#/gen it's like the desperation was sucked out of me the moment it clicked that i was actually an adult adult | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

deerixiie · 4 years

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24/7 ramen.

description: you are iwaizumi’s home; even if he is forced to take you to a ramen place at 2 in the morning.

pairing: iwaizumi x gen!reader

genre/warning: banter, fluff, literally just filler dialogue with an overarching plot, light mentions of violence

word count: 1.8k

a/n: this was inspired by some headcanons im going to post. oh and this is for @hajiimes... hehe <3

“I got into a fight.”

Iwaizumi paused, his phone hovering near his ear. He resisted the urge to let out a sharp laugh—of all the things, why did you have to get into a fight?—and slung his arm over his face. “And you lost?”

Iwaizumi could almost hear you pouting. “To be fair, they were-”

“But you lost.”

A pause. “Yeah.”

Iwaizumi dragged his hand across his face with a heavy sigh. “Why are you fighting people at,” he paused to squint at the digital clock on the dresser, “Two in the morning?”

“Ramen.”

“What?”

“Hot and spicy shrimp,” you said solemnly. “There was only one pack-”

“You’re aware we have finals tomorrow, right?”

“Exactly the reason why I wanted ramen.”

Iwaizumi sighed again. “Are you hurt?”

“Well, someone elbowed me in the eye-”

“The eye?”

“Yes the eye. I’m pretty sure it’s swollen, but other than that I’m perfectly fine.”

“Why do you sound so happy?” Iwaizumi asked, getting up to scour his closet for a hoodie. “You lost a fight over a pack of ramen.”

“Well technically, no one won the fight. We all got kicked out of the store. Poor guy didn’t even keep his ramen.”

“Which store?”

“Walmart.”

“You couldn’t have gone to a convenience store or something?” Iwaizumi pulled on the hoodie Oikawa sent him from Argentina and grabbed an old Godzilla hoodie from his closet.

“Haji, this is Socal, not Japan,” you condescended. Iwaizumi scoffed at how haughty you sounded. “I’m sure Socal has convenience stores,” he muttered.

“Well, Walmart was the closest.”

“You could’ve woken me up,” Iwaizumi grumbled, moving on to grab the keys off the drawer, “I would’ve taken you to a convenience store.”

“But you were sleeping.”

“So? You know how dangerous that was? I’d feel a little better if I was there.”

“Yeah, but I wanted ramen,” you sighed. “Anyway, can you pick me up, Haji? It’s getting cold.”

Iwaizumi shut the apartment door with a quiet click. “I’m leaving the apartment now.”

“That was fast.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling that you’d want me to pick you up.”

“Okay. Oh, and remember to drive on the right side of the road.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure? You almost drove into a tree last time.”

“Because I was tired.” Iwaizumi opened the door to the car, dropping the hoodie into the passenger’s seat. “Tired people don’t think straight.”

“Aren’t you tired right now?”

“No, I’ve been awake since you told me you got into a fight. You need to tell me what the hell actually happened there.”

“I told you, it was ramen,” you huffed. “There was one pack of spicy shrimp and three desperate college students in need of ramen.”

“So you fought for it.”

“I lunged for it, some other dude shoved me, I crashed into the third person, and then he was pushing them and I was on the floor and then someone’s elbow was in my eye and then the employee grabbed us and tossed us out.”

Iwaizumi took a moment to process your words. “You sound proud of yourself.”

“I’m not. I didn’t get the ramen.”

“No one got the ramen,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “Isn’t that what you said?”

“I mean yeah, but now I can tell people I’ve been in a fight.”

“Why would you want to tell someone you’ve been in a fight?”

“I dunno,” you sighed. “I’m tired and hungry. Tired and hungry people say weird things.”

“Damn right.”

“That was an insult.”

“It was.”

“Ouch.”

Iwaizumi didn’t respond, lightly drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the red light to turn green.

“My eye hurts,” you said suddenly, your voice crackling from the phone’s speaker.

Iwaizumi furrowed his eyebrows. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“No,” you decide. “Ramen would make it better.”

“So now I’m buying you ramen?”

“Yeah.”

“At 2 AM?”

“It’s 2:28 now.”

Iwaizumi scoffed.

“I found this ramen place that’s open,” you said. “24/7 Ramen. It’s 25 minutes from here.”

“Why is there a ramen place open for 24 hours?” he muttered, half to himself.

“It’s probably run by college students. That’s why the name is catchy too.”

“Catchy?”

“It sounds like a song. You know, 24 Karat Magic by Bruno Mars.”

“Never heard of it.”

“What?” Iwaizumi found himself flinching, despite the fact it was simply your voice coming from his phone’s speaker. “How have you been living in America for two years without ever hearing 24 Karat Magic? That song is a classic.”

“I think you’re forgetting you’re speaking to a guy born and raised in Japan.”

“Haji, you’ve been here for two years. That’s 24 months. 48 weeks. And a certain amount of days I’m too tired to calculate.”

Iwaizumi thought for a moment. “730.”

“730-” you paused. “How the hell did you calculate that so fast?”

“Dealing with stupid people makes you smarter, I guess.”

“No, ramen makes you smarter.” You sighed. “I really want ramen.”

“I heard.” Iwaizumi turned the steering wheel, bringing the car into the Walmart parking lot. “And I’m here now, so you can stop whining.”

“Oh, I see you. Do you see me?”

There was a figure sitting on the front curb, waving erratically in Iwaizumi’s direction. “I see an idiot waving at me like their life depends on it, so yes, I see you.”

“I think being around stupid people makes you grumpy,” you grumbled.

“No, having to pick my significant other up from Walmart at 2 in the morning makes me grumpy.”

You responded by scoffing and hanging up the phone. Seconds later, you were sliding into the passenger seat of the car. “Aw, did you bring a hoodie for me?” you asked, glancing down at the Godzilla hoodie that you almost sat down on.

Iwaizumi glanced over to you, raising an eyebrow. “Hello to you too.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward to press a quick kiss to Iwaizumi’s cheek. “Hi, I love you, thank you for picking me up. Happy now?”

“I’m ecstatic. Yes, that hoodie is for you.”

You smiled, pulling the hoodie on over your shirt and relaxing into the seat. Iwaizumi carefully looked over your face. The only noticeable injury was the ring of darkness around your eye—did they really elbow you that hard?—and a slight cut on your upper lip, but those would heal soon. He let out a quiet sigh of relief.

“What, is there something on my face?” you asked, reaching up to brush your fingers over your cheek.

“You have a black eye.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Damn. Is it bad?”

“No, not really.” He checked the dashboard for the time and slightly frowned. “Where’s the ramen place?”

24/7 Ramen was a small convenience store in between an optometrist and a cigarette shop. On the outside, it wasn’t much. The name of the store was illuminated in large flickering neon letters. The exterior brick walls of the store were dusty and crumbling with age and wore. The windows were covered with assorted posters and papers, some for missing children, upcoming movies, and advertisements for Japanese snacks.

“Oh, so this is like a Japanese convenience store then?” you asked, looking at one of the Japanese ads. “I guess you were right.”

“Told you.”

“Just come on and buy me my ramen.”

The door opened with a familiar chime that reminded Iwaizumi of warm yakisoba buns, tangled with the sight of preppy school uniforms, and of course, Oikawa Tooru. The layout of the store was straight out of Japan, overwhelming him with countless reels of tender highschool memories. If he closed his eyes he could see himself standing right there, bag under his arm, Oikawa at his shoulder.

“Feeling a little nostalgic, huh?”

His head whipped toward you standing behind him with an amused smile on your face. “This place does have a Japanese feel to it.” You raised your eyebrow in that insufferably adorable way of yours, and Iwaizumi found it hard to breathe.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets as a flush began to form on his cheeks. “Be quiet.”

You hummed but made no other comment, instead choosing to shoot him another knowing look that made his blood roar in his ears. You started moving through the store, picking cups of ramen off the shelves. He hovered behind you, still embarrassed about his nostalgic moment—was he that homesick?—occasionally picking up cups of ramen and examining them before placing them back onto the shelf.

After what seemed like ages, you presented your armful of ramen cups with a proud smile. “I’m done.”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “I’m not buying you 15 cups of ramen.”

“But you promised-“

“Each one is like, 65 cents? I’ll buy you 5, max.”

“Why not more?”

“I’m just as broke as you are.”

You sighed in defeat. “Being broke in college sucks.”

“I told you we should’ve held off on getting a car.”

“But I wanted a car!”

“More than you want ramen?”

“That’s- that’s an unfair comparison!”

Iwaizumi continued to go back and forth with you, even as you paid for the ramen at the cash register. You were in the middle of a frantic explanation of why investing in a car was important in California when you finally made it outside.

The air was still and cool, save for the slight breeze that occasionally tangled in Iwaizumi’s spiky locks. The only sounds were the distant cars speeding across the road and the faint sound of crickets chirping, for you had both fallen silent after leaving the convenience store. Iwaizumi turned to look at you: one eye swollen, upper lip bleeding, a plastic bag full of convenience store ramen clutched tightly in your hand. He could see the fire in your eyes, that odd determination to make your own dreams a reality, no matter how fickle or ridiculous they were. It was similar to the drive he saw in Oikawa’s eyes, he realized. The reckless, worthless one that seemed to be a double-edged sword.

Maybe that’s why whenever he looked at you, he felt like he was at home.

“I love you, you know that?”

You cocked your head to the side and smiled slightly. “Where did that come from?”

He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets again, turning away from your curious gaze. The corners of your mouth pulled up into a faint smile. Without warning, you turned Iwaizumi toward you with your finger and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips. And then you were bounding off toward the car, the plastic bag jostling in your hand.

“Hey,” Iwaizumi called, starting after you. “Come back here so I can kiss you properly.”

“I want my ramen!” came your response from the car. “No kisses until I get my ramen!”

Iwaizumi chuckled softly. You were annoying and feisty, but you still managed to make him feel right at home.

taglist in reblog; please comment/reblog with comments in the tags or in the post if you enjoyed!! i love hearing your feedback :)

#iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi x gn reader #iwaizumi oneshots #iwaizumi scenarios #iwaizumi imagines #iwaizumi hajime #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x gn!reader #haikyuu x gen!reader #haikyuu x gender neutral reader #haikyuu #haikyuu writing #haikyuu oneshots #hq #hq writing #deerixiie #does anyone understand the 24 karat magic joke

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years

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skin starving

tony stark x f!reader fluff. no warnings, just a few f-bombs. touch starved tony’s third person pov. words: 2,5k. no beta because i just really needed to get this off my chest.

recommended music to go with the story: two feet - 'love is a bitch' & 'quick musical doodles'. Or any lo-fi hip-hop radio really.

It started as an itch. At first, a small but bothersome thing, that kept him up at night, steering the already unreasonable hours of wakefulness into dangerous territory. The cold of his bed was unappealing and more often than not, he’d started passing out on the flat surfaces nearest to him: workshop, lab, common room couch, the lazy boy in Bruce’s apartment.

The team noticed, of course, they weren’t blind. They all had been on edge the first few months after Pepper left him. They expected him to act out, lock himself up in his lab or go back to his old habits of boozing and bringing home a different girl every night. And he had tried that, once or twice, but airheaded twenty-somethings weren’t appealing anymore. Most of the time their ass kissing and blatantly flattery annoyed him further into self-loathing abyss. He simply couldn’t step up to be the kind of man they described him to be - it seemed as if every woman on planet Earth had a whole list of expectations he specifically could not meet.

With Thor off planet, not one remaining person on the team was particularly touchy-feely. And that was the thing with Tony Stark: as an engineer, as a mechanic, he made his way through the world hands-first, every approach he had was hands-on. During late nights and early mornings, he laid in bed, sleepless and dreamless, desperately refusing to admit his own touch starvation.

Whenever Rogers threw an arm around his shoulders during a particularly successful team bonding activity, it took every ounce of willpower Tony had to not lean into it and purr like a cat. He hadn’t truly forgiven Steve for his cold, cruel words of criticism shortly after Pepper’s departing. He wasn’t going to chummy up to a man who thought him selfish, opportunistic and self-absorbed.

Tony became irritable and withdrawn. He simultaneously craved and avoided even the casual, friendlier attention his teammates gave him on a daily basis. His usual snark became that much more biting, having caused several people to storm out of team meetings.

On a cold autumn morning, Tony had found his way at the tower’s Starbucks on the employee floor. He had squeezed a generous five hours of restless sleep and he was sick of the plain black coffee in his kitchen. A spontaneous desire for something sweet and creamy and caffeinated led him to the place in line at the cafeteria, only a few early birds ahead of him.

Tony’s brain was hazy as it had been past few weeks, dull from the lack of rest and the hyperfixation of his own skin feeling alien to him. For once, he wasn’t typing away on his StarkPhone as he usually did to avoid being bothered; Tony stared straight ahead, unseeing, nothing but white noise in his usually racing brain.

Two women stood in front of him and he couldn’t help but overhear a part of their conversation.

“… Are you really horny or just lonely or touch-starved, though? I mean, Tinder? It’s not really your style.”

“Eh, I dunno. Probably the second but it’s not like men go on Tinder to find a cuddle buddy.”

“Well, maybe? I’ve heard about arrangements like that.”

“No offense, babe, but it’s probably kids in their early twenties. Those gen-z’s, babe, are weird. I’m not really up to date on all of that.”

The topic of the conversation was what piqued Tony’s interest; the world liked rubbing salt into his wounds and hysterically laugh at his misfortune. Bleary-eyed, he briefly scanned the two women: both appeared to be interns or junior techs in his company, evident by the purple employee badges hanging from their bags.

“So what are you going to do?” One woman asked the other as their turn to order took Tony one step closer to obtaining his desired caffeine.

“Unless someone normal magically appears with an offer of no-strings-attached, good ole’ snuggle fest, I guess I’m getting dicked down on Saturday,” The other replied with a teasing tone. The lack of excitement in the last part of the sentence was obvious.

“Gross,” The first one shook her head and hurriedly rattled off her order to the barista who looked about as disgruntled as Tony felt.

Hours and three coffees later, Tony’s overactive brain was still stuck on that woman from the cafeteria. Her back, her purse stuffed full of colorful manila folders, her neatly gathered hair - Tony Stark had nearly perfect memory and he remembered every single detail despite his brain fog. Objectively, she was attractive, no more no less than a different dozen of women he’d seen at any point in his life before. So why was he hung up on her?

It didn’t take him a long time to find her file, faster than he’d liked to admit. Manually sorting through hundreds of interns, lab technicians and various second-tier employees wasn’t exactly considered productive but with Pepper and her nagging out of the picture, Tony could afford to slack off a little bit.

So he found her name and her e-mail address, skimmed over her performance report with satisfaction, finding her to be a busy bee in the 90-th percentile. Her superiors considered her trustworthy, hard-working and communicative, all good traits.

Pepper’s absence meant he’d have no one to cover his ass should he get slapped with a harassment suit; however, he was the Tony Stark after all. He had more money that he’d cared to count and an army of lawyers at his disposal 24/7.

Amidst the jumbled mess of wires, circuit boards, tablets, empty coffee cups and the occasional piece of paper, Tony typed up an e-mail to the woman sharing his… Condition.

“I heard you and your friend talking at Starbucks. I could use a cuddle buddy. Wine and Netflix at my place? What’s your takeout preference?”

No. That came off way too creepy, like he was some kind of a dirty eavesdropper.

He contemplated some more, typing up and erasing multiple e-mails with various proposals: his penthouse, her place, a three Michelin star restaurant, a walk in the park. Almost all of it screamed ‘date’, like he’d drag her off to bed the very moment an opportunity wouldn’t present itself. It wasn’t so: Tony Stark, the playboy genius, had his dick firmly tucked into his pants. The thought of fucking her crossed his mind only briefly, quickly being chased away by the thought of her fingers running through his hair. Her warm, soft body in his arms. Just laying on his couch, eyes closed, reveling in each other’s arms.

Tony hit send on the least obnoxious option. He baited his breath, clicking his fingers in anticipation as the message showed itself to having been delivered.

“Mary, is this you trying to be funny? Stark is going to fire you if he finds out you’re impersonating him to stop your friend from going on a questionable date. Grow up.” Came the very prompt reply, ending with a short string of angry emojis. Tony could totally trust a person who used emojis unironically and generously.

“For the record, I wouldn’t be mad if somebody pretended to be me for the sake of saving their cute friend from a creep. The problem would be making it look credible.” Tony typed up the answer without thinking, quickly snapping a picture of himself holding the Starbucks cup with his name written on it, throwing his usual sloppy peace sign. He attached it to the email and hit send.

“WTF” Came the reply not a minute afterwards. He let it sink in, giving the woman some time to gather her wits. She did not disappoint. “Okay, even if we pretend this is real - which I doubt - what’s in it for you? If you heard our conversation, you surely know my stance on the matter.”

“I’m always glad to prove you wrong. I’m a genius - comes with the territory.” Tony simply couldn’t resist adding a generous dose of snark. “You’re welcome to meet me after clocking out. Use the private elevator, my AI will beam you up.”

The reply took a considerably long amount of time, seeing as previously, she typed back rather quickly. “Please don’t be a creepy rapist, Scotty. Fingers crossed.” Tony managed to almost break his stylus twice. His hands shook, and he had to tell himself to breathe - still, he laughed at the clever way she replied.

Several more hours later, during which Tony had nearly paced a hole through various floors on the residential side of the tower, he took a quick shower, dressed in a flattering but comfortable designer sweatpants and polo combo and made himself at home on the obscenely large living room sofa on his own, private penthouse floor.

He was up and running towards the elevator when Friday’s voice notified him of the woman entering the elevator on the employee floor. Tony tousled his hair, adjusted his glasses, fiddled with the drawstring of his pants.

The woman was wearing casual office wear, pants and a loose blouse, a lab coat loosely draped over her arm and her purse hanging off the shoulder on a thin strap. Her hair was loose now, a little frizzy as if she continuously ran her hands through it. Tony quietly rejoiced at not being the only nervous one.

Clever eyes scanned the room with unhurried interest before finally landing on him. “Not too shabby, if I say so myself,” The corners of her mouth tilted in an attempt at a smile, it was obvious she was studying him.

“Thanks, I try my best,” Tony smirked. Humble he was not. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“I see a comfortable couch,” She looked to be grateful for being given the opportunity to lead this interaction. “Let’s park our behinds on it, bicker for ten minutes about a movie choice and settle on one none of us really like. Then we can tell each other our no-no zones and, well, yeah,” She started out confidently. Probably practiced in the elevator. But towards the end, her shyness took over.

For Tony, it was kind of cute. A nice change from suck-ups that flocked him at every social gathering in hopes of getting something out of him. The woman that had tossed her bag carelessly on the far end of the couch and untucked her blouse looked and felt like the exact opposite of those people. She looked willing to give.

Tony sat next to her, keeping a couple of inches of free space between them. “Food preferences? Food allergies?” He asked, tapping the food delivery application.

“Nope, and I will eat just about anything.” He felt more than saw her side-eyeing him. Both of them were jittery. So uncharacteristic for Tony, to be blushing and stammering like a high school boy. Sex was easy, but intimacy? Complex. It was addictive and eventually, painful.

Movie decisions were surprisingly easy and she said so. They settled on a Tarantino classic, an old flick neither of them had watched in a long time. As the discussion progressed, Tony used his wits to find out more about her without making it seem like an interrogation. He had run a background check on the woman and her family but those only went that far, besides, it was a great opportunity to practice the tips Natasha had shared with him at one point or another. Being friends with spies had it’s perks.

They ate their food until their bellies were full. A comfortable, relaxing stupor, being warm from the inside out.

Tony noticed when the woman spoke, she spoke with her hands. She had caught herself grasping his forearm multiple times when they’d got more passionate about their discussion. And what Tony loved the most was that she refused to apologize. He saw a kindred soul in the woman; quiet until something struck her fancy. Then, she became a whirlwind of ideas and opinions.

In no time, it became a natural action to extend his arm and wrap it around her shoulders, reclining backwards. There was little grace in laying belly-up like a dead fish but the woman didn’t seem to mind. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she laid down sideways, throwing a leg over one of his own.

Her palm traced the outline of his arc reactor when something on the screen caught her in a moment of intense interest. Tony preferred to avoid the cursed thing - scars around it definitely did not do any favour to his aging, marked body - but he found himself exhaling the tension when it was obvious the woman really did not care. An occasional quiet hum of satisfaction was the only noise that came from her: he noticed the sound escaped her lips every time his thumb began fiddling with the sleeve of her blouse and rubbed against her arm.

He was quite content. It was warm, he was surrounded by so much warmth.

The hug was mutual when she left home, both of them comfortable with the gesture for people who had met in a rather unconventional way.

She started coming over a couple of times a week, a quiet evening of the best takeout in NYC and (mostly) interesting movies. A solace, always a single e-mail away.

Tony saw her in the cafeteria once or twice; he appreciated the brief, tiny secretive grin she gave him out of her friend’s eyesight. She never approached him. He was grateful for that. He didn’t want to deal with all the drama and all the fuss surrounding incidents between him and his employees. It was nobody’s business what any of them did after clocking out - and him and his cuddle buddy, they weren’t even fucking, for Thor’s sake.

Maybe they would get there someday. Or maybe they won’t. It was only now for Tony. The rare free Saturday night he had, he truly took a vacation from all the bullshit and lured her in with promises of very expensive wine, her favourite New York style pizza and the willingness to entertain watching a few of those funny YouTube videos she liked.

They did watch them and Tony didn’t mind. He stepped over the irrational fear and the initial discomfort and curled up around her, hiding his face in the soft cotton of her worn hoodie, his own breath tickling his face in warm puffs. The hand running through his hair was tender like it never was with Pepper - his ex was far too preoccupied to baby her grown-up boyfriend. But the woman moulded to his body like an extension of himself was happy to do so. Tony’s hair was longer now and it glided perfectly along the woman’s palms.

His heart was steady, thumping in his ears, overshadowing the noises coming from the TV. He exhaled and felt her other hand begin tracing circles on his back, as if she saw the stress and the bitterness leave his body with every caress, every brush of their bodies. Maybe she did?

He held onto her, held her back like she’d held him. Safekeeping the warmth inside of him. Guarding his peace.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #tony stark fluff #tony stark feels #bun writes #bun writes: drabbles

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amerrierworld · 4 years

Text

Steal Me Away

Carol (2015) fanfiction

request: “smutty jealousy Carol fic, where Carol is jealous/possessive over Therese”

Summary: Carol meets Genevieve for the first time, with an unexpected outcome.

Characters: Carol x Therese, Gen, the McElroys

Word Count: 1,654

Warnings: SMUT. :)

The living room smelled of beer, cigarette smoke and take-out Chinese. Young adults, all around Therese’s age, flitted about the room in laughter and drunken stupors. Never before had Carol ever felt so out-of-place, sitting perched on the armrest the McElroy brothers’ sofa.

Therese, on the other hand, seemed much more in her element. She’d already snapped a few pictures of the party that night -and a few extra of Carol- and was getting on swimmingly with the small group of friends she’d made.

Carol was in her best slacks and blouse, knowing a dress of her style would stick out like a sore thumb around here. A beer bottle in hand, she tried her best to relax, but it was only when Therese settled on the sofa by her side, staring adoringly up at her when her nerves began to calm.

“I hope you like them,” Therese smiled. Someone had put on a record, with couples swaying to the music. Carol could drown them out just by looking at her young lover, only hearing the sweet music of her voice.

“Who?”

“My friends, of course!” Therese nudged her, laughing.

“Darling, I was more worried about them liking me,” Carol chuckled softly, trailing a hidden hand over Therese’s back.

“They love you, Carol, and why wouldn’t they? You’re magnificent,” Therese muttered, leaning back in her touch.

Carol’s eyes flashed for a second, wondering who heard them, wondering if anyone in this group had caught on. But no one heard, and the music kept playing.

Then a brunette came to sit on the other side of Therese, with Phil in tow. Carol noticed her immediately. Bright lipstick and dressed in pink, she stuck out in the group of greys and blues just as much as Carol did. Her hand on Therese’s back froze a moment.

“Oh, hiya, Therese,” Phil said, settling on the other armrest. “This here is Genevieve, I don’t know if you’ve met yet.”

Therese and Gen exchanged pleasantries, guided by the mutual friendship of Phil. Carol drew her hand away from Therese’s warm body to avoid suspicion and sipped her beer.

“This here is Carol, my roommate,” Therese introduced her, “she works at that furniture store close to Madison Ave.”

Gen smiled at Carol, with no warmth in her gaze, and Carol did the same.

“Say, Therese, Gen was wondering about them pictures you do,” Phil chipped in, nodding to the camera on Therese’s lap. “She’s an actress you know.”

“Oh?” said Therese, innocent as always.

“You know how it is,” Gen waved her hand nonchalantly, but Therese really didn’t know at all. “I’m constantly in need of updated headshots, but they can cost a fortune!”

“Oh, well, I’m sure I could help you out. Why don’t you come by to the studio-,”

“What about now?”

Carol’s grip stiffened on her bottle. She was looking somewhere else, but the tone and flirtation in Genevieve’s question did not go unnoticed. She knew when women flirted, hell she’d done it like this herself. Her blood suddenly ran cold.

“Now? Oh, but I haven’t the right set-up,” Therese furrowed her brows. “There’s hardly any room.”

“What about in the back? There’s a spare room by the bedroom, with plenty of lights, Phil told me..”

In that moment, Carol knew she’d have to do something before she ripped the pretty girl’s hair out. Her bottle was almost empty, but using it as a bludgeoning tool really wasn’t her style..

A somewhat drunken Dannie walked past with a glass of red wine, and a slight angle of her legs and a tip of her shoe had him tripping. He caught himself with a shout, but not before a generous amount of wine had landed on Carol’s lower half, splattering her blouse and pants. Feigning surprise, Carol quickly dismissed Dannie’s hasty apology.

“It’s alright,” she spoke, genuinely, letting him take her beer bottle so she could stand up and examine the damage. Therese and Gen had stopped talking, watching her, Therese’s face stricken with surprise and worry. “Oh my, what a mess. Therese, could you show me the bathroom quickly? I may be able to save the fabric.”

“O-of course,” Therese stammered, handing her glass absent-mindedly to Gen before leading Carol away from the living room, her camera dangling around her neck. Carol could feel the brunette’s glare in the back of her head, and suppressed a smile.

Therese locked the door behind them as to having no interruptions. Without another word, Carol began undressing, shimmying the pants down her long legs.

Therese’s mouth went dry and she stood frozen for a moment, before realizing that the sticky fabric was tricky to get off and immediately helped tug the pants down her legs.

“They’re no good anymore, are they?” Therese asked as she rubbed the wine stain with her fingertips, her voice filled with remorse. “What a shame.”

“Yes, what a shame,” Carol agreed, her voice deep as she quickly washed her hands. The tone in her voice startled Therese, knowing what the implication of that sultry rumble meant. Carol turned and leaned against the sink, watching her as she slowly unbuttoned her blouse.

“I don't think I’ll be fit to stay the rest of the party, Therese,” Carol continued, as piece by piece, her skin showed. “I haven’t anything to wear now.”

“Well, m-maybe we can find something in Dannie’s closet? I’m sure Genevieve could help us-”

“Genevieve, hm? Your new best friend?”

“What?”

“A sweet girl, wouldn't you say? Quite... forward.”

“Well, I’ve heard actors have to be forward, otherwise how could they persuade people to hire them?” Therese quipped, her eyes downcast.

“That’s it then? Just being forward, with her sudden photoshoot request? Wanting to take you in the back, from everyone else, from your roommate.”

“Really, Carol, she didn’t mean it like that,” Therese argued, though she herself doubted it too. “She couldn’t have meant it like that.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” Carol said airily, “but there’s one thing she, nor you it seemed, didn’t account for as you were planning your photoshoot getaway.”

“What’s that?” Therese squeaked.

Carol grabbed Therese’s hand and pulled it between her legs, staring the brunette down with a fire in her eyes.

“Me, darling,” Carol hissed.

Therese’s green eyes widened, her jaw hanging open at Carol’s brashness.

“Carol.. not, not here,” she began fearfully. Carol leaned forward and pressed her lips to Therese’s neck, sucking harshly.

“Yes, here, dearest,” Carol mumbled, pulling her panties aside to let Therese’s hand slip inside. A lustful groan escaped her when delicate fingers rubbed at her clit, and Therese marvelled at how wet she was.

“You’re saying I’ve been neglecting you?” Therese asked softly, teasingly. “Really, Carol, isn’t that a bit immature of you?”

“How about that damned girl ogling you all night? You may not have noticed, darling, but I did. I know when women flirt- god I wanted to do her head in for it.”

To her surprise, Therese giggled at the growl in her voice, tilting her head to capture Carol in a warm kiss.

“I was just being polite, Carol,” she said. “It’s not often we find other girls like us, right?”

“Still,” Carol grumbled, pulling Therese as closely as she could. “I don’t like it.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Carol, don’t you know I would’ve declined? Don’t you know I would’ve sent her on her way? You may have lost me a client just now.”

Carol groaned in frustration, “I know, Therese, but the way she looked at you.. how seemingly confident she was in taking you, I hate it. I had to steal you away.”

Therese watched her carefully, smiling with adoration and love.

“I had no one to steal me away from you when we met,” Therese whispered, two fingers pushing in deep. “And I’m glad I didn’t.”

Carol’s head tipped back against the mirror, gasping, “me too.”

Her hips were bucking up awkwardly with the angle of how she was sitting, sweat sticking to her skin as she desperately needed release. Therese pushed her legs further apart with one hand, tutting.

“This won’t do,” she said before lowering onto her knees, pulling Carol’s panties off completely. Carol sucked in a breath, bracing herself on the sink as soft lips began nudging against her folds.

Trying desperately to keep quiet, Carol closed her eyes and whimpered as a tongue lapped at her clit and two fingers returned to their rightful place, deep inside her.

Therese chuckled, deep in her throat, and Carol met her gaze, breathing heavily at the sight of Therese between her legs. She gripped the back of Therese’s head with her hand as her thighs began quivering.

“I’ll never- never let anyone s-steal you away,” Carol gasped. So close, so close. “Oh, God, never, never, angel. It’s us, o-only us, I won’t let it be any other way.”

Her sentence became high-pitched and airy before a shock overtook her systems, her cunt pulsing around Therese’s fingers and crying out softly. Her thighs were squeezing and trembling around Therese’s head, and her own face was flushed at the erotic sight of Carol, half undressed, bra on display.

Carol was leaning back, catching her breath, eyes closed, when she heard a click. Therese had angled her camera up at Carol from her point of view, and snapped some delicious photos.

“You cheeky devil,” Carol breathed harshly, pulling her up to her feet and kissing her with a forceful need.

“Only us,” Therese whispered against her lips. “Always, Carol.”

Carol’s head was spinning with happy, dozy thoughts as she kissed Therese again, again and again.

“Let’s go home,” Therese said. “It’ll be more fun to make you come again without anyone around.”

Carol blushed as Therese helped her get dressed again quickly. The wine stains were a bit prominent, much to Carol’s dismay, but the outcome had been worth it. She could always buy more clothes.

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libra-kirishima · 4 years

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Kinktober Day 8- Masks/Costumes (??? x Reader)

(It's one of these four idiots.)

Warnings: NS/FW Content. (It's not quite dubiously consentual but it can be interpreted as sex under false pretenses? Imagine that scene in Revenge of the Nerds but consentual. I figured I'd put the warning at the top just in case the content is triggering to someone. Also dacryphilia if you squint.)

"Did you lose your Gomez, Morticia?" A muffled voice asked you. Shortly after, a man in a Darth Vader costume sits beside you on the couch at the edge of the room which you've situated yourself in.

"Huh?" Oh, your costume... "No, I came alone." You laughed. "Well, actually, I came with one of my best friends, but I think he might've left to hook up with this boy in Gen-Ed that looks like he hasn't slept since 2008." He laughed. "So I'm here alone now. What about you, Vader? You with someone?" He shook his head. "How sad..." You cooed. "Will you stay and keep me company then?"

"Of course." The man in the Darth Vader costume moved closer to you so you were sitting shoulder to shoulder.

The evening seemed to fly past you while you talked to the man beside you. After two hours debating whether or not Leia was force sensitive, and if she could have been a Jedi in Luke's position if he had died, you found yourself with your head resting on his shoulder, with one of his arms languidly wrapped around your shoulders.

"Tired?" He asked.

"Physically? No. But parties aren't really my thing." You answered with a small giggle. "My friend- the one I mentioned earlier- he got me to come with the promise that this guy I'm interested in would be here, but I guess he changed his mind." He took a lot of interest in what you were saying, but you didn't seem to notice. "Maybe he's just not that into me. I should probably move on."

He bit his lip inside of his mask to keep from letting out an audible "fuck yes!"

"But that's alright," You continued. "Because I met you! Hey, I don't normally do this, but will you drive me home? And if you want, we can watch a movie or something? Nobody's home right now."

You didn't have to ask him twice.

One short car ride later, in which you got very handsy as he tried desperately to keep from crashing due to both the limited vision of his mask and the feeling of your hands on his body, you made it home. Very little time was wasted opening Netflix and selecting a nature documentary series about sea creatures before your hands returned to his clothed form like they were moments before.

Behind the mask, he was convinced that he'd died and gone to heaven. He was normally a pretty unassuming guy. No flashy quirk or bold personality. Not particularly good looking. Plain was how Bakugou described him once. And his friend was right.

Yaoyorozu's Halloween party was a blessing in disguise. If he had known earlier that by the end of the night the girl of his dreams would abandon her crush on some other guy for one night to take him home without questioning who he was, he would have put up much less of a fight with Kaminari about going.

His gloved hands fisted your hair as you took his cock into your mouth, all the while he wished that he could take his stupid helmet off and get a good look at you. You pulled back all the way to flash him wide, innocent eyes as your tongue circled the tip. You were going to be the death of him. He thought to himself as you sunk all the way back down until your nose met his pelvis, and he felt your throat constrict around him. Watching you slip one hand under that tight dress of yours while you sucked the soul out of him was enough to send him over the edge. You once again took him back as far as you could when you felt him on the edge, and swallowed every drop when you felt his hot seed pour into your mouth.

He slouched back on your couch, still shaking and trying to catch his breath. Meanwhile you wasted no time once again, using your dominant hand to give his cock a few strokes while your other hand reached for the remote to click the "Yes, I'm Still Watching" button. It took only a few more flicks of your wrist and another flash of those babydoll eyes (now with makeup smudged in a ring under your eyelashes) for him to feel himself getting hard again.

"You're killing me, (Y/N)"

"Good." You answered with a grin.

"Is that dress comfortable?" He asked, moreso a question as to why you haven't taken it off yet.

"No!" You giggled. "But I look fucking hot, don't I?" You were so correct in that statement that he couldn't even find the words to answer your question. Instead choosing to nod enthusiastically as he tried to catch his breath.

You slid up off your knees to straddle his lap. Nimble fingers reached out for the base of his helmet, but he moved away. Your brows knit together as you tried again, met with the same result as last time. Your hands slid back down to rest on his shoulders.

"What? You can call me by my first name but I don't even get to see you?" You teased. He panicked when he realized he used your given name, trying (and failing) to keep you from noticing. "C'mon." Your hands moved to try a third time, but we're halted by the feeling of his fingers gripping your wrists. "Why not?" You whined.

"I don't want to ruin it for you." He answered sincerely. You rolled your eyes dramatically as you lined his cock up with your entrance.

"You're too tall to be Mineta. It's literally impossible for you to ruin it for me." You explained before lowering yourself down onto him. "Besides, you're comfortable enough with me to call me by my first name so that narrows the list of people you could be down to, like, five people." He said nothing as you bottomed out, and you took it as an invitation to pull his mask off.

His wide eyes met yours. All either of you could do was stare at each other in bewilderment. It was only a few seconds but to him it felt like years.

Finally you broke the silence.

"Sero you son of a bitch! I thought you didn't come to that stupid party!" You kissed him roughly, but pulled away far too quickly for his liking. "I was so disappointed. Do you have any idea how mad I was that you weren't there even though Kaminari said you would be? Don't answer that. Yes you did! Because I told you about it before we left." You kissed him again, pushing your tongue into his mouth before he could fully process what you had said. You rolled your hips once and he stopped you. Wide hands gripped your thighs tightly.

"Wait, that was me you were talking about?" He asked, absolutely bewildered.

"Duh. Who else would I be talking about?"

"I don't know. Kirishima?"

"Actually," You laughed "I thought you might be Kirishima, because he's the only other person that knows me by my given name who would have black body hair. And I am so glad that you're not because it means that I don't have to tell him that I'm sorry but I'm still interested in Sero." You both laughed for a while until you cut him off with "So can I please move now? Because this is killing me."

"Please do." He answered. You hurriedly lifted yourself up before sinking back down. His hands slid up from your thighs to pull that tight dress off of you, tossing it in the same direction that you tossed his pants some time ago.

Sero's fingers made quick work of removing your bra and playing with your nipples as he watched you desperately chase your own orgasm. Your lips caught his in a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue. Sero could taste himself on your tongue, but to him it was still perfect. Your skin was soft under his touch and your cunt seemed to pull him back in with every roll of your hips as though he belonged there. Your mascara was in streaks down your face and your lipstick was smeared across one cheek from earlier. What little remained on your lips was swiftly transferred to him when you pulled him in for another kiss. You were a mess, riding him like you were born for this. And as Sero watched you cum while on top of him, he knew he wouldn't want it any other way.

"So can I take you on a date after this?" He asked after you had stopped shaking.

"Hanta, it's 3 in the morning."

"Not now." He rolled his eyes.

"I would really like that." You answered, hands moving to peel his shirt off. With a small smile, you curled yourself into his now bare chest. "You're fucking sexist for thinking that Leia couldn't be a Jedi, by the way."

"How is that sexist?!"

You had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

#written before we all had to wear masks and there were no parties 😔#sero x reader #sero hanta x reader #sero hanta #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #mha imagines #mha x reader #bnha smut #ns/fw #kinktober #pronouns used: she/her/hers

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avinrydarchive · 4 years

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three doors, three souls

Author: AvinRyd Fandom: The Bartimaeus Trilogy Rating: Gen Pairing: N/A (deep, all encompassing friendship between Nat&Kitty&Ptolemy&Bart, but no romance) Word Count: ~5,300 Series: N/A “B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”

(He's not sure where that name came from.)

The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.

And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

Read on AO3: link

White.

Blinding white is all there is; there had been shards of it in his vision, slashes of it in his body, an aching starburst of it in his soul. Now it is all he knows. He flies through it at speed, movement with no form to move; burning on skin that is not there.

Then suddenly, everything stops.

He looks around to see the white has dulled from snow-in-blazing-sunlight to something with depth, dimension. The dimension seems to go on forever, stretching away, and in that distance there is a speck of...well, it’s hard to tell. Certainly not white, which he finds comforting.

Sensing something at his back, he turns. Swinging shut behind him in calm silence is a massive door. Its glass panes gleam in the omnipresent light, iron latticework shining dully between. There is nothing behind the glass.

Movement at his back, once again. Once again, he turns. The not-white speck has drawn very close indeed, close enough to take the form of a boy; dark of skin, dark of hair, with eyes that feel older than the years his face betrays. The child can’t be more than fourteen.

“B-” He clears his throat. “Bartimaeus?”

(He's not sure where that name came from.)

The boy blinks, then shakes his head. “No, my name is Ptolemy.” He looks expectant, as if waiting for a response.

And what to respond? Does he have a name? After a moment of thought he decides, yes, he does have a name: Nathaniel. He says as much and Ptolemy smiles.

“Hello, Nathaniel,” and it sounds so right and familiar in his voice that Nathaniel aches.

“Where are we?” Nathaniel asks, looking around once more, but Ptolemy doesn’t answer. Instead—still with that smile, warm as the sun and twice as bright—he reaches out to take Nathaniel’s hand and lead him forward.

Hand. Nathaniel then remembers to wonder about his own form. Does he look like anything in particular? He starts with the hand in Ptolemy’s: pasty pale in comparison, but around the same size. From the wrist there’s a spindly arm in the sleeve of a grey jumper. This leads to a torso occupying the rest of the jumper. Down over dark pants to smart shoes, and Nathaniel compares these to Ptolemy’s ivory kilt and bare brown feet. Looking up, he’s at eye-level with the back of Ptolemy’s head and there’s a dark fringe of hair falling into his vision that surely wasn’t there before. He’s just reaching up to fuss with it when Ptolemy draws to a stop.

“What do you see?”

Nathaniel snaps back to attention and lets out a small sound of surprise. “Um. I see three doors,” he says with some confusion, “The door on the left is dark wood with a tarnished silver handle. The middle one is dark and has a red pentacle drawn on it, but the outer binding is broken. The door on the right is plain. Just a white door. ”

Ptolemy nods and points with his free hand at the first door. “That leads back to the world you know. Step through and you can start anew with no memory of this or your life before.”

He points to the second. “That door leads to the Other Place. If you enter, you will be absorbed into the energies of that world and become a part of the spirits. One day, you might be named and summoned. Or you might not.

"The third-” he pauses and gives the plain door a hard look, “The third door leads...on. I don’t know where, for I’ve never seen what’s beyond.”

There’s a long pause, then Ptolemy turns to face Nathaniel and says with heartbreaking gentleness, “As you’ve probably worked out, you’re dead.”

Their empty pocket of space is quiet as Nathaniel considers this, then he gestures around them. His voice seems small and fragile in the excess of open space. “And where is this?”

“Purgatory. Mictlan. Hades. There are many names. I call it The In-Between.” Ptolemy shrugs and seems like he would continue, but something draws his attention back the way they’d come.

The glass-and-iron door has opened once more and something falls through. To Nathaniel it has no shape, only a lump of substance imposed on the world, but somehow his entire being shrinks from it in terror. Ptolemy goes to meet it, but Nathaniel shies away and removes himself from the doors. From this vantage he can’t hear Ptolemy’s words, but he sees the other boy reach out and the essence take form under his touch.

A horrifying apparition is soon standing more than twice as tall as Ptolemy, tentacles and horns and sickly shapes of too many limbs and a roar of abject misery. Ptolemy shows absolutely no fear, no disgust; his movements are gentle and sure, meeting the confused and desolate creature with a compassion Nathaniel knows he could not muster in himself.

They approach the doors and Nathaniel can hear Ptolemy now. His quiet question is the same but the thing’s voice, with its echoes of horror and undercurrent of shrieking cries, is too vague to make out. As soon as Ptolemy has explained the third door, the being moves towards it in a desperate lurch. The door is open now and Nathaniel leans forward, trying to see beyond and the thing turns; their eyes meet and both recoil in base terror. The thing falls backwards through the door. Nathaniel falls on his backside. The door clicks shut.

For the first time in this place of empty white, Nathaniel feels pain. A tension has wound itself in his chest and is tightening viciously; in his ears, there are echoes of mind-rending noise—crashing glass and roaring fire, the screaming and exultation of many beings too large for the world. His breath comes too fast and harsh, though a moment ago he hadn’t needed to breathe at all.

For a time he cannot measure, Nathaniel is curled up on himself in a ball, rocking back and forth, wanting desperately to forget even as he reaches to understand this horror in his mind. The understanding does not come; the oblivion, neither. When his vision comes back into focus, Ptolemy is kneeling before him, unsurprised concern in the curve of his back and lines on his brow.

“Your passing was violent,” he says, “and though it may have involved that spirit you just saw, you cannot recall a thing. Am I right?”

Nathaniel nods, tries to arrange his limbs into a more comfortable sitting position. Ptolemy continues.

“It is often that way with those who die in battle or fear. So many pass through with no memory of themselves. And some, like me, stay until they recall.”

Something about Ptolemy’s hand on Nathaniel’s processed wool jumper seems incongruous.

“You can too, if you like.”

“I think I had another name.” Nathaniel says into the quiet. Ptolemy has just returned from guiding a wandering woman from the glass door. He flops down to lie on the ground alongside Nathaniel; their heads level, Nathaniel’s feet stick out a bit past Ptolemy’s. “It was John.”

Ptolemy’s hum from his left is musical in its thoughtful way. A hand comes up, darkly contrasted with their white surroundings, and traces invisible circles in the air. “Sounds like you were a magician.”

Nathaniel doesn’t like the sounds of that. He’s seen the magicians who pass through the In-Between. He knew first by Ptolemy’s pointing them out; now he knows them by their greedy, grabby hands and sharply paranoid eyes. In a sudden fit of concern, he sits up and examines himself, wishes for a mirror that does not appear. Is he one of those unpleasant souls too?

It’s just as he’s reassured himself that no, he has not suddenly morphed into a grasping, sucking vortex of greed and narcissism, that Nathaniel hears Ptolemy laugh from beside him. Laugh. Indignant, Nathaniel turns to find Ptolemy attempting to sit up, but unable to for the giggles that shake his frame.

“What? What’s so funny?”

Ptolemy is still snickering, but has managed to right himself at last. “Nothing! It’s just that, I’m sure I reacted the exact same way when I realized I was a magician. Horror-struck gasp and everything!”

In a huff, Nathaniel turns deliberately away to face the glass door. It’s not until his pique abates that he thinks about what Ptolemy said.

There is another person with them in the In-Between, for a time. Confused and disoriented, she stares with wide, overwhelmed eyes at the doors until Ptolemy places a gentle hand on her elbow. He softly repeats the same words he’d offered Nathaniel and, like Nathaniel, she accepts.

Unlike Nathaniel, she ages from the teenager she’d arrived as to an old woman in the span of three new arrivals. Lines and circles—pentacles and runes—have tattooed themselves dark and sharp, then faded into parchment-frail skin by the time the fog lifts from her gaze. Eyes clear and sad and wise, she bids him and Ptolemy farewell before the second door. The ink on her palm matches the broken pentacle sketched on dark wood.

It’s only after she’s fully gone, the door shut silently behind her, that Nathaniel turns to Ptolemy with a serious look. The other boy seems very small, very young, all of a sudden.

He doesn’t have to say anything; Ptolemy just returns the look with a placid, “Yes. I was fourteen. It took a long time before I remembered even those years, though.”

They are quiet for a span. Then, “Why are you still here?”

“I'm waiting for someone.” Another pause. “Why are you?”

“I—” Nathaniel has to think about it. “At first, I stayed because making such a big decision on so little knowledge seemed like a bad idea, but now… I think I’m waiting for someone too.”

“Do you remember their name?”

Frustrated, Nathaniel shakes his head. Ptolemy gives a gentle smile.

“I’m not surprised; Rekyt’s name was the last thing I remembered.”

“Why, do you think?”

“Probably because it was the most important.”

“What do you see?”

Nathaniel asks this to shake Ptolemy out of one of his sullen, contemplative moods. He gets like this sometimes, in long spans between arrivals. The doors invoke a frustrated silence and so he sits, cross-legged, and stares.

He breaks the stare at Nathaniel’s question.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Who else is there?”

Nathaniel plops down next to his friend, pushing the irritatingly long hair from his face to better watch Ptolemy’s expression. Brows drawn down over dark eyes relax out of their frown, slowly. He points to the leftmost door.

“That one looks like the city gates. Alexandria’s gates, I mean. I never got to see the world through them.”

The finger shifts right.

“That one is as I once saw it, the four elemental gates between our world and the Other Place. It tempts me, I must admit.” He stops for a moment, sighs. “Rekyt might be through there. But then, I would not be myself enough to remember him. I couldn’t bear that.”

Ptolemy is quiet for a long time. Question after question pushes at Nathaniel’s tight-closed lips while the other boy practically glares at the third door.

“That one,” he finally says, “looks like the doors in Alexandria’s library. So much knowledge behind a door I cannot yet unlock. It galls me, Nathaniel. I want to know what’s beyond—I need to know.”

They sit and look together for a while. Then Nathaniel asks, tentatively,

“Do you think he’ll want to go with you? When he does get here?”

Ptolemy’s shrug is almost desolate.

“I don’t know. But I’m not sure I could go without him. We were meant to explore the worlds together you know, before I had to go and ruin it all by dying.”

This is more grim than either boy usually allows the conversation to turn. Seeming to sense this, Ptolemy shifts his ever-burning curiosity from its current, frustrated subject to Nathaniel.

“What about you? Have your doors changed? Some people’s do, you know.”

Nathaniel shakes his head and rises to examine the doors more closely. His fingers brush the silver handle of the left door.

“No, they’re the same. But I think more familiar, now. This door was one I went through often. Maybe for work? This one—”

The center door pulls him up short.

“I’m afraid of it. When I was very young, I think it was something horrible. But the pentacle is wrong for that memory.”

Ptolemy nods, pensive.

“What you described sounds like something I worked on, in life. A broken pentacle to let your spirit flow to the Other Place.” Then he brightens considerably. “Maybe you read my book! I left all the appropriate notes; maybe someone—maybe Rekyt—finished it!”

“It’s possible. I certainly recognize you. Maybe there was a picture of you in it. Always in my mind, I see your shadow and… And…”

Nathaniel feels his existence flicker and suddenly his eyes are nearly of a height with the pentacle on the center door. The long hair is gone, now cropped short against his head.

“Kitty!”

Her sheer presence in his mind bowls him over, knocks him flat—just as that punch had, when they were so young. Her memory alone takes his breath away, is light incarnate, but there’s a certain quality about light:

The brighter the glow, the more the shadows stand out

Nathaniel is the one taken to brooding by the doors, now. Maybe talking about his fears had eased Ptolemy’s frustration, for he is calmer in the silence. Nathaniel, though, stares at the doors and fights with his mind.

Dimly, he finds this sensation familiar. In life, he thinks, I often fought with myself like this. Forcing my mind to do my bidding. If only it worked now.

Shadowy thoughts and feelings swirl around two points. Kitty’s bright aura lights some of them with its shining glow, but the black hole with Ptolemy’s silhouette darkens all that come near. Why can’t he remember?

One thing he can remember whirls ‘round and ‘round his head whenever he looks at the center door:

Demons are wicked and will hurt you if they can. Demons are wicked and will hurt you if they can. Demons are wicked and will hurt you if th—

Incessantly it repeats until Nathaniel has to flee.

Last time, he’d turned from the doors and from Ptolemy and stalked off into the empty vastness. This had gone about as well as could be expected. The blank expanse of white stretched forever, but the doors never got any further away, no matter how far he walked.

This time, he deliberately paces from the three doors to the distant single one. It is the same as ever, all shining glass and dull iron.

(For all the glass shines, it never shows what’s behind.)

He’s still there, forcing his breathing to calm—he only ever needs to breathe when the fear gets like this—when the glass door swings and he’s bathed in brilliant light.

At Ptolemy's suggestion, Nathaniel has accompanied the other boy in his guidance of many new passers through the In-Between. The ritual is always the same. No one has ever tried to call Ptolemy by any name, even the wrong one like Nathaniel did, so Ptolemy gives it freely. The arrival gives theirs in return, then manifests from an amorphous collection of matter into their truest form under his touch.

This is nothing like that. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

The soul before him is an awesome collection of light, the likes of which Nathaniel has never seen in his time here. He actually stumbles backwards, so fierce is the glow. Before Ptolemy has even approached, Nathaniel finds himself addressed by the new arrival.

“Nathaniel?”

And the shining presence is so familiar. He reaches out, almost afraid, and finds his fingertips pressed to those of an old woman. Her blistering aura collapses itself into a body much shorter than his own, much older, with an expression on her face so blindingly nostalgic he forgets to step back before she launches at him.

“Nathaniel, you absolute prat!”

He raises his arms to fend her off with a yelp of, “Kitty, wait! I don’t—”

But the protest dies in his throat when he realizes she’s dragged him into a tight hug.

The contact is novel; as a rule, he and Ptolemy don’t touch. It seems like an odd thing to even want in this place, where bodies are obviously a construct of their own minds. Nathaniel doesn’t remember having any affectionate physicality in his life on earth, either—having or wanting— but this shakes something loose in him.

His lifted arms come up to return the embrace, and for a moment he’s holding not an old woman, but a girl barely his senior—silver tresses interspersed liberally with glossy black where her head tucks under his chin. The moment ends, but the strength of her hold does not, and they don’t part until a polite cough sounds from behind them.

A deep-seated, gentlemanly instinct sparks in Nathaniel and he turns, hand at Kitty’s back, to face Ptolemy.

“Kitty, this is—”

“Ptolemy!”

The boys’ reactions are simultaneous—Nathaniel’s a put-out frown, Ptolemy’s a confused tilt of the head—when Kitty steps forward to place marveling hands on Ptolemy’s thin shoulders.

“I always knew he was a stickler for accuracy, but to see you in person... After everything Bartimaeus told me, it’s so wonderful to meet you!”

Before she can continue, Ptolemy holds up a hand.

“Wait. Before we talk properly, and we most certainly need to, I need to tell you a few things about this place.” He glances quickly at Nathaniel, then back to Kitty. “Come with me, this won’t take long.”

Holding her hand, Ptolemy leads Kitty towards the three doors and Nathaniel doesn’t follow. This is a personal revelation, deeply intimate and best only shared with one other person—definitely not to be shared with a boy who only mostly-remembers you.

Nathaniel stays behind and the name Kitty mentioned eats at him in the quiet. He’d said it too, when he first arrived: Bartimaeus.

Other names have no business in front of this first door—the dispassionate portal of glass and iron seeks only the name of the arrival and that of the guide. So who is this Bartimaeus, to be so important to not one, but two people’s afterlives?

Rather more to the point, why is one so important such a black hole in Nathaniel’s memory?

Ptolemy and Kitty haven’t come up for air once since Kitty arrived—Nathaniel leaves them to it. He is obviously missing a key piece of the puzzle the three of them make up and Ptolemy has gone so long without a confidant like Kitty. Nathaniel can’t begrudge him that.

He picks up Ptolemy’s duties fully. On first arriving, he’d been convinced this was a job he could never do; that Ptolemy’s ability to look past the strange and horrifying manifestations was fully unique. He was wrong. With the strict discipline he’s remembering was a hallmark of his life, Nathaniel firmly sets aside the gut-deep twist in his soul whenever a spirit manifests under his offered hand, and he guides them all on.

It gets easier. As different as each soul is, one from the next, Nathaniel finds it interesting to wonder what about each individual creates their form. A name is a catalyst; for some it seems to bind and chafe, for others it brings form and purpose. With all of them, though, it is not the name itself that seems to determine their form, and he marvels.

He is not Ptolemy; his manner is not the golden, shining, unconditional glow of the other boy’s. The best Nathaniel can give, the best he hopes to bring, is the truth of his empathy.

None of his arrivals choose to stay, and Nathaniel can’t decide if he’s grateful or envious. Grateful, because whatever he and Kitty and Ptolemy have, he doesn’t want to try and figure it out with a stranger hanging about. Envious, because what he wouldn’t give for that kind of conviction in choice.

The idea of choice consumes his thoughts. The hours before his death are still lost to him, but Nathaniel can feel a weight looming over them—a choice a lifetime in the making, bearing down on the end of that life. He knows himself, now. He knows the Nathaniel-before-death would never have made a choice like that unless— unless…?

Unless someone had shown him how.

Except, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how deep he delves, the only teacher he’s known in that regard is Ptolemy—but not just Ptolemy here, in the In-Between.

Strange, intrusive memories now plague him constantly. London is burning, demons are exulting, and the spices of Alexandria’s markets burn in his nose?

He is alone; he is one with another. He is carrying someone; he is being carried, a passenger borne along by a presence inside of himself.

One moment, Pestilential tears burn into his vision—the next he’s squinting through a lion’s mane, tangled around his face and needing to be spit from his mouth.

Against Ptolemy’s advice, Kitty eventually approaches. She’s got that blazing look in her eyes, the one that captivated and terrified him so in life—the one that means she’s about to fix the world or die trying. He waves her off.

“But Nathaniel—”

“No, Kitty. I’ve seen what happens when someone is forced through this. It’s not a sight I wish on you.”

Nor anyone.

They are stubbornly locked like that for long minutes. Meeting her glare-for-glare feels so achingly familiar, and yet so foreign because that’s the wrong soul behind the right eyes. Frustrated beyond measure, Nathaniel tears himself away and scrubs a hand through his military-short hair.

How dare this Bartimaeus? How dare they take the best of his life and the peace of his afterlife—take them and twine them up in confusing, inaccessible memory?

The glass and iron door creaks. Nathaniel generally makes an effort to project calm when he approaches the arrivals, and he makes the effort now. Only, it’s not working. A scowl still draws his brows in as the great door swings open, and it only starts to fade at the sight of the ragged, bedraggled essence that tumbles through.

Nathaniel has seen spirits like this before, stretched thin and weary. Many spirits he’s guided have immediately chosen the second door. This kind, though? These are the least threatening, and they always choose the third door.

(he always imagines their trailing rags of essence twining into braid-y patterns, like cables on a cardigan)

Even with his ire simmering so close beneath the surface, Nathaniel crouches just a bit to reach out a hand to this newcomer. He doesn’t know what he expects—never knows exactly what to expect—but suddenly images flash in his mind before the spirit takes form.

(frail and gasping, a frog pooling iridescent fluid over marble tile)

(the weakest whirl of sulfurous smoke, dim yellowed eyes peering out)

(a slime-composed pyramid, edges barely defined and smelling distinctly of fish chowder)

He reaches out.

They do not touch, exactly. They are apart, and then, all of a sudden, they are not.

Nathaniel has not had a body in an immeasurable amount of time, but suddenly he remembers the feel of it—remembers the wonder of another experiencing it as a structure of delicate construction—remembers the rush of exhilaration even as that rush fills him anew.

It rushes out of him just as quickly, a sandstorm of iridescent intent stealing out of him on a breath he hadn’t remembered holding. No longer connected, he and the spirit face one another as it takes form at last under his hand.

(His hand has blisters now, never allowed to scar over.)

Both a whirling vortex of night-sky-stars and a glowing conflagration, the spirit materializes—the melancholy of the mutilated Other Place, ripped off and alone, melded with a blinding love of the human soul. It is a humanoid silhouette, Nathaniel’s height and build, with a familiar outline of curly, Macedonian hair, and an aura around darkness that’s bright as noonday splendour.

“And to think, I thought you would be the last thing I saw before dying. Beats me how you managed to be the first thing after the fact.”

(It doesn’t echo in his head-heart-soul like before, but the voice rocks Nathaniel to his core anyway.)

Nathaniel laughs—right and sure and fully himself at last, he laughs. He laughs, and then he replies,

“As if I’d ever let you have the last word, Bartimaeus.”

Kitty appears beside Nathaniel, an amused grin quirking her lined face as she eyes Bartimaeus.

“You’ve changed. I’m surprised we all actually made it here, since you seem to absorb all of our best traits into yourself as soon as we die.”

If any features were readily available, Bartimaeus would be rolling his eyes. As it is, he steps forward to ruffle Kitty’s silver hair in a familiar manner. In that moment they are three—a solid, stable shape—bound together by a love that none of them could have reached on their own; a love that originated not of them, but outside of them.

That love thrums, an invisibly golden light pulsing with a tension multiple eternities old. Kitty and Nathaniel glance at each other, nod, then step out and away as one.

In the opening they make stands Ptolemy—small, somehow shy and looking suddenly different. All his ageless wisdom has fallen away and brown hands grip the white linen of his kilt. His scholar’s pallor has deepened to a wan, sickly thing and he’s shaking on unsteady legs. His swallow before he speaks is both visible and audible; he has to struggle past it before croaking,

“Hello, Rekyt.”

Bartimaeus says nothing. He doesn’t say a thing, but steps forward with purpose, two long strides carrying him forward—carrying him close enough to kneel before the boy and pull him by the shoulders into a tight embrace. Then he says something, murmurs it into the dark curls above Ptolemy’s ear, but it’s too soft for Nathaniel and Kitty to catch. As is right—it wasn’t theirs to hear.

For his part, Ptolemy is definitely crying. His face is buried in Bartimaeus’s shoulder and he’s shaking like a leaf—full-body shudders wracking his frame as his arms tighten their grip. The usually warm-but-slightly-guarded Ptolemy has never been so vulnerable in front of Nathaniel, not even that time in front of the doors, and the older—younger?—boy blushes.

Awkwardly, Nathaniel touches Kitty’s hand and makes to turn them both away, but a voice calls him back. Bartimaeus.

“A couple thousand years in Purgatory hasn’t cured you of your emotional constipation, Nat? Get over here, both of you.”

He still doesn’t move, and Kitty has to physically drag him, pull him down to join their friends—friends, he has friends—in a puddle on the ground. Like time, and physicality and everything else, temperature doesn’t really exist in the In-Between, but Nathaniel is warmer than he can ever remember being in life. It burns like a supernova in his chest.

They are all four in front of the doors—Nathaniel next to Kitty next to Ptolemy next to Bartimaeus.

“What do you see, Rekyt?”

A very long pause then, a bit bemused,

“Well, you. All three of you, all in a line just like we are now, but without me. So, a mirror that’s somehow got busted?”

Nathaniel and Kitty look just as confused as Bartimaeus sounds, but Ptolemy starts to laugh.

“What?”

Ptolemy only laughs harder, managing to get out,

“Rekyt, you are such a sap!”

“Am not!”

“You are so!”

“Oh yeah?” Bartimaeus crosses his arms, looking supremely offended, “How’s that?”

Ptolemy is still snickering, but has gotten the actual gales of laughter under control. With a valiant attempt at his usual serenity, he points to the left-most door.

“That—”

“Nathaniel,” Bartimaeus supplies promptly.

“—is the door back to the world of humans, of earth and sky and boundaries.” Ptolemy’s finger shifts, “That one—Kitty, right?—leads to the Other Place, and this last one…”

As if the implication has only just caught up to him, Ptolemy pauses, an unreadable expression on his face as his directing finger starts to lower. Nathaniel smoothly picks up the thread.

“The last one leads on. No one knows what’s behind it—an adventure into the unknown, you might say. Ptolemy’s right, you are a sap.”

No one speaks for a long, long while; each lost in their own thoughts. Then, Bartimaeus sighs,

“Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve about had it with bouncing between the first two.” A gentle hand on Ptolemy’s shoulder. “What do you say? Should we bring these kids along on our long-postponed adventure?”

It’s as if a weight has been lifted off of the boy. He reaches up, tugs the hand off his shoulder and laces their fingers together. Eyes on the door, he reaches back unseeingly for Kitty’s hand. He finds it offered freely.

In her turn, Kitty reaches for Nathaniel as they step towards the plain, white door, but Nathaniel doesn’t take it. Kitty—dear, stubborn Kitty—digs her heels in and they all look back.

“Nathaniel,” she says, voice brooking no nonsense, “What are you doing?”

Nathaniel glances at the iron-and-glass door, then to the three, then back to his friends. A weight seems to be lifted off of his shoulders as well—a choice finally made.

“I’ll be along.” His smile is serene, scabbed and blistered hands clasped behind his back. “You three go on, it’s not like I don’t know where to find you.”

Kitty does not drop Ptolemy’s hand, but drags the other two back with her as she steps directly in front of Nathaniel, glaring up into his face. Before she can speak, though, Nathaniel continues,

“I know I didn’t exactly keep my last promise—”

“Too right, you didn’t!”

“—but I will, this time. I swear it.”

Tears are bright in Kitty’s eyes, choking up her voice and making her hands shake. Ptolemy squeezes her hand as he steps up beside her.

“He’ll catch us up, Kitty. After all,” the boy shoots Nathaniel a sly grin, “he knows we’ll come looking for him if he doesn’t. If we walk enough worlds, we’ll eventually make it back here to drag him along, if need be.”

His voice has the bite of a threat, but Nathaniel knows Ptolemy now—knows that under his friend’s teasing is approval. There should always be a guide.

Bartimaeus taps Kitty on the shoulder.

“Budge over, you two.”

They do. Bartimaeus steps forward, places hands on Nathaniel’s shoulders, and leans down to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Don’t be too long.”

Kitty and Ptolemy are suddenly there too, arms wrapped around him in tight hugs. Nathaniel nods, suddenly choked up himself. He remembers this feeling—the last thing he felt before the end. To be loved so much by even one, let alone three... It nearly breaks him.

“I will, I promise.”

The three draw back. They look at him, long and steady, then Kitty turns first to face the white door. Ptolemy is next, excitement clear in his bearing. Last to turn away is Bartimaeus, lingering to look back at Nathaniel.

Nathaniel’s expression is soft, not quite a smile.

“Go on. I’ll see you all soon.”

And they do.

The door clicks shut behind them.

Movement at his back, and he turns. The door of glass and iron swings silently open on invisible hinges. Nathaniel walks to meet it—through the flat, quiet whiteness of this dimension. A fall of essence imposes itself upon the space, tumbling through the door.

With a soft smile, a starburst of white burning in his soul, he says,

“Hello. My name is Nathaniel.”

fin

#The Bartimaeus Trilogy #the bartimaeus sequence #bartimaeus #Nathaniel #Ptolemy #bartimaeus trilogy #AvinRyd #fics of ryd

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gumnut-logic · 5 years

Text

This is a repost, a fic of mine you might have seen before, but I think it bears revisiting as I am rather fond of it. A friend of mine has thrown a prompt in and chosen Bo as the character to write about. So I think this is a good a time as any to share this again.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

-o-o-o-

Title: Bo

A TAG Secret Santa fic

Author: Gumnut

15 – 18 Dec 2018

Fandom: Thunderbirds Are Go 2015/ Thunderbirds TOS

Rating: Teen

Summary: Virgil meets a new friend, and, damnit, Scott was going to kill him.

Word count: 6184

Spoilers & warnings: Possible bushfire/wildfire triggers in the first part. For the rest none, except for vague nudity and fluff. Christmas fic. Gen.

Timeline: Origin story

Author’s note: Okay, so this is the first time I’ve ever participated in one of these so I’m new to this.

My prompts were

1. Virgil covered in tinsel

2. Tracy family Christmas

3. Christmas Rescue Miracle (with Virg please)

The first one prompted all sorts of images not suitable for a PG audience. Hubby also suggested I blow up a tinsel factory. Overall, I did attempt to include all three prompts in the one fic. I hope I have succeeded in providing some enjoyment at least.

This does not belong to either Sotto Voce or Warm Rain and is pretty canon compliant. It is currently standalone. Consider it a possible origin story, there may be more, if I can think up some new plot lines. If you have any ideas, please let me know.

Many thanks to @tagsecretsanta for all her wonderful work putting the gift exchange together, and thanks to @photowizard17 for the inspiring prompts, @i-am-chidorixblossom for cheering me on when I couldn’t post daily and obsessively like I usually do, and to @the-lady-razorsharp for giving it an American beta so I don’t trip over being Australian (though the summer Christmas certainly helped :D).

Disclaimer: Mine? You’ve got to be kidding. Money? Don’t have any, don’t bother.

-o-o-o-

“It’s the last house at the end of the street, Virgil.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Five.” It was said without the usual spark. The grey of the destroyed landscape sucked everything from everything. A pall of smoke and haze, black remnants of lives, homes and the tragedy of the night before.

International Rescue had been called to a massive bushfire in the Yarra Ranges in Victoria, Australia. The CFA had had it under control the previous day, John keeping an eye on it anyway, but an unexpected change in wind direction in the evening had it jumping firebreaks and tearing through an unprotected valley and directly through a township.

With the vast tall forests of mountain ash, eucalypts full of volatile oil just waiting to burst into flame, combined with the hot and blustery northerly, not even IR could stop the firestorm from taking lives and property.

Thunderbird Two had her fire suppression equipment, but the massive plane was a speck against the wall of flame.

There were forces of nature that just couldn’t be stopped.

The Tracys dodged and nabbed trapped people. Thunderbird Two deployed a huge water cannon, sourcing water from the local reservoir, as the CFA water bombed around them, desperate to protect what lives they could. But nothing was stopping the fire.

It tore through the town leaving agony in its wake.

Dawn was grey and dismal, but it brought rain. The sky rumbled, threatening to spark more fires in the ranges, but the deluge came and dampened the remaining flame enough to once again get the front under control.

But it was too late for the town.

It was gone.

Virgil walked the length of the street, his exo-suit rubbing on aching shoulders. Burnt out cars and collapsed homes lined the road from one end to the other. The skeletons of black trees marched off into the distance behind it all.

Haze hovered above ash-clogged puddles in the pavement.

It wasn’t what Christmas morning was supposed to be.

The last house at the end of the street had fully collapsed in on itself. A burnt-out car sat in the driveway, its trunk lid and one of its doors open.

Virgil closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what that likely meant.

He steeled himself and walked past the remains he knew he was going to find in the car.

Nothing could be done.

Nothing.

He focussed on the whine of his suit as his boots stepped in wet ash and strode across the front yard to the remains of the house. He had to clear his throat to speak to John. “Tell me where, Thunderbird Five.”

“Possibly in the basement? The lifesign is below ground level.”

The house had been old, the wooden floorboards disintegrating in the heat. Virgil leapt through the remains of a wall, landing on rubble in what had likely been a wine cellar. The heat had been so intense, that glass bottles had become slag.

Glass crunched under his boots. “Right or left?”

“Eastern side, southern corner.”

There was a mass of rubble collapsed against the only standing wall of the building.

“This is International Rescue. Can anyone hear me?”

He turned up the pickups on his exterior mikes.

Nothing. It was probably a blip. How the hell could anything survive this holocaust?

His shoulders dropped.

But then...something? A whimper?

Maybe?

Virgil began digging.

It took him a good fifteen minutes of solid work to move enough burnt masonry to reach a hole in the wall at the very base of the structure. And in what appeared to be the bottom of a dumb waiter he found the lifesign.

The little puppy whimpered at him, trembling with fear.

Aw, hell.

“John, lifesign is a dog.”

“One moment, Thunderbird Two.” The puppy stared, the green, yellow and blue of Virgil’s suit reflected in its brown eyes. “There is no dog registered at that address. Deliver to the local authorities. You are needed to airlift some survivors to Melbourne. Report to Scott on the other side of town.”

“FAB, Thunderbird Five.”

Virgil slid his arms out from the suit and bent aching knees. “Hey, little one, do you want to come with me?”

The puppy shivered and looked him up and down, hesitating.

“I’m with International Rescue, we’re here to help.” He took a step closer. “It’s okay, I promise.”

Maybe it was something in his voice, his stance, or simply because the puppy had no choice, but as Virgil reached into the box it was sitting in, the puppy made no protest as he picked it up.

A quick examination for injury revealed her to be a girl. She shuddered up against Virgil’s chest. “Don’t worry, it’s all over, you’re safe.”

Sliding one arm back into his suit, he started making his way out of the ruined building, turning his back on the tiny hole that had somehow saved the little dog’s life.

-o-o-o-

Perhaps it was because she sat so quietly with him. Perhaps because it was Christmas Day. Most likely it was because Virgil had reached his limit of pain.

When he found the RSPCA tent, specially set up for lost pets, he gently handed over the little puppy. She let out a whimper and began crying.

No barking, just this godawful crying that tore at his heart.

“You will be fine here, little one.” The attendant was one of those kindly older ladies and she hugged the gangly bundle of fluff to her chest as Virgil turned to leave, Scott in his ear.

But the puppy let out such a scream of anguish, Virgil turned around without thinking. She was struggling in the volunteer’s arms and before either of them could react, she managed to wriggle free and dash over to him, her little body trembling on his left boot.

He reached down and gathered her into his arms. “You can’t come with me. I can’t-“ But she was rubbing her head up under his chin, little sounds in her throat.

And he couldn’t.

Just couldn’t.

His eyes met the eyes of the lady volunteer and she smiled. “We will keep her details if you would like to take her with you. If anyone contacts us, we can let you know.” And the volunteer was just as hopeful as the puppy in his arms. After all, there was no life at the RSPCA unless a home was found.

He looked down at her little brown eyes again.

No, he couldn’t.

Damnit, Scott was going to kill him.

Maybe for just a few days?

The excuse provided a simple solution, so he took it.

Without a word, he handed his IR contact details to the volunteer, and, puppy in hand, turned his back to the tent and strode towards the big green hulk parked in the distant haze.

“Well, little one, you have definitely made an interesting choice. Let me introduce you to my big green partner.”

-o-o-o-

It was well past Christmas lunch, or rather the lack of it, before IR was given the all clear to return to base. During the entire time, the little puppy sat beside Virgil’s pilot chair, apparently unfazed by the deep bass rumble of Thunderbird Two.

When he picked up both Gordon and Alan the dynamic changed just a little.

Gordon dragged himself onto the flight deck first, a groan in every step. “Christmas just gets more exciting every year.” It was true. Nine out of ten Christmas Days were side-swiped by a disaster, to the point that the Tracy Christmas tradition was a modular and movable celebration nowadays. No guarantees and no defined day. It happened around December twenty-fifth, there about, when they could, between call outs.

Suddenly the little puppy was in his lap.

“What is that?”

Virgil looked up. His brother was covered in soot and looked as tired as Virgil felt. “This is Bo.” And he had no idea where the name came from, it just seemed right and the moment clicked.

“Bo?”

“Yeah.” Newly christened Bo peered up at Gordon around Virgil’s arm. “She survived the fire.” A swallow. “Her family didn’t.”

“Oh.”

Alan, as always, had more energy than any of them, and showed it as he waltzed into the cabin. “So why aren’t we moving?”

Bo let off a sharp bark.

Everyone jumped.

“What the hell, Virgil?”

Bo was literally glaring at Alan.

“Hey, Bo, calm down, that’s just Alan. He’s annoying, but tolerable.” The little puppy looked up at him, her gorgeous brown eyes just melting him inside. He was so gone.

“Hey!” That from Alan.

“Scott’s going to kill you.” That from Gordon, who was approaching slowly.

“Yeah, I know.” It was a sigh.

Gordon crouched down beside Virgil’s chair. “Hey, little one, what gave you the idea to attach yourself to this big oaf?” Pulling off one of his gloves, the aquanaut reached out and offered the puppy his hand. She eyed him warily before tentatively sniffing at his fingers.

She sneezed.

Alan snorted.

Bo blinked and stared at Gordon for a moment. The aquanaut kept still and eventually she sniffed at him again, before nuzzling at his hand. He blatantly took that as permission and gently rubbed behind her ear. “You are a cute little thing, aren’t you.”

She licked his wrist.

“Oh, I can see why our heavy lifter fell for you. You’ve got it all in those brown eyes of yours, haven’t you.” Gordon shrugged. “Though I will admit they are the best colour for manipulation.”

“And he speaks from experience.” To Virgil’s surprise, Gordon actually jumped. “Did you forget I was here? Not absorbed by those brown eyes are we?” He couldn’t help but smile at his brother. At least one was as besotted as he had to admit he was.

Yes, Scott was definitely going to kill him.

“Shut up, Virgil.”

Bo backed off, once again hiding behind Virgil’s baldric.

“Hey, Gordon, watch the tone.”

“Sorry, Bo.”

“Are we actually going home at some point? I have a date with my bed.”

Gordon stood up, pulling out the co-pilot’s seat. “No rush, Allie, she’ll wait for you.”

“Augh.”

“Sit down, Alan, I’m just finishing pre-flight.” Tired and cranky could easily become nasty if not attended to.

Bo curled up, nestled against his harness, as Alan grumpily pulled out his seat.

“Virgil, where the hell are you?”

Speaking of tired and cranky... “Launching now, Thunderbird One.” As if prompted, he received clearance from Australian Air Control.

TB2 rumbled beneath as he activated VTOL, ash and dust swirling up around them. As soon as he had enough height, he engaged her rear thrusters and tore off over the Alps, across the coast and out into the Tasman.

“ETA fifteen minutes.” At least they weren’t too far from home.

Bo fell asleep in his lap.

-o-o-o-

Virgil was on the verge of joining Bo in slumber as Thunderbird Two spun slowly in her hanger, eventually coming to a final stop.

So tired.

Beside him, Alan poked Gordon awake. “Ugh, what? Oh.” You could almost hear his brain booting.

Virgil worked around Bo as he did his post-flight checks, his brothers, well, mostly Gordon, groaning as they got to their feet and waddled towards the hatch. “C’mon, Virg, Alan’s pining for his bed.”

“You two go ahead. I just need to finish post-flight.” He didn’t turn around, but he could feel Gordon’s eyes on him.

“Sure, whatever.” And he heard the hatch lower to the hangar floor.

His brothers gone, Virgil let himself relax back against his chair, his shoulders sagging. He let out a long breath. “So, Bo, how are we going to do this?”

The puppy woke as if on command and turned to stare up at him. Gently her tail began to wag.

Virgil let a tired smile cross his face.

Encouraged, Bo jumped up and put her two front paws on his chest, reaching up, trying to lick his face despite not quite being tall enough.

The smile became a grin.

“Okay, okay.” He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her up as he pushed his seat backwards and stood. Immediately he was bathed in puppy drool. He couldn’t help but laugh. He surfaced above her licking and cradled her in his arms. “We need to get you some food.” His stomach rumbled ominously. “We need to get me some food.”

And a shower. A shower definitely wouldn’t hurt.

If he could hold off the sleep.

If he didn’t call it a stagger, it wasn’t a stagger, but he had obviously been sitting in his seat for far too long ferrying all those survivors to Melbourne on repeated trips. It was his turn to groan as both his back and legs complained loudly at the sudden demands for movement.

Bo started chewing on his glove.

Somehow he made it back to his rooms without encountering anyone. Shutting the door, he let Bo loose on the floor and began stripping off his uniform, hitting the buttons on his preprogrammed shower cubicle. Moments later he walked under the spray and let it wash the day from his skin.

God, that felt good.

As his muscles relaxed under the heat, sleep became more and more attractive, and by the time he stumbled out of the water, all thoughts of food had vanished.

He took the three steps across his room from the ensuite and threw himself facedown on the bed, still partly wet, still naked.

He was asleep within moments.

-o-o-o-

He was being kissed.

Her lips were warm, her tongue wet, her whiskers soft against his stubble...

Uh?

She licked his eye.

Wha-?

Virgil, always slow to respond upon waking, opened said eye only to get an eyeful of slobber. A soft paw thwapped him on the cheek. Huh? he blinked attempting to clear his eyesight, a hand coming up to defend himself.

Fortunately, his brain came online and memory kicked in. “B-Bo?”

A tongue wrapped around his nose and left it wet.

Ugh.

He wiped his face with his hand, stretching backwards on his pillow, desperate to get out of reach.

The puppy landed on his chest, her paws kneading his chest hair, her little claws completing his wake-up process rather abruptly.

Oh god.

“Bo, down, honey, down.”

He was completely ignored.

Sitting up, he attempted to grab her in his arms, but missed. The little puppy landed on things that puppies had no right to land on. Or stomp on for that matter.

He winced.

“Ooh, okay, come here.” He lifted her off his lap, holding her close, her tail pummelling his belly. “I’m awake, okay.” Again he found himself pinned by her brown eyes. “Aww, c’mon with the cute, Bo, you’re going to melt my brain.”

“Assuming you have a brain to melt.” And Scott was standing in his doorway.

Virgil glared up at him. “Don’t you knock?”

“I did. Grandma sent me to tell you that Christmas dinner is ready.”

Virgil frowned at his brother over the top of Bo’s ears, ignoring the glare the blue eyes were directing at the puppy in his arms. “I thought we’d do Christmas tomorrow.”

“We don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. Grandma thought it would be best to sneak it in tonight, since it is Christmas Day, after all.” Scott’s lips thinned. “Where did you get that from?”

“She’s a rescue.”

“Usually we leave our rescues on the continent we find them.”

“She had no one.”

“Unfortunately, that is nothing new.” And one of his hands had moved to his hip.

Virgil sighed. “Scott, it’s fine, it’s only for a few days.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

Virgil held back his retort. He knew to pick his fights and now was not the time. “Her name is Bo.”

Scott looked at him and then at Bo. “Hurry up, your dinner is getting cold.” The ghost of a smirk. “And don’t forget to wear clothes.”

“Funny, funny, ha, ha.” But his brother had left.

Virgil let his shoulders drop. “Sorry, Bo, I think you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Bo just licked him some more.

It wasn’t until he went looking for his boots that he discovered the wonderful deposits Bo had left for him on the floor.

Ugh.

And apparently one of his favourite boots had served as a meal also.

He closed his eyes and sighed again.

Half dressed, he cleaned up the mess, and five minutes later he waltzed downstairs, Bo in his arms and barefoot. Time to face the inevitable music.

-o-o-o-

A Tracy Christmas used to be snow, roast turkey, stockings by the fire, the occasional Christmas carol and family.

Since starting International Rescue it had changed.

Firstly, they were in the tropics. The only fires available in those temperatures were ones that required firefighting equipment. Having grown up with snow, it was still extremely weird. But it had its advantages. For one you could go outside in the minimum of clothing, something Gordon took advantage of every day of the year. There were no snowball fights, but these were fast replaced with water fights. There was no ice skating, but there was water skiing if anyone could get up the energy to get the boat out. And surfing, let’s not forget Scott’s attempts at that. Virgil would admit that he didn’t mind a little surfboard action himself. He wouldn’t say he was very good at it, but at least Gordon had never had to save him like he had Scott.

There were still Christmas trees and tinsel and stockings that no-one ever considered wearing hung from the nearest mantelpiece-looking piece of furniture.

There was still turkey and roast potatoes and all the yummy food crucial for a good Christmas meal, but it was often cooked outside in barbecue ovens and seafood and cold food had been added to the menu. In fact, the traditional dinner had become more of a banquet by the pool.

As Virgil walked out onto the patio, he couldn’t help but smile at the Christmas tree that had obviously been hurriedly moved out here from the comms room. It sat a little lopsided and the star on top was having a few issues with gravity. That was new, as was the liberal tinsel and Christmas lights strung from palm tree to palm tree, across the pool and back several times.

“Fifty bucks says Gordon tries to water volleyball the tinsel at least once.”

Virgil smirked as he stepped up beside his next youngest brother. “Not touching that one. I value my money.”

John was dressed in shorts and a t-shirt and had a beer in his hand. Bo was immediately interested in this new person. She strained towards John, her nose literally twitching towards the hand holding the beer.

His brother must have caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and instinctively took a step away.

“Oh, sorry, John, this is Bo.” Bo was climbing over his arm, desperate to get closer to the astronaut. Virgil held her tight, worried she would fall.

“Uh, hello.” John turned towards them, frowning. “Since when do you own a dog?”

“Since this morning.”

“Does Scott know?” They both instinctively looked over at their eldest brother who was hovering over one of the barbecues energetically discussing something with Grandma - probably how not to burn the food.

“He does.”

“And you still have it?”

“Her.”

“Yes.”

“Good luck with that one.” John drank his beer.

“She had no one else.”

John arched an eyebrow at him and then frowned. “Oh, Virgil.” His shoulders slumped.

“I am an adult now, John. It won’t be like last time.”

“God, I hope not.”

Virgil stared at his brother, only to see the genuine concern in his green eyes. A sigh. “It won’t happen again.”

John reached out and gently touched his shoulder. “No, it won’t, because you will remember that you have four brothers who are all here for you, won’t you.” God, that green gaze was penetrating.

“It will be fine.”

Bo yipped at John, her tail beating Virgil’s chest.

The astronaut smiled and offered the little dog his hand. She sniffed and licked him almost immediately.

“I think you have been approved.”

John smiled and Virgil couldn’t help but do the same.

“Virgil!” And Grandma was arrowing in on his position.

“Incoming.” John was smirking.

“Hey, Grandma.”

But his grandmother only had eyes for Bo. “Who is this?”

Virgil smiled again. “This is Bo. Bo, this is Grandma.”

Bo whacked him with her tail and literally leapt from his arms into his grandmother’s.

“Woah.” Suddenly with arms full of wriggling puppy enthusiastically licking her face, his grandmother was laughing. “Oh dear, you are a cutie. Let me have a look at you.” And she held Bo out at arms length, her eyes critical. “A little hard to tell at her age, but my bet says she’s of boxer stock, around three months old. Such a beautiful brindle and that face.” Virgil couldn’t help but agree. Bo looked like she had dipped her face in a pot of ink, her brown eyes surrounded by gorgeous black coat that quickly bled to brindle down her back with a spot of white on her front. “Where did you find her?”

Virgil looked at his feet, remembered why they were bare, and looked back up at his grandmother. “This morning’s rescue. She lost everything.”

Grandma turned her attention back to Bo. “Oh, honey. You survived the fire?” Bo licked her nose. “Well, you are safe here.” Grandma curled her arms around the puppy and scratched her ears. “Has Virgil fed you anything yet?” She glanced at him and he shrugged. He got frowned at for his trouble. Grandma turned away, walking towards the barbecues with Bo in her arms. “Let’s get you something to eat.”

Virgil rolled his eyes.

“Well, that didn’t take long, did it?” John was still smirking at him.

A series of barks and a yelp from Grandma, and suddenly Bo was dashing amongst legs in his direction. “Woah.” He crouched down and caught her as she leapt for him. She wriggled and licked, her little body trembling under his hands. “Hey, hey, honey, it’s okay, you’re safe.” She snuggled up under his chin. He couldn’t help but return the hug.

Grandma approached, worry on her face. “I’m sorry, Virgil, I didn’t realise.”

“It’s okay.” He reached an arm around his grandmother, bringing her into the hug. “She’s just had a scary day.” He pulled both of them close.

Scott was glaring at him from a distance.

John smiled at them and drank his beer.

Bo started chewing on his collar.

-o-o-o-

As the evening progressed, Bo slowly let herself part from Virgil as each of the members of his family, bar Alan and Scott, came to say hello or fed her from the table. There was one interesting moment when the little puppy encountered Sherbert for the first time.

Bo yipped.

Sherbert yapped.

And as the entire party fell silent, the two dogs stared each other down.

Virgil was poised for a rescue and Penelope was not far behind him, but a moment later Bo licked Sherbert across the nose, Sherbert gently butted the little puppy with his head, and from that point onwards they were best of friends, Sherbert quite proudly showing his new friend around.

But never out of sight of Virgil.

Bo and Parker had a staring moment not long after, but Sherbert barrelled on in and head butted the driver, snapping him out of it. It wasn’t long before the little puppy had him rubbing her ears as well.

Kayo stood her distance, assessing Bo as much as the puppy was assessing her. A calm arched eyebrow slowly rose as Bo tilted her head up at the security specialist. She pressed her lips together and faced Virgil. “There will be training.”

Virgil blinked and his sister turned and stalked off. Bo eyed her the entire time, only finally distracted by a yelp from Alan as Gordon threw him in the pool.

The engineer was left wondering if he should be worried or not.

The meal was delicious, of course. Scott had managed to keep Grandma away from the barbecues and MAX had been on task for a good part of the day. There was the mandatory turkey, and this year a couple of large snapper had been baked to perfection, along with some crayfish, oysters, salads and roast vegetables. This was followed by pie, oh, so much pie, Christmas cookies, and Christmas pudding with custard and the option of ice cream.

Virgil, as usual, made sure he took advantage of all the options. Consequently, post-banquet found him sprawled on a pool lounger staring up at the stars amongst the tinsel overhead. Bo, who had also eaten probably more than she should have, was curled up between his feet.

The soft sounds of quiet carols and muted conversation wafting across the water lulled him gently to sleep.

-o-o-o-

Scott felt like Scrooge. He was tired, worried and even a little angry. He was not enjoying himself, no matter how hard he tried. Grandma had cornered him at least twice, her hand on his shoulder trying to soothe his ire.

The annoying thing was that he wasn’t even sure what he was angry about. The rescue hadn’t been the best, but they had done what they could and some lives had been saved that otherwise wouldn’t have. The team had performed well, no one had been injured, they were all back home safe and sound.

And there was food, family and Christmas. There wasn’t really much more he could ask for.

His eyes settled on Virgil, asleep on one of the loungers, oblivious to the tinsel being draped across his hair by Gordon behind him.

Scott sighed.

But then a little head bobbed up between his brother’s bare feet and Bo barked at Gordon quite firmly.

Virgil was obviously far too out of it to wake, but Gordon looked appropriately abashed at the challenge.

Scott found himself smiling.

Realised he was smiling, dumped the smile and frowned.

Gordon scampered off leaving a sleeping Virgil in a crown of silver tinsel.

The little dog leapt off the lounger and chased after the aquanaut.

Okay, he had to admit the dog was adorable. He could see what had captured his brother’s eye, and Scott certainly had no objection to adding to their family.

But Virgil...when Virgil loved, he loved with his whole heart, and last time he had lost a pet, it had been bad, so bad.

They had lost so much in their lives already, why volunteer to lose more?

He sighed. It was stupid to think that way, but part of him could remember that devastated teenager, the depression and the mess that followed. Virgil had been as broken as the rest of them when their mother died, but when his dog died two years later, his reaction had been so self-destructive he had needed counselling and a therapist. Scott didn’t know if the two incidents were related or if it was how his brother connected to pets, or whatever. He only knew he never wanted to see his brother go through that again.

Their father was missing, and here was Virgil with a pet once again.

Sure, he was an adult now, and had tackled so much loss since, but...

Another sigh.

A yip and he looked down to see said dog staring up at him with a mouth full of tinsel, tail wagging.

“Gordon!”

“Yesssss, masster?” His brother sidled up with a bow.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Did you want to face your brother having to tell him that his new puppy died choking on tinsel?”

“Oh, shit.”

“Exactly.”

The aquanaut scooped up the little dog and with gentle words extricated the tinsel from her mouth.

A moment later Gordon held her up to his cheek and Scott had the experience of two sets of brown eyes staring at him adoration.

“Oh, for the love of-“

“A puppy?” Gordon grinned at him. “She is a rather cute, isn’t she?”

“Leave it, Gordon.”

His brother frowned. “What’s chewing on your underwear?”

“Gordon-“

“Hey, it was a legit question, bro. You’re a grumpy ass on Christmas Day. Where’s the merry? We have food and there will be presents. And there is a puppy. You couldn’t ask for more cuteness.” Gordon held up Bo who attempted to lick Scott’s nose.

“Gordon-‘

“Nope, so not going down with you, bro. We’ve earned some happy. We’re all here, in one piece, it’s lovely weather. Cheer up, for goodness sake.” Despite himself, Gordon frowned. “Here have some puppy love.” And suddenly Scott found himself with his arms full of wriggling Bo. Gordon turned and walked off, eventually calling out to Alan, no doubt looking for mischief.

Bo tilted her head to one side and stared up at him.

Aw, hell, weaponised cuteness.

She jumped up and licked his nose.

Scott sighed.

Voice low. “You know, you better look after my brother. He’s a good man and he does a lot of good things.” A swallow. “He’s a little prone to heroics. Perhaps we can team up in that department and help keep his butt alive.”

Her tongue lolled out one side of her mouth and she grinned.

“Maybe try that on the Hood and solve all our problems.”

He gave in and drew her close to his chest, rubbing under her chin.

“I really hope we don’t regret this.”

-o-o-o-

“PRESENTS!”

Alan’s voice cut through his slumber and shook him awake. Wha-?

“Time to wake up, sleepy head.” Scott’s voice.

A sharp little bark.

Bo.

He flung his eyes open, and immediately squinted at the fairy lights floating in the light breeze far above. A blink and to his left a shadow formed into his eldest brother. His blue eyes were smiling as he sat on the next lounge over, holding Bo, scratching her gently. She was obviously enjoying it.

Virgil frowned. “I thought you were pissed at me.”

“I was.” His brother shrugged. “I got over it.” Bo was licking Scott’s fingers.

Wow, the ability to tame the savage big brother. The little girl must be heaven-sent.

There was a whir of wheels and MAX tore out onto the patio decked out in tinsel and lugging brightly coloured presents. MiniMAX darted in behind him carrying a smaller present which was deposited carefully on the table before he disappeared inside only to return with another.

“You okay?”

“Huh?” Virgil peered up at his brother before stretching the length of the lounger. Several joints cracked and the ache across his shoulders from the morning vaguely made its presence known. A yawn. “I’m fine. Just tired. This morning sucked.”

Tinsel slid down his face. He sighed and threw it off. Gordon was getting repetitive.

Scott dipped his head, attempting to hide a smile, and looked down at Bo. “True.” He scratched her under her chin one more time before offering her to him. “Here.”

Bo didn’t bother to wait for him to sit up, she bounded out of Scott’s arms and onto Virgil’s belly. “Oof.” She then danced up and down on it.

Scott grinned at him. “She’s not going to be little when she grows up.”

“Augh, she’s not little now.” He managed to capture her enough so he could sit up, but she struggled free excitedly and dashed from his arms, jumping on the lounger, just as MiniMAX buzzed over with a small present.

Bo barked at him and MiniMAX dodged to deposit the present in Virgil’s lap. He caught it, but with his hands now occupied, he wasn’t fast enough to grab Bo before she let off another bark, jumped excitedly and latched her teeth onto the little robot.

The result was immediate.

MiniMAX shrieked, several of his legs caught in the puppy’s mouth, and with a whir of rotor blades, took off madly across the patio.

With Bo hanging on.

“Bo!” Virgil dropped the present and made a grab for the pair, but missed.

Every eye turned to see what the commotion was about. Virgil stumbled over the lounger and kicked it out of the way. He was vaguely aware of Scott doing something similar. “Brains!”

MiniMAX was obviously panicking. The little robot darted about trying to shake off his assailant. Bo was whining in her throat.

Virgil dashed after them.

Despite the puppy’s weight, MiniMAX still managed a great deal of height, Brains’ ‘build ‘em tough’ policy obviously carrying through to his robots. Despite having the strength to carry the puppy, the off-balance mass hampered MiniMAX’s navigation and they were wobbling all over the place.

All Virgil could see was a tragedy in the making. The pool, the concrete, anything horribly solid. He ran beneath them, desperately attempting to reach the now whining puppy. Family members and furniture were dodged and shoved out of the way as he clambered after them.

A chair ended up in the pool. Gordon squawked and almost joined it. Virgil leapt off an empty lounge, made a grab for them, missed and ended up in the Christmas tree.

Fake pine needles jabbed him in the face as he went down in a pile of tinsel and Christmas baubles. He swore, his clothing caught, his hair caught, and his everything tangled in tinsel, but he made it to his feet just in time to see Bo let go.

“No!”

Oblivious to everything other than the puppy falling, Virgil finally got traction under his bare feet, took a running leap and grabbed Bo from the air. He instinctively wrapped himself around her, rolling in midair, tinsel and baubles flung in all directions.

As he plummeted into the pool.

The splash took his senses, muffling exclamations, and repeated shouts of his name. There was dark blue, and wet, and, for a moment, blessed silence.

Then logic reasserted itself and he kicked for the surface.

Sound, light and cool air on his skin. He blinked water out of his eyes as he lifted Bo up so she could breathe, his legs kicking to keep them afloat.

She whined at him as if to tell him off, sneezed, and began enthusiastically licking the saltwater off his face.

He couldn’t help but grin, and he knew he wasn’t the only one as laughter drifted across the water.

“You trashed the tree, Virg.”

“I don’t think he cares, Gordon.” He looked up to see Grandma smiling at him.

And no, he didn’t. As Scott poked him with a pole to help drag him to the edge and Bo decided his ear might do for her next meal, he suddenly felt joy. It could simply have been relief, but he was going to tack it up as Christmas joy and enjoy it while he could.

-o-o-o-

“Only you, Virgil.”

“It wasn’t intentional.”

“I have no doubt of that, it never is.”

“Aw, c’mon, Scott.”

“If it was intentional then I would have to accuse you of doing it deliberately just to get out of helping with the Christmas dishes.”

“We have a dishwasher.” Bo let off a bark as MiniMAX flew past dragging a bag full of recyclable cups, plates and cutlery, giving Virgil and his dog an extremely wide berth. “And there are hardly any dishes.”

“You are still getting out of clean up.”

“C’mon, Scott, you know me better than that. Ow!”

“Sit still. I’ve almost got all of it.”

Virgil leant back against the lounge, Bo curled up in his lap. “I’m not particularly happy about this either you know.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I know that, Ow!”

“Well, if you would watch where you were going, you wouldn’t have collided with the Christmas tree. And what’s with the bare feet anyway?”

“Bo ate one of my boots.”

Scott snorted and pulled out yet another tiny piece of glass Christmas bauble from the bottom of Virgil’s left foot. “She hasn’t been here twenty-four hours yet and she has already caused havoc.”

“She’s a puppy.”

“I noticed.” Scott sighed, peering through his magnifying visor at his brother’s foot. “I think that’s all of it. Please don’t do that again. You’ll be limping for a week.”

“I’m not planning on it.”

As Scott wrapped his foot in gauze, he eyed the puppy on Virgil’s lap. “And you, young lady, I thought we had a deal.”

To Virgil’s surprise, Bo’s head bobbed up and she looked distinctly guilty.

Scott arched an eyebrow. “Hmm, don’t let it happen again.”

Bo yapped at him.

Virgil stared at both of them. “What?”

“None of your business, you just lay back and look after yourself.” And Scott was smirking.

Ooookaay.

He relaxed back against the lounge and stared up at the fairy lights above.

Bo stomped up the length of him and licked his eyeball.

He coughed up a laugh and grabbed an armful of wriggly puppy.

“I think that was a Merry Christmas, Virg.” Scott held his injured foot and grinned. “Merry Christmas.”

-o-o-o-

FIN.

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds #thunderbirds fanfiction #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Gordon Tracy #alan tracy #John Tracy

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stevie-steven-stevington · 6 years

Text

Febuwhump Day 2: Peer Pressure

Fandom: MCU Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark Category: Gen Relationships: Peter Parker/Ned Leeds (mentioned) Rating: T Warnings: discussions of sex Words 2k

read on ao3

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this is a direct sequel to this fic

this is really loosely interpreted lmAO but also loosely based off my own struggles with my sexuality so. take it i guess

“What was your first time like?”

Tony looks over at the kid, hands stilling and eyebrows automatically creeping up his forehead. This is…not what he expected, to say the least. Peter’s been quiet all evening, disconcertingly so - it was clear from the moment he stepped into the building that something was off, but Tony couldn’t quite figure out what is was.

He still has no idea where the hell this is going.

Eh. One way to find out.

“My...first time,” Tony repeats, slowly. Just to be sure he heard it right.

Peter won’t look at him, eyes trained on the table in front of him. His voice is small when he says, “Yeah. Like - like the first time you -”

“No, I know, kid.” Tony squints at him, as if that will make this any clearer. He wants to ask - why on Earth do you want to know? - but he gets the feeling that the question wouldn’t be appreciated right now. “I, uh - my first time was…short. Awkward. It kind of sucked, to be honest.”

The kid nods slightly, absently chewing on the fingernail of his left thumb. There’s something...sad, in his demeanor, in his posture, in the way he holds himself, and Tony wants nothing more than to put an end to whatever or whoever put it there.

It’s quiet for a moment. Tony can practically feel Peter thinking, and he turns back to his work, giving Peter space to work out whatever it is he needs to work out.

Eventually, gaze still downcast, muffled around the finger in his mouth, Peter says, “So did it…it got better, right? After the - the first time, I mean, it got better?” Something is so wrong here.

This is such a loaded question, it’s clear in Peter’s tone. Though loaded with what, he doesn’t know. There’s layers to this whole conversation, really, like there’s something he’s supposed to say but no one bothered to tell him what it is. This wasn’t exactly in the Mentoring a Teenage Spiderling handbook.

(He wonders if this was in the Parenting a Teenage Spiderling handbook, and then he reminds himself that neither of those actually exist.)

This feels like a test of some sorts. Like this, rather than anything Spider-Man related, is the big test of whether or not he’s actually good at this whole mentor thing.

Okay.

Alright, Tones, you can do this. It’s just a kid. It’s just Peter.

Except there is no “just Peter”. Don’t fuck this kid up, Tony.

Is it really going to fuck up the kid if I mess up this one conversation? Seems like it might.

…Shit. It kind of does.

“Yeah,” Tony replies, jaw tight with something like nerves. Peter stiffens, almost imperceptibly, and Tony feels like his words are already wrong. Turns out, his words are wrong a lot of the time, so he’s not surprised. But now he’s stuck in his answer. “Yeah, I mean, it - yes, it took a while to figure things out. To figure out what worked and what didn’t and all that.” It’s the truth. What else is he supposed to say?

Peter doesn’t say anything, one foot kicking back and forth against the floor. He looks so small, so young, sitting at his work station (the one Tony set up specifically for him, because he’s like that, he’s always been like that).

Tony forgets, sometimes, that Peter’s just a kid. That the actual superhero sitting in his lab is just sixteen years old. A high school junior. A child.

An impressionable kid who’s currently asking him, Tony fucking Stark, playboy extraordinaire, about sex.

Well, it’s not like he has many other people to go to, Tony supposes. The list of trusted adults in Peter’s life is a rousing two, and maybe he just thought it’d be less awkward with him than with his aunt. Or maybe he just knows that Tony has more...experience in this department. The kid is still silent. Which is not only concerning, but also sort of disturbing.

Peter doesn’t do quiet. Peter always talks, always has something or other to say, always aims to fill the silence even when he seems like he hates the sheer act of taking up space.

The roles are reversed now, it seems. Tony doesn’t like it.

“Pete -” Hearing his name jolts Peter out of whatever stupor he’s in and he interrupts, finger dropping from his mouth, as if Tony hadn’t even spoken. “So you made it better. You - you found the things that f-felt good and you worked with those, yeah?” “I...I guess,” Tony says, and his voice sounds strange even to his own ears. Peter hasn’t stuttered around him in ages. The hero worship hasn’t quite worn off, exactly, but the stuttering hasn’t been an issue in forever. “But listen, kid -” “So you didn’t just...automatically like it. It wasn’t s-something that just - just clicked?” Peter barrels on, head finally jerking up to look at Tony. There’s desperation in his eyes. A sharp, hysterical type of desperation that Tony hates, hates more than anything else he’s ever seen on Peter’s face. He’s seen fear, he’s seen pain, and he’s seen anger in Peter, more times than he’d like to say, but none of that compares to the distress he sees now. “Everyone always says that it just clicks, that - that - that you’re just supposed to know what to do and how to do it and what feels good and what you want and -”

“Peter.”

“What?” The kid is practically panting, what with all his words coming out in one breath. And it’s hard to tell from across the lab, but he thinks Peter is shaking.

“Look, Underoos, if you - if you have questions, I’m more than willing to give you the answers. If you want to know what’s what, I’m here for you, okay? But Pete, you came out to me like two months ago.” Tony scrubs a hand across his face, left wrist twinging in that way that it does, every so often. “I mean, if you’re telling me now that you’re actually not asexual, if you’re not sex...averse, was it? Then okay. That’s okay, Pete, if your label has changed, that’s fine, buddy. But if that’s it, then you have to tell me, because right now, you’re kind of scaring me.”

For a second, Peter just stares at him. Then he shakes his head, slowly, like he wishes he didn’t have to. “It’s - it’s not. I’m…still asexual.” “Okay. Okay.” Tony stands and walks over to Peter, kneeling next to the stool he’s sat on. Because he was right. Something is so wrong. “Then why are you asking about sex as if you’re thinking about having it, Pete?”

Peter looks down again, staring at his hands. Tony has to lean down and tilt his head a little to see Peter’s face, and he watches in vague horror as the kid’s eyes fill with tears. “I just…if everyone else has to work at it for them to like sex, why - why can’t I?” Shit. Shit.

That’s what this is.

He’d thought, when Peter came out to him two months ago, that he was comfortable in it. Relatively so, at least. That he done all the soul-searching, that he had accepted himself, that he didn’t need any help with all of it. And he was wrong, clearly.

Fuck.

He’s been trying so damn hard not to be like his father. And yet, here he is, with no idea what the hell his kid needs.

His kid.

Peter’s not his kid. Not biologically, at least.

But who is he kidding? In some way, somehow, whatever that way may be, Peter’s his kid. And his kid needs him to say the right thing here.

“Peter…Peter, look at me.” When he doesn’t, Tony lifts his head up with two gentle fingers. Peter’s eyes dart around for a moment before settling on Tony’s nose. Not quite what he was going for, but he’ll take it. “Peter, the reason my first time sucked was because I was fifteen, stupid, and immature. I didn’t know what I was doing and neither did the girl I was with. God, we were in a car, Peter. I had sex for the first time in the back of a car, at fifteen years old, and it sucked. “But it still felt good, Peter. Emotionally, at least. Because I wanted it. Because my partner wanted it. Even if it was reckless and dumb and I wish, in retrospect, that I’d waited, we still both wanted it. Sex is never going to feel good if you don’t want it to begin with.”

“But - but -” Tony pushes a few wayward strands of hair off of Peter’s forehead. “Peter, what’s going on?” Tears run down Peter’s cheeks, and he makes no move to wipe them away. He just sits there, hands trembling on the table in front of him, and cries.

And then he’s sobbing, full-on sobbing, and saying, “T-there’s just so much pressure, Mr. Stark. I - everyone is h-having sex and then everyone is talking about it. Everything’s about sex and I - I know that sex isn’t everything, but god, it’s hard to believe that when virgin is the latest insult that p-people toss around at school. I - I just, I feel like I’m m-missing something, like I’m - I’m -”

“Like you’re what, Peter?”

“Like I’m broken,” Peter chokes out, and Tony actually feels his heart break.

Fuck, he doesn’t know how to deal with this. The first time he’d even heard the word asexual outside of high school biology class was from Peter. He’s never had to deal with peer pressure, or general societal pressure, when it comes to sex, because he’s never not wanted to have sex.

What do you say to a kid who doesn’t want the one thing everyone else seems to be obsessed with?

Tony rests a hand on Peter’s knee, takes a breath, and gives it his best damn shot. “Kid, you - you’re not broken, okay? Not wanting sex doesn’t make you broken. Does it make you different? Sure, in a way. But so does being Spider-Man. So does being a sixteen-year-old who can lift a car. Is that a bad thing?”

Peter sniffles. “No.” “And neither is being asexual. Just because something makes you different does not mean it makes you broken. Not everyone wants sex. Not every couple has sex. I - I know it feels like the whole damn world revolves around sex, but that doesn’t mean your world has to. That doesn’t mean that you’re wrong for not wanting it.” “But - but what if...someone I’m dating wants -” “Ned’s not pressuring you, is he?”

Peter blinks in surprise at him. “What? No. Jesus, no, of course not. He - he’d never. Just - I mean, we’re sixteen, I know there’s - there’s no guarantee that I’ll be with Ned forever. What if someone else, somewhere down the line, wants...something that I can’t give them?”

Tony sighs. “I don’t - Pete, look, I don’t have all the answers. I can’t tell you what will happen somewhere down the line or - or how to handle some hypothetical future relationship. But what I will say is just…don’t hurt yourself to help someone else. Don’t - don’t force yourself to do something you don’t want to do to please another person, whether they’re your boyfriend or girlfriend or husband or wife or whatever. You take care of yourself first, alright?”

A pause, then Peter nods. “I - okay. I will.”

“Good. And kid, I know I can’t just fix all of this with one little pep talk. I know that…accepting yourself, your sexuality, it takes a lot more than someone telling you that it’s okay. But it is. It is okay - it’s more than okay, it’s perfect. Because it’s you. And you are perfect just the way you are, Peter.”

Finally, finally, a smile. A watery, shaky smile, but a smile nonetheless. Take that, Howard.

“It might -” Peter swipes a hand across his cheeks, sniffs, starts again. “It might take a while for me to…to believe that. To really, actually believe it. But it’s really nice to hear, Mr. Stark.”

“I’ll say it as many times as you need me to, kiddo.”

“I know. Thank you...Tony,” Peter says, and the smile widens.

And it’s not okay. Not now, not yet.

But it’s better.

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curiosity-killed · 7 years

Text

event horizon

(◕ᴗ◕✿) told you

Warnings: angst? Pairing: gen but probs gonna be Shance Word count: 2793 Chapters: 1/?

He’s not sure what he’s doing. He didn’t really know what they were doing the first time, to be honest, but he definitely doesn’t know what he’s doing now. Last time, it was desperate – a life-or-death Hail Mary. They’d all been striving together for the same thing through Voltron. He’s not sure how these things work, but he’s pretty sure it’s more likely to work in that situation rather than here, sitting cross-legged on his floor in pajamas. “Come on,” he mutters, closing his eyes and clutching his bayard a little closer. He tries to tap into the same feeling they used last time. Try as he might, though, he can’t find it. The situation is too different. He doesn’t have that same desperate certainty. All he has is questions and a prickling apprehension. Opening his eyes, he rubs angrily at the tears gathering there. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he doesn’t really know why but he knows he needs to. There’s something wrong, and that moment on the astral plane holds answers. He needs to find them. “Please,” he begs. “Please just help me do this.”

He closes his eyes again and grabs onto that feeling. He thinks of Blue, of Red, of all of them striving together. He thinks of Shiro’s voice calling out. There’s a shift in the air. He opens his eyes, and his jaw drops. His room is gone. The floor is gone. Stars soar overhead in impossible galaxies of purple and pink, and they’re mirrored below where he sits. As he watches, he realizes they’re moving separately and something in his inner ear just gives up. It all starts to wobble. There is no floor. He’s sitting in open space. “Holy shit,” he says weakly as the world starts to spin in dizzying circles. “Lance? Lance!” A finger runs towards him, shadowed and blurry on the edges. He’s not sure if it actually has two doppelgangers or if his vision’s going. He can’t make out the face – only white and black blurs. Shiro hits him with the force of a small train. Wrapping his arms around Lance, he hauls him up as if he weighs nothing. Lance goes limply, too stunned to move. His face is pressed into the hard collar of Shiro’s armor and his arms trapped by his sides. Normally, he’d be wriggling free immediately. As it is, he can hardly think through his surprise. At last, Shiro releases him to arm’s length. His eyes rove over Lance, scouring his face. Lance stares back, still unsteady. There’s something different about Shiro, but he can’t place what it is. “You’re here,” Shiro says. “What about the others? Are they, too?” He looks past Lance as if he might spot Hunk or Pidge hiding somewhere in this bottomless space. “Uh, n-no,” Lance stammers. “Just me. Sorry.” “What?” Shiro frowns, the thickness of his brows turning it into an impressive scowl. “Why would you apologize? I’m just happy to finally see someone else. After that last time-” He breaks off and shakes his head, gaze going a little distant. Lance frowns. Shiro turns back to him, expression earnest. “How is everyone? How long has it been?” he asks. “Shiro, I saw you like three hours ago,” Lance objects. Shiro freezes. The smile that had started to turn up his lips fades away. “What?” “After dinner,” Lance says. “You and Coran were talking in the lounge when I headed to bed.” Still staring at Lance, Shiro slowly shakes his head. His hands fall away from Lance’s arms. “I haven’t been on the ship since our fight with Zarkon,” he says. Lance shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, that’s not possible. I mean, you were missing for a while – a long time honestly – but you came back. You escaped. You’ve been fighting with us for months.” He clutches his bayard closer to his chest even as Shiro crosses his arms. The frown has shifted to something like worry, doubt creeping into Shiro’s eyes. Lance clenches his fingers around either side of the bayard until it hurts. “Lance,” Shiro says gently, “I don’t know who’s been with you, but it’s not me. I haven’t seen any of you guys since that fight. I’ve been here the whole time.” Lance shakes his head again, as if to ward away Shiro’s words. “That’s not possible,” he repeats. “We just talked the other day, remember? About when we were all here? That was you. You said your head’s been hurting and that – that…” He trails off, not wanting to say the words aloud. The thought of them sends something cold down along his spine. “That you didn’t feel like yourself,” he finishes quietly. It clicks, abruptly, what seems different about Shiro. He looks like he used to – when they first found Blue, before he was captured again. “Shiro,” he asks, voice shaking, “where are we?” This isn’t a place, not in any real sense of the word. It isn’t somewhere a person could be for months – for a year. He takes a step back, through the echo of the stars above. Shiro’s expression softens. “It’s the astral plane,” he says. He doesn’t move to close the gap Lance has created. “I fought Zarkon here once – when he was using his bond with Black to track us. When we fought him that last time – I don’t know what happened really, but all of a sudden, I woke up here.” He sighs and runs a hand back over his hair. It’s shorter than Lance last saw, the sides cut short the way they used to be. “There’s no way to keep track of time here,” he says, “so I’ve just been – waiting. Hoping someone would hear me, I guess. And then I heard all of you calling for me.” He looks up, meeting Lance’s gaze finally. Lance’s heart gives a painful lurch at what he sees there: desperation and hope mixed into one. “Are you dead?” Lance blurts out. “No, I don’t think so,” Shiro says seriously. “I can still feel – I can feel my body. Somewhere. It’s like I’m caught between two forces and can’t get out. When I try to look, I can’t see anything. Just white.” As he speaks, his left hand reaches up absently to touch his chest over his heart. He doesn’t seem to notice till he turns back to Lance and drops his hand back to his side. There’s a scratch through the black Voltron mark that Lance hadn’t noticed before: it cuts down from the collar to split the ‘v’ in ragged halves. He tries not to think about what could have caused it. “Keith should’ve been the one to come,” he mumbles. “Or Hunk or Allura. Someone who could help.” “Hey, Lance,” Shiro says, stepping into his line of sight. His hand’s extended, and he rests it gently on Lance’s shoulder until Lance looks up to meet his gaze. “You being here helps. I’ve been alone here for – for months, I guess. Just having you here is more than I expected.” Despite the sincerity in Shiro’s voice and eyes, Lance doesn’t really feel any better. He doesn’t know what he expected when he decided to try this, except that he hadn’t really expected it to work. Now, he feels useless and desperate. He was right – something is wrong – but it’s far too big for him to do anything. “Could you – would you mind catching me up?” Shiro asks hesitantly. “You don’t have to tell me everything – just whatever you feel like.” Lance nods slightly before swallowing and giving a firmer nod. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.” The relief that washes over Shiro’s face is heartbreaking. “Awesome,” he says. “Thank you.” They sit down where they were standing, and Lance studiously doesn’t look down at the nothingness below. Shiro sits cross-legged, hands over his ankles, and all attention turned towards Lance. It’s overwhelming, for a moment, and Lance flounders as he tries to think of where to start. Shiro seems to sense his conflict. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” he says. “Just whatever comes to mind.” “Okay,” Lance says. He pauses. “Well, Keith quit Voltron to join the Blade of Marmora.” “What?!” Lance grins and dives in. He explains as much as he can, interspersed with questions from Shiro – “Who’s Lotor?” “You saw a white hole?!” – until he runs out of anything more to tell. His voice doesn’t go hoarse, even long past the point when it feels it should. Astral plane, Shiro points out. Their physical bodies mean nothing here. When he’s run out of stories to tell, he starts asking Shiro about his time here in this starlit void. Shiro claims there’s not much to tell, but then he starts talking about how he’s figured out how to manipulate the plane around them and how to adjust it to his desired view. With a thought, the stars around them vanish to show a bustling city around them. There are no people, but it still feels right – even with the occasional star glinting off a window. “Wow,” Lance breathes, gaping. “Yeah,” Shiro agrees. His gaze passes over the buildings as if they’re familiar, and Lance’s heart gives a sharp pang. How many times has Shiro visited this place, wandered its empty streets just to see something? His wonder fizzles out into sadness. “I wish I knew how to bring you back,” he says. Shiro looks up, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. He shrugs and drops them, though, turning away from the high rises to walk along the deserted road. “We’ll figure it out eventually,” he says. “I’m sure of it.” His optimism sounds forced, though, and it rings hollow in Lance’s chest. He’s been stuck here for over a year now. What hope he might have had has surely faded now. Lance turns away from the thought. “Black didn’t accept the other you at first,” Lance says, though he’s not sure why. This brings out real surprise. Shiro stops and turns to him. “Really?” he asks. His tone is flat, as if he’s struggling to sort through a mix of emotions. Lance nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It really sucked. It only let him in when we were desperate and needed to form Voltron. Keith was off on a mission and we were getting hammered.” As he speaks, Shiro nods slightly. He’s frowning again, but it’s a smaller, thoughtful one this time. “I can still feel her,” he says. “Black, I mean. It’s quieter – like we’re far apart – but she’s still there. A while ago, she was really upset, and then she went silent for a long time. It was probably then.” “You can feel her feelings?” Lance asks, because he’s not sure where else to go from that. Even for a giant robot, the Black Lion has always seemed especially unapproachable. Twice the size of the others and literally the center of Voltron, it’s always been a little to big for him to wrap his head around. Even when he sat in its seat and wished desperately for it to choose him as its paladin, he had known it wouldn’t. It had felt like a shell around him, not like the vibrant energy in which he was cocooned whenever he neared Blue – or, now, Red. Shiro lifts and drops his shoulders in a shrug. “It’s a little fuzzy,” he admits. “They’re not feelings like we have – they’re more…images, sensations. It’s hard to explain.” Lance nods, understanding. It’s not the same with Blue or Red, but he thinks he knows what Shiro means. The lions are certainly conscious, but it’s a different sort of consciousness than his or another human’s. The way they react and call to their paladins is something beyond his understanding. “Does she know where you are?” he asks. Shiro lifts a hand to scratch under his bangs. Somewhere in his playing with the reality around them, his paladin armor had disappeared to be replaced by his usual vest and pants. It’s a little disorienting: Lance has just gotten used to the other Shiro’s new look. “I think so,” he says. “It feels like she knows where I am but can’t reach me.” Maybe Keith could help, Lance thinks. The other Shiro probably isn’t going to be very useful for this. As soon as he thinks it, Lance feels bad. So far as he can tell, it seems like that Shiro really believes he is Shiro and is doing the best he can. “It’s going to really suck to tell the other Shiro he’s not you,” he voices aloud. Shiro winces. “Yeah,” he says. “I don’t imagine that’ll be easy. And we still don’t know where he came from or anything.” He lets out a frustrated breath. Empathy drops Lance’s shoulders down, but he can’t find words to voice it. Instead, he reaches out and rests what he hopes is a comforting hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “I mean, it’s kinda a good problem, right? Too many Shiros?” he offers. It earns him an unamused look at first, but then Shiro chuckles and shakes his head. “What was that one you met in the alternate reality? Sven?” he asks with a laugh. “We could start a band.” Startled, Lance chokes out a snort that breaks into full-on laughter. Shiro beams, and for the first time in months, Lance feels his heart lift. Somehow, he’d forgotten what Shiro’s smile looked like. “We’re gonna’ get you out, y’know?” he says. “I promise.” Shiro turns to him with a smile, soft and sincere. “I know,” he says. “I believe in you.” They say goodbye with Lance’s promise to check in as often as he can and to talk to the others. Shiro’s calmer than when Lance arrived, but he still seems reluctant to part ways. He fidgets a little before pulling Lance into a last hug and wishing him good luck. Lance tries to tell himself that it isn’t really goodbye, but it’s hard to believe that when he can still see Shiro’s face in his mind, trying so hard to be brave. He opens his eyes to his empty room, the bayard still held to his chest. Sighing, he drops his head back against his bed and stares up at the ceiling. Despite the challenges still ahead, a smile curls his lips. He’s never been half as close to Shiro as Keith is, but they’d been closer before he vanished. After the team’s recent fights with the other Shiro, spending time with the leader he’d known and trusted feels like aloe over a burn. He exhales and resolves to talk to the team first thing in the morning. He screws up his face as he thinks of Keith. There’s no easy way to explain what’s going on, but it’d probably be better to tell him sooner rather than later. Coran’s probably still awake, anyway. He’s just made up his mind to get up and find Coran when there’s a knock at the door. Frowning, he shoves himself to his feet and walks to the door, bayard left behind on his bed. The knock comes again. “Yeah, I’m coming,” he calls. The door slides open to reveal Shiro – or, well, the other Shiro. “Oh,” he says. “Hi. What’s up?” He doesn’t get an answer. This Shiro shoves him into the room with a hand around his throat. Lance chokes, stumbling back. Shiro follows. His grip is punishing, and the fingers dig into Lance’s neck like they’ll bruise. He coughs, bringing his hands up to pull at Shiro’s. “Shiro! Please, c’mon buddy” – he breaks off as the fingers tighten – “Come on, this isn’t you.” His eyes are scrunched tight against the sudden attack, and it takes him a moment to open them and realize that his words are truer than he knew: this isn’t Shiro – isn’t either of them. Instead of the dark grey eyes he’s known, glowing yellow glares back at him. Oh, fuck, he thinks. He clings to the hand around his neck. “Please,” he begs. “Please don’t do this.” The hand tightens and that unnatural glow doesn’t waver. The voice that comes from Shiro isn’t his – it’s something twisted and strained to the breaking point. “You’re never going to tell anyone else what you know, Paladin.” Lance’s eyes water and his hands turn desperate as he scrabbles to break free. He’s grown strong in his time as a paladin, but Shiro’s grip is a vice around his neck. Black crowds the edges of his vision, and he whimpers as the grip tightens. “Please,” he whispers. The darkness swallows his vision whole. The last he sees is the yellow fading from Shiro’s eyes replaced, the start of something like horror replacing it.

#voltron fic #shiro #lance #kuron #angst #long post #for realsies sorry abt that #my writing

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imagineteamfreewill · 7 years

Text

Meant to Be

Title: Meant to Be

Pairing: Vampire!Reader x Dean

Word Count: 7,585

Warnings: Angst, changes to canon (see A/N), drinking, minor injury, and mentions of blood

Theme Song: Heal by Tom Odell

Summary: Of all the people Dean expected to see on a hunt, she was not one of them.

A/N: The long sections of italics in this story are flashbacks. For thee sake of the story and plot, vampires in this version of canon can be born from two vampirical parents and age like regular people. Additionally, Dean checked in on Sam often while he was at Stanford. Feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy!

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_______________

“Dean!” Sam’s voice echoed throughout the dark warehouse and Dean mumbled a curse under his breath. If anyone else had heard that, their cover was blown.

After wiping the blood from his knife onto the canvas sleeve of his jacket, Dean slipped through the narrow walkways toward the sound of his brother’s voice, hoping desperately that he’d already cleared the area. This hunt was already bigger than expected, and if one of them got injured, they’d be in big trouble.

“Sammy?” Dean called. He stuck his head down another one of the aisles and grit his teeth in frustration when there was no one to be seen. “Sammy, where are you?”

“Over here!” Sam replied. “I got the last of ‘em!”

Dean let out a sigh of relief and lowered his machete slightly, following the sound of Sam’s voice. When he finally found him, however, he stopped in his tracks. At Sam’s feet was the head of one of the vamps, and her face was all too familiar to him. Dean’s stomach churned. Before he could stop himself, he was crouching over and throwing up the burger he’d eaten for lunch.

Sam didn’t move from where he stood, knowing that Dean wasn’t one to accept help when he was sick. Once Dean had finally composed himself he asked, “Dude, you okay? You look kinda… Green.”

Nodding, Dean swallowed the sour taste of bile that remained in his mouth, then slipped his machete into his belt. “Think I just ate something bad. I’m gonna… Head out to the car. Can you take care of all this?”

Dean didn’t stick around to hear Sam’s spiel about being left to take care of the bodies, nor, did he wait to hear his brother’s reply; he simply turned on his heel and hurried out of the warehouse. He locked himself in the Impala as soon as he could, then let out the breath he’d been holding as soon as he’d seen her face. His stomach let out an angry gurgle when he remembered the frozen fear that would remain on her face, and Dean had to close his eyes to suppress the guilt—and the bile—that rose in his throat.

It had been years, decades even, since he’d seen Y/N. The last time had been when they’d said their goodbyes at the tiny bar just outside of Palo Alto. She’d been wearing the flowy black top that he’d told her he’d liked, as well as the flowery perfume she’d bought at the only local body shop she could afford. Dean had been drinking whiskey and she’d ordered a water. He’d originally come to find out why she’d been drinking alone, considering that he’d called her the day before to let her know he’d be in town.

Y/N had told him that she was heading east as soon as she left the bar. She didn’t know where she was headed or what she would do, but she knew that Dean had responsibilities to his dad and to his brother. She wanted him to stay loyal to them and to follow in his father’s footsteps. While he’d known that she was right all along, her words still stung. He’d told her that he loved her and that he could protect her, but Y/N had pressed him to stay, and finally, he’d given up. She had said that if they were meant to be together, they’d meet up again someday, and Dean had taken that little bit of hope and grabbed onto it.

Dean left the bar soon after that, and he hadn’t heard anything from her since. As far as he’d known, Y/N had headed east just like she’d planned, but clearly, that hadn’t been what had happened.

_______________

“So,” you sighed, looking up at the boy who’d just sauntered over to your bar stool, “I suppose you want to feed me a line just like all the other cocky S.O.B’s who think they can get into my pants?”

The boy grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. You couldn’t help the tingly, floating feeling you got when his smile grew somewhat lopsided, but you pushed the sensation down in favor of raising a challenging eyebrow at him.

“Actually, I was hoping if you could tell me what’s good. Food-wise, I mean.” His last words came out quickly, as if you had made him nervous, and you let your guarded expression fade away.

“Uhuh,” you hummed. After a second, you patted the stool beside yours. “Hop up, cowboy.”

He laughed, and the tingly feeling grew stronger. “Thanks. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Sweetheart?” you asked, raising your eyebrow again.

“Sorry, bad habit. I’m Dean.”

“Y/N.”

Dean nodded and looked the shelves of liquor that lined the wall behind the bar. He stayed silent as you sipped your beer, and you took the moment to give him a sideways glance. Even in the dim bar lighting, you could tell that he was pretty; his jaw was a sharp outline against the tables in the background, and his hair looked soft despite the fact that he clearly spiked it up. Biting down on your lip, you inhaled deeply to focus yourself. His heart was beating strong and fast, and you held back a smile when you heard. Your suspicions had been correct—you had made Dean nervous.

“The wings aren’t bad, but the fries are better,” you said, causing him to jump a little.

“What?” Dean asked.

Grinning, pushed your hair out of your eyes and turned slightly toward him. “I said, the wings aren’t bad, but the fries are better.” When Dean didn’t look any less confused, you let out a soft laugh. “You asked me what food was good, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

Neither one of you spoke for a long moment, and finally you sighed. “You know, Dean, you can still use that cheesy line on me. I won’t kick you out.”

Dean glanced over at you and smiled when he saw that you were giving him a soft smile of your own. “There, uh, wasn’t actually a line,” he admitted.

Surprised, you raised your eyebrows and took another swig of your beer. “Really? There was no line whatsoever.”

“I mean, I was just gonna ask you if it hurt when you fell from heaven, but that seemed more like a personal question than a line,” Dean grinned. You laughed, reveling in the way his green eyes sparkled when you did, then gestured at the bartender. Within seconds he was setting a beer in front of Dean, who gladly took a sip.

“Well, if you must know, I didn’t fall from heaven. It’s more like I… Rose from hell,” you replied. Dean quirked an eyebrow at you as he took a sip of his drink. Almost immediately you wondered if that hadn’t been as clever as it had sounded in your head. “So, Dean, business or pleasure?” you asked, hoping he’d forget your comment in favor of simply answering the question.

Thankfully, he did. “Business. Family business, actually. I came to, uh, see my brother. He’s a student at Stanford,” Dean told you.

“Me too! What’s he studying?” you asked.

“I, uh, I don’t actually know. Pre-law, I think. We didn’t part on the best of terms when he came for his freshman year, and I don’t get to talk to him much. I try and check up on him whenever I’m in the area.”

You nodded and finished your drink, then waved away the bartender when he came to bring you another one. You could hold your liquor, but something about Dean made you want to be somewhat sober for your conversation. He was interesting, and you wanted to hear what he had to say.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you murmured. “Hey, what’s his name? I might know him. We might have had some gen eds together or something.”

Dean hesitated. You could hear his heart hammering in his chest over the music from the live band, and you frowned. He had been starting to calm down when the two of you got into a conversation, but the request of his brother’s name made him nervous again. Did he not want to tell you? Or was he afraid that you wouldn’t like his brother? Was his brother weird?

“Sam. Sam Winchester,” Dean finally answered.

You could tell that he was watching you to gauge your reaction, and you sucked in a sharp breath, all the while trying to keep your hands from shaking. “Your brother is Sam Winchester?” you asked, sincerely hoping you’d just heard him incorrectly. Dean nodded in response, watching you with a guarded expression. “So that makes you Dean Winchester.”

“I guess…” Dean replied slowly, clearly worried by your response.

“And your dad is John Winchester.” As soon as the words slipped past your lips, you regretted them. Dean’s face changed in an instant, changing from guarded to downright suspicious. “I’m sorry. I have to go, Dean. It was nice meeting you.”

Before he could say another word, you’d already slapped down the cash to pay for your multiple drinks and you were headed out the door. You heard him call out after you as you stepped into the parking lot, but you didn’t stop to listen to what he had to say. If the Winchesters were in town, you were in danger. And, if Sam really did go to Stanford, there was a possibility he already knew all about you. You needed to leave town before they could catch up with you.

“Hey, wait a second!” Dean grabbed your arm as tight as he could, effectively stopping you in your tracks. Furious, you shot a withering glare at him over your shoulder. He matched it, then pulled you around the corner of the bar into an alley.

Once he was sure the two of you were alone, Dean let you go of your arm. “How the hell do you know my dad?” he demanded, his voice cold and angry.

You stammered in response, too shaken to form a coherent answer.

“You better come up with a good answer for that, sweetheart,” Dean said. His eyes were no longer alight with happiness as he stared at you, and you couldn’t help but shiver and wrap your arms around your stomach protectively.

“I— I don’t. Not really. I’ve just heard stories from my parents!”

“And who or what are your parents?” Dean questioned. “Vampires? Werewolves?”

Shaking your head, you licked your lips and glanced out at the bar parking lot. It was still empty, but if you could distract Dean and slow him down…

“Hey!” Dean hissed, bringing your attention back to him. He was holding a knife now, and you swallowed thickly. “Who are your parents, Y/N?”

“James and Monica! They’re not vampires or anything crazy, I swear! Vampires aren’t even real, Dean! Now please let me go, and don’t hurt me! I promise I won’t tell anyone about you or your dad or your brother, but please don’t hurt me!”

Dean scoffed as he shifted the knife in his hand. He looked you up and down, clearly trying to decide if you were telling the truth, and after a minute he lowered the knife ever so slightly.

“I— I swear, Dean. I just know your dad’s name because my parents said if I ever ran into him or his family, I should run as fast as I could in the other direction. I don’t know why exactly; all they told me is that John and his sons would kill me if they ever got the chance,” you told him.

Your heart was pounding in your chest as Dean considered your words. Your limbs had gone numb from the panic and your mouth was dry, but you couldn’t stop the anxious thoughts that were running through your head.

“Please, Dean. You can’t— Please don’t hurt me…” you whimpered, closing your eyes as a wave of dizziness came over you. You stumbled backward into the brick wall of the building next to the bar, then pressed your palms against the rough surface to try and brace yourself. When you opened your eyes again, you saw Dean’s eyes flash with worry. He stepped toward you, still holding the knife, and you to let out a whimper.

The last thing you saw before everything went black is Dean slowly inching forward, his hands raised in surrender and the knife suddenly gone.

_______________

A knock on the Impala’s window startled Dean, and he looked up to find Sam on the other side of the driver’s door. Reaching over, he unlocked the door so that his brother could open it.

“You okay?” Sam asked, his voice hesitant. Dean rarely ever threw up, and now that he’d gotten over his initial frustration at having to get rid of the bodies all on his own, Sam was worried. He clearly didn’t believe Dean’s story about bad food.

Dean closed his eyes when the thought of Sam burning Y/N’s body crossed his mind. He couldn’t bear to think of her as really gone, nor could he think of the fact that his own brother had been the one to kill her.

“Yeah,” Dean replied, opening his eyes once more. Not wanting to say anything more, he dug the car keys out of his pocket and tossed them to Sam without even looking at him, then slid over on the seat so he was on the passenger side.

If Sam was surprised that Dean was relinquishing Baby to him, he didn’t say anything. He climbed into the car without comment, then twisted the keys in the ignition. Baby roared to life and Dean closed his eyes, hoping that the familiar sound would calm some of the anger and the grief that was coursing through his veins. When it didn’t, he reached over and switched on the radio. The sound of classic rock blared throughout the cabin of the car, and Dean closed his eyes again so that Sam wouldn’t feel the urge to ask him any questions about what had happened.

Twenty minutes later, Sam was pulling the Impala into the parking spot just outside their motel room. Dean climbed out before his brother could get a word out, and was locking the motel door behind himself within a minute. Silently, he pulled the curtains shut, submerging the room in darkness.

“Dean?” Sam called from the other side of the door, knocking as he spoke. “Dean, let me in. I’m covered— I’m covered in blood and I’m not sleeping in the Impala tonight.” When Dean didn’t answer, Sam pounded his fist on the door, then jiggled the knob. “Dude, open the door. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but don’t take it out on me! We can figure out whatever it is!”

Dean ground his teeth together as he listened to his brother and paced the length of the dark room. He didn’t want to sit in the silence, especially not alone, but he also didn’t want to be forced to talk about Y/N. He’d been carefully avoiding thinking about her ever since he’d last seen her, and seeing her laying on the cold warehouse floor had brought back a flood of emotions that he hadn’t been prepared to deal with.

After a few minutes, Sam’s incessant knocking finally ceased, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts. Slowly, he sat down on the edge of his mattress and put his head in his hands.

“What happened, Y/N?” he murmured to himself, running his fingers through his hair. “You were supposed to stay safe. I was supposed to keep you safe.”

_______________

When you next opened your eyes, you found yourself staring up at an off-white ceiling that you didn’t recognize. Almost immediately, panic flooded you and you shot up.

Dean was sitting at a small wooden table across the room from you, and after a moment you realized that you were sitting in a motel room. Or rather, you were laying on the bed in a motel room while Dean ate at the tiny dining table. As your initial panic faded away, it was replaced by fear, and you carefully pulled the blankets up to your chest and sat up against the headboard after checking to make sure you were still fully clothed. You were, and you watched as Dean took a long sip from a McDonald’s cup.

“How you feeling?” he asked, his voice gruff. He didn’t meet your eyes for another moment, and when he did, you were surprised to see that he didn’t look angry.

“Fine,” you murmured. You didn’t take your eyes off Dean as he nodded and took another bite of his burger. When he was finished chewing, he stood and stepped toward the bed, causing you to flinch.

“Hey, Y/N. I ain’t gonna hurt you, okay? You haven’t done anything that gives me any reason to hurt you. You did the opposite, actually,” Dean said. A tiny smirk quirked up the corner of his lips and upon the sight of it, you felt the happy floating feeling you’d first felt in the bar reappear inside of you.

“What do you mean?” you asked, still holding the blankets up to your chest.

“You tried to kiss me when you were passed out. Apparently, I’m,” Dean held up his hands to use air quotes as he continued, “‘one fine hunk of man.’”

You blushed when Dean’s smirk grew into a cocky smile. He winked at you before gathering up the wrappers from his food and dumping them into the trash can.

“How long was I passed out?” you asked.

Dean glanced at you as he shed the worn leather jacket he was wearing. It was too big for him, you noted. “About twelve hours,” he replied. “You hungry? I got you something to eat. Don’t know if it’s anything you’ll like, but it’s yours if you want it.”

Nodding, you reached out and took the McDonald’s bag when Dean held it out for you. Inside was a single cheeseburger and a large fry, and you smiled when you saw them. You’d never been able to pass up a burger, even as a kid, and now as you dug it out of the bag you couldn’t help but let out a satisfied sigh. Dean raised an eyebrow at you as you scarfed it down, then laughed when you began to stuff the fries in your mouth four at a time.

“I like a girl who can eat,” he commented when you caught him watching you, causing you to blush and look back down at the food in your lap.

Once you’d polished off the last of the fries and used the bathroom, you sat down at the table with Dean. “So,” you started, unsure of how to approach the topic, “should I be afraid of you, Dean?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. “That depends,” he finally replied. “Are you human?”

“Excuse me?” you coughed, raising your eyebrows at him. “Of course I’m human! Do I look like some kind of alien to you?”

That brought a smile to Dean’s face, but it quickly disappeared and he fixed his eyes on you. There was no humor in his expression as he asked, “Y/N, did your parents ever specify how my dad would kill you?”

“They said that he would…” You trailed off, swallowing hard as tears burned in your eyes.

Your parents’ stories had always scared you as a kid, but when you’d gone off to college and moved away from them, you’d simply dismissed them as the kind of stories that parents told their children to scare them into being good. Now that you’d met Dean, the very person that had a starring role in the stories, you were beginning to fear that you genuinely were in danger. You didn’t want to think about the horrible things your parents had said to you. All you wanted to do was go back to your apartment and go to bed.

“Y/N,” Dean pressed, his voice gentle. “I know that this probably isn’t something you want to think about, but it’s really important that I know, sweetheart. I promise I won’t hurt you. Do you trust me?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. You sniffled and looked up at him, suddenly feeling like a little kid again. You were scared, and you wanted all of this to be nothing but a bad dream.

“Okay, how about this,” Dean began, getting to his feet, “Do you live close by? We’re still in Palo Alto.”

Nodding, you watched as Dean slipped his jacket back on, then dug a pair of car keys out of the pocket. He went over to the dresser and pulled a thick sweatshirt from the bag on top. When he held it out for you, you reluctantly took it and shrugged it on, wrapping the warm fabric around yourself like it could protect you from everything that was happening.

“Let’s go back to your apartment or your dorm or whatever so you can get some clean clothes and take a hot shower, and then we can talk about this. Does that sound okay?” Dean asked.

You nodded in response and stood, following Dean out into the parking lot. He led you to a black classic car, then held the passenger door open for you. You climbed in, mumbling a thank you in the process, and curled up on the leather seat as Dean got in on his own side and started up the engine.

You were silent the whole drive, except to give Dean directions back to your apartment complex. Once he’d parked outside, you were quick to climb out.

“Do you want me to come in or would you feel better if I waited out here?” he asked, peering up at you through the open passenger window.

You hesitated. You really didn’t want someone who could hurt you in your apartment, but at the same time, you realized that Dean probably knew more about why you’d ever be in danger in the first place. It would be stupid if you gave him the opportunity to leave without telling you why his dad would want to kill you. Then again, he didn’t leave you when you’d passed out. Why would he leave now?

“You can come in,” you finally said, biting down on your lip.

Dean nodded and climbed out of the car—an Impala, you noticed, as you passed by the tail end to get to the building’s entrance—then followed you as you made your way into the complex and up the stairs.

“So… This is it,” you said once you’d unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

“It’s nice,” Dean replied, his voice quiet. You nodded in response, unsure as to whether you should offer him something to drink or not. He was a guest, technically, but he was also a threat.

“Thanks,” you murmured. “Um… Do you want coffee or.. Something? I’ve got water and maybe some soda…”

Dean shook his head and you nodded as way of reply. After another awkward moment, you reached over and shut the front door behind him, then slipped into your bedroom and shut the door as quickly and as quietly as you could. You locked it behind you, pressing your back against the wood.

“This is crazy,” you murmured, closing your eyes. Breathing in deeply, you focused yourself on listening. In the living room, you could hear the sound of Dean’s heart beating. It was slower and calmer than before, and after a moment you found yourself relaxing and breathing in time with the strong, consistent sound. It was soothing to think that your heart matched with someone else’s, you thought. The fluttery, happy feeling you’d felt before whenever Dean smiled came back, and you found yourself smiling a little when you pictured the slightly crooked smile on his face.

Once you were calm you could shower and get dressed, and by the time you were pulling on a pair of clean jeans and a shirt, you were completely relaxed. You took your time brushing your hair and your teeth so that you’d have a chance to think before you went out to face Dean.

If he was going to hurt you or kill you, you decided, he would’ve done so by now. And, considering Dean had had plenty of opportunities to get a picture of you, you figured that running wouldn’t do you any good. He knew where you lived and he knew what you looked like.

Slowly, you unlocked your bedroom door and stepped back into the living room. Dean was standing by the far wall and looking at the pictures you had hanging on the wall. You watched him for a moment, smiling softly.

“Find anything interesting?” you finally asked.

Dean jumped and hastily stepped away from the wall, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just—”

“It’s okay,” you said, giving him a gentle smile. Walking over to the closet by the front door, you grabbed your jacket and then knelt down to get the wad of cash you kept stashed behind your shoe rack. When you straightened up, Dean was watching you with an amused expression on his face.

Shrugging, you gave him a sheepish smile and held up the cash. “I figured that if I have to run for any reason…”

Dean nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You wanna finish our talk here or somewhere else, sweetheart?” he asked.

The smile faded from your lips as you recalled what you’d been talking about before Dean had driven you home. “Um,” you murmured, “I guess here is okay. There’s not really a good place for this, I don’t think. Right?”

“Probably not,” Dean agreed. He watched you for a second longer before turning and looking around, then sitting down on the far side of your worn-in couch. You hesitated, then crossed the living room to sit on the opposite side as him.

“So…”

“You have a lot of spaghetti sauce,” Dean said.

You blinked in surprise. “I… Guess? My mom makes it for me. I’ve never really liked any other kinds so she just makes it for me and ships it with a lot of bubble wrap and packing peanuts… Pasta’s my favorite food,” you added, laughing a little to try and lighten the mood. “Why did you look in my fridge?”

Dean didn’t answer. Instead, he watched you with a calculating expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but feel a little intimidated by him. Sure, he was cute and you thought that if he weren’t interrogating you, the two of you would be having a great time together. Right now, however, all you could think about was how he was trying to figure out whether or not he had to kill you.

“Why— Why is the pasta sauce important?” you asked, confused. You fidgeted a little with your fingers and shifted on the couch, waiting for Dean to answer. When he didn’t, you continued, “It’s just pasta sa—”

“Can I try some?”

You blinked. Not having expected that response from him, it took you a moment to figure out what to say next. “You want to try some of my pasta sauce?”

Without waiting for your reply, Dean left you alone and headed into the kitchen. Now thoroughly confused, you quickly got to your feet and followed after him.

Dean was opening the fridge just as you were walking into the room, and you watched as he pulled out one of the massive jars and unscrewed the lid. Hesitantly, he leaned down and sniffed its contents, then closed his eyes. After a quiet moment, Dean slammed the lid back down and hurriedly screwed it back on.

You were about to ask what had upset him when he reached under his jacket and pulled out a long knife, then turned toward you.

“Wha— What are you doing? Dean, why do you have that knife?” you stammered, backing up as Dean took a step forward, his eyes dark and fixed on you. “Dean, what are you doing? What’s wrong with my pasta sauce?”

“Let me see your teeth,” Dean growled. The cocky guy from the bar and the sweet guy who’d bought you McDonald’s was long gone. Now, Dean had a fierce look in his eye, and that combined with the gleaming knife in his hand left you no choice but to bare your teeth from him.

Dean brought the knife up to your neck as he used one finger to lift your lip, then press down on your upper gums. When he did, the weird feeling of something moving around caused you to shiver, and a drop of blood dripped from your neck as the knife nicked your skin.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whimpered once Dean’s hand was no longer in your mouth. “What did you do to my mouth? Please, you can have my money, Dean… I won’t even tell the police, I swear!”

“You’re a vamp.”

“I’m a what?” you asked, your voice breaking.

“A vampire.”

Without another word, Dean pulled the knife away from your neck and pressed it against his hand. You watched in horror as he cut open the palm of his hand and a thread of dark red blood wound its way across his skin and dripped onto your carpet.

Taking a shaky breath, you closed your eyes against the thoughts that were flooded your mind. You knew them well; your parents had warned you about being around blood as soon as you were old enough to understand them, and ever since then you’d done exactly what they said. You’d realized when you were still young that the only way to silence the thoughts was to stay as far away from blood as possible. Sure, you could still smell blood even when you couldn’t see it, but it was easier to ignore it then.

Most people thought you had a phobia because you always fled at the sight of blood, but in reality, your brain was screaming at you to taste it. You were so sure that it tasted good. You’d never let yourself taste it because your parents had told you that even though everyone thought the same way, it wasn’t socially acceptable. So, you’d simply pushed away the thoughts every time they popped up and then carefully avoided blood whenever you could.

“Y/N, does this smell good to you?” Dean asked. You nodded tightly, backing against your desk. You ignored the sound of your textbooks crashing to the ground when you bumped against them, instead choosing to focus on getting as far away from Dean as you could without raising alarm.

“There are bandages in the kitchen under the sink. Please put one on, Dean,” you replied, your voice strained. “I don’t like the sight of blood.”

“No, I’ll bet you don’t like it,” Dean sighed. “You love it, don’t you?”

Whimpering, you nodded, your head jerking as you tried to control yourself. Dean’s close proximity was making things harder than normal.

“Please. I’m begging you,” you pleaded.

After a long pause, you heard Dean turn and walk into the kitchen, then open the cabinet and dig around for the bandages you’d told him about. You waited until the sound of his heartbeat was less clear and the smell of the blood diminished before you opened your eyes and weakly situated yourself on the edge of the desk.

“Vampire,” you whispered to yourself, trying to process what Dean had said, along with his questions about the blood.

Everything made sense now. Vampires could probably smell blood, and your ability to hear people’s hearts suddenly didn’t seem so weird. The myths and stories you’d heard about vampires growing up didn’t all make sense, but after a long moment, you realized that some actually fit. You had never been a morning person; you’d always preferred going out at night, partially because you got sunburned easily, but mostly because the night always seemed safer to you. It was easier to hide in the shadows than it was in the sunlight.

“I’m a vampire…”

Dean’s words and were running through your head at lightning speed as the sound of his heartbeat grew stronger and stronger. You blinked, looking up at him when he was right in front of you. The smell of his blood was still present, but it was duller now, as if you were trying to breathe in through a piece of fabric. You could breathe normally again, and you took a shaky breath to try and compose yourself.

“Is it true, Dean? That I’m a vampire?” you finally asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t know?”

Shaking your head, you wrapped your arms around your stomach. “I— No. My parents told me that everyone thought blood tasted good but that I should never taste it because it was frowned upon… How did you know? I mean, a lot of things make sense now, but all those things about not liking garlic and stuff aren’t true about me. I love garlic!”

Dean cracked a smile at that. “Well, not everything you hear about vampires is true. I knew because there’s blood in the sauce in your fridge. How often do you eat that stuff, Y/N?” he asked. He crouched down so that you weren’t craning your neck to look up at him, and for a moment the soft look from the motel room was back in his eyes.

You swallowed thickly and rubbed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. “Um… Usually once a day, sometimes once every other day. The longest I’ve gone is a week, mostly because my friends kept making fun of me for eating so much, but I got sick and I almost…” You trailed off, watching as Dean nodded in understanding.

“Listen, Y/N,” he started. “I’m not gonna hurt you, okay? We’re gonna figure this out.”

“What about your dad?” you asked nervously. “If he finds out I’m a— He’s gonna kill me! Oh God, I’m gonna die…”

“Whoa, whoa, sweetheart!” Dean replied, putting a hand on your leg. You inhaled sharply and looked down at him, eyes wide. “I’m not gonna tell my dad about you!”

Confused, you let out the breath you’d been holding. “You’re not?”

Dean shook his head. “No.”

“Why not? I mean… Aren’t vampires dangerous?” you asked.

“Most of the time, but I don’t think you are. I mean, most vampires would have killed me the second they found out who I was. You just… Eat lots of pasta and run whenever you see blood,” Dean chuckled, his thousand-watt smile returning.

You gave him a relieved smile in return, feeling a thousand times better now that you knew you were safe from harm. “So what now? I mean, if you’re not going to tell your dad and you’re not going to kill me…”

“How about dinner? I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Surprised, you stammered for a minute. “I— Are you asking me out, Dean?”

“Would you say yes if I was?” he asked.

“Yes. Let’s do dinner,” you told him after a moment. Your smile was becoming wider as realization set in and excitement grew inside of you. The floating feeling returned when Dean smiled in return. Now, however, it was more like butterflies in your stomach, and you let out a nervous, girly laugh when Dean squeezed your leg before standing.

“I’ll see you at seven then, sweetheart,” Dean said, throwing a flirty wink your way before heading toward the door. When he was almost there, he turned and faced you, then asked, “Burgers okay?”

You grinned. “That sounds perfect, Dean. Burgers are my second favorite food.”

“I knew I liked you,” Dean replied, his cheeky smile returning once more before he opened the door and left you alone in your apartment, a stupid grin still plastered on your face.

_______________

“You look like you could use a drink.”

Startled, Dean looked up to find his younger brother standing just inside the door with a six-pack of beer in hand.

“How did you—”

“I picked the lock,” Sam answered, knowing what Dean was asking before he’d even finished the question. Dean nodded in response and stood, letting out a long sigh and running a hand through his hair.

“You okay?” Sam asked.

Nodding, Dean held out a hand, easily catching the beer when Sam tossed it to it. He pried off the cap and took a long swig, then set it down on the edge of the table. “I’m okay, Sam. Promise.”

“Forgive me for not believing you, but…”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed Dean had just vacated, watching his brother as he stripped off the grimy button-up he’d been wearing on the hunt. Neither man said anything as Dean cleaned himself up, then quickly finished off his beer and opened a new one.

“I knew her,” Dean finally said. “The girl.”

“Which girl? The one from the precinct?” Sam asked, his eyebrows furrowing as he searched his memory.

Dean shook his head. “The vampire, Sammy. Her name was Y/N and I promised myself that I’d protect her but we lost touch. Man, I thought I was in love with her,” he breathed. Rubbing a hand over his face, Dean set his bottle back down on the table beside the first, then began to pack up the various weapons he’d been cleaning earlier that morning when Sam had gone to one of the victim’s houses.

“Dean,” Sam sighed. “This isn’t your fault. I mean, when was the last time you saw Y/N?”

“October 30th, 2005,” Dean murmured, setting a shotgun down in the duffel in front of him. He rested his hands on it for a moment before beginning to busy himself once more. “Do we have to talk about this now, Sam?”

Sighing, Sam shook his head. “I guess not. It’s just… The last time you saw her was the day before you showed up at my apartment? I mean… That’s a long time ago, Dean. Why are you still beating yourself up over this?” he asked.

“Because I loved her, Sam!” Dean snapped. Throwing down a flask of holy water, he turned to face Sam, heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t want to think about Y/N anymore; she was dead and nothing would change that. “I loved her and now she’s dead. I should have stayed with her and protected her.”

Without another word, Dean grabbed Baby’s keys from the pocket of the jeans he’d tossed on the floor, then stormed out of the room. He climbed into the car and quickly drove off, heading to the bar down the street. Once inside, he ordered a whiskey and gave a polite smile to the woman behind the bar, who watched him with a sympathetic look on her face as he downed the first glass and ordered another without hesitation.

_______________

“What are you doing here, Dean?” you asked, not bothering to turn around. You knew the smell of Dean’s blood and the sound of his heartbeat so well by now that you knew it was him without even looking, and when he got closer, the smell of his leather jacket and the cologne he wore gave him away even further.

“I came to see why you were drinking alone,” Dean replied as he sat down beside you. After gesturing for the bartender to bring him a beer, he turned to face you. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

Taking a deep breath, you turned a little more so that you could look Dean in the eye. “I’m leaving, Dean,” you said. “Tonight.”

Dean blinked, clearly taken aback. “You’re… Leaving?” he asked. You nodded in response. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” you replied after a second. Looking down at your own bottle of beer, you sighed and waved over the bartender. “Just water from now on, please.” He nodded and took away your empty bottle, quickly replacing it with a glass of water.

“Y/N, why are you leaving? People don’t just leave without a good reason to. I mean, you’ve got a life here—an apartment, a job, friends, your classes… Why are you leaving that all behind? What are you gonna do?” Dean questioned.

You gave him a small smile when you noticed the worried look in his eyes. “Dean, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for years. Besides, this is just a fresh start. It’s an adventure. I’m gonna travel and make new friends and try new things. Maybe I’ll meet some more people like me,” you added.

Dean was silent for a moment. Lifting his bottle, he finished off the remaining half and licked his lips, then waved over the bartender. After apologizing for calling him over so many times, Dean ordered a whiskey, neat. You sighed internally, knowing that Dean would never order something that strong unless he was truly upset.

“Dean…”

“Y/N, there aren’t other people like you,” Dean interrupted. He took a sip from his new drink and bared his teeth against the sting of it, then looked you straight in the eye as he continued, “The other vampires out there kill. They’re bloody and reckless, and if you associate with any of them—hell, if anyone even finds out that you’re a vampire, a hunter is gonna come along and kill you without a second thought. They’re not gonna talk to you and find out that you don’t kill people, and they’re not going to have any regrets about it.”

“Dean—”

“I’m coming with you, Y/N.”

“No, Dean, you’re not,” you sighed, rubbing your eyes. “You can’t come with me.”

“If I don’t come with you—”

“What, Dean? If you don’t come with me what?”

“If I don’t come with you, you could get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt, Y/N. I love you and I can keep you safe. I know that you can protect yourself, but two people are better than one, right?” he asked, watching you to see how you’d react.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed your hair out of your face and reached over to take Dean’s hand. You gave him a smile as you rubbed your thumb over his knuckles, secretly hoping the feeling would keep him a little calmer.

You and Dean had been going out whenever he was in town secretly checking in on his brother, and even though it had been over two weeks since you’d last spent time together in person, Dean called you every night, even if it was just to tell you goodnight. He was the perfect guy for you—caring, cute, funny, and just cheeky enough to make things fun—and from what you could tell, you meant a lot to him. Despite all that, you still had to go. You loved Dean, but you had to admit that the two of you could never be together, as much as that pained you to say.

“Dean, listen,” you started, keeping your voice as calm as you possibly could, given the noise level in the bar. “I know that you care about me, really. I care about you, too. But this is my life, and you have a responsibility to your dad and to Sam. You have the family business. I don’t have that, Dean. There’s nothing holding me down here.”

“Not even me?”

The hurt in Dean’s eyes was palpable and you knew almost immediately that you’d said the wrong thing. Dean began to pull his hand away, but you quickly stopped him and squeezed it tightly.

“That’s not what I meant. You travel all over, Dean, and I’m sure we can find a place to meet up somewhere. If it’s meant to be, then we’ll see each other again, right? Isn’t that normally how chick flicks go?” you pressed, cracking a tiny smile in hopes that Dean would smile too.

After a moment, he let out a small sigh. The corner of his lips curved up and you felt hope blossom inside of you. His eyes still betrayed how heartbroken he really felt, but you appreciated the fact that he was trying to look upbeat for your sake. You didn’t want to leave Dean knowing he was totally crushed. You loved him, but you needed to go.

“You’re really going, huh?”

“Yeah. I am,” you replied.

“Pay for your drinks one last time?”

Smiling softly, you leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I’d like that.”

_______________

“Rough night?” the bartender asked as she filled Dean’s glass again.

“You could say that,” he gruffed. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, barely even tasting the liquor as it burned down his throat.

“What is it? A girl?” she questioned.

Y/N had always laughed whenever she saw a guy pouring his heart out to the bartender whenever he would go to a bar with her. She had found it amusing, and Dean realized that she’d be laughing at him now if she could see him. Dean let himself smile a little bit at that. He wanted to remember Y/N as happy.

“Yeah. She was, uh… She was something. I wish I’d gotten a chance to spend more time with her, but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.”

_______________

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