#'no no make him more greasy so we can prop up the man who murdered in cold blood with the shield'

[thatmexisaurusrex]

I have the most wildest theory* for Bucky's travesty of hairstyle. John Walker's gonna be in Thunderbolts, yeah? Maybe... Ma.rvel told the stylist department downgraded Bucky to turn J.W into their next hearthrob. 🫠

*For legal reasons, this is a joke, lmao.

Hmmm, I mean, the man decapitated a whole ass person in front of god and everyone in a public area very graphically and messily with a shield, so like 😂 the people who love him are riding with Walker already as fans and the people who can't after that (or even before that tbh) aren't going to go for him because Idk if a glow up saves you from doing shit like that 🤣🤣🤣 He's definitely not off my "fuck you" list even if they make him like some Maybelline model 😂

[lovelyangrytiger]

So I've had this conversation with a friend and could totally imagine this with soap and his roommate so I had to write this.

Warnings: none :)

readers gender is not mentioned. (Keep in mind that english is not my first language while reading this please😭)

_____________________________________________

You're sitting on your bed, scrolling through your phone while glancing at to the empty bed on Soap's side of the room every now and then. He's an amazing soldier, that's obvious, but sharing a room with him is a whole other level. Sometimes you find yourself wondering if it's a grown man who's giggling at cat videos next to you or a teenage girl.

Eventually the door swings open, revealing a- way to enthusiastic for this time of the day- soap, who casually walks over to his bed before sitting down on it.

"Whatcha doing?"

You sigh and look up at him.

"planning your murder"

His face lights up with excitement, he grins, clearly not taking you serious and simply messing around.

“Planning my murder? Oooh, how are you going to kill me?”

You’ve grown accustomed to his sarcasm and humor and know he’s trying to push your buttons, but he’s doing it in a funny and light hearted way, which makes it less insufferable.

"I'm just gonna wait until your clothes come to live and grow a pair of arms to choke you, shouldn't take that long with how rarely you wash them"

He rolls his eyes and looks around his side of the room.

“Oh, please, I don’t smell that bad. Besides, I’ll do it soon.”

He retorts, knowing youre probably right.

“Speaking of living things, you want to hear a crazy story?”

He then says as he leans back off of his bed, propping himself up against the wall. He doesn't really care about your answer since he's gonna tell his story anyway, but he wants you to think you actually have a choice.

You sigh and sit up, putting your phone down.

“I swear this is true, and not a drunk hallucination.”

His eyes glimmer at the chance of telling this story.

“I was going through the woods in the dead of night and I swear I saw a chupacabra.”

You’ve heard him talk about it before, but he seems extra excited about telling this story, as if he really was there to see it. You just shoot him a look but turn to listen to him anyway.

"What, that thing from Star wars?"

Soap groans and laughs.

“No, not the damn wookie.”

His words come out much faster and louder as he’s now animatedly talking, his hands doing all the motions.

“No, it’s this creature. Big eyes, long slender body, fangs that could tear you to shreds.”

The excitement in his voice is obvious as he explains it. You stare at him, before shaking your head.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing alone outside in the woods in the middle of the night? That's the exact reason why we all pay into the 'possible deaths of soap mactavish' glass."

“What can I say, I like my late night walks.”

He shrugs.

“Anyways, so I’m walking through the woods, late night obviously and I start hearing howling. I look around and all I can see is darkness around me.”

He pauses for dramatic effect.

“And then I look to my side, and I see two glowing eyes staring at me.”

Soap raises an eyebrow, leaning forward towards you to make the story more interesting. You listen to him, but only because you find it comical how excited he gets over this mythical stuff.

"How romantic. Is he your boyfriend now?"

Soap chuckles and swats your leg playfully.

“Shut up, it’s not like that.”

He sits up properly and runs his hands through his greasy hair.

“Anyways, the eyes are still there and the howling is louder, so I start walking a bit faster, you know, trying to hide myself. Andddd"

He says slowly, pausing for extra effect.

“I think you can guess what happened next.”

You give him a mock-innocent nod.

"you threw your laundry at it and it died?"

“God damnit.”

Soap mumbles.

“Why does everything I try to tell you end up in you mocking me?”

He playfully glares.

“No, that’s not what happened at all. I heard the thing start growling then start heading my way, so you know, like any sane person would do, I hid behind a tree.”

"Sure, it's not like you have at least one gun on yourself since you're a soldier and all that, but sure, hide behind a tree"

“Okay, firstly, I wasn’t going to use a gun in the woods at night, secondly, I thought I was imagining things.”

Soap sighs, leaning back in his bed, looking over at you with a playful grin.

“Can you stop being an ass and let me tell my story?”

You suppress a grin, sighing

"My bad, go ahead"

Soap grins widely, nodding at you as he continues.

“So I keep running, then I see this massive tree and I hide behind it. The howling gets a lot louder and I feel something breathing on my neck as the two eyes from before start staring at me. It felt like death was imminent.”

Soap pauses again, taking a sharp breath while looking at you, making sure you're still listening. You roll your eyes at him.

"If the pause is for dramatic reasons, you can continue now"

Soap laughs nervously.

“Thanks, just adding pizzazz to the story.”

He sighs and continues.

“I’m still hiding behind the tree trying to get away as quickly as possible, I even drop my phone out of my pocket by accident. Still hearing the howling and breathing, but now I hear footsteps of something pacing nearby. All of this is going on for what feels like forever, and then suddenly, I see the two glowing eyes go away, the footsteps stop and the howling dies down entirely.”

You nod, trying to seem interested. In reality you stopped listening a minute ago, trying not to laugh at the picture you're imagining right now.

“And,”

He carries on, leaning forward again with excitement.

“I come out from behind the tree, still expecting to see something. But there’s nothing. It’s just me and the woods.”

Soap sighs and slumps back into his bed, looking up at the ceiling. His eyes are wide open with the excitement of the story still running through him. After a moment, Soap realizes no further questions were asked about his ‘experience’. He chuckles to himself before asking;

“You’re really not even remotely interested in what just happened to me?”

You bite your lip.

"I am, really, it's just..."

You shake your head.

"I have this picture in my mind where you're drinking tea with a wookie..."

You fail to hide another laugh.

Soap groans as he puts his hands on his face.

“Shut up, that’s not even what happened. It was just a crazy event, not sure why you can’t take me seriously,”

He says with a pouty frown.

“and stop bringing up the damn wookiee.”

At his pouty expression you can't help but mock him further.

"Maybe choose a unicorn next time instead of a blood sucking wolf creature"

“You know what, screw you.”

He mutters.

“I’m going to go see if anyone else actually cares enough to listen to me.”

He stands up from the bed and starts walking towards the door.

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate the story more than you.”

You know where he's going and smile, nudging him with your foot.

"you do that. Greet ghost from me while you're at it."

He can't help but smile. You know him so well. He just flips you off before leaving, making sure the door stays open just to annoy you some more...

_____________________________________________

I'd be surprised if anyone reads all that since it's just fluff, but if anyone could draw a picture of soap drinking tea with a wookie I'm gonna die Istg 😭

[sirthisisa-wendys]

The Sacrifice Part 6: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: you have to give to get. But are you willing to do what it takes?

wc: 1.5k

tw: none

masterlist

You’re sitting across from the Rain God, his face stern and unmoving.

“Geto, I assume you have brought me here to discuss the reason why I have withheld rain from this woman’s village.”

“Yes,” Geto begins, bringing the noodles to his mouth. “That, and I need you to explain to her how to renew your favor with them.”

“Making love to a human can breed ill-effects,” Yuta murmurs, his lips connecting with his cup, but his eyes never leave your face. “You know this as well as I do, your Holiness.” Your head turns towards Geto, but the strange words from the god are not explained to you. Instead, Geto laces his fingers together and nods.

“Indeed, your Graciousness, but I am asking you to give y/n some insight, that is all.” Yuta runs his tongue over his teeth, then scoots his chair back.

“Why do you care so much about the people who tried to have you murdered, y/n?” he wonders, and you hang your head slightly.

“I’m not so heartless that I would wish everyone dead because of one person’s actions, your Graciousness.” Yuta huffs out a laugh, then leans forward on his knees, eyeing you carefully.

“One person’s actions can cause a whirlwind of consequences. Your General Commissioner has done quite a lot for a man his age.” You sigh, pushing your hair back behind your ears as you feel deep disgust for the elder’s crimes. First, he killed the Dragon God’s sister. Then, he angered Yuta somehow. What else had he done?

“Tell me, what did he do, and what must I do to make it right?” Yuta skillfully dodges your question, waving it away with his hand and sighing.

“Unfortunately, Gakuganji made a pact with the God of Death long ago, before he enraged me or Geto. What would make it right could very well endanger your own life. And I’m sure the Dragon God will not allow anything of the sort, will he?” The man’s eyes slide to Geto, who is clenching the armrest with a white-knuckle grip. “It’s either that or…” Yuta places his head on a propped-up fist. “You can give her to me for a week.”

“A week?” You stand, shaking from outrage. “No.” Geto sits still, eyes cast downward. “No!”

“Only a week?” Geto wonders, still not looking at either you or Yuta.

“Just a week. Compared to eternity, it’s nothing.”

“You’re seriously considering this?” you ask Geto, and he finally looks up at you, his black eyes full of worry.

“It’s better than going against Toji. I trust Yuta will be nothing but honorable while you are with him.” You flinch at this admission, and back out of the room slowly, unsure of what to say other than a string of curses you wouldn’t be able to take back. Yuta’s dark blue eyes follow you, a smirk playing across his face as you turn around, marching off to your room in silence.

_____________________________________________________________

“Y/n, you have to listen to me.”

Clymenestra is staring at your face in the mirror, the tears scrubbed away from your appearance before she had the nerve to enter the room. “If I had to choose between Toji or Yuta, I would choose Yuta in a heartbeat. Facing the wrath of Toji could be the end for you. Either way, he’d get what he wanted, which is more souls to reap and bargains made.” You shake your head, hoping there’s another way for you to save your city and get rid of Gakuganji without having to deal with any other gods.

“Toji has the upper hand,” you note, fiddling with your fingers. “What good will staying with Yuta for a week do?”

“Yuta is one of the older gods,” Helen murmurs, and you look over to her in confusion. “Compared to Geto, he looks younger, but he’s eons older than him. And he might have some insight into what you can do to help get rid of Gakuganji.”

“Why haven’t any of you wanted to stop the General Commissioner?” you wonder, turning around in your seat, and the girls look away with varying levels of sheepishness.

“I was so thankful to be free from that place that I never once considered saving a single soul from there.” Cly offers, shrugging. “And I couldn’t save them now even if I wanted to.”

“But what about next year? We’ll have another girl torn from her family and brought here, where she may never be able to rejoin them, even in death.” None of the girls respond, and when you realize they’re just as selfish as Gakuganji, you push back your chair with force. “Have none of you thought of anyone but yourselves?” you yell, just as the door to the room swings open, revealing Geto and Yuta.

“Clymenestra, pack y/n a few things. She’ll be coming with me to the Realm of Rain,” Yuta announces, but you shake your head.

“There has to be another way to get some answers.”

“There isn’t,” Geto states, looking at you sternly. “If you want to save your people, then you’ll go with him.” Everything in you wants to rebel against his words, but then you consider the alternative.

Toji Fushiguro was not just feared by you, but every single immortal being in the room - except Yuta. If Yuta could give you a way to make things right without having to make a bargain with Toji… wouldn’t a week be the least of your problems? Silently, you give in. There were only two options, and by the looks of it, you would be less ashamed if you took the one Yuta offered.

As you walk towards Geto, he holds his hand out, then takes yours and presses a soft kiss to it. “If I leave with you, I will never depart from your side,” he whispers, and you nod twice. “It won’t be long. Just a few nights is all he’s asking for. I'll be here waiting for you when you return, my love." He pulls you in for a deep, loving embrace and kisses you with just as much desire as the night before.

Cly reappears with your things, and Yuta clasps his hands together, which makes you pull away from Geto abruptly.

“Perfect, we should make it just in time for lunch.”

_____________________________________________________________

You arrive on a solid cloud - unlike the ones from the night before - to the Realm of Rain, with Yuta holding his hand up to help you down. You take it graciously and step onto the mirror-like water below, your footsteps barely making the surface move. “Up ahead is my palace. I will have the attendants prepare your room while I give you a tour. Then, your lessons will begin.”

As if previously hidden by a mirage of nothingness, a massive, five-story high palace looms in front of you both. The beige-colored brick is covered with greenery: vines, grasses, and a singular tree at the top of the palace. It appears to be hovering slightly above the water, its presence overwhelming but alluring all the same. You can see little birds flitting to and from the palace windows, and flowers of various colors dotting the greasy knolls on the roofs of lower levels. It all seemed so beautiful and peaceful, but appearances could always be deceiving.

“What lessons will you give me?” you ask him as the castle draws near, and he hums thoughtfully.

“First, you need to know what happened between Gakuganji and me. Then, you’ll need to learn how to avoid Toji in order to kill Gakuganji once and for all.”

“Wait,” you halt. “Kill Gakuganji?” Yuta turns back to you, his dark blue eyes mischievous but unyielding.

“Oh, yes,” he smiles, jerking his chin at you. “And then you’ll deliver his soul to me. That’s how you can make things right.”

“Why can’t you kill him?” you wonder. “Why can’t Geto kill him?”

“Because every immortal is bound by the pacts given by the God of Death. He’s one of the eldest gods, and his bargains are binding forever. They cannot be rewritten or undone by anyone outside of the two parties.”

“So, if I get Gakuganji to break his bargain, then I can kill him?”

“Yes and no,” Yuta begins, looking over at you as he steps under the archway that leads to the entrance. “You can get Gakuganji to break his bargain and he will die, but Toji will come and collect his soul immediately. You need to get him to break his bargain, but somewhere where Toji has no domain.”

“The God of Death has domain everywhere,” you whisper, and Yuta shakes his head.

“Yes and no, again,” he replies, pushing open the door. It’s only then that Yuta turns around to face you fully, hands spread wide. “If you get him to become a sacrifice, then Toji has no domain over Geto’s property. That would effectively break the bargain and aid you in delivering his soul to me. Think you’re up to the task?” You raise a brow, then smirk at the god with confidence.

“Of course.”

_____________________________________________________________ TAGLIST: @sunfloweroranges @jibe-gajima @jotazinha @brownskinnedgirll @leanne-tamashi @vabybizzle @amaris9 @fuegy-fuegy @ambiguous-something @kontentious@missbonekitty @fyotituti @honouredsatoru @sandyscastle @flare-on @sasahime @ggotgame @just4readingfics

[philliamwrites]

killing me softly with his song | (Childe / Reader) [chpt.02]

Fandom: Genshin Impact

Pairing: Childe / Reader

Tags: #fem!reader, #from childhood friends to lovers, #reader is a fatui agent, #slow burn, #unresolved sexual tension, #mature language, #forbidden love

Words: 3.5k

Summary: "Lybuov zla, polyubish i kozla,“ sighs your sister as she wipes off the table, but that makes you feel even more miserable. Falling for a goat might save you from an actual heartbreak by Tartaglia’s hands.

Notes: Part 1

Masterlist

Chapter 2

At the barracks’ canteen reigns the unspoken rule that no one is allowed to cook borsch, and trying to do so is punished by cleaning all windows with cold water only in the middle of the night. Can’t see anything because the nights at the outskirts of Zapolyarny are blacker than out in the taiga? Tough luck. There are so many different recipes as there are families out there, and everyone has their very own way to make it. Fatui agents have brought each other to the hospital wing over fighting which recipe is the best, therefore a couple of years before Tartaglia and you enrolled, this rule was established.

Sitting out in the cold of Jaroslawk at four in the morning, you’d kill for a hot bowl of your mamochka’s borsch—the best in Morepesok even though Tartaglia begs to differ, but the only problem with his claim is that he is fucking wrong.

Through your binoculars you see everything is quiet and dark on the other side of the compound, which is a good sign. Unfortunately, good also means very boring. You’ve been lying in the exact same position for nearly three hours now: on your belly, elbows slightly propping your upper body to see the Baron’s estate that’s embraced by a forest like a mother cradling its child. Tales have it if you make even one little mistake inside those cold brick walls, Baron Igor would personally see to it that you don’t leave these woods alive and whatever his hellish guard dogs don’t finish eating up, his servants would send to your family as a small parting gift and warning to get as far and fast away as possible.

If only he were as thorough covering his tracks as he is scaring people, but Baron Igor has never really excelled at multiple things and now, months after the first little bird brought some interesting insight, you can’t wait for Baron Igor to finally slip and confirm the rumours about him selling information on one of Il Dottore’s gun research labs to a spy from Sumeru. Intel has it exchanges usually occur once every full moon and with the orb now hidden behind thick, black clouds, this is the last chance to get some evidence before the ship leaving to Sumeru carries whoever deserves a knife in their windpipe back to their God of Wisdom.

Baron Igor has messed up, got too arrogant, and now you and your team are here to make sure he eats up his mess. It wasn’t easy to infiltrate his mansion. Mitsuki only passed because you took out two of the other contesters for one of the Baron’s favourite restaurants down in Nowobirsk. That man bows to greed and when introduced to the place’s new maître d’hôtel—the best of his kind, the most exotic to own during their flimsy ceasefire with Inazuma—Baron Igor acted swiftly and hired him. Mitsuki had gagged at those words while lieutenant Scaramouche had shown the patience of a man barely holding himself back from violence. Two days later, Mitsuki took his position as spy and head waiter of the Baron’s personal restaurant taking up the whole second floor in the right wing of his stone mansion.

“Fuck me, I look like a penguin,” Mitsuki had said on the night before his work began at the estate, glaring at himself in the mirror dressed in a sharply tailored tuxedo.

“Then we know who to call if Baron Igor decides to open a zoo,” Mikhail had said, but he was in no hurry to turn away his appreciative gaze from how tight Mitsuki’s black pants tugged his slim legs and ass.

That’s the team, Mitsuki, you and Mikhail—Lock, Shock and Barrel, one of your fellow division’s comrade likes to call you for unknown reasons, simply laughing to himself and shaking his head as if trying to get rid of a good memory. Though for all that Scaramouche is concerned, to him you’re triple double and a clusterfuck he doesn’t want anywhere near him or so help him Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, he’ll stake your heads and scatter your remains to the seagulls terrorising the coast of Port Odessa.

“He loves us,” Mikhail likes to joke, even though you aren’t sure the words love and Scaramouche should be used in one sentence.

“One day, he’ll kill one of us with his bear hands and feel nothing,” Mitsuki commonly remarks, sounding like whatever you’d do to receive such a punishment is probably ghastly enough to justify being murdered.

“His hat is pretty neat,” is usually your only contribution and they both look at you as if you’re crazy.

“Any movement?” a voice asks from your right. Mikhail shakes still fresh snow from his head and shoulders as he dugs under the narrow doorway, looking like a puppy trying to shake itself dry. Now that a year has passed since a Geo Vision user crushed his right arm and healers had to amputate it to save his life, he’s adapted pretty well to only one arm and hand at his disposal. He’s balancing a cup in his palm while holding two paper bags with his fingers and somehow makes it look easy. He rejoins you at the window, carefully placing the steaming cup and one bag in front of you. You hand him your binoculars so he can see for himself, and inspect your breakfast. “Do I even want to know where you found,” you peak inside the bag, “pirozhky at a time like this?”

“Couple of blocks down there’s this place. Really nice lady, gave me one for free and added a little extra to our coffee.”

You take a sip, and instantly begin coughing and pounding your chest as it goes down burning. “Archons, that’s disgusting. Who in their right mind puts Fire-Water in their coffee?”

“I know, right?” Mikhail beams. “It’s genius.”

It’s ghastly. You take another sip. Horrible, really. But it keeps you warm and awake. So maybe it isn’t that bad at all.

While Mikhail observes the area, you dig into your beef and onion pirozhky. There’s nothing fun about pulling an all-nighter but sometimes sharing a cup of coffee and eating warm food helps to get through them. Also knowing someone suffers with you. Sharing pain is gain, after all.

“Well, they sure like taking their sweet time,” Mikhail mumbles, getting a little more comfortable on the cold stone ground. He puts the binoculars away and digs into his own food. “What are we gonna do if nothing happens today?”

“Then we’ll come back next month and do it all over again.” Hopefully you don’t have to. Fyrva’snezh was two weeks ago but this winter started off particularly brutal. Two out of three units are still missing from their outskirts training and you don’t want to be in the poor lasses’ and lads’ shoes who are still at the infirmary recovering from severe hypothermia. “What worries me more is that Mitsuki might lose his sanity if he stays there another whole month.”

“Well, what doesn’t kill him makes him stronger,” Mikhail says, wiping his greasy fingers off his pants. “I just want to wipe that smug smirk off the Baron’s pig face.”

He and probably every citizen populating Jaroslawk. “Once Mitsuki locates the communication point, we’ll go in and neutralise the target if we can’t catch him alive,” you say. “Baron Igor will try and weasel his way out of it but so far all evidence stands against him. The rest is up to Her Majesty.” And the Tsaritsa is known for many things, but mercy isn’t one of them. That will show anyone else trying to make business behind her back.

“Do you really think Mitsuki will endure another month in that stupidly tight uniform?” Mikhail sounds like he very much wished for another month out in the cold like this if it meant Mitsuki would bless him for a while longer wearing his uniform.

You stretch your leg and kick him in his shin. “Don’t jinx this, Nozhyalensky,” you say. “No matter how good his ass looks in those pants, it isn’t worth freezing your own ass off out in this cold. If we have to extend our mission, I’m going to steal your coat and own it for the whole time.”

“You don’t care if I freeze to death?”

“I really don’t.”

He puts his hand on his heart in mock despair. “That’s harsh.”

It would be his own fault, no hard feelings. You sit in silence, sharing your scalding hot coffee. In the mansion on the other side, a light flickers on in the east wing. Mikhail shifts and makes a disgusted grunt. “I did not want to know the Baron is banging the Duchess of Pavlovich.”

“Might be good leverage in the future.” You quickly dot it down in your notebook, squinting at the barely illuminated page. “Especially if the Duke refuses to pay his taxes again. I’m sure we can get to him through her.”

More minutes pass in silence. Mikhail continues his watch while you start to mindlessly doodle a little Foul Legacy Child in the corner of your page. You wonder what time it is in Liyue. Is Childe also out on a mission or tugged in and sleeping well in a land that knows nothing of harsh winds and freezing nights. Does he spare a thought of home? Is he missing you as much as you miss him or has he already filled the gnawing void with faceless, warm women that comfort him at night?

“Heard anything from our comrades in Liyue?” Mikhail asks nonchalantly, but he’s always been the poorest liar of you three and it’s pretty obvious where this conversation is going. Part of you hungers for that conflict.

“They still can’t find whoever killed the Geo Archon. But Lord Childe might have located the Gnosis and has begun his infiltration.”

Chances are good he might succeed in another month or so, though from the letters you’ve received so far, it sounds like he might succeed fucking the consultant of Wangsheng Funeral Parlor before that. Tartaglia has never started anything serious with guys before, safe from occasionally drunk making outs, but new cultures could change a lot in you and it’s Tartaglia’s first time staying for so long in Liyue and meeting a man like this so called Zhongli.

Mikhail clicks his tongue in disgust. “I can’t believe this guy is over there for three months already and is still nowhere near finishing the job.” He spits at the ground and twists his mouth in a very familiar manner of annoyance—only usually this expression is meant for initiate Fatui members who can’t tell a shotgun from a sniper rifle.

“How can you still be mad at him for handing you your ass three years ago,” you say. A man’s ego is such a frail thing, thank the Tsaritsa for being a strong, independent woman.

“This isn’t about that stupid fight,” Mikhail splutters, red blotches creeping up his neck. His inability to lie is abysmal. “I don’t get how you stand that guy. His arrogance needs its own giant room to fit inside. Someone needs to knock him down a peg or two and maybe beat out this need to whore around as well—”

You move in a flash. Mikhail doesn’t have any time to react before he finds himself on his back, pinned down by your weight with a knife to his throat. “Mikhail, I love you like my own kin and you know I’d take a bullet for you any time,” you growl. “But speak another filthy word about Childe and I will cut off your tongue and feed it to street dogs while watching you bleed out like a slaughtered pig. Are we clear?”

You feel Mikhail’s chest rising and falling under your spread hand, his body warm, proof of his life. How easy it would be to take it from him, to warm the cold, dirty ground with his blood.

Mikhail’s dark eyes don’t give away anything. He’s holding very still, like a cornered animal faced with its hunter; don’t move and maybe it thinks one is dead. Eventually, he says quietly, “If you could see what an unlikeable, unpleasant person he really is, maybe...” He doesn't finish. There is no need to. You know very well what point he’s trying to make.

“I don’t need your supervision,” you say. “Or your pity.”

Mikhail barks a loud, humourless laugh. “Lassie, if I had an ounce of pity left for anyone else than myself, I wouldn’t be very good at this job, would I?”

You shift your weight. Mikhail groans as you put pressure on a wound a Pyro Vision user inflicted on him a week ago that hasn’t fully healed yet—a favour for Mikhail to prevent him from following his train of thought. You don’t know what is worse: His unrequited love for Mitsuki or Tartaglia and you knowing what you both want but can’t have.

Mikhail quietly says your name and gently lowers your hand. The sharp knife has bit into his skin just enough to leave a fine, red line on his throat. “All I’m saying is, I am not the bad guy here.”

He is right, of course. But that makes it even worse, because without a bad guy, who could you put blame on? Who would be the target of your frustration and your scorn? Who would pay for countless sleepless nights wasted alone or in a stranger’s arms?

If there is no good, no bad side, no villains or heroes to put blame on, what does that leave for you? Just the law. It is hard, but it is the law.

There is no one but yourself who carries the burden. Even knowing Tartaglia goes through the same doesn’t soothe the pain steadily growing in your heart. You’re like two stars gravitating to each other, seeking the sweet collision to finally become one and create something bigger, the most exquisite light in the endless black galaxy, but whenever you manage to come close to each other, other forces pull you apart.

You shift your position from towering above him to slumping back on Mikhail’s lap, your anger deflated like a balloon.

“Arguing with you is no fun,” you mumble, sheathing the knife back in its place inside your boot.

Mikhail arches one dark brow. “Learnt from the best. You don’t want to get into an argument with my mama.”

“Are you two leaving me out from a team bonding session?” comes a static voice from your left.

“Darling, we would never leave you out from a potential threesome,” Mikhail says back, a wicked grin flirting with his mouth.

“Blergh,” you groan in disgust and roll off him, grabbing for the plastic piece from where Mitsuki’s voice has sounded; Il Dottore’s newest invention, a voice transmitter agents use for long distance communication.

“So, how’s it cooking, good looking?” Mikhail asks, ignoring your eyes rolling back. “Anything new at the front?”

Mitsuki is silent for a moment. Somewhere, a dog barks. “I think someone might have tipped the Baron off.”

Immediately, you feel Mikhail's body tense next to you. “Do you need us to come in?”

Oppressive silence fills the room. Mikhail jerks, but before he can jump to rash actions, you grab his arm hard enough to bruise. He freezes, and you both stare at the voice transmitter in Mikhail’s hand.

A moment later, static crackles, and Mitsuki says, “I received a note on the caviar shipment. Roads are all clear, it should come in around seven in the morning.”

Mikhail relaxes, but a sweat bead rolls from his temple and disappears behind his black turtle neck sweater. He sags against you, exhaling very loudly.

A couple of years ago, after you three had been working together and hadn’t tried to kill each other as often as other teams, you guys had decided to come up with your own secret language for times like these. Mikhail had first complained about the hours put into learning it the most—the semantics always changing depending on what line of work you’d infiltrate—but eventually even he had agreed it was a pretty neat trick. What Mitsuki has said simply means all is in order and the mission is proceeding smoothly.

“Little fucker,” Mikhail grumbles, ruffling his own hair just to keep his hand busy. You agree. It feels like you’ve aged five years in those last five minutes.

That relief is short lived. A small explosion from the right wing inside the mansion lights up the night like a firework show. Mikhail is out of the window in a flash. You grab your rifle, keeping an eye on him as he crosses the street in a flash and climbs over the iron gate.

Two shadows tumble through the hole in the second floor. You sway your scope, laying eyes on Mitsuki as he wrestles with a cloaked figure. Purple sparks fly, clashing with crimson flames that rise skyward and turn into black smoke. At least something is according to plan even though your Cryo Vision would be more effective.

You watch them fight for a moment, unable to get a clear shot as both are short distance fighters. Mitsuki moves quicker than a flash, whirling two hatches over his head, parrying a deathly bow from the Sumeru’s Claymore. Mitsuki is smaller than most of his comrades. People like to underestimate him, but that’s part of the fun, according to him. Proving people wrong. He dodges another swift strike, rolling out of the way and giving you a clear sight at your target. But over his shoulder, Mitsuki catches your eyes and gives the tiniest shake of his head. Not yet.

You wish he could see the stingy eye you’re giving him right now. You’ve waited long enough out in this cold and your whole body shakes with the need to move, the need to fight. A quick look to Mikhail shows he’s fending off two of the Baron’s guards himself. Luckily, they can’t really hold their stand against a fully trained Fatui agent. He quickly takes out his opponents, closing in on Mitsuki and the Sumeru agent. Mitsuki has driven him to the edge of the forest. So that’s his plan. You wait until the spy is right beneath a long, thick branch, then pull the trigger. The shot is muffled by the silencer, slicing through the air with infused Cryo power. It hits its target, cutting the branch off. The Sumeru spy is too slow. When the branch buries him under its weight, Mikhail finally catches up to Mitsuki, and through your scope you can see him patting Mitsuki down for injuries. Mitsuki pushes him away, not hard or in a mean way, just enough to signal this isn’t the time. The job isn’t done yet.

Mitsuki advances the spy and kneels, looking for signs of life. He looks up, his dark eyes searching your scope. He holds your gaze, picking up his voice transmitter.

“I have good and bad news,” he says. “The spy is still alive, so we’ll get our answers. But now I’m pretty sure the Baron knows what’s going on.”

“Then don’t just stand there, someone go after him, quick!” you yell in your transmitter.

Before Mikhail dashes off, you hear him curse. “Lord Scaramouche is going to kill us.”

He will, considered this was supposed to undergo without the Baron noticing anything.

* * *

Dear little tygress,

forgive my horrible handwriting. I am still shaking from all the laughter your last letter gave me. Zhongli-xiansheng was actually worried for my wellbeing because I had choked on air and almost died. I swear, you will kill me one day, little tygress.

Speaking of little and potential lethal beasts, I’m surprised Scaramouche didn’t use your head as a toilet plunger. I really do think he's fond of you, little tygress. Any other team would be six feet under by now. You have to tell me your secret once I’m back. Scaramouche still doesn’t know I broke his favourite, ugly cup with the bear on the front from Fontaine, and I want to be prepared once he knows.

Everything is the same in Liyue, and at the same time, everything is changing. Rex Lapis’ murder is still unsolved, and I do enjoy watching the little traveller boy run around looking for answers. Once I return with the Geo Archon’s gnosis, dinner will be on me.

How are things at home? I hope Tonia hasn’t finished all mooncakes by herself again and saved some for the rest of the bunch. I can’t bear to hear Anthon cry again about me only sending sweets to Tonia and Teucer. Has the old man gotten in touch with you? He still doesn’t reply to me, but mama says he’s reading the letters. Maybe a bottle of Liyue’s Baijiu will loose his tongue, or hand for that matter. It’s almost as good as Fire-Water, promise.

Till next time and don’t get too much on little ‘Mouche’s nerves, otherwise there will be no room left for me.

Yours, Red Fox

__________________________________________________

please drop by my ko-fi if you enjoyed my writing!

[crash-cinematic-universe]

a sickly satisfaction (ch.1)

pairing: jason dean/reader

summary: high school sucks. jason dean makes it a little better.

warnings: uuhhhh murder, language, suicide discussion

notes: i have every chapter of this written out already, so every wednesday I’ll release a new one <3 in total the story is 7,800 words! but there are some parts that are kind of short, forgive me for those.

            Eyes down. Walk fast. Stay out of their way. Three simple steps to get through the day. They had an iron grip on the school, their perfectly manicured nails digging into the oily skin of the entire student body. High School was a bloody battlefield in the war that is life. However, the epitome of cruelty, the ultimate teenage angst inducing, self-esteem crushing, happiness shattering war machine came in the form of three girls and their weak-willed sidekick. That’s right; my biggest threat in high school is Heather Chandler, Heather McNamara, Heather Duke, and Veronica Sawyer. Veronica at least has some semblance of regret and empathy-- she’s just doing what she needs to survive. Unfortunately, that means the rest of us have to struggle to keep our heads above water. 

            Thankfully, I have a sanctuary. A refrigerator heaven filled with endless isles of roadtrip snacks and hangover remedies. Of course, this junk food Garden of Eden also happens to contain my best friend, Tommy Geller. Tommy is 18, emo, and gay, so naturally we got along pretty well. He sits behind the register and lets me hang around until closing. It’s actually pretty nice-- sometimes he lets me do busywork around the store. Sure, it’s sort of pathetic that Snappy Snack Shack is my main source of serotonin, but you know what? There are worse places to be. 

            “Pop open a bottle of champagne, Tommy, because today is a special day!” I cry, pushing open the small class doors. To my delight, the store is empty. There are no irritating customers there to make me keep my voice down.

            “Oh? And why is that?” Tommy inquires, his jet black hair falling in front of his eyes. He’s tired-- and bored-- and I’m the perfect remedy for that. 

            “Today marks exactly six months since I first stepped foot in this town,” I grin. Tommy’s eyebrows perk up.

            “Really? Congrats, kid,” He’s humoring me a bit, but there is a genuine reaction beneath his sarcastic remarks. 

            “Thanks, Tommy. Y’know, that’s twice as long as my time in New Jersey and three times as long as my run in Nebraska. I have a feeling dear old aunt Maria might actually stay here for good,” I hop over the counter before grabbing a can of Coke out of the fridge. I prop me feet up on the counter, but Tommy knocks them down.

            “You know the rules, kid, no stompy boots on the counter.” I roll my eyes. He wipes off the place where my shoes were before organizing the lotto tickets. “Anything interesting happen at school today?”

            “Eh, same old same old. The Heathers were bitches, Veronica was desperately trying to keep up, and I got tripped in the hallway,” Tommy frowns.

            “God, those girls really need to get humbled,” He spits. 

            “You don’t need to tell me. They constantly act so… self-superior, as if their power doesn’t depend solely on whether or not everyone else hates themselves to believe they’re inferior to three teenage girls who are the definition of ‘peaked in high school’,” I squeeze the soda can in my hand, the metal crunching under the pressure. “They need to be more than humbled. The Heathers deserve to be dealt as much pain as they served,”

            “Watch it, kid, you’re sounding a bit homicidal,” Tommy jokes. If only he knew. 

            “It wouldn’t matter anyway. I don’t think they can die-- they’re like a Hydra. If you kill one of the Heathers, three more will grow in her place,” I sigh. Tommy looks concerned.

            “Y/n, you don’t actually want to kill them, right?” I hesitate. The silence makes Tommy worry.

            “I wouldn’t exactly lose sleep if one of them did die,” I reply nonchalantly. “It would be like a public service. Similar to killing the black mold that grows in the girl’s showers,” Tommy looks at me for a second, his expression unreadable, before turning back to his counter. 

            “That’s morbid,” he says. “You know that? You sound like a killer in the making.”

            “Sometimes bad people deserve bad things.”

            “You’re absolutely not helping your case,” Tommy laughs. I can feel someone watching me. It’s an odd feeling, but I brush it off.

            “New topic?” I ask. Tommy nods.

            A mischievous grin grows on his face. “You got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner? All of the above?” he asks hopefully.

            “No, Tommy, and don’t get your hopes up,” I chuckle, before standing up and admiring the neon sign outside.

            “Oh come on, there has to be someone. You can’t possibly go to that hellhole every day and not see at least one hot person!” Tommy groans.

            “Everyone at Westerburg is either evil or boring. No one interests me and I’m not interesting to anyone. Plus, my attention is mainly focused on getting through the day in one piece, not getting laid.” I neglect to mention the stranger I saw in the Cafe yesterday. He was pretty hot, and didn’t seem to be a douchebag-- in fact, he shot two of the douchiest douchebags with blank bullets. A real rarity at Westerburg.

            “God, you need to get out more. I see some pretty people pass through here occasionally, I’m going to start pawning you off,” he jokes.

            “Oh, god, no,” I joined in on his laughter.

            “Yup, I’m going to give every hot person your photo and your address until you finally score yourself some arm candy,” Tommy can barely form sentences through his laughter.

            “I’m gonna to get murdered if you do that, Tom,” I giggle. 

“             And that would be damn shame,” A voice calls from across the counter. I look up to see the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s the same guy from the Cafe-- although in the bright convenience store lighting he looks more like a ghost than a man. His jawline looked sharp enough to slice me in half, his cheekbones high and defined. His hair was gorgeous and his teeth were really, really nice. 

            “Uh, yeah, that would totally s-suck,” I choked. Tommy shot me the most horrified look I’ve ever seen. “I’ve, uh, seen you around. That stunt you pulled in the Cafe was wicked, man, seriously.”

            “Hey, it was a public service,” He smirked. Tommy gave me a ‘holy-shit-I’ll-leave-you-two-alone’ look before disappearing in the isles across the room. I could see him peeking through the cereal boxes. “I’m Jason Dean, but most people call me JD.” He offers his hand for me to shake.

             “Y/n, Y/n Ln,” I grip his hand firmly and try not to have a breakdown over the contact. “Y’know, there are much less extreme ways to get people to fuck off than, well, shooting them.”

              “The extreme always seems to make an impression, though, doesn’t it?” His voice was a little bit lower and he leaned in a little bit closer. Tommy was freaking out across the aisle, his eyes wide as his hand raked through his greasy hair. 

            “That it does,” I grin. “There are quite a few people in that school that deserve certain... extremities,” 

            “I think you’re right,” Jason smirked once again. I kept my composure as best I could. “Speaking of extremities, I saw you and Kurt in the hallway last week,” My face is lit ablaze as I recall the incident. Kurt had been continuously pestering me the entire day, and eventually I reached my limit.

            “I guess they aren’t joking when they say the chin is the knockout button,” Jason seems impressed, although I can’t really tell because looking him in the eyes seems like a death sentence. “Landed me three days detention, though. That sucked. Although I guess it can’t compare to whatever they’re dealing you,” At this point, one of the regulars began approaching the front doors. Tommy sprinted out before they got in, seemingly explaining that my entire love life depends on whether or not I can play it cool.

            “Eh, what can I say. I sort of dug myself a grave there,” I spoke without thinking.

            “The only graves that should’ve been dug are Kurt and Ram’s. My one critique? Use real bullets next time,” I froze. Why the fuck would I say that? I mean, I’m not wrong but I doubt JD would stick around after--

            “I like the way you think,” JD laughs, his ears tinted pink. Jason looks at me, and for a moment, I look right back. There’s something behind his eyes, something festering and enticing. I wonder if my eyes communicate anything. “I’ll see you around, Y/n L/n,” 

            “And I’ll see you, Jason Dean,” With that he winked at me, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door. Tommy practically sprinted across the room as I released every muscle I’d been tensing. I slowly melted onto the floor. Laying on the tile with my eyes trained on the bright lights overhead.

            “Oh my god,” Tommy breathed. “Oh my fucking god that was-- oh my god.”

            “I know,”

             “Did you see him? He’s like a greek god,”

            “I know,”

            “And he was totally into you, like, totally,”

            “I should’ve given him my address. I wouldn’t mind getting murdered by him.” I say breathlessly. Tommy sits on the counter and looks down at me.

            “I think I need to teach you how to talk to boys,” Tommy sighs, shock still lingering on his face.

            “Pssh, I can talk to boys just fine,” I retort.

            “You almost collapsed when you saw him,” he says flatly.

            “That was--”

            “I thought you were going to pass out when he told you his name,”

            “But I--”

            “I genuinely believed you were going to vomit when he shook your hand,”

            “Alright! I give! I can’t talk to boys! You caught me! Lock me up and never let me embarrass myself like that again!” I surrendered, throwing my arms in the air before letting them collapse over my face. “He probably thinks I’m a freak,”

            “Are you joking? He was more smitten than you were!” This caught my attention, and I tore my arms away from my eyes. 

            “Huh? Elaborate!” I snapped.

            “You seriously didn’t notice? He’d been staring at you since you stepped foot in here, didn’t you see him? At first I thought it was weird, but then I realized he was smoking hot so I decided I’d let it slide,” “Comforting,” Sarcasm drips from my words. “Y’know serial killers and stalkers can be hot, too.” I rolled my eyes.

“             I seem to recall you saying something along the lines of ‘I wouldn’t mind getting mur--’,”

            “Alright, Tommy, we get it.” I cut him off in embarrassment. “Please continue.”

            “He comes in here a lot, so I knew he was alright. He was beet red the entire time you were talking. Didn’t you see the way he was in a perpetual state of stupid smiling? Dude, he was definitely into you and really bad at hiding it,” Tommy concluded.

            I smiled a big, dumb smile. I didn’t notice the fact that he was nervous, so he probably didn’t notice that I was dying, right? 

            “Tommy, I think we might have a keeper.”

            “Thank god, I don’t think I could stand to see you go to Prom alone. That would be too depressing, even for me,” Tommy enthused. I propped my feet against the edge of the counter, staring at the tips of my boots. For the first time in a long time, Tommy is silent. I can’t get his eyes out of my head. Then again, I don’t know if I want to. 

_________

[liloify]

SPOILERS FOR SHAMELESS 11x11 AHEAD:

cw/ mention of suicide, blood, murder (only for a bit.)

Debbie dies.. wow..

what's franny gonna do? why would she- will they tell fiona?? omfg-

i'm kidding, but seriously, spoilers, I don't wanna ruin ANYTHING for you 💞

---

Ian and Mickey

I love the progress they're making, specifically Mickey, he's doing so good with finally articulating his words and how he feels. Ian wants to be a wholesome, tomato growing man with his barbaric, pool pissing husband.

"You're a fucking barbarian."

That made me feel something.. i had to pause like- "lem-lemme calm down."

Honestly though, It's nice to see Mickey and Ian go from:

"You're nothing but a warm mouth to me."

"*Sad gay redhead noises."

to

"I love you.😡💞"

"*Trying to prevent his husband from committing homicide but loving him🥲💞 noises*"

--

Lip

Jeremy Allen White is an amazing actor, I know we praise Noel Fisher and William H Macy but oh my god- Jeremy Allen White is incredible. The way he portrays the excitement, anger, happiness, everything about Phillip Gallagher? That man is, wow. I have no words.

I feel awful for Lip. Even though he's been a douche lately, he wants money so he can provide for Tami and Fred. Lip was going about it the wrong way, yes but, this is very Lip fashion so. I don't even have an idea about how they're gonna play out the house scene in the last episode.

Watch them do that thing early 2000's black movies do like:

"Phillip and Tami get married, they have 3 more kids. Carl gets in contact with his twin kids and begins to form a bond. Debbie goes on the run with Heidi and leaves Franny to be raised by Ian and Mickey, who mutually begin to love the westside and being parents. Liam gallagher became president of the united states."

--

Debbie

Why the fuck- Are the writers serious?? Out of all the people in the world they could've paired a hopeless romantic, young teen mom with.. they choose a woman who bites chunks of peoples faces off and threatens to shoot her children..

I don't have any words, at this point, They should just have Debbie sign over Franny to Mickey and Ian so she can go about her day.

--

Carl

💞Carl Gallagher, My beloved.💞

He went from pretending to be a white passing black boy and wearing those greasy cornrows to calling a privileged white out on his shit and sticking up for the black community when that rich dick tried to claim, "I know how black people feel now."

💞Carl Gallagher, Our baby daddy.💞

--

Liam

I just.. Liam is such a wonderful little thing. He cares so much about his dad and wants to help him to the point of trying to pull Debbie off of Frank after she went wild on him. Liam is amazing, he deserves the earth, stars, galaxy and more.

he's still a scammer though but props to him for being quick with it.

(might be a proxy murderer though.)

Kev and V

no words, just love.💞

--

Frank.

God, I- wow. I don't know how to even fathom the scene I just watched. Lip, Ian, Carl, Debbie, Fiona and Liam might be orphans.. (Would Ian be considered an Orphan...? Genetically wise, no but, yk.)

Frank Gallagher, that son of a bitch might die. In the middle of the fucking living room too, like jesus christ go do it in the backyard or something. The kids already had to See Monica clinging to life covered in blood, now they might have to see their DEAD father- who ended it in the HOUSE? Dammit Francis.

Kermit and Tommy

💞best friends💞

[backdraft-bimbo]

rule number two

After years of avoiding his trauma, Bucky finally confides in Sam. 

Words: 2893; Chapters: 1/1

James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson; Episode: s01e02 The Star-Spangled Man Coda

ao3 link

“Why don’t you get some shut eye, Buck? It’s gonna be a long ride home.” 

Bucky glances at Sam from his makeshift cargo perch across the fuselage. The bags under his eyes must be getting bad. Leah gave Bucky the impression last week that he needs concealer for his skin or something. But he’s a 106-year-old ex-assassin; who the hell is he trying to impress at this point?

After a few seconds pass, Bucky notes that he should probably respond instead of just staring blankly, because that’s what people do, right? They talk to each other, they share, and they trust so easily. It’s such a simple question, but Bucky’s urge to deflect any possible social interaction has decided to rear its ugly head tonight. Sam can’t be a fan of it either, since he’s the charismatic one of the two of them. He’s not the guy with the staring problem.

It’s just… Bucky doesn’t have normal conversations without being reminded of the restored freedom to speak his mind. The habits HYDRA drilled into his brain incite an unpleasant knee-jerk reaction– don’t speak or they’ll beat you –but Bucky has gotten better at managing the vestiges of his trauma. At least now he’ll be able to defend himself if his careless mouth puts him in hot water. And maybe he could just be honest with Sam; it wouldn’t hurt anything. But that almost kindles a burst of laughter in Bucky: the concept of himself not hurting somebody. What a world that would be.

Don’t get him wrong–Bucky used to like talking to people. He used to be good at it. But that was a long time ago; far longer than anyone should be able to recall. Even now, Bucky’s early 20th century days as a staff sergeant feel like a distant dream. He almost misses the wartime; when everything was simpler. Sure, it was bloody and violent and horrible, but at least Bucky knew how to fucking talk to people he considered friends. When it comes to his loose tongue nowadays, there’s an ugly history waiting to make an unwanted appearance; bared teeth and all.

“I don’t,” Bucky answers finally, his voice trembling a fraction more than he’s comfortable with. He doesn’t think he can do more than two syllables right now. If Bucky somehow musters up the courage to tell Sam about his nightmares, he won’t make it through a single sentence without bursting into tears like a twelve-year-old.

The fact that Sam could somehow see Bucky’s eye bags across the shadowy fuselage does not convince Bucky that Sam didn’t hear that slight embarrassing waver in his voice. But even if he did, the guy doesn’t comment on it. Sam has been laying in a supine position on the flight seats for the past hour, drifting in and out of sub-consciousness, and really, he’s the one who looks damn tired. It’s been a long day for both of them; they’re bruised and achy after their loss against the Flag-Smashers–more proof that Bucky shouldn’t bother Sam.

But this is here and now. The sky is starless as a humming inky black abyss, the RS-834 cruising about 40,000 feet above sea level, far beyond the stratus clouds, and everything feels tranquil in that seldom gentle way it does sometimes. It’s as if the world consists only of Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes, and that illusion is a tremendous comfort to the ex-assassin. When it’s clear that Bucky isn’t going to elaborate, Sam lets his neck muscles relax, drooping his head back to face the opposite wall that reflects the drowsy slur of his voice.

“C’mon, man...I know at least three percent of your body is metal, but that don’t mean you never sleep.”

Bucky pauses. Tries not to glance at his left arm. He has to be careful; guys like him have a tendency to overshare when it’s late. It’s just that something about the night brings a facade of protection, as if anything he says can be written off as a dream, so he can bare himself to the bone in front of anyone he wants. It doesn’t matter since it will be forgotten in the morning. The night is unreliable, thus Bucky uses that to his defense.

“Aren’t you worried I’m gonna like...”

“Kill me?” Sam snorts, a bit of energy returning to his voice. “I think if either of us really wanted to kill the other, one of us would be lying in a heap by now. Just saying.”

Bucky can’t argue with that. Like Dr. Raynor so elegantly puts it, it is so sad, but Sam is probably Bucky’s only real friend at this point. Add that with the fact that he doesn’t really want to kill anyone anyway, and someone who doesn’t know better might call what Sam and Bucky have a “healthy relationship.” Bucky swings a hand around Sam’s vicinity, willing his voice to level out this time.

“Are you tired? You should go to sleep.”

A deep sigh resonates out from Sam’s dark corner. “Man, I forget sometimes how good you are at that.”

“What?”

“Changing the subject.”

Oh.  

Bucky wonders which part of him that came from: James “Bucky” Barnes, or his HYDRA-conditioned brain. Perhaps it was just a defense against people trying to crowbar their way into his thoughts. As long as he can distract them, he’s safe. Bucky exhales a heavy breath, combing a hand through his greasy hair.

“Look, I just... I’m not the most pleasant person to sleep with.”

A moment of unwonted silence passes. Bucky’s gaze wanders away from his hands and toward Sam. By the time his eyes have adjusted, the guy has propped himself up on his elbows, teeth shining through the dimness in a quiet grin. The suggestive phrasing of Bucky’s words finally catches up to him. His cheeks redden. Well, if Sam decides to take it that way… Bucky technically hasn’t gotten laid since the 1940s. From what he remembers, it hadn’t even been very good. But hell no–that’s the kind of mental rabbit hole Bucky isn’t in the mood for. He coughs and slaps his thighs.

“We have like three more hours. Go to sleep, Sam. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Now you gon’ make me feel bad about it,” Sam smirks. “Shame on you, Barnes.”

Bucky ducks his head in exasperation. “You’re an idiot. What, you want me to sing you a lullaby?”

Sam visibly brightens at that. “Ooh, for real? You know any?”

Great , so now Sam is standing up, walking toward him, the grin on his annoying face widening. And because Bucky is a fucking mess, his tongue gets tied up in about fifteen knots before he gets the chance to open his mouth, and he’s already forgetting what he was going to say. Hell, if Sam smiled any brighter than that, he’d be the fucking sun.

“Uh, well, y’know,” Bucky says eloquently. “HYDRA was kinda lacking in that department.”

Sam laughs again, making himself at home on the red seats adjacent to Bucky’s perch, and Bucky feels a miserable sort of swell in his chest. Why is Sam purposefully gravitating toward him? Who the hell wants an ex-HYDRA assassin in close proximity?

“You gettin’ shy on me, Buck?” Sam tilts his head slightly downward, gazing up at Bucky with his big brown eyes and thick eyelashes, and what the fuck. “You ain’t gotta look so shook up; I don’t bite.”

“That’s a surprise,” Buck replies weakly, trying to force his face to cool down. There’s so much spit caught up in his throat right now, and Bucky knows it’ll look weird if he swallows in front of this guy, like he’s some nervous teenager with a school crush. Sam just laughs softly, the corners of his cheeks tightening, his lips curling up in a way that is too fucking charming to be on the face of a man sitting right across from a mass murderer. But honestly, Bucky can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed anymore; any time Sam laughs because of him is a win.

God, maybe I am good for something.

An overlay of silence reigns over the two men, and the white noise hum of the plane almost makes Bucky want to doze off. When he blinks himself awake for the fifth time, Sam’s familiar cadence cuts through the air like a knife to warm butter. He sounds wide awake.

“Nightmares, huh. So that’s why you don’t sleep.”

Bucky pales a shade, shifting atop his crate in discomfort. He supposes he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was being. Sam lifts his hands in a placating gesture, his voice much more benign now. “I used to get ‘em sometimes too. Hell, even nowadays I do; service will do that to you. Not tryna say I completely understand what’s going on in that big cyborg brain of yours, but…I get it, to a degree.”

Bucky wonders if Sam behaves like this whenever he’s talking to veterans in his therapy group, or if he’s reserved this for Bucky alone. He finds himself craving the latter to a degree that is both confusing and hopeless. “I…” he mutters, pointedly not looking at the other man. The miserable swell from before is morphing into something much more sad, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do with it.

You’re alone. You have no friends, no family.

The harsh words bounce around Bucky’s head like a game of Pong, contrasting starkly against Sam’s kind and gentle tone. A spark of indignation thaws the insides of his chest. It’s not fair, it’s not true; Bucky’s got proof right here. Fuck you, Dr. Raynor. Despite all you think, at least I’ve got this dumbass with me.

Sam speaks again, leaning back in his seat. “Look, you ain’t gotta tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m just lettin’ you know that you ain’t gotta fight this alone.”

Bucky hates tip-toeing around his trauma like it’s some massive landmine. Part of him just wants to lay it all out; explode with everything he’s never willingly told another soul; reopen his wounds and expel all the ugliness in the hopes that maybe he’ll heal up properly this time. He wants to scream to Sam that he never got a fucking break; it was abuse upon abuse. HYDRA buried him alive just to water his grave in guilt and horror and self-hatred. There had never been the option of peace for the Winter Soldier. He was the asset, the weapon, the tool, the plaything, taken out of a dusty closet any time somebody wanted a turn with him.

“It was never a fight,” Bucky whispers. “They never gave me a chance.”

Sam looks slightly taken aback, as if he wasn’t expecting the ex-assassin to actually respond. Bucky would be surprised too if he didn’t feel so utterly lost right now. Instead, he settles for staring past Sam’s shoulder into the back of the fuselage, trying to find answers in the dim blue lights blanketing them. Despite how hard Bucky tries not to see it, Sam is shifting, his face crumpling into...something. He can’t put his finger on it but hopes to God it’s not pity. Steve used to give him that look, always catching himself doing it, and then getting all guilty about it afterward. So before Bucky can stop himself there, let his words fester in comfortable ambiguity, he’s taking off and nothing is going to stop him.

“So yeah, Sam,” Bucky continues, gritting out the words, “I get nightmares. I remember every single human being I murdered with this stupid fucking metal arm, and now I have to deal with it for the rest of my ‘overextended life.’ Is that selfish? Is it selfish of me to say that I wish I died in that fucking ravine when I was supposed to? I don’t belong here, Sam. Just the fact that I’m alive in this era is unnatural. But I’ve gotta make amends with my laundry list of everyone I hurt, because dying just isn’t going to cut it. ”

Bucky still isn’t looking at Sam by the time he finishes, snapping his mouth shut like an animal being muzzled before he can bite anyone else. Even though Bucky can’t tell what Sam is thinking, can’t see how his expression has undoubtedly contorted from pity to hurt, Bucky is overwhelmed by instinct. He doesn't know which side is currently winning over: the Soldier’s desperation to submit before his handlers put him through “corrective treatment,” or Bucky’s longing to apologize to Sam for hurting him. Make amends, make amends, don’t hurt anyone. Rule number two.

The latter ends up taking the tug of war, and Bucky whispers out a choked, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sam, I–”

“Hey.”

Sam is standing close beside him, their shoulders almost level while Bucky is slouching. He can’t suppress the shiver that shoots through his body like lightning as a hand carefully grips his flesh arm. “Hey, man, look at me,” Sam says–somehow firm and gentle at the same time. His thumb brushes over the fabric of Bucky’s sweater, and Bucky wants to let his hand come up to clench Sam’s, but hell if he doesn’t know how that’ll end. It’s been so long since he’s been touched in a way that doesn’t end in bruises.

“Hey, hey… Listen to me, man. I hear you,” Sam says warmly, burnishing the chasm where Bucky thinks his heart used to be. “And it’s gonna be all right. You may not think it yet, and I should’ve said something earlier, but…” Sam trails off, pauses, then nods to himself. “You’re a good man, Bucky.”

A tight, burning ember of anguish flares up in Bucky’s throat.

A good man.

The Winter Soldier seldom got oral approval from his handlers, and even when he did, it was for chaos and carnage disguised as HYDRA’s regurgitated “gift to mankind” bullshit. To James “Bucky” Barnes, praise was a concept he never considered, since he’d have to be deserving in order to get any. Goodness is reserved for people , and Bucky crossed the line of humanity a long time ago. He isn’t a person anymore–just a monster.

People who fall under the category of “good” are the ones like Steve. Like his sister Becca. And like Sam Wilson specifically, standing here next to him with the true mantle of Captain America; a man so much damn worthier of that title than Bucky is, and he thinks Bucky is good . The same guy who has killed more innocent people than he has fingers and toes. And that’s not counting the unnameable ones–the collateral damage–caught in the crossfire.

Just the thought of all he’s done makes Bucky want to fervently deny Sam; to prove him wrong; to show Sam his track record with big red letters at the bottom of the page emphasizing that Bucky isn’t good . In the memories of hundreds, maybe thousands of people, he’s the cruel, terrifying mercenary with a history uglier than most want to comprehend. If Sam saw all that Bucky had done, would he change his mind? Would Sam look at Bucky the way he looks at himself in the mirror?

Sam is saying something now–maybe his name. But Bucky can’t hear him. He doesn’t know when the tears began, so he quickly ducks his chin so Sam can’t see them streaming down his face. God, it’s so fucking cold. Sam lets out a soft hum–not sad, but caring–and Bucky knows he’s failed at hiding again. Sam’s hand brushes up his arm and around his shoulder, pulling him gently against Sam’s warm body. Eventually Bucky leans into it, shutting his eyes tight.

“Been a while,” Bucky mutters, almost a whisper; it might just be a vivid thought.

“Yeah, I know, Tin Man. I mean it, you’re a great guy. And before you start, I know you don’t believe me, but I’m gonna keep reminding you till you do.”

“Yeah,” Bucky sniffles, voice muffled as he buries his face into Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you, Sam.”  

The words, the touching–it’s all too good to be true. It has to be too good to be true, because if it’s real, then Bucky might just have a bit of hope left. And if he has hope, then he can’t jump into battle without care for his own life anymore. He’s going to have to exist correctly this time around. So if Sam means what he says, if he really thinks Bucky is a good person, then Bucky is going to live up to that image or die trying.  

Once they pull away, it’s felt like hours. The plane is still going steady through the early morning, the lights still that calming shade of blue, but something has shifted in the air, something neither Sam nor Bucky can seem to put their finger on. It’s a certain kind of rawness; an ache Bucky is thoroughly familiar with; a feeling that always comes with the moon and foolish amounts of trust. Bucky mumbles a flustered apology for the wet spot now stained into Sam’s sweater, but the guy just shakes his head and grins in a way that makes Bucky fall in love with him.

“Anytime.”

[threeletterslife]

01 | Redefining Destiny

→ next chapter

→ summary: You were convinced you were in love with him. A former member of the mafia in the states, that is. It was true love. Destiny. Until one day you wake up with a memory lapse; then that love is replaced with hatred. The thought of marriage is substituted with revenge. If your love with Jeon Jungkook really was destiny, you’d fall head over heels in love again. But if only he weren’t such a hot, goading asshole. 

→ pairing/rating: jungkook x reader | PG-13

→ genre: 70% fluff, 25% crack, 5% angst | e2l!au & soulmate!au

→ warnings: none??? (ok fine JK thinks ‘shit’ once but that doesn’t really count)

→ wordcount: 3.4k

Sweat slowly trickles down the back of Jungkook's neck as he stands behind the fiery heat of the burger grill. He's been gripping the metal spatula for so long that there's an angry red dented mark in his right hand. The greasy smell of oil from the french fries has penetrated through his nose for hours now; at this point, he has no other choice but to breathe sparingly through his mouth. God, he hates working overtime.

But he desperately wants to provide for you financially, and working overtime at his local burger joint was just one small step closer to financial stability when you both graduate. It's the least he can do for you.

Jungkook adjusts his red hat, which is part of his work uniform and checks the clock hanging on the wall. Ten minutes and he's out of here. He can definitely take this hot, stuffy kitchen for ten more minutes. He's been through a lot worse in his life; in comparison, this was nothing.

Ten minutes pass painstakingly slowly, but once the clock strikes 10 p.m., Jungkook pushes the spatula into his co-worker's hands and dashes out of the kitchen, grabbing his casual clothes from his corner at the back and rushing into the restroom to change. He hates the greasy, fast-food smell that clings onto his work clothes even more than you do.

And today's supposed to be a special day. Normally after a late shift, Jungkook likes to go home and lay in bed with you as you stroke his soft hair until he falls asleep. But today is definitely a special day.

When Jungkook comes out of the bathroom wearing his normal black jeans and an oversized hoodie, he sees his long-time friend Yoongi waving at him in a corner seat of the parlor. Jungkook smiles, rushing over to slide into the seat across from his friend.

"Hey," Yoongi says. "Just finished your shift?"

"Yeah," Jungkook answers.

"How was it?"

"It was okay," Jungkook lies. "It's bearable. And it's extra money."

"It's been a while since we got to meet up like this, huh?" Yoongi sighs. "How are you holding up?"

"Since..." Jungkook whispers.

Yoongi nods. "It's been nearly two years, Jungkook, but I know how much you miss them... or him."

Jungkook nods solemnly. Yoongi's right. It has been nearly two years since the Crescents collapsed and everyone but Jungkook was murdered on the spot. He's been having nightmares about that night ever since it had happened. Nightmares about his best friend... Taehyung... He shudders just thinking about it.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," Yoongi says. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for it."

"It's really fine," Jungkook says, shaking his head. "It's not a big deal... I just miss Tae once in a while. It doesn't always plague my thoughts," he lies. "Besides, I have Y/N, you know?"

Yoongi nods, smiling. "You lost a loved one so the universe brought you another."

But Jungkook doesn't think anyone could become the Taehyung of his life—not even you, though he loves you more than mere words can describe.

"Oh, right. I forgot to tell you, Jungkook," Yoongi says, leaning forward in his seat and grinning. He's trying to lighten up the mood; Jungkook can tell. "My wife's pregnant!"

"Really?" Jungkook gasps, his eyes turning wide as he stares at his proud-looking friend. Well, this was news that he hadn't expected at all. "Wow, congratulations!" He really means it.

"I dunno about congratulations, but I am pretty glad I'm finally going to be a father," Yoongi hums. "Except that child is hoarding my wife's attention. And I'm kinda nervous," he sighs. "A lot of pressure to be a perfect example now..."

Jungkook nods. "I can imagine. But you'll be a great father."

His friend smiles. "Thanks. That means a lot. Anyways, how's school been going?" Yoongi asks, resting his head on his propped up hand. "I know you were kinda worried because of the age gap and everything..."

Yoongi's right. It wasn't easy to start up school again after neglecting to go to college in his early adult years. He would be at least three years older (or more) than everyone else in his classes... and he hadn't touched a textbook or actively listened to a lecture since senior year of high school. He was worried that he would be severely behind all the bright and chipper students who hadn't taken several gap years. And he was behind at first. But his determination to be somehow involved in law was just so much greater than the adversities that academics hurled at him, that he fought through. Of course, you'd helped him as well. So, as of now, school was going—

"Great, actually," Jungkook answers. "It's because I'm doing what I'm interested in."

"Good," Yoongi answers. "My wife sends you her best of luck. She said being a paralegal will definitely suit you."

Jungkook smiles. "Tell her I said thanks. That was sweet of her."

"You know my wife," Yoongi snorts. "Always trying to do the right thing. Oh yeah," he pauses, "how's the love of your life?"

"She puts up with me," Jungkook chuckles. "She's been great. We've been talking about her moving in for a while and it finally happened a few weeks ago."

"That's amazing, Jungkook," Yoongi says, smiling. "You really love her. I can tell."

Jungkook laughs, face heating up just thinking about you. "You know what's funny? I hated you for the longest time—no offense—because you left us, you know, for your wife. But now I know what it feels like to be crazy in love."

Yoongi snorts. "Yeah. Wait until she's pregnant with your kid, though."

"I still think I would love her as much as I do now," Jungkook says. "I don't think our love can ever fade."

Yoongi laughs out loud. "Oh, to be young and in love!" he declares.

Jungkook makes a face that makes Yoongi laugh even harder. "You're only a year older," Jungkook protests. "And if you were in school, we'd be in the same year!"

"Sure, sure," Yoongi says.

Jungkook's about to say something snarky to get back at Yoongi when he hears the familiar tune of your favorite song playing on his phone. Last Valentine's Day, you'd gone out of your way to customize Jungkook's ringtone when you call him. It was some Christian song that you belted out every Sunday at the top of your lungs—a song that Jungkook knew every word to after listening to it so many times. "Hold up, my girlfriend's calling," Jungkook says, fishing out his phone and clearing his throat to answer.

Yoongi leans back, nodding to himself as he watches his younger friend get excited over a call from his girlfriend. Jungkook presses his phone against his ear, lips already pulling up into a smile just at the thought of talking to you.

"Hey, baby!" you chirp the moment Jungkook picks up. "Can we please have ramen for dinner? I'm craving it so hard for some reason! And it's not like we can really afford anything else..."

"Of course, baby," Jungkook says, unbelievably happy just hearing your voice. "Do you want me to make it when I get home?"

"Yes, please!" you exclaim in your bright, golden voice. "We have a nasty quiz in ethics tomorrow, remember? I have no idea how you're hanging out with Yoongi knowing that, but whatever. I've been FaceTiming like six of my friends to cram for it... But also at this point, I'm kinda getting distracted—frick, I'm going off into tangents again. Wait, okay, sorry, Kook, I have to go."

"Don't worry about it, babe," Jungkook says. "Study well, okay?"

"Okay! Bye, Kook. Have fun with your friend!"

Jungkook can tell you're smiling just from your voice. "Bye, Y/N!" He ends the call, putting down his phone and looking a bit dazed.

Yoongi laughs at him. "God, Jungkook, you really love her. It's been like what, a year? And you're already even living with each other."

Jungkook scrunches his forehead. "You ran away from the only family you ever knew to be with a girl you've reunited with for less than a year," he retorts.

Yoongi chuckles. "Touché. Maybe we're both deranged love-seeking lunatics."

Jungkook laughs. "Maybe..." he muses. "Or maybe we've found our true soulmates and we're not stupid enough to let them go."

"Ha, good one," Yoongi laughs. "If I told my wife that we were soulmates, she'd tell me to open my eyes and wake up."

"Really? But she loves you and you love her," Jungkook says.

"So?" Yoongi asks. "You loved my wife too, once. So did..." he hesitates. "So did Seokjin and Taehyung... Just because we love each other doesn't make us soulmates."

"I loved your wife a long time ago. That shouldn't even count. And that was before I knew my soulmate existed," Jungkook huffs. "I guess maybe Y/N and I are lucky."

Yoongi smiles. "Extremely fortunate," he says. "True love like that doesn't happen often in this cruel universe." He folds his hands in front of him like a wise man, leaning in as if he were going to tell Jungkook a secret. Naturally, Jungkook leans in to listen to what the wiser man has to say. "You deserve it, Jungkook," Yoongi tells him. "You deserve to have someone like Y/N to give you purpose to live. To put purpose in your life. You deserve a lot, and from what I could tell, Y/N is the 'a lot' that you deserve."

Jungkook can't stop the wide grin stretching his lips. It's rare that Yoongi has such heartfelt words to say so openly in public. He must be out of his mind—or insanely excited about becoming a father.

"Thanks, Yoongi," Jungkook says.

Jungkook knows that Yoongi's always been a practical man who doesn't believe in soulmates or destiny or any of that cutesy, Disney princess, Hollywood shit. And for months, Yoongi was Jungkook's makeshift role model—someone to take the place of Kim Taehyung, who was dead now... But Jungkook knew he and Yoongi were too different when he met you. You were something else. Something so completely different that when he's with you, he feels like he's taken to the moon. He has to disagree with Yoongi on this one. Destiny exists.

Because destiny, and what was written in the stars of the vast universe, is what brought you and him together to fall in love.

You immediately sit up in bed when you hear an ear-piercing scream, quickly reaching across to switch on the bedside lamp and turning to your boyfriend. He's kicking the covers and whimpering, sweat running profusely down his face as he squeezes his eyes shut and frowns at the figures in his nightmares. You put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Kook?" you whisper, yawning and trying to blink away your drowsiness. "Hey, you were screaming again," you say, shaking him softly.

Jungkook nearly hits your head with his when he jerks awake. And the moment you see the fear in his wet but alert eyes, your drowsiness vanishes. "Baby, you're crying," you say, pulling him into your arms and hugging him.

He relaxes a bit in your embrace for a split second before tugging back and shaking his head. "I'm so sorry, Y/N," he groans nearly breathlessly as he massages his head with his hand. You try to wipe his tears away with the sleeve of your nightshirt. "It's so early in the morning... And we have a quiz today. You need to sleep."

You shake your head, ruffling Jungkook's hair. "Sleep is the least of my worries, Kook. Tell me, it's about your friends again, isn't it?"

Jungkook stays silent, still trembling slightly from the leftover shadows of his nightmare.

"C'mon... I wanna help, baby," you say, reaching out to hold Jungkook's hand. He's sweaty and his skin feels hot against yours but you don't mind. "You can tell me. It'll make you feel better, I promise."

"It was horrible," Jungkook finally whispers. "And you were right. It was about the Crescents again..." he hesitates and you patiently wait for him to gather his thoughts and continue. "I-I watched T-Taehyung be b-brutally tortured. A-And I... I couldn't do anything about it b-because I was in invisible restraints." He lets out a gigantic sigh, shivering from the last remains of the nightmare in his mind. "Everyone else was already dead and bled out," he quickly says, spitting the words out so fast he doesn't have time to stutter. "I want to spare you the details." He's shaking as he tells you this, eyes fogged up and lips set in a thin line.

"Oh, Kook..." you breathe. You reach out to hug him. "Hey... do you want me to get you an ice pack and a glass of water?" you ask, rubbing slow circles on his back. "We can talk about it in-depth when you're feeling better."

"No," Jungkook murmurs softly in your ear. "I swear, I'm fine, Y/N. You don't have to do anything. It was just a dream..."

"It was a nightmare," you correct him, pulling back from the hug. "And you keep having them. What can I do to help?"

"You're helping right now," Jungkook says. He gives you a grateful smile. "I'm sorry I keep waking you up at ungodly hours of the night."

"You shouldn't be sorry," you reply. "You've been through a lot, Kook. It would only make sense for you to have bad flashbacks about it... Hey, if you don't want to go back to sleep, I'll stay up with you."

Jungkook shakes his head. "No way. You need your sleep."

"You do too, silly," you say. "How about we both go to bed?"

Jungkook smiling, slipping back into the covers and dragging you under with him so that you're using his pillow instead of yours. "Can you stay by my side until I fall asleep again?" he whispers hopefully.

"Of course," you say, "you're really warm, anyways." You snuggle against your boyfriend, closing your eyes immediately to relish in the darkness. "Goodnight," you whisper. "I'll pray for you so that the nightmares won't bother you again this night."

"What would I do without you, Y/N?" Jungkook sighs as he closes his eyes too, wrapping an arm around you.

"Everything," you murmur. "You're... a strong man... Kook..." you trail off. Jungkook waits for you to continue, but it seems like sleep has overtaken you before you could say any more.

Jungkook smiles. When he's in your arms, he can finally have a peaceful slumber away from the nightmares and horrible memories. He dozes off the sleep again and this time, he isn't plagued by the fatal cries of his friends' last words.

When the 2 p.m. alarm rings, Jungkook's the first one up, hopping out of bed and checking to see if you are awake. You obviously aren’t, so he decides he's going to let you sleep for a little bit longer while he makes breakfast—er, lunch.

It's Friday, which means you and Jungkook only have one class today—ethics. Jungkook has a habit of studying for his classes little by little and every day but you tend to cram last-minute. You were up until 3 a.m. last night studying and you'd also woken up at around 4 to comfort Jungkook. Feeling a little guilty, Jungkook pads into the kitchen with heavy, drowsy feet and lets you get the extra sleep you deserve.

The smell of bacon sizzling on the pan permeates through the small apartment's air, reaching the bedroom to wake you up. Soon, you're making your way into the kitchen, stretching your arms as you yawn.

"Hey, baby," Jungkook greets you, turning around from the stove to give you a warm smile. "Sorry about last night... er, early morning."

You yawn again, waving a dismissive hand as you open the fridge to take out some eggs and apples. "It's nothing, Kook. Can you scramble these eggs? I'll cut the apples."

Jungkook nods, taking the eggs from you and cracking them open expertly against the fry-pan before letting the contents fall out. He takes the cooked bacon from the pan before it burns, looking around to find some plates to set them on.

"Here you go," you tell him, handing him just what he needed.

Per usual, it's like the two of you have telepathic communication.

Once the bacon is hot and ready on the plates, the eggs are scrambled into a golden yellow and the apples are freshly washed and cut, you and Jungkook sit down at your small table and eat. Jungkook's just about to finish up his eggs when you sigh. Jungkook looks up at you, and he sees that you have abandoned your silverware, twisting around your gold purity ring—it's a small habit you picked up when you're nervous.

"Is something wrong, Y/N?"

"No, nothing's wrong, Kook," you tell him. "I'm just worried about you. You keep having nightmares, baby, and I just think it might be detrimental to your mental health...”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” he lies, shaking his head in denial. “I’m fine. I promise, Y/N.”

You know he’s lying, but you don’t say it out loud. “In that case, I have a verse from the Bible for you,” you say, pausing to close your eyes. “Maybe repeating this in your head can somehow help you...” Your brows furrow as you concentrate to pull up the scripture from memory. "Be strong and courageous,” you begin, “do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go."

"Joshua 1:9," Jungkook finishes for you. "I know, Y/N. I know."

He doesn't really, though. Jungkook respects your closeness to God; he respects your religion and your beliefs, but he, a murderer, a major sinner, cannot possibly receive salvation. He can't take back the lives he's ruined, the people he's tortured and turned insane, the victims he'd killed slowly, taking his sweet, sweet time... You understand his struggles, so you don't push the subject of religion on him. But it had been a hard move for you to choose to date Jungkook. To choose to move in with him. To choose to sleep on the same bed and maintain your purity. Jungkook understands. And this mutual understanding—even though none of it was spoken verbally—is what makes the two of you so special.

You connect on a level that transcends speech and language.

"You don't deserve being haunted by the things you did when you were younger," you say. "Former mafia or not, you're a good man, now, Jungkook." You grab his hand from across the hand, encompassing it with your own. "That's what matters."

He smiles, nodding. "Thank you..."

"Of course," you say. "Hey, after class, wanna eat out for dinner? You know, to celebrate another quiz."

"Ah..." Jungkook sighs. "I can't, baby. I have to work overtime today."

"What?" you pout as a frown places itself on your lips. "You worked overtime yesterday. And you didn't get a good night's sleep today..."

"Well, we need all the money we can get," Jungkook says. "I'll be fine. Maybe you can get dinner with your friends? I'll meet you outside my workplace at 10?"

You sigh. "Alright, Kook, but you have to promise you'll sleep in tomorrow."

"I promise," Jungkook grins. "Hey, I'll clean up so you can cram a bit more for the quiz."

You laugh, shaking your head as you gather up your utensils and your plate. "No way, Kook. You know, I don't have to try as hard anymore. I'm not going to intern abroad."

"Really?" Jungkook asks, frowning. "But that's such a great opportunity, Y/N! You can't just miss out on it..."

"Well, going abroad would mean we'd be long-distance... And what if I never come back?" you say. "I'm not gonna risk that. I'm not going. I'll have to explain that to my parents... somehow."

"You don't have to give up on your future for me..."

You laugh out loud. "I think God meant for me to have a future with you, Kook."

Jungkook hums. "In that case, I can't really argue against what He planned for you, can I?"

"No," you giggle, shaking your head. "You can't."

Jungkook smiles; God or not, you and he were meant to be, and he'd prove time and again that he is worth your love.

After the ethics quiz that had gone fairly well, you and Jungkook part ways after he kisses your cheek goodbye. Usually, Jungkook walks straight to the burger parlor, but, today, he takes a little detour to the flower shop.

He's been buying you one sunflower every week since the two of you began dating. He doesn't really know how that tradition started, but it never really stopped because the two of you enjoyed it so much. But today, he wants to get you something special.

Jungkook feels a little guilty, after all, that you'd given up your internship abroad to be with him and that you always had to wake up in the middle of the night or at early dawn to comfort him through his nightmares. It isn’t much, but sunflowers give you happiness.

He makes his special purchase and walks to the burger parlor where the smell of grease and oil isn't as bad today—his mind is preoccupied with your reaction when he gives you your present.

You're already waiting for him outside the burger parlor when Jungkook comes out, a bit sweaty with the smell of burgers still lingering on his skin.

"Hey, babe!" you say brightly, hugging him and immediately taking his hand. "How was work? I went to get some street food with friends. It was so good! I have to take you there some time—goodness, are those—" Your eyes turn huge as you see the packet that your boyfriend is holding.

"Sunflower seeds," your boyfriend smiles. "I know I usually get you sunflowers... but I figured it would mean more if we could plant them and grow them ourselves."

You gasp, putting a hand to your heart. "That's so thoughtful, Kook. I don't even know what to say."

Jungkook shrugs shyly, face blushing. "It was nothing, babe... But hey, did you walk here alone? That's kind of dangerous..."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh no, my friend dropped me off here. I didn't even wait that long for you. You don't have to worry."

"Sorry," Jungkook says, squeezing your entertained hands. "I'm just... paranoid, I guess."

He's referring to Jimin and you know it. "Hey... I'm fine," you say. "It doesn't hurt to worry or be cautious, you know. Wanna start walking home?"

Jungkook nods as the two you begin to walk down the familiar streets, the bright moonlight illuminating what was otherwise dark. A few minutes pass before you speak again.

"It's a full moon, tonight," you say, looking up at the sky.

"I really like full moons," Jungkook hums.

You turn your head to look at him in shock. "Really? I always thought crazy things happen on the night of a full moon. Like men turn into werewolves and witches brew their potions and warlocks cast their spells?"

Jungkook laughs as he looks at you fondly through his half-opened eyes. "Maybe," he giggles. "But... I don't know... it's just that it's a better, more completed version of a crescent moon. I feel like it guides me in the right direction."

"I thought I did that, not the full moon!" 

Jungkook smiles. "You're better than the moon," he says, pointing at the stars twinkling in the night sky. "You're the stars, Y/N. You're the sun. You're my sunflower!" he exclaims confidently.

You smile, a faint, rosy blush tinting your cheeks. "I really don't know what I would have done without you."

"You'd be abroad," Jungkook says. "Studying a foreign language and becoming successful."

You shake your head. "Not at all. I'd be unhappy. I'd feel stuck. You know I hate what I'm learning..." you shrug. "Without you, I wouldn't have anyone to lean on."

Jungkook smiles. "Me too."

You smile, about to say something sweet right back to your boyfriend, but you halt walking instead. Jungkook stops with you, looking around to see if anything is wrong.

"Hey," he says. "You good?"

"Was that always there?" you say, tilting your head and looking curiously to the right. "I've never seen it before."

Jungkook looks to where you're looking and smiles curiously. It's a little shop, the windows displaying glowing potions and little sparkling trinkets. "A magic gag shop?" he asks. "Maybe it's new."

"Gosh, it's adorable!" you gasp, running toward the windows to peer inside. "Look, baby! There's a cute little flying teacup set! I can barely see the string that's holding it up!"

Jungkook catches up to you, looking in to see exactly what you are talking about. "It seems so professional," he says in awe. "Do you think the owner works in the film industry or something? Some of these look so real. Look at that!" He points at a crystal ball in the middle of the shop, displaying vibrant images of sunflower patches. "That's insane!"

"It's like it was made for us," you laugh. "Let's check it out!"

"Woah, uh," Jungkook hesitates, "it's late, Y/N. The shop's probably closed."

"The lights are on," you pout. "C'mon, I wanna talk to the owner! I wonder what they're using to get such vivid photos on that thing!"

With that, you tug your boyfriend into the little magic shop with you. One step in, it's like you've entered a new universe.

—next chapter

—masterpost

[mooshs-crack-headcanons]

Hello! Exciting to see a new writing blog!! Can I maybe request Shanks finding a young lady shipwrecked, saving her and kind of falling for her on first sight? Feeling is mutual, I'll leave the circumstances etc up to you!! Thank you so very much! And good luck with the writing!! I look forward to seeing all the things you come up with!!

*Rubs my greasy little man hands together* 

I've been waiting for Shanks.

(I hope this turned out okay!)

The cheering and singing that came from the Red Force was echoing especially loud that night.

Shanks swore it could has been heard all over his territory in the New World. 

The Yonko laughed out as he watched his crew dance before him, they all slurred the lyrics of old shanties as they swung their mugs of sake around. 

All of them were pink in the face as the swayed side to side, some stomping their feet to the beat of the shantie the musician played, some others slammed down their mugs as the yelled to one another, and some laid passed out on deck. 

Shanks got a kick out of all of it.

With moments like this, he realised all the talking about his crew being a bunch of party animals was true. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

He sat slumped back, chugging down another mug of whiskey before letting out a loud: "Woo!" as the familiar burning sensation shot down his throat. He slammed down the mug at the table beside him and let his legs cross in his seat. 

"Oi Captain! Sing us one of your favorites, why don't 'ya?" One of his crew members piped up. Waving his one and only arm he gestured the offer away. 

"Nah, maybe later."

He couldn't maintain his buzz with his voice occupied. 

Benn came up and sat in the chair next to him, downing a small shot. 

"You're awfully quiet tonight." 

Shanks let out a laugh before wavering his hand.

"Been busy."

"Busy." The vice captain gave pause, looking at his captain's propped up drunk figure.

"You've been busy?" 

"Yeah." Shanks motioned to his head, giving it a few taps. 

"Big Yonko thoughts. They keep me super occupied, you know?"

Benn rolled his eyes as he went to go stand back up. 

"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, 'cap."

Shanks scoffed to himself.

Yeah right.

Truth be told, he really didn't know what was wrong with him?

Eh, maybe just a flunk.

His scar gave a little throb.

The Yonko immediately sat up to feel at it, his eyes frowned.

That has to be it.

He. Is planning something. 

He ripped his mug from his side table, emptying it.

"Oi, Collins!" 

The blonde recruit looked back, confused.

"Go get me some more, yeah?" 

The blonde nodded his head before Dashing off. 

Shanks sat back in his seat, feeling his scar still demand his attention.

A storm had to be coming.

"Hey! Shanks! You're not gonna believe this!" Yasopp yelled from the other side of the deck. 

"What is it?"

"Wrecked Marine ship,"

Why the hell is there a Marine ship in his territory?

"And uh someone's on it!" 

"Who?"

God, he doesn't want to deal with some struggling marine asshole today.

"A woman."

A woman? 

Well women could still be a threat too.

"Is she armed?" 

Shanks already pushed him out of his seat to make his way to the sniper. 

"Doesn't look like it." 

The Red Haired stood beside Yasopp and scanned for the said wrecked ship, which he found none.

"What are you talking about, Yasopp? I don't see any ship-"

Then his eyes found you.

"-wreck."

Oh goodness.

You were standing on a scrap piece of a Navy ship that floated directly next to the Red Force. 

Oh god.

Your eyes stared right back at him and the sniper, the expression you made shown signs of determination, you seemed to stand your ground.

"Captain?"

You didn't seem like any marine.

"What do we do about her?"

She was most likely a civilian.

"Captain?"

Though the way your hair fell over your shoulders and swayed in the wind entranced him.

"Captain."

The small frown you made that scrunched up your face, he found adorable.

"Captain!" Yasopp slapped his shoulder, snapping out of his trance.

"Uh, what?"

Yasopp took a step back and dramatically pointed to you.

"WHAT DO WE DO ABOUT HER?!"

Shanks shook his head followed by a: "Yeah, oh right!" before looking back down at you. 

"Hey! What's your name?!"

You took a step back, your lips fell back into a snarl. 

"Hey now!" He gestured his one hand up to assure her. 

"We're not going to harm you! Now please share with us your name!" 

You looked at the red haired man with a questioning glare. 

"If you're not a threat,  show me you're not holding a weapon with your other hand!"

Uh….

"Do it!"

"Okay fine!"

Letting his coat slip off his other shoulder, he gave you full view of the severed arm that was tied up in a knot with his sleeve. 

Instantly you were taken back and your frown faded.

"You give us a name now?"

You looked down at your feet before back up at him. 

"(Name)."

(Name).

"What a lovely name, (Name)." 

Heat flushed your cheeks. 

"You wanna hitch a ride? It'd be better the block of wood you're on now." 

You opened your mouth to find no words to come out, your heart thumped in your ears.

And that's how you started to travel with the Red Haired pirates.

That first night you found the farthest corner of the deck and stuck there. Every once and awhile crew members not realising where you came from came up to you to make small talk about other crewmates who you had no idea who they even were.

Shanks also came and sat with you for a while, asking what island you came from and where exactly they could drop you off.

You simply shook your head, and that was all I took for him to understand. His large hand clasped on your shoulder, telling you you could stay as long as you like.

That made you smile, as well as a small blush to appear on your cheeks. Then the Red Haired pirates chef came up and offered you a plate.

You stared at it, decided it would most likely be safe since these pirates haven't tried to kill you yet. So you quickly scarfed down the best meal you had in days.

More days passed by, and in that time you got to get along with the crew, Ben was nice meeting the gentle giant yet badass stereotype, Lucky Roo was also nice he'd offer you food frequently, and Yasopp was an asshole. 

One night another party was held, there Shanks offered you to drink with him. 

You never felt more alive.

Once you'd been on the ship for about a month, one night Shanks found you alone on deck and decided to ask you what he'd been curious about for a while now.

You looked back and greeted him with a smile, one that he returned.

As you two stood there looking out to sea, he decided no than never.

"(Name), how did you get on that marine ship?

You'll be honest the question caught you off guard. But this was Shanks after all. From the first moment the Red Haired Bastard looked at you, you were immediately attracted to him. But over time, you discovered that attraction was much more.

You wanted to be full out and honest with him.

You told him of your past, you came from a rich family who were wanting to marry off into nobility, but every time you refused. Your parents hated you, you were clearly their biggest disappointment; you shared no interest in the riches or nobility, refusing marriage proposals, and disagreeing with their opinions on the All Knowing Corrupted Assholes-oops correction: World Government. 

But one day you couldn't continue refusing and they arranged you with a marine captain.

The same marine captain that was in charge of that ship. 

You were to be married within a month-well technically last Wednesday, but with a dead fiance that was kind of hard now.

Pirates attacked a day before the Red Force arrived, they torched and murdered all on board.

Except you.

You hid in a barrel like a coward.

"A barrel?" Shanks laughed.

You put your hands to your hips. "Yeah a barrel. And if it wasn't for that barrel I'd be floating dead to be eaten by Sea Kings."

The Yonko looked to his bad arm. "Yeah, I should now. Damn thing's teeth hurt like hell."

You laughed before asking him about his arm, which he gladly shared with you.

Everything from Luffy, the strawhat, Foosha, Makino and the mayor, every word came out with such glee.

You leaned against the deck, your face propped in your hand as you hung on every word. 

Once he first, his hand reflexively with to grab at his hat before remembering it hadn't been on his head for a long time. 

The rest of the time he spent with you seemed to fly by in a matter of seconds, before he knew it you were leaning against him and his arm was around your waist. 

He had to have you on his crew.

He looked down at you with a soft smile. 

You sure were pulling at his heart strings weren't you?

[loveburnsbrighter]

37? Lol for the prompt

37. "I missed you."

i'll have this up on ao3 soon but i'm excited to have it finished. and it's been so long you probably forgot you asked for this oop. i hope you like it!

There's a man in David's house.  He can hear him moving around downstairs.

There's a man in his house and it's three in the morning and Patrick isn't here to protect him, he's away at a Canadian Small Business Bureau convention.  For the whole long weekend.  So David is going to die alone, probably by way of ax murder or something equally grisly, and he won't even be able to tell his husband he loves him one last time.

David listens to the intruder come up the stairs with a slow, heavy gait and thinks about how he should have let Patrick buy a dog.  When they moved into their house and finally had a yard ("finally" was Patrick's word), Patrick had wanted to get a German Shepherd.  Apparently he'd had one as a child and they'd been nigh inseparable.  If David had only given in and allowed Patrick to bring an animal into their home, the dog could bite the murderer before he got to the bedroom.

The footsteps proceed down the short hallway, and David squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath and listens to the door open.  The hinges have been creaking since the day they moved in; for almost an entire year now David has been meaning to oil them.  The slow creak as the door opens a centimeter at a time, as though the intruder is trying to be silent, makes David feel like the victim in a horror movie.

The door creaks back closed, which is just plain unsettling.  What kind of ax murderer closes the door first?  David dares to crack one eye open — 

The murderer is standing right over David.  "I have a weapon!"  He scream-lies, using all the breath he's been holding and every ounce of adrenaline in his body to get the words out.

"What the fuck?!"  The murderer says, voice as startled as David feels.  Except that it's a familiar voice. 

"…Patrick?"  David says tentatively into the darkness.  "Why are you trying to ax murder me?"

"What?"  The lamp on Patrick's bedside table clicks on; David blinks through the yellow rings in his eyes and ascertains that his assailant is, in fact, Patrick.  "I'm trying to come to bed!"

David, finally breathing properly again, pauses for a second to ensure that he hasn't pissed himself in fear — all clear, thankfully — and then lifts up onto his elbows so he can scrutinize Patrick with an appropriate level of judgement.  "You're supposed to be at a motel in Elm Ridge!"

"The conference was a bust, so I came home early!  I missed you!"  Patrick is looking at David like he's rabid.  

"You crept up the stairs in the dark!  You didn't call!"

"I decided to leave late!  I didn't want to wake you!"

Patrick and David stare at each other, at an adrenaline-spiked, incredulous impasse, and finally, Patrick cracks, laughing.

David puts a valiant effort into being offended, because it's just plain rude to scare someone half to death and then laugh at them, but finally he cracks up right back at Patrick — Patrick, who's standing there with his shirt only still on one arm, who decided at what must have been around midnight that he missed David and decided to drive three hours in the middle of the night to be with him.

"I mean," David says, as their laughter softens, "I missed you too?"

"Clearly," Patrick says, "Seeing as how you shrieked like you were being attacked at the mere sight of me."  He tugs off his jeans with an undignified little wiggle of his hips, and sits on the edge of the bed in just his boxer-briefs, which have some Doctor Who something on them — because David has married exactly the sort of ridiculous man who buys novelty underwear.

"I did not shriek," David insists.  "I have never in my life shrieked.  I did a very masculine…yell, of, of startlement."

"Okay," Patrick says, completely mocking David's distress.  He pulls back his side of the covers and slides in.  Then he tries to curl backwards into David, and really, there is a line to how much David is willing to take.  He doesn't move from his position propped on his elbows, choosing instead to clear his throat meaningfully.  Patrick cranes his neck to look at him.  "What?"

"I know that usually I let you be the little spoon when you get back from these trips."

"Because sleeping alone in a strange bed is awful, and I want my husband to hold me," Patrick says defensively, rolling back to look at David properly, brow furrowed.

"Mhmm."  David reaches out to brush an errant, slightly greasy curl from Patrick's face.  "And I completely sympathize, but usually you don't end these trips by trying to give me a heart attack.  I'm still very shaky."

Something in David's face must convince Patrick that he's serious, because his face softens and he reaches for David, cradles his cheek with one broad hand.  "I'm really sorry, baby," he says.

"I'm not mad," David rushes to assure him.  "It's very sweet of you to have missed me that much that you would drive in the middle of the night, but you did actually give me a scare and I could just…really use being held by you right now."

"Of course," Patrick says.  He snuggles down and opens his arms, and David wriggles forward into them, burying his face in Patrick's chest, warm and bare and familiar.  He hooks his arms around Patrick's waist, and Patrick drapes a heavy arm over his shoulders.

After a few moments of soaking up the comfort, they have to adjust; David has scrunched himself down to press himself into Patrick, and Patrick has to reach back and turn off his lamp.  In the inky darkness, David twists up and rolls backwards against Patrick; he feels Patrick's nose and forehead against the back of his neck.  "Hey David?"  Patrick says quietly against David's cotton sleep shirt.

"Hmm?"

"When you yelled when I came in, you said — why did you say that you had a weapon?"

"I don't, but, like, a murderer wouldn't know that," David justifies.  "I mean, I don't think it makes me look any tougher than I am, but it could at least make me look like more trouble than I'm worth, you know?"

"That almost makes sense," Patrick says, approvingly.

"I learned it from my mom," David says, because he learned everything from his mom — how to dress, how to dance, how to be a big fuckin' drama queen when need be.  He feels Patrick nod slowly.  "Although, in case a murderer does come in here, maybe we should keep, like, a baseball bat or something."

"Okay, dear."  David feels Patrick's smile where he's pressing it into his back.

"This kind of teasing is not a good look for you," David informs him, but he can't help snuggling back a little into Patrick's embrace.

"Hey David?" 

"Mm?"

"I really, really missed you."

David smiles to himself.  "I really missed you too."

[heywritersblock]

bed: g.d.

a broken down jeep, a shitty motel room and a bed sharing situation with a sleeping twin brother at the side of you. 

ethan mumbles sleepily from the bed next to you both, “if you’re gonna make a move gray, at least use protection,” before flopping onto his front, sleepy snuffles filling the room once again.

(i’m sorry i don’t know where this came from)

~5000 words

“hey, how are ya? our car’s broken down and the mechanic can’t fix it until the morning so, uh, we’re looking for rooms?” grayson says, tapping an uncomfortable fist on the dusty reception desk of the only motel in a twenty mile radius.

the young man behind the desk slides his tired eyes up away from his magazine to glance at the man interrupting him, gives him the once over and then leans to the left to see you and ethan slumped in the rickety, wooden chairs shoved up against the wall. hardly a welcoming lobby, but you weren’t expecting anything else from the outside of the motel. the young man lowers his magazine when he sees you and perks up slightly in his chair, eyes still resting on you. noticing this, grayson protectively steps in front of his line of sight, blocking you from his view.

“so about those rooms, dude?” he reminds.

the young man looks at grayson with disdain but gray’s just glad his greasy gaze isn’t focused on you anymore. with a few taps on the ancient computer keyboard, he drawls in a monotone voice, “we’ve got a suite available for three hundred dollars.”

“three hundred? are you for real? nah dude, we’re literally getting out of this shit show at like, 5am when the mechanic opens. we just need a basic room,” ethan adds from where he’s sprawled in the chair.

“we’re booked apart from the suite.”

“we’re in the asscrack of nowhere, man. we just need your cheapest room,” grayson tries to reason.

“that’s the thing about the asscrack of nowhere – there’s only one motel, and that’s us. all we’ve got is the suite. take it or leave it,” the guy shrugs. “she could always stay with me,” he adds, winking at you.

ethan’s about to jump up out of his seat and teach this guy a lesson for being so disrespectful when you hold out a hand to calm him down and keep him from causing a scene, just as grayson gruffly says, “we’ll take the suite.”

grayson signs the unreasonable amount of paperwork and then places his hand at the small of your back to guide you to the room, purposely creating a makeshift wall between you and the creepy guy whose eyes are still lingering a little too long despite the protective twins either side of you.

you smile gratefully at grayson as you finally reach the room. you step through after ethan opens the door and a shocked laugh erupts as you see the ‘suite’ that the guy had forced you to select.

a small corridor from the room door covered in a beige pattered wallpaper that would be at home in a grandma’s house leads you down to the main room. a small twin bed takes up most of the space, with a small nightstand separating it from a single sofa bed with springs that you swore you could see poking through. a dresser with a portable tv is propped against the far wall opposite the bed and long, floral curtains are tightly closed next to a dusty, blue arm chair. you walked across the dark blue, patterned carpet to open the drapes, interested to see if you could see across the desert that you’d been driving through despite the late hour. another laugh sounds out of you when you saw that in fact, there was no window at all – the curtains had been put there simply to make it look like there was.

you spin back around to see ethan staring around the room with a shocked look on his face and grayson popping his head out of the tiny bathroom by the door. “it feels like we’ve gone back to the fucking seventies. i can pee with more force than that shower,” he remarks, coming back to join you and his brother in the main room.

“it feels like we’ve been fucking scammed out of three hundred dollars. i’d hate to see what a fucking basic room looks like,” ethan replies.

always one to try and remain positive, you place your purse on the sideboard next to you and say, “ok, it’s pretty shitty. but we’re only here for like, ten hours at the most. if we don’t get murdered in our sleep that is.”

at your comment, ethan immediately turns on his heel, walks up to the room door, slides on the deadbolt and checks that the door won’t open eight times – just to be sure.

after a little more time investigating (and then mocking) what the ‘suite’ has to offer, the three of you make the decision to make yourselves as comfortable as possible and try to get through the night.

you find a take out menu from the one restaurant in the surrounding area (it turns out to be a truck joined onto the gas station a couple of minutes down the road where you’ve left the car ready for the mechanic to fix) and spend a few minutes arguing over who’s going to collect it after the lady on the phone tells grayson that the take out doesn’t deliver.

you quickly volunteer to collect it after the twins bicker with each other for a few minutes and they simultaneously spin to look at you where you’re toeing off your shoes. you wriggle your toes into the blue carpet as they both look at you like you’ve grown an extra head.

“you’ve got to be kidding me-“ grayson begins, before he’s quickly interrupted.

“oh yeah, great idea y/n! let’s send the hot, young girl out on her own into the night in the fucking deep, dark desert with the fucking creepy guy downstairs ready to pounce on you at any-“ ethan rants.

you hold a hand up to stop him, “first of all, i can defend myself so fuck off thinking you’re my protector and secondly, thanks for calling me hot,” you tease.

ethan’s eyes quickly flash to his brother who’s sat perched on the end of the twin bed, almost as if he’s judging his reaction about what you’ve just said, before realising you’re looking at them both with a curious, confused expression. ethan notices just how obvious he was and quickly agrees to pick up the food order just to get out of a potentially awkward situation he’s just caused.

before you can give him the cash to pay for the order, he’s shouting a quick, “no worries, i got it,” before he’s unlocking the deadbolt and slamming the door shut behind him.

you and gray are left in a weird sort of shocked silence, both staring at the door after such a sudden exit when you comment, “dude, your brother’s pretty weird,” and the tension lessens slightly as you both laugh when gray heartily agrees.

still a little confused about the awkward moment, you tell grayson that you’re going to shower before ethan comes back with the food, not able to stand the hours old make up still on your face for any longer. you wander into the tiny bathroom, silently hoping that there’s some sort of cleanser that you can use, after leaving gray scrolling through his phone and guarding the door.

you finally figure out how to turn on the shower and huff out a laugh at grayson’s earlier comparison. you say a silent thank you as you locate the free crappy toiletries that are left on the counter top, strip free of your clothes and stand under the slow stream of surprisingly hot water. as you stand there under the hot spray, thoughts of how grateful you are to be stranded in the middle of nowhere with these two strikes you and you feel fondness warm your body.

after meeting the twins over a year ago through one of your other friends, they’ve gradually become constants in your life. you’ve visited each other’s families, hung out with each other’s friends and intertwined yourselves in each other’s lives. ethan’s like the older brother you’ve always wanted; playful, teasing but undoubtedly protective. grayson, however, grayson was always slightly different. you notice the way your heart starts to pick up pace as you think of him, and your hands travelling down your body cause you to shiver.

grayson’s managed to get himself under your skin; he’s intoxicating, he makes you breathless and he causes reactions like the one your’e experiencing currently when you think of him. secretly – so, so secretly – you’re so gone for him. he’s the one who creeps into your dreams nightly - whether innocently or not so – he’s the one who you imagine when you’re alone in your bed; his hands, his mouth, his huge, veined c-. you stop yourself suddenly as you think of him waiting on the other side of the paper thin wall. you pull your hand away from where your brain was subconsciously sending it down your body and quickly push those thoughts to the back of your mind. you’re going to be stuck in a tiny, shitty motel room in very close quarters with them for the next few hours so you’re going to have to shut those thoughts down pretty fast to make this bearable.

finishing up your shower, you make quick work of washing your face, drying off and putting your oversized t-shirt back on over the top of your underwear. your consider putting your jeans back on but decide against it when you see that your t-shirt is plenty long enough to cover what needs covering.

you step out of the bathroom with flushed, red skin and see that ethan’s returned with the food. they’re sat on either side of the twin bed, both of them with their backs propped against the headboard with a pizza box each on their laps. gray smiles when he hears you emerge from the bathroom and pats the space in between him and ethan where they’ve clearly left space for you. he finally refocuses his gaze from his pizza box to you when he feels you begin to clamber up the bed in between them. upon seeing what you’re wearing, grayson quickly relocates his gaze back down to the pizza in his lap praying you don’t notice the red flush that’s dramatically climbed up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

as you settle, you mumble, “shower’s not that bad after all,” and then, “thanks bub,” as he lifts up your pizza box so you can get more comfortable, before passing it back to you. he still doesn’t make eye contact, just nods and shoves more pizza into his mouth in response to your comments.

ethan’s ranting about how fucking ancient the tv is and yelling at gray to call their grandma and ask how to work the fucking thing when he finally settles on a rerun of an old dance moms episode. the three of you devour your pizzas, gray finishing off yours and ethan’s left over slices when you announce that you’re going to move into the single bed at the side to try and get some sleep before your early start tomorrow. as you collect the boys’ empty pizza boxes to throw next to the trash can, the boys start to protest.

“y/n, we can’t let you sleep in there!” ethan yells, much louder than necessary.

“why not? it’ll be fine. i’m just glad we’re in the same room - that guy in the lobby seriously creeped me out.”

“y/n, come on. your back will be crippled – it gives you enough trouble as it is,” grayson reasons, but you’re having none of it.

“look, one of us has to sleep in here. there’s not enough room for all of us in that,” you say as you point to the bed where both boys are still sat up, gesturing to the slither of space you’d been squeezed into.

“fair point,” ethan acknowledges, then, “rock, paper, scissors! first loser sleeps in the shitty sofa bed.”

with a sigh, you realise that this is the only way a decision will be made, and so you prepare your hand into a fist.

“ready? rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” grayson commands.

ethan looks frantically at yours and grayson’s hands, both in scissors shapes, and then back at his own shaped like paper.

“shit. two out of three?” he asks, smiling innocently.

“nope! now fuck off to your prison cell bed, bro,” grayson jokes, giving ethan a quick but strong shove on his way.

ethan’s mumbling under his breath about how he won’t let you two forget this and how he’s absolutely not driving at all tomorrow even though it’s his car you’er in and how you’re paying for a massage when you’re all back home in LA as he stomps into the bathroom to prepare for bed.

you and gray are left giggling in the bedroom as you fold up the pizza boxes into smaller sizes so they’ll fit in the trash can. you can feel grayson looking awkwardly at you as commercials play fuzzily in the background. you look up at him as you complete your task and raise and eyebrow as if to say what? as you watch him open his mouth to speak and then close it several times.

he finally mutters, “are you ok with sharing? i can totally sleep on the floor or-“

you shove the final box into the garbage and say, “gray. it’s cool. i’m good with it if you are?” as you head back towards the bed.

he nods his head shyly, a little too quickly to be playing it cool, and then mumbles, “yeah, of course. just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

your heart starts the fluttering movement again and you force yourself to change the conversation as you hear the sink faucet turn off in the bathroom. when ethan re-enters the small bedroom clad only in his boxers, you and gray are chatting mindlessly about the commercials that are still playing before gray stands up to get ready for bed himself. ethan makes a show of covering himself up from your gaze purely to make you laugh, before also checking that you’re good sharing a bed with gray for the night.

“E, it’s fine, honestly.”

“are you sure? he can get a little clingy. if you feel uncomfortable, just shout and i’ll make him sleep on that chair in the corner.”

you laugh at how serious he looks before reassuring him, “E, it’s just gray. i can handle a little clinginess for one night if i need to.”

whilst gray’s in the bathroom, you’re cracking up with laughter as ethan rips apart his bed looking for any bugs or questionable stains that might be lurking there before he decides that although this place is pretty shitty, at least it’s sort of clean so he dives into the sofa bed, wincing as it creaks and groans under his weight.

the bathroom door opens and the light switches off as grayson appears from around the corner, making sure the room door is bolted and flicking off other lights as he makes his way around to the side of the bed by the wall he was sat on before. you purposely busy yourself with grabbing your phone charger from your purse and tossing ethan’s to him from his backpack when you notice that grayson, too, is only in his boxers. if you let it, your mind would be freaking out about the fact that you’re about to spend a night under the same covers as a near naked grayson.

ethan’s busy scrolling away on his phone as you pull back the covers and settle in as best you can when grayson says, “let me just grab my shirt.”

ethan pipes up, not looking away from his phone, “dude. you’ll fucking stink tomorrow if you wear that shirt to bed and then again tomorrow. as someone who’ll be stuck in a car with you for x amount of hours, i’m vetoing you wearing it to bed. y/n, i’m telling you – from previous experience – we’re all better off if he doesn’t wear it.”

grayson looks awkwardly at you and you smile, shrugging your shoulders and say, “i mean, it sounds like he’s had a horrific experience in the past. i don’t mind if you want to sleep without it.”

grayson carefully takes in your expression to ensure that you really mean what you’re saying and you desperately try to control your face, chanting play it cool, play it cool in your head. it seems to work as he sighs, nods minutely and then climbs under the covers beside you.

he sets his alarm on his phone and throws it onto the nightstand, turning off the light next to the bed that plunges the room into darkness save from the glow of the old tv and ethan’s phone light.

“get some sleep kids, it’s an early start tomorrow,” grayson comments as he pulls the covers up to his chin, facing the wall away from you.

ethan’s whining about how he’s not even that tired now whilst you switch off the tv using the remote and then settle down into the bed further, pulling the covers up and trying hard to not move too much so you’re not irritating your bed mate. you lay on your side, back to grayson’s with as much room between you both as possible. you can see the glow of ethan’s phone next to you as he waves it around in his rant.

after the fifth time ethan starts talking into the dark of the room about how grayson is absolutely not the boss of everyone and he doesn’t make the rules about when people go to sleep, gray flings his arm out of the covers to place into the gap between you on the bed, holding up his weight as he yells across the room to his brother, “fuck off, ethan! you’re not the only one in the room! go to fucking sleep and stop annoying the fuck out of us! grow the fuck up!”

ethan picks up quickly that his brother is not in the mood to be teased and for the first time in a while, ethan listens to him. he locks his phone, shoves his charger cable in and then throws it onto the nightstand between you and him. you can almost feel the look he’s throwing at his brother who’s shuffling around behind you which makes you giggle silently to yourself.

eventually, the room falls silent. your tiredness from the dramatic events of the day must catch up on you because before you know it, your eyes are fluttering closed and, before your mind can think too deeply about sharing a bed with the boy who makes your heart race, you fall to sleep.

it must be a few hours later when your eyes blink open slowly and then close again; the tired weight of them too much to fight against. your mind confusedly tries to piece together where you are and why you’re awake. ah, the motel. desperate to regain your much needed slumber, you try to snuggle further down into the slightly scratchy pillow when you realise that you’ve been laid on your arm. giving it a quick wiggle to try and get some feeling back, you turn onto your right side so you’re not laying on your fuzzy arm again. as soon as you turn and settle, eyes still resting shut, you feel the warmth of the body beside you much closer than it was when you drifted off to sleep.

curiosity gets the better of you and you can’t help but crack your left eye open to peek at the man beside you. your stomach feels like it’s about to drop when you take in the view directly in front of you. laying on his side, you realise that you’re both subconsciously mirroring each other’s positions; one arm under a pillow, the other resting lightly in the tiny gap between your bodies. if you moved your hand a whisper down, it would be holding his. 

before the temptation grows too much, you shamelessly cast your eyes upwards. the white of the scratchy sheets makes his skin look even more golden and tanned than usual, and you can see the texture to his usual glowing skin; that’s how close you are. long, fluttering eyelashes rest lightly on the tops of his sleep flushed cheeks. his perfect nose twitches slightly in his sleep and you smile to yourself, a bizarre sense of calm covering you despite your racing heart. 

his fluffy hair droops over his forehead and you force yourself to look away, just in case you reach in to push it back to where he prefers it to be when it’s styled. your eyes travel downwards this time and fall onto his plush, delectable lips that are parted slightly in his sleep. your mind swirls at being so, so close to those lips that you’ve dreamed about so often and if you focus, you can feel his breaths caressing your own lips. a rustle sounds from next to you and you feel the bed move slightly under his strong frame. shit. you slam your eyes closed and try your best to force your breathing to even out to convince him you’re sleeping and absolutely not being a fucking creeper watching him sleep. you feel his arm move from next to yours – probably to rub at his eyes – and then as it lands back on the covers, it’s touching yours. breathe, breathe, breathe.

“watchin’ me sleep?” he mumbles, no louder than a whisper and you consider your options: ignore him and continue with your pretence of being asleep, or admit it, teasing him and steadfastly ignore the wild beating of your heart.

“i know you’re ‘wake,” he whispers again with a small huff of laughter, placing his hand directly on top of yours and giving it a tiny shake. that’s your decision made for you then.

you slowly crack your left eye open again, then quickly close it and bury your head into the pillow when you see his sleepy, grinning face a whisper away from yours. “nope, m’fast asleep,” you retort, refusing to look at him.

“no fair,” he murmurs.

intrigued by what he means, hand still held in his, you slowly remove most of your face from the pillow, or at least enough that he can see you raise an eyebrow at him, and then you speak.

“why no fair?”

he swallows, playing delicately with the fingers on your hand and says, “you got to stare at me. i wanna join in.”

you huff out a laugh; teasing you can do. teasing is safe, familiar territory. the implications of what he just said – what you know he meant - is not. “you wanna join in lookin’ at you? narcissist.”

“nah, not nearly as interesting as lookin’ at you.”

your cheeks flush immediately and you feel your eyes close in order to retain some order of control over yourself in this situation. you swallow as you feel his rough, calloused fingers dance over your wrist, hovering over your pulse point and you feel weak at how exposed he’s got you emotionally.

a whisper of, “y/n,” makes your eyes flutter open and face him. the soft smile he sends you as he meets your eyes makes your pulse race even faster – something he is well aware of judging from his deep intake of breath as he still hovers over your pulse point.

you lay completely still on your side whilst the man in front of you leaves no stone of your face unturned. his eyes scatter wildly across some areas of you like he hasn’t got enough time in the world to look at all of the points of you he desires. other times, his gaze locks on one particular area, eyes slowly unblinking as he drinks you in.

his gaze eventually fixates on your mouth and his golden eyes turn dark, hand still around your wrist flexing slightly as if he wants to touch. your lips feel dry at the intense gaze on them and you push out your tongue to lick at them, releasing a sigh as grayson’s eyes drop closed and he subconsciously mirrors your movement his with his own mouth.

self control hanging on by a thread, you lift the hand he’s got you grasped by and bring it up to his mouth, lightly following the path of his tongue with your pointer finger. his eyes have fully closed and his breathing feels as though it’s almost come to a stop, but when you drag your hand lightly upwards to dance over his eyebrow and smooth out his furrowed brow, you feel the rush of air release from him. you lick your lips again without thinking and grayson sighs deeply, bringing up his hand this time to feel your lips with his fingertips. you grasp his forearm at the intensity that is cocooning the two of you, at the look of awe spread over his features.

you lick at your lips again but this time your tongue accidentally brushes against his fingertips and the silent groan from both of you is unmistakable. time stops for a second as you both stare at each other, frozen, until you kitten lick at his finger tip once more; the thread of self control snapped. eyes rolling back, and then forcing them to open again to witness this, grayson pushes two of his fingers even closer to your tongue, whimpering slightly as he feels you lap and suck at them.

eventually, when he can take no more, he withdraws his fingers, dragging down your swollen lower lip as he retreats and trails them down your shoulder and arm. when he reaches your waist, he pulls you towards him effortlessly, needing to be even closer to you. his hand roams delicately over your back, sides and stomach, leaving paths of goose bumps wherever he’s danced his fingers. your hand is resting on his chest, fingernails scratching lightly at his flushed skin. a fleeting thought crosses through your mind that this feels incredibly intimate.

you open your eyes that have closed through the feelings of pleasure he’s making swirl through your body and see that his eyes are still fixated on your lips. desperate to feel his lips on yours, you nudge your nose against his as a silent request. his lips brush against yours and you both pause again, breathing in the same air as each other, nerves standing on end at the feeling of electricity charging between you both.

you’re just about to move forward to connect your lips properly when a shuffling noise comes from the sofa bed next to you. you freeze immediately, eyes immediately blinking open in surprise until grayson places his pointer finger over your lips, imploring you not to speak, his eyes staring directly into yours. the shuffling continues but the both of you stay frozen, even when ethan mumbles sleepily:

“if you two are going to fuck then at least make sure you use protection,” and then flops onto his front, sleepy snuffles filling the room once again.

grayson slowly removes his finger from your lips, looking deeply into your eyes as if to ask, ok? and you nod minutely in response. he moves forward silently, head fully sharing your pillow now and leans in to brush his lips against yours again, leaving you in control to connect them fully. you listen again for any indications that ethan is still awake, and when you’re convinced that he’s fast asleep, you lose yourself in grayson once again.

the feather touch of his lips against yours slowly gives way into a deeper, more hungry kiss, tongues slowly intertwining, both desperately not making too much noise for fear this waited for moment will be over before it’s time. 

kissing grayson felt like levitating off the ground, floating carefree through the charged air; the soft, repeated motion of his lips and teeth and tongue hypnotising you into this delicious feeling of want. you plant your hand back onto his bare chest, needing to feel him more, and as you brush your nails over his nipple, he shifts forward, jolting the feeling of electricity in you to an even higher charge. the moan he makes is muffled by the sound of your mouth and the flick of his tongue against yours forces you to replicate it due to the euphoric feeling it gives you. you made this man moan; the same moan you hear in your dreams, in your fantasies but oh god, this was so much better.

you break your lips away from his in a silent pant and he moves his lips along your neck, suckling and licking and biting his way down. eventually, he buries his head in the crook of your neck and breathes in deeply. you move your hand to cradle his head softly, caressing his head as if to say i know.

a decision is quickly made in your mind and you place your hand on his sharp jaw to bring his face back up to yours. keeping your eyes locked onto his, you drag your fingers sensually down his chest, over his belly button, through the dark hair dotted at the top of his underwear. when you reach there, you raise your eyebrow to ask for permission and the way his eyes roll into the back of his head and he nods his head in a deep sigh makes it clear your decision was the best you’d made in a long time.

keeping your fingers over the cotton of his boxers, you gracefully dance your fingers down over the prominent bulge resting impatiently there and you both let out a gasp at the touch. grayson leans forward to rest his forehead against yours as you cup him in your hand, quickly establishing a smooth rhythm and feeling him grow even harder in your hand. soft puffs escape his mouth and his hips begin to shift towards you, rocking into your rhythm whilst still being careful to remain as silent as possible so as not to wake his sleeping brother.

slowly, you drag your hand away, smiling to yourself at the almost inaudible displeased groan grayson gives you as you push him slowly onto his back. the bed creaks under his weight and you both wince at the noise, freezing again. when ethan’s sleepy breaths continue solidly, you fit yourself against grayson’s side; his arm resting under you, cradling your waist and hip; your head pressed into the crook of his neck and shoulder; your hand free to roam back down his chest to where he desires you most.

you waste no time in sliding your hand under the cotton underwear to feel the heady heat of him bare. you take a deep intake of breath as you wrap your hand around him and start to pump, pressing a sloppy kiss to his neck as you feel him throw his other arm over his eyes in pleasure, then slide his fist into his mouth to muffle any noises that threatened to escape.

the room still remained silent, save for the slick slide of your teasing hand grayson’s hard length and the movement of his restless legs against the scratchy sheets, unable to stay completely still at the feeling of euphoria you’re giving him. he desperately wants his mouth to be connected to yours but moans of pleasure threaten to overflow in you both so he frantically flits between capturing your lips between his own and covering his mouth with his hand or the edge of his pillow.

the intensity of the mixture of hard and soft, fast and slow, teasing and sure moments you’re giving him becomes too much for grayson to handle and his hips start to involuntarily thrust upwards into your clasped fist. the gasps that are escaping his mouth are growing louder as he gradually starts to come undone and you throw a leg over his to rest your body on his side, leaving your other hand free to slide two fingers into his opened mouth. this simple movement to mute his noises causes his hips to thrust up two, three times more and his jaw to slacken before he falls over the edge into euphoria. you can’t believe the sight you’ve just been able to watch and you daren’t blink, afraid that you’ll miss something that you’ll never get to see again.

eventually, he becomes too sensitive and winces, grabbing your hand off him and intertwining your fingers together. wiping quickly at his stomach with an edge of the sheet, he tugs at your waist so you fall back into his side, directly into his waiting lips that capture yours in a deep, slow kiss.

you feel his hand start to travel down your side, sliding under your oversized t-shirt and hovering just over your soaked panties. from behind you, shuffling occurs again and you grab hold of grayson’s hand to halt his motions. with a minute shake of your head, he retracts his hand, placing it onto your back instead and nods in understanding. he presses his forehead up against yours as if to telepathically communicate his thoughts – not now, not here. when we’re home.

he envelops your lips in another thorough kiss that leaves you breathless and secretly cursing that fact his twin brother is laid in the bed next to you both, rather than leaving you both alone. almost as if he can read your thoughts, grayson pulls away and smirks, whispering, “fuckin’ E,” before lightly shoving you over onto your other side and pulling you backwards so your back meets his bare chest. into your ear, he murmurs, “get some sleep, angel. sooner we’re awake, the sooner we can get back home and i can get you alone.”

the next morning, if ethan notices anything different between you and his twin brother, he’s subtle enough not to comment. although, the wink he throws you and the mouthed, finally! when grayson climbs out of ethan’s jeep at your apartment rather than at their house might tell at different story.

serious question from an english person - what do americans call goose bumps? nothing sounded right so sorry about that!

[theamberwriter]

Just the Way We Want It [Yandere!2P!FACE]

Pairing: Yandere!2P!FACE x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1845

Warnings: Cursing, violence, blood 

Author Note: Lmao, idk if people even write Hetalia stuff, or 2P, or yandere or anything anymore. But this is an old one. It’s not the best, and it’s a little violent. But it was one of my favourites that I’d written!

To say that [Name] was beautiful to any member of the second player FACE household was an understatement. They all thought she was gorgeous, though their pride prevented them from admitting as such. It was also an understatement to say they'd beat the tar out of anyone who said otherwise. Also seeing as how more than one person had 'gone missing', and then ended up being found in a bloody pulp of a corpse. However, [Name] never suspected a thing - even when she'd walk through and everybody would back away with a cautious smile.

        Checking her watch, [Name] walked out of the back door of the bar. It was 2 AM, and the only thing that lit the dark parking lot was a few street lamps. She sighed, knowing that she promised her friends she’d be home hours ago. Of course, it wasn’t really her fault since her boss - the pervert he was - sprung another surprise graveyard shift on her. But [Name] knew it was just so he could stare at her longer. Get more glimpses under her skirt when he purposely dropped things, or pushed things off the table and made her clean them up.

        “Tch...It’s only for another month, and then you can quit,” she reminded herself. She had gotten a position at a local music store that was opening up the following month. [Name] sighed and put her hair behind her ear, chuckling to herself. “The guys’ll be happy. No more Miss No-Fun.”

        “Hey, [Name],” grunted a voice from behind her. Upon turning, the girl found her boss standing a few feet away. She was suddenly very alert, a heavy, nauseating feeling curling through her. She raised an eyebrow and tossed a lofty wave at him.

        “Um...hey, Rhentz,” [Name] hesitantly greeted back, staying cautious of the man’s movements. “What’s up?”

       Rhentz smiled a greasey, weasley smile, responding in a slimey voice that sent chills down her spine.  “I noticed you walking to your car all alone. Thought I’d make sure that no creeps got to ya.” 

[Name] gave him a wary half smile. “Well, um, thanks. But, as you can see, the street lamps and I are fine. There’s no need to do that.” 

Her boss took a few steps towards her, causing [Name] to back away in response. “Honestly, a pretty young woman like you. You’d be an easy target.” Something smug hid in the last part of Rhentz’s statement. [Name] reached slowly into her bag, and felt around for her pepper spray. Rhentz chuckled and pulled a can out of his pocket. “Looking for this?”

        The girl’s eyes widened and she physically looked in her bag to find that the can was, indeed, gone. “H-How did you get that?”

        The man continued to advance, tossing the can of self-defence spray up and down in his hand, a wide wicked grin on his face. “It’s quite easy to get into the staff lockers, you know. Especially when you run the place.”

[Name] glared at him, “You’re twisted.” Turning on her heel, [Name] tried to sprint away but a hand caught her upper arm. “Ah!”

        “You’re not going anywhere – not ‘til we’ve had a little fun.” 

        [Name] felt her insides churn, the thought that any woman would be attracted to a greasy scum bag like him seemed blasphemous.  [Name] felt like she was going to die, dread filled her. All the things she learned in her self-defence class slipping her mind. Silently, she tried to stumble through the five weapons and the five vulnerable spots. Um … feet … fingers … legs … a-arms … voice! It was at the last one that [Name] did the only thing she could think of – scream. 

Her boss flinched, clamping a hand over her mouth. “Shut up!”

        [Name]’s breathing became heavy, airways constricting, her mind blurring with a sick feeling. She was being taken in another direction. Her feet not getting any traction on the black top. [Name] struggled, kicking, flailing, and twisting.

        “Hey, buddy!” called a voice. [Name] couldn’t turn her head to look, but she didn’t need to when she heard the next phrase. “Ya got two seconds ta let doll face there go.”

        Al! she thought in relief, the guys are here! They’ll help me.

        “I don’t think so, pal, go find your own whore.” 

[Name] grunted at this, trying to elbow her captor in the gut. But she only ended up with fingernails digging into the soft flesh of her arm.

        “[Name]? A whore? I don’t think so. You got the wrong person there if that’s your impression.” That voice she could tell was Matt’s; he never took lightly to anyone tossing the words ‘whore’ or ‘slut’ at her. Even if they were used jokingly. From behind her, [Name] heard light footsteps and a moment later was free. Turning, she found Oliver and Francois with a grip on her boss; Francois with the bowie knife he always carried to Rhentz’s throat. 

        “I don’t think you want to play this game, Môn Ami,” stated Francois in a bored tone when Rhentz tried to wriggle out of their grip. Oliver looked over at [Name], who still stood in the middle of the parking lot.

        “Why don’t you head home, Poppet?” offered the pink-haired man. He smiled at her, as warmly as he could. “We’ll be there soon.”

        [Name] glanced around. Each of her friends’ faces was written over with rage, softening only enough to give her a look that read ‘go home.’ In a way, it was kind of nice having a group of friends this close.

The girl giggled nervously and then nodded.  “A-Alright. I – I’ll see you at home.” 

[Name] then turned to head for her car. She practically sprinted across the parking lot. The group of men watched as her car left the parking lot.

        “O-Okay. She’s gone. You guys wanna let me go?” asked Rhentz, but only got Francois’ knife digging into this throat in response. Al chuckled darkly, propping the bat in his hand over his shoulder.

        “‘You’re not going anywhere,’” Al quoted, his features contorting into a sneer. “‘Not ‘til we’ve had a little fun.’”

        With that, Al swung his nail covered bat right into Rhentz’s stomach, causing him to cough out blood. The group watched, amused, as Rhentz’s legs trembled.  Next was Matt’s turn. Putting his hockey stick under Rhentz’s chin, Matt lifted up the man’s head to look at him. Giving Rhentz a demented half-smile, Matt propped his hockey stick on his shoulder.

        “Yah got a lot of nerve,” he noted, swing his hockey stick to connect with the man’s jaw. “Messing with [Name] like that.”

        Rhentz coughed again, spitting blood and teeth onto the ground while blood dripped from the long gash left from the hockey stick.

        “I – I won’t touch her again – I swear! Just let me go!” he begged, tugging weakly at Oliver and Francois. 

Francois grunted in amusement, a smirk spreading over his lips. “I – we – don’t think so – we’re to make you wish you ‘ad never been born.” 

Oliver and the others chuckled in agreement. The words hadn’t yet sunk into Rhentz’s head when Francois shoved the knife up under his ribs.

        “We don’t take lightly to others messing around with our property,” stated Oliver, glancing around to his brothers and then back at their catch. “You’ve tread where you shouldn’t have. And now you’ll pay dearly.”

      Francois and Oliver dropped the man to the ground and watched as he tried to crawl away. But Al stood in front of him,

        “Where ya goin’?” asked the American, tapping his bat against his palm. “We’re just starting to have fun; why don’t you stay a while?!”

        Al swung his bat and hit Rhentz under his chin, sending him flying back a few feet. The group of four circled that man on the ground, who was now groveling for his life.

        “That hasn’t worked before. It won’t work now,” said Matt lowly, “anybody who messes with [Name], pays with their life.”  

        And so it was that the hits started to come continuously; a bat, a hockey stick, a foot, a knife, a fist, a spritz from the can of pepper spray. That really sent the men cackling as he writhed when it got in his wounds. It wasn’t long before blood covered the pavement, and the man on the ground was almost unrecognizable. 

Raising his bloodied bat above his head, Al grinned. “Say ‘goodnight,’ you bastard.” 

And then down came the bat, causing a sickening pop! and blood spray.

Rhentz was dead. Bloody and unrecognizable with a smashed skull. The guys smirked down at their work, and then at each other. [Name] was safe once more.

Nudging the body with his hockey stick, Matt said, “[Name] can – will – never know. Nobody will.”

“Yes,” said Oliver darkly, “and no one will ever take our Poppet away.”

 The next morning, the news covered the murder case of Rhentz...

        “Earlier this morning, the beaten, disfigured body of Killigan Rhentz was found here behind his bar,” said the reporter, “upon further investigation, the police report that the activity is gang-related. And that a large stash of drugs was confiscated from the compound just a few hours ago, this said to be the reason Mr. Rhentz has been murdered.”

        [Name] sat watching the news, munching away at her favourite cereal.

        “I knew he was a slim ball,” she stated, swallowing her mouthful of cereal. “At least, since they’re shutting down the bar, this means that I don’t have to go back to work there anymore.”

        Matt plopped on the couch beside her, slinging an arm over the back behind her.

        “Yeah, and to think - we even let him live after you left,” he chuckled; [Name] turned her wide eyes to him.

        “Mattie!” she yelled, “you wouldn’t have actually killed him – would you?” 

Matt laughed at her, ruffling her bed head. “Are you kidding? No. Scare him a little maybe. But not kill him. What do you take us for? Lunatics?” 

[Name] laughed and shook her head.

        “What are you assholes laughing about this early in the morning?” yawned Al coming downstairs in his boxers, joining [Name] and Matt on the couch. He sat closely on her other side.

        “Nothing. Mattie’s just being dumb,” [Name] stated, lightly elbowing the Canadian in the ribs.

        “Am not,” he groaned lightly, swiping the remote and changing the channel.

        “Oh! Do I hear cartoons?!” cheered Oliver, running down the stairs in pale blue pyjama shorts and a pink nightshirt. Setting her bowl on the coffee table, [Name] turned to nod at him.

        “Just in time!” she cheered, and a moment later had Oliver sat sideways in her lap while Al and Matt complained loudly. It was shortly after that Francois joined them, settling on the far end of the sectional.

This was how the guys wanted it.

Just the five of them.

France.

America.         

Canada.                      

England.                                 

And the single human girl that could get them to behave.

[ptrparkcrs]

& you say rise above (self-para)

summary: peter meets an old friend in an unexpected place and faces dire consequences word count: 3002 trigger warnings: violence, injury, death mention, spider-man cops (completely useless, but existent)

It was ten seventeen PM. He had been at work late, probably too late, troubleshooting something small and nitpicky that even he barely understood. At least there was always food somewhere in the building, and FRIDAY liked him enough to not yell at him when he stole a second donut, or a third, or when he ordered an extra-large pizza on Tony Stark’s credit card. As long as he didn’t leave his workspace too greasy and saved some leftovers for Tony, he’d probably be fine.

Whatever it was he had been supposed to be working on, clean energy or artificial intelligence or consumer goods or fancy sunglasses, it probably wasn’t supposed to have been reconstructing the lenses of Spider-Man’s mask to better conform to his facial expressions, but Peter had had to do some repairs after Gabby had torn the thing to shreds. If Tony caught him sewing on the clock, what was he going to do? Let Spider-Man go without a mask? Put Peter’s life at risk? No, he’d be fine. He’d been too antsy to focus on real work, his ribs still healing, his face still a little tender. He’d needed a concrete physical distraction and the satisfaction of knowing he was fixing something.

(He’d be totally fine in a day or two; he was almost there, but Gabby had done a pretty solid number on him. Broken ribs, a black eye, scabs where the pavement had rubbed his chin raw, the whole shebang. He told everyone it was a bike accident, even though he didn’t own a bike, because nearly beaten to death by a chemically ramped-up teenager wasn’t something that could realistically have happened to completely normal, non-superhero guy Peter Parker. In retrospect, he should have said he’d crashed his skateboard into a taxi again, which he had done more than once in high school, but hindsight was 20/20.) 

Still, the time spent on the mask during the day had meant a pile of unfinished work, which had meant staying at the tower later. Peter knew that, as best as he’d tried not to be, he was a nepotism hire. He’d waltzed into Stark industries with little training and few qualifications, and he was determined to prove that he was just as suited to be here as anyone else. Yeah, he’d had the internship, but he’d gotten that through sheer dumb luck and minor internet fame, and he and Tony both knew it had been a cover, anyway. Yeah, he had a college degree, but most of his actual work experience had been mediocre photography for a vaguely predatory, second-rate newspaper. He’d been a child prodigy, sure, but last he’d checked most child prodigies peaked sometime around high school, and building the Spider-Man suit for personal gain wasn’t about to go on his resume. He knew any interview process he’d gone through had been performative; he knew that the job had been his no matter what, so long as he hadn’t actually blown up the company. He didn’t want Tony to regret his decision, and he really did want to keep his job. That meant actually doing his work, even if he did have to stay long past dark.

So he’d finally finished—the work and the mask—and headed home to find Sandwich demanding a second dinner and a walk. Fine. Okay. He could do that.

“All you’ve got going for you is your body, bud,” he said. “Don’t know why you’re so determined to ruin that.” Sandwich was beautiful, in a scraggly rescue dog kind of way (Aunt May said he looked like the dog from Annie, which was probably a compliment), but he was also dumb as a rock. He put a few treats in the bowl anyway and went to find a leash.

As he dug through the storage cube where he was sure he’d left the good collar, Peter heard sirens. They sounded close, maybe a few blocks away, and getting closer. His police scanner was on his nightstand, but there wasn’t time to check. Sirens were as good a cue as any.

“I’ll be back soon,” he told Sandwich, as he grabbed his suit from the pile on the floor, pulled it on, and headed towards the window. “We’ll walk later. Promise. Please don’t eat the couch again while I’m gone.”

The dog grunted and went back to eating.

&&&

Web swinging was hard today. His body groaned with every movement, resisting the stress of his acrobatics. Still healing. He hadn’t realized she’d gotten him quite that badly; he’d been up against way worse than a single teenage girl, but he hadn’t had anyone try so determinedly to kill him from such close range in a long time--not since Norman, or maybe Harry, but that had felt a little more reluctant. Fine, he’d go easy on the somersaults.

So long as whatever was up there wasn’t a troupe of murderous acrobats, he’d probably be okay. At least the new mask was holding up well.

What was up ahead, three or five or seven or twenty-six blocks from his apartment, he’d lost count, was—lights. Sirens. Yelling. A strange, echoing thump-thump. Shit. He dropped himself onto a rooftop to survey the scene, his ribs only groaning a little bit as he landed in a crouch. A bank, long closed for the night, its windows smashed. A row of police cars, like a barricade. Coming in from the north, fire trucks, an ambulance. A small throng of bystanders, their phones out, edging around the scene. A trail of broken asphalt running away in the opposite direction.

And in the middle of it all, a figure.

A man, maybe. In a long jacket, something more than the night obscuring his face. He—if it was a he—didn’t seem very big, but he hovered several feet above the ground, supported by what appeared to be a pair of giant robotic arms. Another pair spread wide into the night air, lashing at anyone who tried to approach.

Peter was pretty sure he’d seen those arms before, or something very like them. Mostly in sketches, then once or twice in a lab in college, never in use, just propped up safely against the back wall. They help my dexterity, Peter. More precise.

But that had been in a secure research lab up at Columbia, where the arms had helped a man’s clumsy hands study nuclear physics at an atomic scale, not ravage a bank on the Lower East Side. Stolen tech, maybe? A copycat? Convergent evolution, two people independently building the same machine at the same time? But what were the odds of that, really? These were robotic arms, not clean energy or self-driving cars. It was too niche. Who was this man, and what could he want?

He swung down, closer, landing on the hood of a police car. The officer standing next to it looked down at Peter and sighed.

“Hey, Spider-Man,” he said. “You can go home. We’ve got this.”

Peter tethered himself to a lamppost closer to the bank and leapt off the hood, angry at his stupid fragile body keeping him from somersaulting away for maximum dramatic effect. “That’s what you always say, Bill.”

“It’s David.”

“I really don’t care.”

He landed on the lamppost, but just barely. The many-armed man had seen him coming and was getting closer, one of his robotic limbs swiping at Peter’s perch. Peter leaped off before the pole could crash down and rolled to the ground, where he finally got a good look at his assailant.

He hadn’t imagined it. He knew those arms.

“Doctor Oc—"

Doctor Octavius. His thesis advisor. A kind, absentminded, academic type, the brand who left their office littered with sticky notes to remember to buy milk, who replied to emails four days late at two in the morning. He’d called Peter a genius kid, said he’d had what it takes to save the world. Because that’s what scientists do, Peter. We change things. We fix them. We make them better. We help the people who can’t help themselves—you get that, don’t you?

Oh, he got it.

Doc was wearing glasses, and his jovial smile had twisted into a sneer, but it was unmistakably him. He lowered himself to the ground, all four metal arms swirling around him.“Oh, great,” he said. “It’s the bug boy. What, couldn’t send any of the real superheroes to stop me? Daddy too busy arresting innocent people?”

With all due respect, Peter thought, what the fuck? Sure, he wasn’t an Enforcer, but his old professor going on a crime spree with a set of weaponized robot arms, probably having some sort of episode, called for enforcement.

He lifted himself off the ground slowly. His body was already screaming for a break, and they were barely getting started. “Look, dude, I respect the whole eight-legs thing, but you don’t gotta be so literal about it. It’s kinda—what’s the word? Tacky.”

Doc lunged at him; Peter dodged. “Wait, no,” he continued. “Kitschy. Campy. Gaudy.” Another swipe, another dodge. “No, I was right the first time. Tacky, it’s tacky.”

The next swipe came from behind him, and Peter jumped out of the way just in time. “What do you even want, Doc? For a guy in tights to teach you that robbing banks and taking hostages is wrong? Congrats, you got it!” He didn’t know if there were hostages; he’d been too stunned by Otto to check, he just assumed there were. There were almost always hostages when the guys in costumes got involved.

“How do you know my name?” Octavius growled.

Yep, there were hostages.

“I dunno, it was just a vibe. You kind of look like my dentist.” And the man who shaped my college career, but same thing.

Most nights he could go on like this forever. Banter, dodge, punch, jump, repeat. Talk him into submission, until he was too worn down by Peter’s endless punchlines to punch back.  Tonight, he was tired. He was injured. He had a dog at home waiting for a walk. This needed to be quick—rescue the hostages, get Otto taken in and looked after. (Kindly, he hoped; the Otto Octavius he knew was a good man, and was probably in there somewhere, scared and confused.) In the morning, maybe Peter Parker could call to innocently, coincidentally check in on his old mentor and get the full story.

“You’re a nuisance, Spider-Man. You know that, don’t you?”

“So it said on my report cards.”

Octavius stepped closer, and Peter webbed one of his metal legs to the ground, but he kept swiping. In his real arms, the human ones, Peter could see a briefcase, presumably full of the stolen money or techno-weapons for looting safety deposit boxes. So he already had what he wanted, but still the hostages, still the rampage, still the crazed look behind those horrible dark goggles. Peter could deal with him, the cops could free the hostages, they’d be fine, this was fine, everything was going to be fine.

But how had this happened—why had this happened? Did he poison everyone he touched? Ben, Gwen, Norman, even Harry, all either dead or driven mad by his proximity. Who next? Tony? May? Steph? MJ? His high school science teacher? His next-door neighbors?

You ruin everything, Peter Parker. They’re safer if you don’t love them, if they don’t love you. You’re a time bomb. A nuclear blast. Look at what you do to them. What you’ve done. You’re not worth it.

His spider sense alerting him to an incoming blow put a pause on the cycle of self-loathing. He couldn’t dodge in time, and an angry fist landed hard against his face. He groaned, and he tasted the blood from his (now probably broken) nose as it dripped into his mouth. “What do you want, Otto?” he spat.

Shit.

“Doctor” he could get away with as a joke, but how would Spider-Man know Doctor Octavius’s first name? He wouldn’t, that’s how. Not unless they knew each other in real life, civilian life, faces uncovered and feet on the ground. Peter, you idiot. His cover, which he had so carefully maintained for the past eight years, was about a minute from being blown by an academic in octopus cosplay. 

This shouldn’t have been happening. He was a professional, he was good at this. He had learned from his past, he was doing better, and these were amateur mistakes. He was off his game, that’s what this was. He was exhausted, injured, overworked, stunned by the improbability of it all. His whole life was improbable; he should have known to expect this kind of thing by now, but he wasn’t convinced he wasn’t living out some middle schooler’s sadistic Mad Libs. He still had time to fix this.

Otto said nothing; he just laughed.

Peter tried to launch himself in the air for a swing and a kick, but his reflexes were slowing, his injuries worsening. Whatever healing he’d done had been set back several days, and every movement was more labored than the last. Before he could evade, the arms, all of them now free of webbing, wrapped themselves around him and pulled him in. Peter hissed in response, his exhalation short and shallow, doing his best to suppress a yelp.

“Oh, come on. Personal space, dude,” he said, and the top left arm pinched his wrists together in response. He was now being held fast in evil, sentient handcuffs, no hopes of swinging away in sight. Nothing this stupid would have happened to Tony; Tony would have had lasers and lights and taken out this guy in minutes. Hell, he could have called in the Iron Legion for backup if he’d wanted, but a single man didn’t deserve it. Peter was a disappointment, again. This should have been so easy, and yet.

And yet.

Peter wasn’t Tony Stark.

“Otto,” growled Octavius.

Peter said nothing.

“Why did you call me that?”

This time, Peter squirmed. He was being held tightly, so tightly. His wrists were raw, his chest burning, and at some point, he had started to bleed. Work was going to have to buy bike accident twice this week. ”I told you. You look like my dentist. His name’s Otto. It was a lucky guess.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

His head spun and his mouth tasted like iron and asphalt as the world tunneled in around the edges of his vision. His hands still tied, he tried to gain some leverage with a kick, but the other arms squeezed even tighter until he was sure he felt a crunch. Great. This was it, this was how he died. Sometime around midnight outside a random bank because his college thesis advisor had taken up a life of crime and he’d been too weak and injured to do anything about it. Yeah, that tracked.

“Who are you, Spider-Man?”

Peter couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only steel himself as his spider sense turned on high alert. Imminent danger, big time. Yeah, he got it. With the human hand not holding the briefcase, Otto pulled the mask from his head.

And immediately dropped him, limp and winded and battered, to the ground.

Peter’s bare skin was so cold, the streetlights so bright, every sound and smell heightened without the mask.

Otto’s face had cleared with recognition, and his sneer fell away. “Peter?”

Peter groaned. Then he peeled himself off the ground and launched a flurry of web bombs until Otto was wrapped tightly all over. It wouldn’t hold long, but it would have to hold long enough to get him taken safely into custody. Locked up in the Raft for ten to life, a brilliant man’s work cut short by his own creation. (Was it too soon to make Frankenstein jokes?) But Peter couldn’t think about the tragedy of it yet. He had to keep moving.

He kept his head down until he found the mask by Otto’s feet. His hands were shaking, and it took impossibly long to fit it back over his head. It was twisted or too small or made for someone else entirely, bunching around his neck and pulling uncomfortably against his swollen face. And then he stood up, wobbly and wheezing, and faced the officers who were pulling the hostages from the building. Maybe they’d been inside. Maybe they hadn’t seen him. Maybe it was okay.

“You’ve got this from here, Bill,” he said, and, with every ounce of willpower he had left, he swung away on shaky arms to pick up his dog, call Aunt May, and hide in his childhood bedroom for the rest of his life.

&&&

The officers may not have seen him, but there had been bystanders. There are always bystanders, just like there are always hostages. They have cameras. They have social media. They flock to danger, to drama, to sensationalism. They post suffering for the likes and the retweets and the fleeting moments of fame. A Spider-Man sighting was pretty commonplace--novel, but not extraordinary. But this tableau, a hero in crisis, an identity revealed, that was media gold. This was a millennial icon’s Pyrrhic victory. This was a new weak spot in the Accords. And under all that bravado, he was just a scared little boy. They didn't recognize him (there was at least one audible boo when someone realized that Spider-Man was just another pasty white boy), but they’d seen him, and that was enough.

The responsible thing would have been to keep his secret, to respect the sanctity of what had happened here tonight. But the bystanders are never responsible.

While all the others had been texting and tweeting and snapping and streaming, at least one had had the wherewithal to take a picture with one of their fancy, enormous, three-lensed phone cameras and capture Spider-Man unmasked, clear as day, battered and bloody but distinctly him, and send it straight to the Daily Bugle.

(The ball’s in your court now, Jameson.)

[otterbagel]

A Dutiful Partnership- Gavin x Reader (Part 3)

[Part 1 Link]   [Part 2 Link]

 Reader is one of the first androids to get a degree outside of their original purpose. While they experience the struggles of working in a non-accepting environment, they must also solve a mysterious case involving an android murder with their not-so-willing partner, Gavin Reed.

Reader and Gavin finally find some evidence as to who is responsible for the string of violent android attacks.

(Notes: I’m going to try and finish this up soon; its messiness is really starting to come through in this part. I’m enjoying the ideas in this, but I think it has a bit too much going on with its themes, plot, and character development for such a short time frame. I have something pretty ambitious I’ve been working on the past few days, I hope you guys get to see it!)

Warnings: Cursing, depictions of death, bullying, threats, mentions of hate crimes, generally uncomfortable topics! (please be careful reading)

  "So, you didn't go home last night?"

  "No. I stayed and reviewed the case files." 

  Gavin propped his elbow on the door, taking quick glances at you as he drove. "Did you find out anything else?"

  "No."

  He nodded slowly. "Okay...." He rubbed his lips together, tapping the steering wheel. "Are you... like... okay though?"

  "Yes. I'm perfectly fine."

  "Cause Fowler didn't even want me to bring you here."

  "Seriously?!" you exclaimed, opening your mouth in shock, causing Gavin to laugh.

  "Woah, wasn't expecting that. But, yeah. Anderson and the Tin Can are still gonna be there."

  "Why them?" you questioned, although you had your ideas.

  "Well," Gavin sighed. "They want to, you know, actually check for evidence."   You nodded. "I understand."

  "Hey, I can't see that shit either. Don't get so down, stupid."

  "Did I sound upset?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh- sorry." you shook your stutter away. "So where did this happen?"

  He exhaled loudly, checking down a nearby street for cars. "Her house. She lived alone."

  "Did anyone see anything?" you asked, smoothing down the creases on your pants.

  He shook his head, slowing down to park near the crime scene. You were parked behind Anderson's old car. They must already be inside. You stepped out of Gavin's car, pausing as you inspected the abode.

  Again, it was one made for androids.

  "They're getting pretty bold, doing it back to back like this," he grumbled. You held your door open, squinting at the house. You heard the door behind you slam, along with the jingle of keys. "What is it?" he asked, standing a little ways from your side. 

  "Do you think," you whispered, watching Gavin's stoic yet intrigued expression. "they're choosing victims based on their housing?"

  Gavin looked over the dwelling with a frown. "Nah, I don't think that's it. I'd imagine they're choosing weaker androids that live alone." He motioned you to follow him with a head gesture. "It'd be easier to get away with."

  You nodded to yourself as you both headed up the stairs. This one was even smaller than the last; it was just a living room with what appeared to be a small bedroom. They had much more stuff than the last victim, but it seemed to be mostly personal knick-knacks without much selling value. Hank and Connor, a specialized detective model, were observing the broken android in front of the couch. 

  "Ay, you finally showed up," greeted Hank. Connor looked up from his crouching position, nodding at you before inspecting the body.

  "Well, you're the one that normally comes stumbling in late," Gavin retorted. 

  Hank rolled his eyes before letting them settle on you. "Anyhow, I think you're onto somethin'."

  You stiffened your posture. "Is her thirium gone?"

  "Most of it was. We actually got here in time to get photos." 

  Connor stood up, an image flickering on his hand. Almost all of the blue liquid was around her missing limb, practically none coming from the gaping holes in her torso and shoulder. "In my opinion, they seem to have a device that can remove the body's thirium from a limb socket. That's why the only thirium lost seems to be from the single discarded part," Connor described, putting his hand back down. 

  "That's what I thought too," you responded.

  "Based on the fingerprints, there was a group involved." Hank crossed his arms as his eyes darted around the body. "Probably providers for a Red Ice dealer."

   You nodded, Gavin stepping forward. "You get any matches for the fingerprints?"

  "Yes, but only for a couple of sets. They should be in police custody any minute now," replied Connor. "They may give us enough information to apprehend the rest of their accomplices."

  Gavin nodded with approval. "Looks like these plastic pricks are useful afterall, right Hank?" he chuckled as he lightly shoved your shoulder. Was he joking?

  Connor looked confused, eyes darting between the both of you at a surprisingly quick pace. Anderson appeared to be fuming as he stared at your partner. 

  "What is your deal?" questioned Hank.

  "Huh?" his eyes widened at the hostile tone.

  Hank maintained a stare for a couple of seconds before checking his watch with a huff, turning to Connor behind him. "We got what we came for, let's head back to the station." Hank gave you a sympathetic look as he and Connor left, leaving you standing an awkward distance away from your fellow detective.

  You decided to take a look at the victim yourself, ignoring the awkward situation that had just happened prior. You shook your head as you realized she was an AP700 model. She didn't resemble you in any way, but that didn't stop that unconscious kinship from making you feel ill.

  You looked at Gavin, who appeared to be in deep thought as he stared at the floor. "She's an AP700 model," you sighed. "Your theory appears to be true."

  He scratched his hairline, still looking around the room as he aimlessly walked around. "Yeah... that's why they really didn't want you to come."

  You exhaled, stepping back. "Hopefully, the ones Connor identified will give us more information." 

  "...yeah."

-

     "Please talk to me." Connor uttered soothingly behind the glass. The continuous gaze the suspect gave him was unsettling. You stood beside Gavin as Hank lounged in a chair at the terminal, the coffee the Lieutenant had brought with him growing cold on the desk. Although you were quite focused on the unkempt, greasy man on the other side of the table, you weren't oblivious to the occasional side glances your partner was giving you. 

  Connor eventually pushed back on his chair and left the room without another word, causing Anderson to groan. He reappeared into the observation room moments afterward. "Not a single word," he griped, sitting back on the desk. "I don't know what else to try."

  "I'll give it a go," responded Gavin.

  Hank shrugged, making an offering motion with his hand. "Go ahead. No reason not to." Gavin looked between your group as he headed to the hallway, reappearing on the other side with a huff. The suspect was quite larger than all of you, his overweight stature backed up by a surprising amount of muscle as well. He watched your partner with a squinted gaze and an uncomfortable grin. Gavin sat at the table without much hesitation.

  His lips made a clicking sound as they parted. "So," he began. "we've already told you about getting a reduced s-"

  "You work with androids, right?" he laughed. You tensed up. "Is that AP700 one of them?"

  "I can't answer that. Can you tell me the names of your partners?"

  He leaned forward, jingling the cuffs. "You know, we talk about it a lot."

  As you felt your stress levels rise, you turned your yellow LED away from the rest of your coworkers. You needed to remain calm. This was your case; you needed this information. At least he was speaking now.

  He rested his chest on his arms. "Its definitely a good target. I think if something happened to it, it would send a good message, you know?" You clenched your jaw.

  Gavin's tone became snarky. "Tell us where your operation is located and maybe you won't get a life sentence."

  He raised his eyebrows. "I'd like to see you try to get me anything close to a life sentence."

  The detective slid his arms on the table quickly, jumping from his chair as he leaned forward. "Android offenses are in the same category as crimes against humans. Your fingerprints were all over that crime scene- I'd like to see you try to argue your innocence, fucker." He pointed at him accusingly, taking care to stay back out of the man's reach. "Its only a matter of time before we get everyone else's prints too."

  He shook his head with a laugh. "That's just cause it was a last minute job," he gestured to the window with a smug smile. "Your maid didn't go home last night. Had to change our plans. That's all I'm sayin'."

  "Oh shit," Hank mumbled, both of your coworkers looking in your direction. Gavin took a nervous glance at the window, his face seemingly pale. You, stunned, checked your stress levels. High, but not at a dangerous level. 

  "I think I'm done here," Gavin said, clearly shocked. The suspect squinted at him, seemingly proud of the discourse he brought to the situation.

  Hank nodded to himself, standing from the chair as Connor headed to the door. You followed them to the hallway, then the older man pointed at you. "Don't. Let us handle this guy." he whispered. You bit your lip. You weren't about to argue, even though you felt like you should. You crossed your arms as you turned to hide in the breakroom.

  You covered your mouth with your hand as you leaned against the counter, staring at the floor. It had been a split second decision to stay at the office that night. You wouldn't have been able to take on a group of that size alone. Could you have even taken on the one you just questioned?

  Probably not.

  Tons of thoughts flooded your mind at once, ranging from blaming yourself for the other android's death to reassessing your abilities as a detective. It was a lot to take in.

  After a minute, Gavin rushed down the hall and poked his head around the corner. "Shit- are you okay?" he questioned in a quiet tone.

  "Ye- yeah. I'm fine. Just a bit surprised," you widened your eyes with a deep exhale.

  He examined your face with intrigue. "Are you sure you're okay? You look really... out of it."

  "Yeah... I'm fine." you mumbled, rubbing your arm. 

  He smiled a little, pointing to your temple. "Heh, guess you just left your blinker on then,"

  You checked your stress levels, which were on the higher end of normal. It had to be blinking yellow. You hid it with your hand. "S-sorry. What he said really got to me, though."

  "Fuck," he cursed, the humor draining from his face. "Sorry you had to hear that. It... uh... wasn't good."

  "Gavin, they have to be watching me." your voice took on an unintentional hoarseness you didn't know you could have. "I don't feel safe anymore."

  Gavin's expression turned to that of frustration as he stood in front of you. He appeared to be mulling something over as his eyes darted around the room. 

  "I'm sorry if what I said bothered you," you added.

  "What? No. I just... ugh," Gavin responded quickly, waving his hand. "I needed to think about something."

  "About what?"

  He pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. "I live alone. If you have to find somewhere to stay, my place is open."

  You widened your eyes in surprise, taken aback by the kind gesture.

  His face was red with embarrassment as he looked around the office, although nobody was paying attention. "Well, do you wanna come or not?"    

[rrrawrf-writes]

stuff i wrote at work 12

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | this is pt. 3 | pt. 4 (paired with a rhiot fic; skip to the bottom half for winn) | pt. 5

i figured i ought to at least give some links to the whole dang thing if i’m still going to be writing this crap :| kinda messy, sorry, but i know if i repost them at all i’ll also have to go through and edit them and that’s more effort than i want to spare at the moment.

here’s some sam. if the ending seems familiar, that’s because i posted a sneak peek earlier this week.

Rembrandt glanced sidelong at Sam. “I’m sorry for the mess he made of your clothes.”

“Hmm?” Sam looked blankly at Rembrandt, then down at his outfit. He only had a few smears of blood on his shirt; the knees of his jeans were soaked, though, from kneeling in blood. “Oh. It’ll wash out.”

Rembrandt arched his eyebrows. Sam shrugged. “Not the first time I got blood on my clothes.”

“Ah,” was Rembrandt’s only response. They had reached the end of the hallway by then; Rembrandt leaned forward to hit the down arrow. When the doors slid open, Rembrandt frowned at the far wall.

A mirror ran around the top half of the elevator walls. A spiderweb of cracks spread across the glass just ahead of them, eye-level with Rembrandt. 

“What happened here?”

“Guy didn’t wanna get in the elevator.” Sam propped himself up in a corner as the doors closed. “Hunt got a little rough.”

That was an understatement. Winn had balked and argued, digging in his heels until Huntington literally slammed Winn into the elevator, cracking his head against the glass. Even then, Winn had been too busy arguing with them to notice Sam heal over the cut.

“Interesting.” Rembrandt took up post in the center of the elevator as they made their long journey to the ground floor. Sam patted his pockets, and frowned when he couldn’t find his energy bar. He must have eaten it already.

“How bad is the leg?”

Sam, his mind wandering again, looked up. “Sorry?”

“His leg,” Rembrandt repeated. “Can he still use it?”

“He really shouldn’t,” Sam said warily. “But if he absolutely had to...”

The small smile on Rembrandt’s face was not comforting. Sam closed his eyes, remembering similar conversations, similar expressions, with Edrian.

Why did he agree to this?

“There’s no way Yale is on the level,” Rembrandt said abruptly. “You still have plenty of contacts around here, don’t you?”

Sam nodded, and Rembrandt went on. “Good. Put out some feelers. Idiot never could keep his mouth shut. Someone must know what he’s playing at here.”

“Okay.” Sam couldn’t even pretend enthusiasm, not even when Rembrandt pressed a thick envelope full of cash into his hands, and entreated him to buy some new clothes. Sam mumbled something noncommittal and started down the street.

Eli waited for him in the parking lot of a fast food place, sitting on the trunk of his car. He was engrossed in his phone, looking up as Sam called a greeting.

“Got you some food, it’s on the seat,” Eli said, sliding off the car. “Where’s Vinn?”

“Who?”

“Vinn. You know, skinny thief guy.”

Sam frowned. “Thought his name was Lynn.”

“No, pretty sure it starts with a ‘V.’“ Eli slid into the driver’s seat, reaching across to move the three giant, greasy paper bags out of Sam’s way. “Maybe it’s Ben? Anyway, where is he?”

“Rembrandt shot him.” Sam eagerly took the bags of food from Eli’s hand, and when he caught the horrified look on the other man’s face, Sam quickly added, “In the leg. He’s fine, but Rembrandt won’t let him go.”

“Aw, man,” Eli muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. Sam shrugged.

“We thought that might happen,” he reminded Eli. Sam just hadn’t thought it would be quite so - dramatic. “Didn’t Gale tell you Rembrandt has a grudge?”

“Yeah,” Eli said. “It didn’t sound like a big deal.”

Sam scoffed. “It was a big deal.”

“Crap.”

Sam turned his attention to the bags of greasy food Eli had bought him. His stomach churned as he pulled out a wrapped hamburger; he kept hearing Winn’s sobbing in his head.

“He had to know what he was getting into,” Sam said defensively. He didn’t even know Winn. Rembrandt wasn’t going to kill him. At least, not before Eli and Sam got Winn out of there.

Sam thought he had left this kind of guilt behind years ago.

Eli looked him as he pulled out onto the road, but he didn’t say anything.

“Thought I was done with this,” Sam muttered, and dropped the fast food back onto the floor at his feet.

“What, McDonald’s?” Eli looked concerned. “We can stop somewhere else, if you want.”

“No.”

“Then what?”

Sam hesitated. He liked his coworkers - even Mickey, as childish as they were - but Sam hadn’t really been able to talk to anyone. But he thought Eli might understand - and even if he didn’t, he would listen.

“He’s another Edrian,” Sam said. He turned his voice high and mocking. “‘Fix him, Sam, but not too much, he has to suffer. And here’s some table scraps for your trouble.’“

Sam desperately wanted to hit something; he slammed his head back against the seat instead. “This is - It’s all his fault. I could’ve been a ------ surgeon by now, you know that?”

Eli ran his hands over the steering wheel, frowning at the road. “Do you want out?”

Sam snorted. “What, out of this op? How’re we s’posed to manage that?”

Eli chewed on his bottom lip. “Fake your death?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Don’t think that’d work. Besides, Emmanuel would make that real.”

He looked down at his hands, ignoring the growling in his stomach. “It’s starting all over again. Rembrandt is using me the same way Edrian did.”

“What, to heal people? That’s not bad, Sam.”

Sam closed his eyes and swallowed down the urge to yell. “He’s using me to torture people, Eli.”

His words created a short, tense silence. Sam dared one look at Eli, only to see the man staring, mouth tight, at the road as he drove. After a long moment, Eli pulled up at a stoplight and closed his eyes, letting out a short breath.

“That’s not your fault, Sam.”

Sam stared at him. “What?”

“The - what Edrian made you do.” Eli rubbed the back of his neck, fingering a scar that cut across one of his tattooed flowers. “You were forced into that.”

“You don’t - I had a choice, Eli,” Sam snapped, frustration building up in his chest.

“Did you, really?” Eli asked, stepping on the gas pedal as the light changed from red to green. “You told me yourself. He could’ve killed you if you tried to get out of it.”

“So?” Sam snapped. “That - That would have been better than becoming a murderer!”

“Sam -”

He was wrong. Eli didn’t get it. Sam pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, then bit out, “Stop the car.”

“What?”

Sam didn’t repeated himself; he just grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. Eli slammed on the brake, and Sam had to brace himself on the dashboard. Luckily, it was a quiet enough street that no one was around to see them stop in the middle of the road.

“What are you doing, Sam?” Eli asked earnestly. “Hey, c’mon, get back in the car.”

Sam slammed the door shut, dragging a hand over his head. It stopped at the nape of his neck, and he screwed his eyes shut, digging his fingernails into his skin for a moment as he fought to keep his breath steady.

“Sam.” Eli’s voice stopped him before he could walk off. The pink-haired man had rolled down the passenger side window, and he leaned across the seats to hold one of the bags of fast food out. “Take this, at least. I heard your stomach growling.”

Sam wavered, but then took the bag. Eli didn’t let go, and took the moment to fix Sam with his gaze.

“You know the difference between you and them, Sam?” he asked, so quietly that Sam almost couldn’t hear Eli over the car engine. “You’re trying to be better.”

Sam dropped his gaze to the asphalt. This time, when he tugged on the bag, Eli let go. Sam stepped back, then said, awkwardly, “I - I’m just walking back.”

“All right.” Eli’s eyes were still full of worry as Sam turned away, hunching his shoulders up.

Kawai opened her hotel door and arched her eyebrows.

“What do you want?” she asked Sam, leaning against the doorjam. He looked awful - thin and exhausted. Like he had, back when he worked for Edrian. Rembrandt must be running him ragged. Blood splatters accented his clothes.

Seeing the guy like this didn’t stir any sympathy in her whatsoever. She didn’t ask whose blood it was.

Sam rubbed his eyes. “Been talkin’ to Eli.”

“Yeah, and?”

Sam gave her a weary look. “He didn’t understand.”

Kawai straightened up and dropped her hand onto the doorknob. “Look, Sam, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we aren’t friends. Take your sob story somewhere else.”

Sam lifted a cardboard drink holder; glass bottles clinked together invitingly. Kawai narrowed her eyes. “Thought you couldn’t get drunk.”

“No, but you can.”

“Not enough.”

Sam passed a hand over his face. “He - I thought you might know better.”

She arched her eyebrows again. Sam glanced at her, then away, clearly struggling.

“Eli doesn’t - he’s so determined to give you second chances,” he said, “that he refuses to - to get it. I’m not a good person, Taule'alo.”

She started to see what he was getting at. “No.”

Sam nodded, exhausted. “Look, I mean, I know he’s trying, but… He won’t let you just look at what you’ve done, and see it for what it is. He’s so determined to make you feel better that he won’t - he doesn’ t- ”

“He doesn’t let you face up to your own past,” Kawai finished. Something in her eyes softened. “He won’t let you grieve.”

Sam looked at her for one hopeful second, then dropped his gaze and nodded.

Kawai sighed, then opened her door wider and stepped back. “This is the only time, Sam. You’re still a bastard.”

He gave her back a crooked grin. “At least I’m a bastard with booze.”

[isotuan]

Stupid (Yoongi/Reader Fluff)

Summary: It’s 2:45 am and Min Yoongi’s at your door. Stupid.

(( Note: Lol, hey guys... Guess who’s not dead. *Me (I think)* Sorry I went on hiatus out of nowhere :/ Can’t say that I’m back officially because like the last time I said that I was gone three months after (hehe). So I’m semi back I guess? I’ve been missing those active Tumblr days so much, I wish I can be on more, idk what will happen in the future but I’ll try my best to post more scenarios and just overall be more active :) HOPEFULLY SMH—Also I know nothing about piano/music writing, I apologize for any mistakes and please please listen to the song it’s really pretty ))

“Literally, what the hell.”

You stared at your best friend, completely dumbfounded by the fact that you were even staring at him considering that it was pitch black and cold as shit out. In other words, it was 2:45 in the morning and no other than Min Yoongi was standing there right in front of you, hands stuffed deep into his large coat along with a fluffy scarf wrapped countless times around his head, hot air from his mouth puffing out into the frozen winter air. 

Before you could utter another word, Yoongi was already shuffling into your apartment and settling down on the couch, murmuring some incoherent words into his scarf which covered half of his face. 

You huffed as you kicked the door shut and turned towards your friend with arm crossed over your chest and a glare that shot right at him, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“Me?” Yoongi tried to turn to you as he spoke but the barrier of wool proved the task impossible. He attempted to push the wall around his face down at which also proved to be impossible. You had to walk over and unwrapped the damn thing for him. When the gray knit was out of the way, it was then that you could see Yoongi’s tinted red face fully as he grinned slightly, “I’m here to hang.”

“‘To hang?’” To repeated the words you could not believe just came out of him. “You came here ‘to hang?’” 

“That’s what I said.”

“Yoongi,” you reached for you phone that was on the coffee table and turned the illuminated screen towards him. 

“Nice lock screen,” he simply commented and you wanted to knock him out right that second but you restrained yourself from doing so, instead you took a deep breath in and out before calmly telling him, “I'm going to bed, lock the door on the way out.”

“Fine, fine,” he spoke as you were just about to head back into your bedroom. “I’ll admit it’s late as shit and....”

“And…?” You stood to wait for him to continue,

“And that you get cranky as fuck when someone interrupts your sleep.”

With that, you spun back around not forgetting to give the man one last glare worth of ‘fuck you.’ You knew that Yoongi was a dick and you’d most definitely gotten more that used to it by now. But seriously. What. A. Dick.

Just as you were about to turn the knob of your bedroom, Yoongi’s annoying voice started once more, “I’ll make you food.”

“You suck at cooking,” you couldn’t help but bring up the fact. When you said that, you meant the words ‘Yoongi’ and ‘cooking’ do not belong in the same world.

“I’m better than you.” You couldn't rebuttal then, ‘Y/N’ and ‘cooking’ didn’t belong in the same universe. “I know you didn’t eat dinner.”

“How—”

“You had an all-nighter last night because of that test you had, you didn’t text me back when I texted you at five, meaning that sleep deprivation had already gotten the best of you by then. But you usually eat dinner at six-thirty; you haven’t eaten.” 

You chewed the insides of your cheek, hating the how much Yoongi knew about you, he would use everything against you. 

“You’re a heavy sleeper, but can’t go back to sleep for another six hours once you do wake up,” he looked up at you, smug. “And you’re here, awake.”

Literally everything.

“And if you do the math correctly, which you can’t because you suck at math,” he counted his fingers, oh so irritatingly. “You need my food to go into food coma or else you’re sleeping schedule will be all the way fucked up again.”

“I hate you,” you through your clenched teeth.

“Admit it, stupid,” he chuckled lowly, “You need me.”

He got up from his spot on the couch and stripped himself of his coat, leaving him with his a black turtle. “Now come along, I’ll make you some mediocre food,” he disappeared into the kitchen.

You couldn’t say that hated Min Yoongi most because there you were sat on the kitchen countertop, watching your ‘best friend’ cook at three in the morning—because hated the fact that you actually agreed to this ten times more. He opened just about every cupboard you have before gathering what seemed to be just about everything you owned in that kitchen: instant ramen, cheese, ham, and a wrinkly stalk of green onion. 

“Really?” He gave you a look.

“Really what?

“Remind me to drag you to the grocery store some point this week because what the hell have you even been eating this entire time?”

“Ooh! Take out from that one Chinese place I’ve been telling you about! Their food is the best, a little greasy, but so fucking good, I swear.”

He looked at you with distaste.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, only proceeded to turn the stove before placing a pot full of water on it. Once the water boiling, he ripped the pack of ramen and plopped in the brick of noodle, setting the seasoning pack and dried veggies to the side. And you stared at him as he cut the green onion with scissors (because you didn’t have an actual knife).

“Why ramen?” You asked him.

“Is that even a real question?” he asked with looking up but you could tell he was rolling his eyes. 

You huffed, “My face is going to get so bloated.”

“Y/N, your cheeks had been chubby since high school,” he narrowed his eyes at you. 

“That’s exactly my point,” you made a face. “My face is already naturally bloated, if I eat sodium at this time of night I’ll become a bobble head by dawn."

Yoongi stayed quiet for a bit before mumbling something incoherent under his breath at which you had asked him several times after to repeat but was ultimately denied with a ‘fuck off, stupid.’

He finished the ramen and the two of you went into your bedroom here you threatened to murder the man if he even gets a single spot on your white sheet. You put on a cheesy rom-com and laughed away as you devoured the bowl of sodium with Yoongi lying down on his stomach facing away from the tv screen because ‘rom-com's are stupid.’ It was half way through the movie that you finally finished bowl at which you asked your friend, with eyes still glued on to the screen, “Weren’t you going to have ramen? We were supposed to share.”

“Share my ass,” he scoffed. “You inhaled the entire thing already and you just asking me that now?”

“I’m sorry, I guess I was hungrier than expected. I can make you another bowl—” you said as you began to prop yourself up but was stopped by Yoongi's hand dragging you back down.

“Let’s not burn the building down today,” he said and you rolled your eyes.

You lay back down on the bed, this time tucking yourself into the warm sheets. You watched the movie for a bit longer but ultimately decided that Yoongi was more interesting than the rom-com that ending had eventually become predictable. You turned to your side and watched his scribble stuff down into his notebook.

“What are you working on?” You asked him.

“This and that,” he only murmured, barely stripping away any attention from the paper.  You studied Yoongi for a second and smiled. There were only two things Yoongi was really good at doing: one, be a total dick (mostly to you but it's a mutual thing, either way, you didn't mind at times) and, two, writing music. You'd known him for so long and from the very start, you had adored how focused Yoongi would become when he was working on his music. 'It's more than a passion' you remembered him saying once and you more than believed him. When he would write, he didn’t allow people to listen to his work until he was at least part satisfied with it, which would take a while because he was also a perfectionist. However when he turned to you and asked, you were in serious shock—

“Can you look at this?”

“I mean—” you paused for a second, studying his face to see if he was shitting around or not.

Not.

“Uh, sure.”

He handed you the notebook and the what was on it took you by surprise, for the second time that night.

“Piano?”

Yoongi nodded. 

Out of eight whole years of knowing each other, Yoongi had most rarely written piano songs, it had always been rap of some sort. The piano was more your thing being that you’d played it ever since you were a kid. It was your favorite hobby, still is. You could understand why he wanted you to see it. 

You studied the chords and melody scribbled messily onto the page carefully, taking your time to interpret and play the song out in your head. Even if you were not actually listening to it, what you were seeing in front of you was indescribable. ‘Beautiful’ wouldn’t bring it close to justice. 

—Listen: วัชราวลี - ทราย—

“Wow,” you couldn't help but say. “That was so— When did you learn how to write?”

“I learned at some point.” 

"Oh my god, Yoongi," You say, gawking endlessly at the page. You looked at it a bit more, genuinely blown away by each and every note, and finally noticed something. "This is... Who is it for?"

"No one in particular," he replied and quickly snatched the notebook away at which you groaned at its absence. 

“Yah,” you moaned. “You’re so greedy.”

“Of my own notebook?”

“Fucker,” you huffed when Yoongi wasn’t showing any sign of giving up you slumped back down onto the bed and turned your back towards him as you mumbled ugly things into the pillow in your arms. Stupid. Food coma, however, was quick to kick in because the moment you lay back down and started calling Yoongi call kinds of names instead of his own, you could feel your eyelids dip further and further down. You fell asleep as quick as that, but at least that dick of a friend deserved that earful. Stupid...

Yoongi’s POV

Stupid.

As if I couldn’t hear you. Yoongi shook his head as he listened to Y/N murmur all sort of things to sleep, quickly snoring away after her little rant. 

“How the hell does she fall asleep that fast,” Yoongi commented as he watched her body rise and fall in perfect sync with her loud ass snores, just like she had always been doing since freshman year of high school... Yoongi’s eyes remained on Y/N for while, he felt a sharp pang within him at which he quickly brushed off before ultimately going back to staring at his music sheet.

...

Yoongi gripped his pencil tightly and looked back at you once again.

“It was for you, stupid.”

(( A cute lil scenario for lil Yoongs. If you don’t mind dropping by my inbox, please leave a feedback. It’s been while idk how my writing has gone :// Most of all, I hope you all enjoyed <3 ))

CHECK OUT NUTRITION (YOONGI X READER FLUFF/CRACK) FOR A FOLLOW UP OF STUPID.