship, Carol Danvers finding him on the verge of death.

He can’t stand the sight of Steve, and Sharon can’t say he blames him. She’s in charge of getting him to in-house care and making sure he doesn’t stray off the nutrition goal.

Pepper and Rhodey sit by his side all the time and they give Sharon looks because she’s Tony’s cousin but not really, not in the sense of a traditional cousin.

She met him that one time when he was probably a little bit buzzed, definitely over having small children look up to him and ask if they can have him play, and probably brushed her off.

Or something.

He’s angry with Steve and tells Sharon right off the bat that he refuses to have anything to do with what’s going on.

“This is my second chance and as shitty as it is for all of you, I’m keeping it,” Tony says firmly.

Sharon says okay because she really can’t blame him.

(Not when six months after he gets back and gets himself better, Pepper announces that she’s expecting.)

Sharon visits often. She brings Pepper her first supply of diapers and formula and Pepper smiles and says she’s welcome for lunch if she’d like.

Natasha doesn’t talk to Tony. Sharon thinks she kind of resents her own position in this whole thing, but Tony nods to her and they understand each other on a level that’s changed.

“Do you think you’ll ever want a family?” Natasha asks one night. They watch the stars and come up with new names for them and sometimes talk about emotions. Like tonight.

“I’m not made for that,” Sharon says. “Work and all.”

“Me either.”

Sharon looks at her.

“No, you are. Because you care so much. You just learned it a little bit differently. You’ll get your family, Nat.”

Natasha gives her that pained smile, the one that holds so much wisdom and hurt in it, and they drink their beers in silence as Sharon contemplates the next mode of questioning that doesn’t have to do with loss or the future. (Possibility: cats.)

And then Scott Lang makes a fucking appearance. They’re not sure how, but he gets out and starts rambling about time travel and they take it to Tony who says “no thank you and goodbye” and Steve tries to get him to help but he won’t.

(It’s bitter in Sharon’s mouth, but it’s the kind of bitter you understand that you can’t spit out.)

Natasha thinks about all the people that are lost.

Sharon asks Scott how well he can do math.

Tony passes along a note, and it seems that Scott gets it, because they’re going to time-travel.

Clint and Natasha leave together, because they’re like two peas in a pod.

“I’ll see you soon,” Natasha says, grinning. Her smile is so nice.

“You better,” Sharon teases. “We still need Margarita Mondays.”

And then Sharon is also gone on a mission to go see her aunt and see Steve witness what he’s lost. Sharon looks at a young picture of her great-uncle.

“She had a good life, didn’t she?” Sharon murmurs. “She got to have somebody she loved and she got to have kids.”

“Yes, yes she did,” Steve says quietly.

It’s heavy for him but he relaxes and they run into Howard Stark, who doesn’t quite understand why Sharon’s there but doesn’t really push it because he’s excited for a new baby.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for that baby,” he says with a gentle smile that’s so fake Sharon can’t believe it.

So she says something. Because she can’t keep her mouth shut.

“You practice that every night in front of the mirror?”

Steve scolds her, but she thinks it’s worth it. She can’t wait to tell Natasha.

Natasha doesn’t come back. She died for a fucking rock and Sharon breaks because that was her friend. That was someone that she would’ve given the world for, and now she won’t get to tell her about her sick one-liner or about how time travel kind of feels like you’re going on a loopy roller coaster.

She’s gone.

But then Sharon can’t focus on it because she has to fight against Thanos who apparently is from a different time zone and has come to destroy everything again, and Sharon really can’t let Tony do his whole “self-sacrifice” shtick he pulls. (Jesus, if he couldn’t have just pulled a Dean Martin maybe they would’ve had televised roasts instead of a universal fight...)

Tony doesn’t die. She doesn’t think he deserves that. But he falls to his knees, the stones fading, and she’s holding him to stabilize him as he falls and his family comes and he gets rushed to the nearest medical facility Dr. Cho can find.

And Sharon is alone.

She doesn’t particularly like being alone in this instance but sometimes you have to be because those are the cards out of the deck.

So she helps relocate families, tells those who were gone the news, and buys herself a pint of ice cream. The news is talking about all these new accommodations and what it’ll do to the price market. She finds that she doesn’t much care and she thinks that all those conversations will be a thing of the past.

And there things to go through. Things from the dead. Clint has his family to focus on, and so it is up to Sharon to get Natasha’s things.

Then she finds it.

A white jumpsuit.

Natasha had called Sharon’s “stupid” for years, with no real explanation to why except for the fact that she would get caught easier.

(“Maybe that’s my intention,” Sharon says, body leaning in too close. “Maybe I want to get noticed so that I can get it done quicker.”

Natasha gives her a dim smile.

“Doesn’t always mean you get the job done as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

And then Sharon didn’t ask her about that. Figured it wasn’t her place.)

A white jumpsuit is something she didn’t know connected them. And she remembers having her own, but this one...this one has to be used. Has to be reinstated because someone needs to carry on who Black Widow is. Or rather, who Natasha Romanoff was.

It’s a slow start. But Sharon starts wearing the white jumpsuit that’s a little bit loose around the shoulders and looks for criminals, because god knows there will be a plethora of those.

Bucky and Sam join her in this. They were both gone and still look stupidly gorgeous, although Sam has the shield because Steve has decided it would be utterly convenient to go on a little time travel trip.

(Sharon’s not sure what’s up with that, but so long as she doesn’t start remembering a Great-Uncle Steve, she’s fine with it.)

It’s hard, definitely. Because sometimes she pulls out her phone to send something to Natasha, and she’s...well. She’s not there.

Sharon will sometimes wear her old jackets with outfits and cry, but she still has the memories.

A cute white jumpsuit can’t hurt either.

#lovelyirony writes #this turned out to be WAY longer than anticipated #just hot damn #sharon carter #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes #sharon and nat have difficulties BUT HEY LISTEN #THEY'RE GONNA COME BACK TOGETHER

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