#(cue cringing from five)

[alinathinkstoomuch]

WET INTRODUCTIONS

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader summary: meeting your best friend's dad normally involves crying and flashing him all in the same night, right? based on this request. an | warnings: chat!! jack and reader are both in their twenties 4 this not to be weird, it still feels a little weird 2 me, hotch is however old u fancy him to be, r flashes hotch (just bra!!), activation of the sir kink, crying in the bathroom, r is just a lil lost bless her heart, hotch in that juicy half-zip sweater word count: 2.7k

✧ masterlist

Your shoes were near enough squelching by the time you made it to the apartment—not yours, but Jack’s. At this point, it was the better and closer option, and frankly, the only one that didn’t involve sitting on a train feeling sorry for yourself while dripping on the seat.

The rain had soaked you clean through, turning your clothes into second skin and your hair into a very clingy, tangled mess. No doubt the downpour also had taken it upon itself to act as micellar water, dragging your mascara into streaks that made you look part of a low-budget horror film. Honestly, the entire date might as well have been a paid actor.

You peeled your jacket off as you climbed the stairs, the fabric now three shades darker and twice as heavy. Your scarf followed, limp and defeated. Wet hair clung to your neck, and you pushed it away with a sigh loud enough that Emma, three floors up, probably paused whatever true crime doc she was watching.

Your jacket slipped from your arms an ungodly number of times as you rummaged through your purse, blindly fishing past gum wrappers and receipts while muttering curses at your keys for playing hide-and-seek at the worst possible moment. After what felt like five solid minutes of fighting the universe, you finally found the right key and shoved it into the lock with enough force to scrape your nail.

“I know what you’re thinking,” you said the moment the door opened, “and yes, you were right, but I don’t want to hear any I told you so’s.”

You stepped into the apartment and immediately dropped your bag onto the floor with a sloshed thud. “He was an absolute dick. Like, the kind who stares down your top every time you reach for the menu. And then—get this—he orders three sides and calls it dinner, which obviously meant I had to get sides too or look like I was trying too hard.”

Your shoes were next to go, kicked off somewhere near your bag. “And he kept saying females like some gigantic weirdo. And then—” you paused to catch your breath, hanging your soaked jacket and scarf onto a hook nearby, “he started mansplaining crypto, and that was my cue to get the hell out.”

You turned towards the kitchen, swallowing down the scratchy tickle climbing up your throat. “If I knew dating was going to be this fucki—”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

Because leaning against the counter was definitely not Jack.

Instead, you were met with a much older man, someone who looked far too sensible to be a burglar, yet absolutely like he’d know his way around a weapon if needed, with how he was holding what now looked like a comically small mug.

Ah. Must be Jack’s infamous FBI father.

“I am so sorry,” your words tumbled out faster than your common sense, raindrops hitting the hardwood floor as if to emphasise just how much of a mess you were. “Jack didn’t mention he had company. Not that I called ahead—which, yes, would’ve been smart—but I just needed somewhere dry, and it’s absolutely pouring out, and you must be Mr Hotchner—”

You extended a hand out of instinct, only to catch sight of your chipped nail polish and soaked sleeve. Immediately, you withdrew it again, cringing. He looked like the kind of man who shook prim and proper hands only. Not ones belonging to half-drenched disasters ranting about failed dates.

He said nothing, which, judging by the look of him, didn’t seem like a rare occurrence. His eyes swept over you slowly, like he was scanning for weak points. Lucky for him, he wouldn’t have to look very hard, the whole bane of your existence had always been a weak point.

Still, you silently begged the universe to cut the power, just for a moment, if only to spare you the full force of his gaze.

You swallowed, then cleared your throat as the scratchy feeling flared up again, determined to ruin what little composure you had left. All while standing in front of a man who clearly thought speaking was optional.

After what felt like eternity, he spoke, saying your name with the kind of authority that made you question whether you were being greeted or scolded. “…Jack’s told me about you.”

You offered the best smile you could manage, trying your hardest to ignore the feeling of wet clothes clinging to your skin. “Good things I hope?”

“Some.”

Ouch. Okay. Not exactly the confidence boost you were hoping for, and this probably wasn’t doing much to shift his opinion of you.

You felt a slow drip of water slide down the back of your neck. “I’m usually more… put together…ish,” you added, immediately cringing, again. “And significantly less soaked.”

He glanced at the growing trail of droplets surrounding your feet. “You’re dripping on the floor.”

Yeah. You were hoping to be tonight, just not in this kind of way.

You let out a breath that could’ve passed for a laugh. “Sorry about that.” You weren’t sure if you were apologising for being a walking hazard to the floors you were fairly certain he helped Jack pay for, or for the mildly inappropriate direction your brain had just taken things. “I’ll just dry off and be out of your hair.”

He nodded, and you couldn’t tell if it was meant to dismiss you or quietly judge you. Probably both. Being an FBI agent must come with excellent multitasking skills. Either way, you took it as your cue and made your way to the bathroom, your damp socks squishing softly against the floor as you went.

Inside the bathroom, you cursed—loudly—the moment you caught your reflection. Your makeup had been completely smudged and smeared, looking like some sort of tragic attempt at human abstract art.

And your top?

Completely see-through.

Not just kind of see-through. Full on hello, pink bow in the centre of your bra see-through.

You grabbed a towel and dried off as best as you could, still muttering under your breath. Fixing your makeup was next, though that just meant wiping away the worst of the smudges with a few torn bits of toilet paper.

And then, for the first time that evening, it felt like the universe finally threw you a lifeline. A hoodie hung on the back of the bathroom door, and you claimed it with little thought. Because if you had to walk back out there, you’d prefer not to half-flash your best friend’s father again.

Just as you pulled the thick material over your head, that same scratchy feeling clawed at your throat, this time triggering a full-on coughing fit that left you doubled over, wheezing through the hoodie.

You couldn’t pinpoint exactly when the coughing turned into crying, it just…happened. One minute you were catching your breath, the next you were sitting on the closed toilet lid, your cold hands clumsily swiping at your cheeks, trying to figure out which drops were rain and which ones were tears.

“This is silly,” you whispered, blinking fast as you wiped your sleeve under your eyes. Like you weren’t already soaked enough. “Get it together.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, just in time for a knock at the door to follow, making you wince.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes. All good,” you called back a little too quickly. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

You turned back to the sink and ran cold water over your fingers. It did nothing for comfort, but it was your go-to trick for reducing the redness and puffiness that came with tear-stained eyes. The shock of the cold made you flinch, but you welcomed the small punishment.

Once your fingertips were numb, you dabbed them gently under your eyes until the worst of it faded. Not perfect. But not obvious. Good enough to do the awkward dance of sorry for barging in on father-son bonding time and also flashing you in the process.

You exhaled, pulled the sleeves of the hoodie down over your hands, and gave your reflection one final, grimacing look before stepping out into the hallway again, slightly drier, but no less mortified.

He was still in the kitchen, his back to you, the clink of a spoon against a mug filling the quiet. You moved carefully, just about to slip past, grab your things, and make a quiet, hopefully unnoticed exit when he turned around.

You froze mid-step, again, and briefly wondered if this was a common side effect of being in his presence…sudden paralysis and poor decision-making.

“I was just—” you started, already edging towards the door, “—gonna head out. Get out of your way.”

Hotch’s eyes briefly fell to the oversized hoodie, now covering what had been a very unfortunate wardrobe malfunction, courtesy of your poor weather-related outfit choices. Then he turned to the window, where the rain continued to lash against the glass.

 “Wait until the storm settles. It’s not safe out there right now.”

You opened your mouth to insist that it was perfect walking to the train station weather, but he cut you off before you could get the words out.

“And you don’t sound great.”

“I’m fine, really. I’ll go home, rest, drink fluids, do all the sensible things. I’m sorry for the intrusion, Mr Hotchner.” You turned, already halfway toward the living room when his voice came again.

“Sit.”

You mentally added following orders to the growing list of things Jack’s father somehow managed to get out of you with minimal effort. With half a nod, you moved towards one of the bar stools and sank down onto it as he turned away again.

Technically, you could’ve made a run for it. A quick sprint to the door, barefoot and humiliated but free. But something about Aaron Hotchner kept you in place. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was exhaustion. Either way, you stayed.

“Not sure what time Jack’ll be back,” he said, turning to face you again, sliding a steaming mug across the counter. “He went out to pick up Sophie, but I told him not to drive back until the roads clear.” He paused, then added, “Chamomile with honey. Your throat sounds like it needs it.”

Observant too. Noted.

“Thank you,” you murmured, curling your fingers around the mug. The warmth felt weirdly personal, like something you hadn’t realised you needed until it was right in front of you. It seeped into your hands slowly, and you focused on that instead of the mess of your thoughts.

You took a small sip. Your throat burned a little on the way down, but in a good way. Like it was clearing something out.

“First time meeting Sophie?” you asked, figuring it was safer to bring up Jack’s dating life than circling back to your own train wreck of an evening.

“No. We’ve met a few times.”

Well that ends that conversation. Great.

“He, uh… talks about you a lot, you know,” you added, looking up. “Not like… in a weird way. Just—he really looks up to you. I don’t think he says it enough.”

Hotch nodded again, this time slower. More thoughtful. Like he wasn’t used to compliments being handed to him so directly and didn’t quite know where to put this one.

“Thanks,” he replied eventually.

You winced inwardly at the silence that followed.

“Sorry, I tend to ramble when I’m tired.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“I really am more put together usually. I don’t make it a habit of breaking into people’s apartments.”

“You didn’t break in.”

“That is true,” you agreed, bringing the mug to your lips. “I do have a key. Guess that just makes it legal trespassing.” You glanced at him over the rim, catching the faintest trace of amusement in the lines near his eyes. It passed almost immediately, but it had been there.

“You’re not trespassing. If Jack gave you a key, you’re obviously welcome here.”

“Don’t say it with too much enthusiasm.”                 

That coaxed an almost smile from him, though you didn’t get the chance to study it before he turned away, rinsing something in the sink. You watched him move, orderly and specific, as if even washing a mug came with its own method and order. It made you acutely aware of how much noise you actually took up just by existing.

His shoulders were broad, the fabric of a brown half-zip sweater stretching clean across them. The sleeves were pushed up, forearms lean and steady. There was something beyond put-together about him, like someone who’d never once cried in a bathroom or forgotten to bring an umbrella.

“I’m guessing this wasn’t how you thought your evening would go either,” you sighed, setting the mug back down on the counter.

He glanced at you over his shoulder. “No. But I’ve had worse.”

“Worse than a soaking wet twenty-something crying in your son’s bathroom?”

“Much worse.”

You let out a laugh, confused as to why those two words had managed to alleviate so much of the pressure in your chest. Maybe it was the calm in his voice, or the fact he hadn’t once made you feel ridiculous for the crying, or the soaking, or the rambling.

You went back to quietly ogling his back as he dried his hands until a ding from his phone broke the silence. He reached for it once the towel was hung neatly back in its place.

“It’s Jack,” he said, reading from the screen. “They’re on their way back.”

Your eyes moved to the window, noticing how the rain had eased into something gentler, making you shift from the stool.

“The rain’s calmed down, so I’ll actually get out of your hair now.”

“You don’t want to wait until they’re back?”

You shook your head, stepping a little closer, though you told yourself it was towards the sink, not him. “No, I think the only thing that’ll make me feel better is crawling into bed and not leaving it for the next twenty-four hours.”

He moved a fraction as you leaned over to place your mug in the sink, tugging your sleeves up out of habit.

“It’s alright, I’ll do it,” he cut in, making you pause. “Let me drive you home at least.”

You hesitated, hand hovering awkwardly over the sink. “You don’t have to do that. Really, I’ll just catch the next train.”

He didn’t budge, just continued to look at you in a way that was beginning to make your pulse skittish. “It’s late, and you’re still not feeling great.”

You opened your mouth to argue, to say something about not wanting to be more of a burden than you already had been, but the words didn’t quite form. So instead, you settled on a low, “Okay. If you’re sure.”

He nodded, reaching for your mug in the sink, and you took that as your window to quietly gather your things and slip your shoes back on, still damp, still squelch-adjacent, but you didn’t complain. Not when he'd offered you tea. And a ride home. And not once commented on your see-through top incident.

The drive back was mostly silent, save for your half-mumbled, delayed directions, which he somehow still managed to follow with ease. And then, before you even realised how short the distance had felt, he was pulling up in front of your apartment building, dimly lit and mildly depressing, but yours nonetheless.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and turned to him with a tired smile. “Thank you, again. And I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Just make sure you rest and drink plenty of fluids.”

“Yes, sir,” you said, entirely joking—but froze the second it left your mouth, your eyes flicking to his, instantly regretting the awkwardness of it all. You cleared your throat, grabbing your bag and damp scarf. “Anyway. Goodnight, Mr Hotchner.”

His mouth twitched as if he were holding back a smile, or something that hovered a little too close to one. “Goodnight.”

You: Met your dad tonight after the world’s worst date. You: Also, I accidentally stole a hoodie from the bathroom—will wash and return.

Jack: Yeah, he mentioned. Jack: Wait… what hoodie?

You: Navy one. Found it hanging on the back of the door.

Jack: Yeah… that’s not mine. Pretty sure that’s my dad’s lol.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley @wowitsafemale @cinnamoncunt @kajjaka @khxna

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[ducksido]

Hai!! I decided to be loyal once again and request my schmookie bear Idia🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 so imagine this 😈😈, Idia with an equally as socially awkward reader, who loves programming video games, the catch is that well… they program otomes😱😱😱

So Idia and reader are already dating and just chilling and they’re trying to make the perfect otome together despite sucking at romantic relationships (Brian once again no work, so interpret may👍👍👍👍👍)

It’s a typical day in Ignihyde—meaning dark, silent, and filled with the glow of multiple monitors and the faint smell of energy drinks and anxiety.

You’re slouched on Idia’s beanbag chair, a laptop on your knees and your fingers flying over the keyboard. Beside you, Idia is hunched at his own desk, cloak pooling around his legs, hoodie up, and hair glowing the softest hue of content blue. You’re both locked in total silence… except for the muttered lines of code and occasional:

“Bro, why did this variable name turn into emotional damage. It’s literally self-destructing my script—oh wait. That was a typo.”

You and Idia are, somehow, making the perfect otome game. The catch?

Neither of you has functioning romantic experience. Outside of each other, and even then it's like watching two haunted raccoons try to hold hands without combusting.

“Okay…” you mutter, staring blankly at the dialogue box on the screen. “So the love interest just confessed, and the MC’s supposed to, like, respond. What would be… realistic?”

Idia blinks slowly. “Uh. You mean in actual human realistic, or idealized 2D husbando dream logic realistic?”

You chew your sleeve. “I don’t know. What would you say if someone told you they loved you?”

He visibly bluescreens.

“...besides shutting down,” you add quickly.

“…Uhhh. I'd probably say something like, ‘N-no way, you’re just saying that because of the stat boost from that one event where I accidentally held your hand—why would anyone like me, I’m a zero-drop-rate SSR-level disappointment,’ and then short-circuit and roll under my desk.”

You blink. “Honestly? That’s better than like 80% of otome responses.”

You both nod solemnly.

Later, while working on the “Kiss CG Unlock” scene, both of you sit stiff as boards.

You: “Should he, like… kiss her forehead? Or is that too intimate??”

Idia: “W-wait forehead is more intimate than the cheek, right? I read that somewhere on a forum. I think.”

You: “What if the sprite kisses the air two pixels next to her cheek to imply it happened off-screen?”

Idia: “Genius. Subtle. Emotional. The fans will cry.”

You both high-five. You miss. Your fingers brush.

You both recoil like you touched a live wire.

Cue Idia’s hair flaring bright pink as he dramatically covers his face with his hoodie sleeve:

“C-crap! Critical hit!! Emotional damage x9999!!”

You wheeze into your hoodie. “We’re literally dating, why are we like this???”

“I don’t know!! You’re my actual love interest! It’s different! It’s worse! You’re real!!” he screeches.

Despite the awkward chaos, the otome game starts looking… kind of amazing. The characters have incredibly nuanced personalities, the routes are emotional and hilarious, and the MC has more depth than most commercial games. (She even has an option to respond to a confession with “No u.”)

You both sit there, staring at the final screen — the last line of code compiled. The game runs. No bugs. All dialogue paths working.

"...We actually made it," you whisper.

Idia looks at you.

“W-we… made a game. Together. An otome game. About romance. Despite being walking cringe compilations.”

He reaches over—slow, like a cutscene CG—and pokes your hand.

“True Ending unlocked,” he mumbles.

Your face heats up. You take his hand.

Achievement Unlocked: ‘Mutual Tsundere Affection.exe’

Bonus: Ortho walks in 3 minutes later and sees the two of you collapsed on the beanbag, holding hands and red-faced, surrounded by empty cans and 700 lines of spaghetti code.

He takes one look at the screen.

“…Big Brother. Y/N. This is the most emotionally repressed game I’ve ever seen. 10/10.”

[loveharlow]

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[10.4k] A court hearing leaves the pogues scrambling for anything to get John B out of jail. And fast.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚swearing, mentions of death, corrupt law enforcement, mentions of murder, mentions of suicide, graphic depictions of injuries,

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

NOW PLAYING‧₊

THE FIVE OF YOU SAT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE COURTROOM, hidden perfectly in plain sight. John B was arrested yesterday, Shoupe and his men leaving you all distraught and soaked in the middle of the woods. They had to cuff John B’s unconscious body and basically load him into the back of the squad car. 

You were sat at the end of the row, next to JJ who’d wiggled between you and Pope. You had on a hoodie and shorts, the hood pulled over your head as you slouched in the pew. You kept taking glances across the court room, Rose and Ward sitting on the other side, acting oblivious and innocent.

“This is such bullshit.” You scoffed, playing with the strings of the hoodie. 

Suddenly, a bony hand grasped your shoulder, making you turn around, coming face to face with an old woman. She pointed in your face as she spoke. “You’re in public, young lady. You may want to watch your mouth.”

You made a face at the woman, turning further in your seat to look at her. “You may want to watch yours. Your dentures are segregating themselves from your gums, you old, senile-”

“She’s sorry about that.” JJ cut in, pushing your shoulder forward and shooting the woman tight lipped smile as her jaw dropped and she put a hand to her chest. Once you were facing forward, he leaned down to whisper in your ear. “We’re already down a person for a crime, let’s not add elderly abuse to the list.”

You waved him off, slouching in your seat again. Just then you heard Sarah sigh, the four you looking at her at the other end of the pew.

“When are they bringing him out? His hearing was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago…” She said, seemingly mainly to herself as her foot tapped against the floors.

Right on cue, the doors opened, one brawny officer guiding John B to stand next to his lawyer as a hush fell over the courtroom. The cuffs around his wrists jingled as he shuffled towards the court appointed lawyer he was given, standing next to the woman awkwardly. 

The judge thanked the officer, peering over her glasses as she read the documents in front of her.

“John Booker Routledge, pursuant to the North Carolina statute section fourteen, you are charged with murder in the first degree with aggravated circumstances." The statement made you cringe. "If convicted, the maximum sentence would be…” The judge continued, elevating her gaze to look at John B directly.

“...the death penalty.”

…

What?

The entire courtroom broke out into hushed chatter, your hand curling into a fist in your lap. The death penalty? Was this some kind of joke? That didn’t even make any sense. 

Without thinking, you stood from your seat, hands gripping the back of the pew in front of you. “He’s seventeen, you can’t do that!” You shouted, the courtroom falling into mild chaos as some people got up to leave and others stayed behind, voicing their opinions.

“Hey, c’mon…” Pope tried, a hand on your arm as he tried to escort you out of the courtroom along with the other people who were leaving.

“They’re trying to give him the death penalty, Pope. They’re going to try to kill him.” You said, trying to push the boys hand off of you. “He didn’t kill anybody!” You shouted over his shoulder, the boy using more force to guide you outside.

“John B, we’re gonna figure it out!” JJ pointed at John B who was looking back at the five of you with an expression somewhere in between pity and pure terror.  The judge slammed her gavel down, demanding order in the court just as Sarah seemed to snap, pushing her way through the crowd calling for John B as the bailiff carried him away, Kiara escorting the blonde out of the court with the rest of you.

“Is this a joke? Are we in hell, or…?” Kie said, walking down the steps.

“...I should’ve never come home.” Sarah said, voice muffled from her crying. 

Right then, Ward walked by you all, another couple trailing him and Rose. You made eye contact with the Cameron man for a brief second, sending him the meanest glare you could muster as the couple behind him talked. “I’m sorry that this is what you and your family have to go through. Thank God the system works…”

He couldn't be serious.

“Can you shut the fuck up?” You jumped in, stepping towards the man. “You think a minor being presented death penalty is the system 'working'? Of course you think the system worked because it was made to protect you and people like you. I mean, who shows up to a court hearing they aren’t apart of in a suit, just to kiss the ass of the only actual murderer here?” You spat, pointing directly at the man in question.

He simply adjusted his suit, tilting his chin to the sky. “Your friend will have his day in court. A jury will decide.”

“He doesn’t belong in court!” You objected, eyes drifting towards Ward. “The real people who should be up on that stand are Ward and his psychotic son!” You ranted, Shoupe and his deputies that were on standby rushing in between the five of you and the four of them. 

“I know you’re upset. Okay? I understand.” Ward tried, Rose hanging onto his arm as he played victim in front of half the island. “He’s got you all fooled-”

“You don't understand shit. And the only people being fooled here are your kiss-ass neighbors.” You mocked incredulously, swiping the hood off of your head. “You wanna see upset, Ward?-” Was the last thing you said before swinging on the older man, your nails swiping against the skin of his cheek, but doing no damage, before Shoupe wedged his way fully in between, pushing you and your friends back.

“Show some respect!” Ward pointed, patting his cheek to make sure he was unharmed.

“You're going to hell!”

“Get off of her.” JJ lightly shoved Shoupe back, the officers hands falling away from you. “Why don’t you take down the Kooks for a change?” JJ suggested, almost intimidating the older man. 

“You wanna get arrested?” The man asked, hand on his hip, right on top of his gun holster. “Go home. Now. All of you.”

“...’s is bullshit.” Kiara mumbled, eyeing Ward and Rose as they walked away. 

“No wonder his daughter’s walking with us...” You called out, the statement making Ward pause in his tracks to look back at you with deadliest look in his eyes. You looked the man up and down before turning around and walking away with your four friends.

“...I’M GONNA TESTIFY UNDER OATH.” Sarah announced with conviction, arms crossed as she paced the patio of The Chateau — rain pouring outside. “I was there. I just need to get ahold of my sister…”

The four of you surrounding her sighed, shifting in your seats. “Sister…” JJ muttered under his breath.

“Kie, do you have your phone?” Sarah asked the girl closest to her, taking the device from her hands when it was offered to her before turning to face JJ. “Wheezie is the only other person who knows that Rafe wasn’t home that day.” 

“...Wheezie?” JJ reiterated unbelievably. It was the most serious, flat, annoyed tone you’d ever heard him speak in. 

“I don’t know what else to do!” Sarah threw her hands out. “I got us into this mess. I’m gonna do my best to get us out...” She proclaimed sadly before entering the home and isolating herself from the four of you. The sky was a sad mix of dull grays and icy blues, the sounds of raindrops hitting the ground and thunder filled the silence until JJ spoke again.

“Wheezie…” He scoffed, crouching and leaning against the wall. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Well, she’s right about one thing. We gotta do something.” Pope said from his place in a lounge chair.

“John B is being held captive by the enemy right now.” JJ said, using his hands for emphasis, his face turning a dangerous shade of red as he ranted. “Our boy is sitting in a cell, being scheduled for execution. Are we really just gonna sit here?!-”

“Okay, well what’s the plan?!” Kiara stood up from her seat, taking steps closer to the two boys. “What? We kidnap Shoupe?”

“Maybe!” JJ retorted. “That’s not the worst idea-”

“That is actually the worst idea.” Pope piped up, still seated. 

“It’s pretty bad…” Sarah added from inside the house — the window to Big John’s office was wide open, allowing the girl to pitch in on the conversation.

The three of them continued arguing back and forth about shitty ideas and previously failed plans and who was more to blame than the other. You just sat on the loveseat, playing with your fingers and biting the inside of your lip. 

You and JJ’s conversation about the evidence was still fresh on your mind. You’d gone through everything about Big John’s case. The evidence was hard — an entire confession. But you still had yet to go through your father’s files. And knowing how Kildare’s Police Department operated, you’d have to play this smart. You needed more than a confession. More than anything, you needed to persuade Shoupe.

“I still have the tapes.” You interrupted, looking up at your three friends who had turned to you, Sarah peeking out of the window.

“...I’m sorry.” Kiara started. “What?”

“The tapes that I stole from my mom’s law office. I still have them.”

“...And you didn’t think to say anything? This whole time?”

“Of course I did.” You said bluntly. “But let’s not kid ourselves. We brought Shoupe an entire gun. The gun that was used to kill Peterkin and he did nothing.” You retorted matter of factly. “A couple of confessions won’t make a difference. Ward is Shoupe’s friend, he’ll just conjure up some deluded explanation in his head. We have to bring him undeniable proof, connect the dots for him.” You explained, sitting up straighter in your seat. “I went through Big John’s files but I still haven’t opened my father’s. If Ward had anything to do with what happened to my dad, that links him to at least four murders in the last year, right? That plus the tapes? That’s something Shoupe can’t deny-”

“Yeah, well, we don’t really have time for that anymore.” JJ cut you off harshly, snatching the hat off of his head. You stumbled for a response, eyes on the blonde.

“It was literally your idea.”

“That was before they put John B on the chopping block-”

“They aren’t gonna lethally inject him tomorrow, JJ-”

“You don’t fucking know that!” He shouted, the outburst sending a hush over the five of you. They’d never seen JJ yell at you before. Because he never had. You never knew what it felt like to be at the sharp end of his irrational anger. And although you knew this was far from the worst of it, it still formed a pit in your stomach. “You all can sit here and sort through papers ‘n shit. I’m gonna do somethin’, make somethin’ happen.” He said scoffing, standing up fully and walking towards the porch steps, his eyes on you and you only. “Even if I have to do it by myself.” He finished, swinging open the screen door and leaving towards his parked bike. 

You looked out at nothing, semi-shocked at what happened while Kiara sighed. “Look, I’m gonna hit my parents, see if I can get money for a decent lawyer.” She said, grabbing her jacket as the sound of JJ’s bike pulling off echoed through the trees. You couldn’t help but look back, watching the blonde drive away with a sinking feeling in your chest.

“Right.” Pope nodded. “I’ll dig into anything I can find out about this key that Limbrey was talking about in case your plan doesn’t work out.” Pope said in your direction, you nodded in reply. Pope had explained that during his time with Limbrey, she was borderline interrogating him about key she thought he had in exchange for a tape she has that could exonerate John B. 

All of your evidence pointed the finger at Ward, it didn’t necessarily prove John B didn’t do anything. Hopefully, you could change that by the end of the night.

THE OLD BOX STARED YOU BACK IN THE FACE WITH NO REMORSE. You were in the living room of The Chateau, planted on the sofa as your fingers drummed nervously against the skin of your thighs. Everyone else was out on some kind of side quest, aside from Sarah who took a stress walk down to the pier in the backyard, anxiously trying to get a hold of Wheezie, leaving you in the house alone.

Even taking the box down from the top of the fridge had your hands shaking — it was heavier than Big John’s box. Which meant you were in for a much longer ride. 

Taking a shaky, deep breath, you edged closer to the coffee table, your bottom almost hanging off of the sofa. In one swift motion, you took the top off of the box, letting it clatter against the wooden table. Your eyes scanned over the items inside — another cassette tape, one small USB drive, and one manila file folder. Everything was inconspicuously labeled — the tape was labeled WCCT 2/2 and the folder was labeled OG Report, both in your mother's distinctive hand writing. It looked like there was more than just papers in the folder. And you weren’t too eager to open it up.

You didn’t know where to start or what order to go in. But something told you that this wasn’t as hard as you anticipating it to be. You figured it best to start with the tape, having experience with them. Picking up the blue tape player that you’d found all those weeks ago, the same player you used when you found out what happened to Big John, you picked up the tape.

You weren’t quick to let it play, giving yourself a moment of pause. You were seriously debating putting all of this shit back. But then you remembered what you were doing this for. Who you were doing this for. And you pressed play.

...

“...Are you ready?...Okay, then. Please, state your full name and why you’re here.” Your mother’s voice echoed in the living room. It’d been so long since you heard her voice. At all.

“Again?” Ward’s voice rang out. “Is that necessary?...*sigh*. My name is Ward Cameron and I’m here to confess to the murders of Big John Routledge and Owen Carter.”

“Okay. You can continue now. Tell me what happened to Owen, starting from after you disposed of Big John’s body.” You wondered how she could sound so calm collected while sitting across from a murder, asking him to detail how he killed her husband.

“...After I threw Big John overboard, Owen was hysterical. He wanted to call someone and I kept saying no, that we couldn’t. What was done was done. He called me a monster, said that I shouldn’t have done it. He was right and I knew that. I was getting frustrated because Owen wouldn’t stop yelling. I turned around and pinched my eyes shut, I don’t know for how long, I was just trying to drown him out when I heard something hit the water. I didn’t even realize he’d stopped ranting. I turned around and he’d taken the lifeboat and was already feet away, it didn’t help that the damn thing had a motor. I didn’t think before turning the boat around and going to follow him, but he was gaining speed and putting so much distance between us. We were already hours away from the island, I didn’t think there was any way he’d make it all the way there on that small boat…”

Your hands were shaking as you listened, your bottom lip held hostage between your teeth.

“...The sun was going down by the time I got back to Kildare. I’d lost sight of Owen hours ago and when I got back, his truck was already gone from the parking lot. Owen was a family man over everything, so I figured that if he was in danger, the first place he’d go was home to make sure that he could protect his family. I got in my truck and went to his house. By the time I got there, the street lights were on and it was dark and raining. The front door was wide open and I pulled up just in time to see Owen racing out of the house with two duffel bags in his hands, about to put them in the trunk. I couldn’t hesitate, I didn’t have the time. So, I jumped out of my truck with a gun in my hand and hit him in the side of the head from behind. He fell limp to the ground and I wanted to go back in time and fix everything. I didn’t want to hurt him-”

“Stay focused, Ward. I’m not here for your sob story.” Your mother reprimanded.

“…After that, I threw him in the backseat of my truck and drove off as fast as I could. But I didn’t know my way around The Cut and I had no idea where I was going or what the plan was. I ended up on the shore of the Marsh. It was an empty area, surrounded by sand hills and tall grass, a couple palm trees. I didn’t want anyone to see me. Owen must’ve woken up at some point during the drive because when I went to get him out of the backseat, he jumped up and punched me square in the jaw. We got into it for a minute and I knew that Owen was stronger than me so when I could, I grabbed the gun from my waistband and aimed it at him. He just seemed betrayed and hurt. Kept asking why I did it, why I was going to do it again. He even promised to not say anything…if I let him go so he could be with his daughter. I thought about it, even considered it. But Owen was too good. He had morals and beliefs and I knew that eventually he’d say something. So, I lied and said that I would let him walk. I thought maybe I wouldn’t feel as bad if I knew he died thinking he was going home to his child. So, when he turned around…I shot him.”

You couldn’t suppress your sobs. The worst part of it all was that your father didn’t beg for his life, he begged for you. The one thing on his mind in his last moments was going home to you. You thought that was enough to make you hate Ward Cameron for the rest of your life. He didn’t kill his friend. He killed your father.

And he killed a part of you, too.

“...I knew dumping his body so close to the island was risky, so when I realized that it didn’t look like he’d been shot in the head, I slit his wrists to make it look like he’d killed himself, then I pushed his body into the water and left him drift out. Everything from that point on, you already know.” Were the last words Ward’s voice detailed before the cassette stopped rolling, a deadly silence filling the living room as tears rolled down your cheeks and hit the floor, one after the other.

You’d never felt so angry in your entire life. Not when your father went missing, not when his body was found, not when the police told you he’d killed himself. This was real anger. Because if you could figure this out and get some kind of justice for you and John B’s father’s, then the authorities just had to have not cared enough or at all. Two men from the cut go missing and they have one common factor between them but no one bats an eye?

It was bullshit.

Complete and utter bullshit.

Sobs broke through your throat as you swiped glasses and other miscellaneous objects off of the coffee table — everything but the box of evidence. Glass shattered against the floors as you kicked the leg of the furniture and hurled something random at the wall, watching it break into shards as you clenched your jaw, teeth showing like a violent dog. You felt like you could barely breathe, fists curled so tightly that you were sure your nails were cutting into your palms. Falling back down on the couch, slumped against it as you tried to regain your composure.

Once you felt okay enough to resume sleuthing, you sat up straight. You disgustedly pushed the tape player away from you, letting it rest in the corner of the table. Reaching into the box, you clutched the USB drive between your fingers. Luckily, you had your laptop on the coffee table from the night before, researching all the possible outcomes for John B, even though nothing indicated the outcome of today.

Opening the device and plugging in the drive, you let the files appear on the screen — a folder titled KCPD. Clicking on the file, it revealed two MP3 files to be listened to:

KCPD_Dispatcher276_1042pm.mp3

KCPD_Dispatcher276_1143am.mp3

Your brows furrowed in curiosity. Police files? Why would your mother need police calls to protect Ward? And more importantly, how did she get them?

Turning up the volume on the computer, you double clicked the first audio file, letting it play…

“Kildare County Police Department. This is Dispatcher 276, do you need police, fire, or ambulance?”

“What took someone so long to pick up?! My husband, he’s gone missing! I think he’s been taken, I don’t know-”

“Okay, ma’am, calm down for me, please. What’s your address?”

“Its…8702 Oak Valley Street.” If there was any doubt in your mind before, there wasn’t now — this was your mother calling in to the police department the night your father vanished. And that was your old address, on The Cut.

“Okay, I’m sending police out to you now. Can I ask your name?”

“It’s Rebecca. Rebecca Carter. My husband, his name is Owen, Owen Carter.” She sounded panicked, like she actually cared. You guessed this was the point in time when she did.

“Alright, Rebecca. I need you to answer some questions for me that will help police in locating your husband, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You said his name is Owen, right? What was Owen wearing, do you know?”

“Um, dammit…I think he had on a, um, yellow-ish button down? And a pair of, like, jean shorts and these shoes I’d just bought him, they’re just generic white sneakers, I can’t remember the brand.”

“Okay, that’s fine. And how old is Owen?”

“He just turned thirty-five yesterday. Oh, baby don’t cry. Everything’s gonna be fine, the police are gonna find him…” She was talking to you. You remembered that night so vividly, you were crying so hard with no idea as to what was going on.

“Is there someone else there with you Mrs.Carter?”

“Yes, sorry. It’s my sixteen-year old daughter.”

“Did she see anything? Can I ask her a couple of questions?”

“No. No, she didn’t see anything, she was asleep and she’s not okay to answer any questions.” She sounded appalled that the operator would even ask. “You can ask me.”

“Okay, I’m just trying to get as much information as possible.” The woman on the other end assured. “Did anything happen leading up to your husband’s disappearance?”

“No? I...He said he was going fishing with some of his buddies. He was gone from around noon until around ten tonight.”

“And do you know exactly who he went fishing with?”

“Not all of them. I know that Big John Routledge was there. They’re friends and he lives down the street, our kids are friends, too.”

“And have you tried contacting Mr.Routledge?”

“Yes. His phone went to voicemail both times. Oh my- Y/N, call John B, make sure he’s okay.” That was the worst night of your life. Especially having to call one of your best friends and find out that he hasn’t seen his dad either. You took the worst of night of your life and split the pain with John B. 

He called his dad a million times that night.

Every single call went to voicemail and by the end of it, Big John’s voicemail box was full.

“Did your husband say anything before he disappeared? Was he acting strangely?”

“He was just rambling. He just kept saying we had to leave, something about it not being safe. He told me to wake up our daughter while he threw our stuff into bags, when my daughter and I came outside, he was gone and the bags were on the driveway then some truck sped away with it’s tail lights off.”

“Can you describe the truck? Were you able to catch the license plate?”

“No, it was too dark. I just know it was black and it looked almost like a pick-up truck.”

“Okay, we’re gonna do our best to find your husband, Mrs.Carter. I need you to stay on the line with me until the police arrive, alright?”

“Okay…I think I see them now, I can see lights down the streets…Okay, yes, it’s them, I see them. An officer is approaching me, now. Can I hang up?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

Then the line died out. It was odd to hear that side of your mother again, it seemed so foreign to you now. But you were still left wondering why this had anything to do with your mother covering for Ward? It was just the 911 call. Nothing incriminated Ward himself or her. Maybe it conflicted with the suicide theory? Maybe it made your father’s death look like foul play.

It only made you more eager to listen to the next file, mouse already hovering over the audio. Clicking it twice, you let it play, the familiar static of a phone call sounding out once more before voices were heard. 

“Kildare County Police Department. This is Dispatcher 276, do you need police, fire, or ambulance?” It was the same dispatcher from before, same line and everything. Was this the same call or a different one? A quick look at the label had you realizing that it was indeed the second file.

“...I need police.” It was your mother. Again. With the same dispatcher? Maybe the operator on the other end couldn’t say anything or mention the familiarity in her voice, but it was so distinct, there was no way she missed it.

Your father and Big John were the talk of the town for months during everything, I’m sure the operator remembered your mother’s original call.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I found a dead body.” Her voice was so flat. 

“...O-okay…Where are you ma’am?”

“Near the Marsh. Behind Ollie’s, that abandoned surf shop off of Deerfield Drive.” That was where they found your dad.

“And are you sure the person is dead?”

“...I’m positive.”

“I’ll send an ambulance as well, just to be safe. What’s your name, miss?”

“I’d like to remain anonymous.”

“Okay…that is your right…” The operator sounded skeptical, but it wasn’t her job to dig any deeper. “Are you comfortable attempting CPR on the victim, miss?”

“...No.” She said firmly. She almost sounded annoyed. “Look, he’s dead. He’s gray and bloated, he’s barely recognizable. Half of his hair is even missing, he’s dead.”

“...Do you know the person in question?”

“What?” Your mother snapped, her voice biting even in the poorly recorded audio. “No, I don’t.”

“Right…well, I need you to stay on the line with me until the police arrive, ma’am. They’re having trouble finding the location.”

“No. No, I can’t do that. How far are they?” Now, she sounded worried. Why call the police in the first place? If she was covering for Ward, why not just push the body back out? Was this a way of controlling the situation?

“They’re not far. I really need you to stay on the line with me-”

“Look, his body’s on the sand. They’ll know it when they see it but I can’t stay on the phone or here. I’m sorry.”

“Ma’am-”

The dispatcher failed in getting your mother to stay connected, hearing the line go dead.

What did these calls have to do with anything and why did she need them? This second call had your head spinning. Why even call at all? Wouldn’t handling it herself be better for her deal with Ward?

It didn’t make much sense but you doubted you ever get the chance to get it from her directly.

There was really only one thing left in the box — the folder. You were hoping, praying, that this had something you could bring to Shoupe, something to bring your circle of evidence to a full close. 

Picking up the folder, something rolled out in the bottom of the box.

A plastic bag with a bullet in it. You dropped the folder. Letting it slide to the floor, eyes wide as you pinched the top of the plastic bag between your fingers and held it up, letting it swing in front of your face. A small, bronze bullet sitting inside — spotted with dried blood.

You swiftly used your other hand to pick up the forgotten folder, letting the bullet bag fall back into the box, flipping the folder open, revealing just one thing inside — an autopsy report. 

…But this couldn’t be the one the police had on file. This one completely went against what the department said was your father’s cause of death. It documented the gunshot wound to the back of his head, the apparent blunt force injury from when Ward hit him the first time, alongside the slits on his wrist that documented as ‘not consistent with self-inflicted injuries’, as well as noting that they were done post-mortem. 

Everything on the paper in front of you pointed to your dad’s death being a homicide, even ruling out any kind of drowning theory considering it says there was no water found in his lungs. 

But the best part of this was the fact that you had the bullet. You had the bullet and the report. This? This was evidence. A bullet that could be traced back to Ward’s gun, your father’s DNA on the bullet, and the original autopsy report to prove it all.

You could clear John B. And you could take down Ward.

This wasn’t something someone would be happy about. And considering everything you’d just learned, you should be curled up on the floor balling our eyes out. But you win some you lose some, right? 

Knowing how your dad died dampened your heart, of course it did. But nothing could be done now. You could get him some kind of justice and let him rest while getting one of your best friends out of jail. And when it was all said and done, maybe you’d break down crying or throw something else at the wall. But for once, it felt like you were on the winning team.

As soon as you stood from the couch, ready to march down to the Sheriff’s Department, the front door swung open, an angry Kiara throwing her backpack down onto the floor as she paced with her hands atop her head.

“Kie?” You startled the girl. She whipped around with wide eyes, a hand on her chest in shock.

“Jesus…” She breathed, letting her hands fall against her sides. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“I just finished looking through my mom’s things. You won’t believe what I found-”

“Not to be rude or anything, I just really can’t pretend to care right now. My... elitist parents just fucking kicked me out.” She interrupted, drawing her lips into a thin line and turning around as she walked towards the fridge, swinging it open and pulling out a beer. “I mean, they’re acting like I was gone for weeks. It was like two freaking days. Can’t they just be grateful that I’m even alive?” She ranted, taking a long swig of the drink, wincing as it went down.

Your eyes followed her as she walked to place herself on the far end of the couch.

“Like I’m sitting there telling them about John B and how he needs a lawyer and they start talking about how everything I do is for ‘those boys’ as if they aren’t my fucking friends. So, I told them I hate living there and all of sudden I’m homeless. My mom told me if I wanna be a pogue then I can go live like one. And you know what? That’s exactly what I’m gonna. She wants to kick me out so I can live like a pogue? I’ll show her a pogue. Next thing you know she’ll be pleading for me to come back home…” She shrugged, her monologue finally ending as she slumped into the couch.

You were gobsmacked at her words. She’ll show her a pogue?

“Wow…” You reacted, eyes impossibly wide as your jaw went slack. Kiara simply cocked an eyebrow at you, gulping before opening her lips to speak.

“What?” She asked, shaking her head as to say ‘spit it out’.

“Nothing, nothing…” You scoffed. “While you were off claiming your pogue card I actually found something that can clear John B, if you even care-”

“What do you mean claiming my pogue card? Am I not a pogue?-”

“Apparently only when it’s convenient for you to be one.” You cut her off. “You really think I, me, someone with nothing but a couple hundred dollars to my name and no family left but a dog. who by the way, got taken, wants to hear you complain about being kicked out of your single family home because you are choosing to be a pogue?” You told her, tone harsh. “And then you have the nerve to brag about living like a pogue solely to piss off your parents like you don’t have five friends going through hell right now.”

“...Just because I have money doesn’t make me any less of a pogue, I still go through shit just like the rest of you-”

“Why is that all you care about?!” You shouted, hands balling into fists at the sides of your head in frustration. “Pogue this, pogue that — you wanna be real for a minute, Kie? You aren’t a pogue, okay? And your obsession with proving that you are one is really starting to get old. By means of all the laws in the pogue handbook, you’re a kook. And you’re really starting to show it right now.” You explained, looking her up and down. “So, you can sit here and mope. I’m gonna find JJ so we can get our friend out of jail.” You spat, swinging the front door of The Chateau open and walking out, leaving a stunned Kiara behind.

YOU BANGED ON THE PASSENGER SIDE DOOR OF THE AMBULANCE WHEN YOU RAN UP,  A head of blonde hair visible through the window. JJ’s gaze whipped to the side, muttering under his breath as he pushed the door open for you. Hopping into the passenger seat, you shut the door behind you, pushing your hair out of your face.

“Finally decided to hop on the ‘get John B out of jail’ train, then?” He sassed, grimacing at the end of the sentence as he avoided your eyes.

“You must be at the wrong station because that train has already left.” You retorted, you saw his eyebrows pinch in on each other before he turned around — eyes going wide as he saw the plastic bag pinched between your fingers.

“...What is that?” He asked, eyes fleeting between the swinging bullet and the folder in your lap.

“This is the bullet the medical examiner pulled from my father’s head. Shot from Ward’s gun and coated in my father’s blood. And this?” You picked up the folder. “Is what I’m assuming is the original autopsy report that proves that my dad was killed.”

“...Why are you so happy about this?” He asked, face downturned into an expression of pity. 

“Not sure.” You said, letting the items fall into your lap. “I think it’s either that it hasn’t kicked in yet or I just don’t have any real shock left in me after everything that’s happened. Either way, this is our ticket to getting John B out of the dog pound. So, whatever plan you’ve conjured up, abort it.”

Suddenly, JJ was sucking in air through his teeth. “No can do, princess.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m still mad at you.” You told him, deadpan expression on face.

“Which I still don’t get why-”

“Look, we can talk about it later. Don’t hold me to that because I still want to shove my entire foot up your ass-

"Wait, how did you find me?"

"...I have your location, JJ."

"How did you get here? I don't see your car-"

"I walked. Well, ran. My car didn't have gas-"

"You know I hate when you walk around at night by yourself-"

"Aw, boohoo, as if you actually care."

"Uh, as a matter of fact, I do. You know I do."

"Yeah, right." You scoffed.

"If you were planning on acting like this, why did you come find me?"

He had you there. "...To make sure you were okay. But that's not important, okay? You need to drop your plan and we need to get to the police station so I can give this to Shoupe-”

“Again, no can do. I already stole my cousin’s truck, I have to go through with Plan A.”

“Which is…?”

“...We break Bree out of jail, to put it mildly.” He shrugged, avoiding your gaze once again. 

“...Weren’t you the one telling me that we’re already down a Pogue and not to add any more crimes to the list?”

“Well, I was left with no other choice.” He replied, throwing his hands up.

“Maybe if you weren’t such an impatient little shit-” You stopped talking when a police car pulled up next to the ambulance, the road empty aside for the two vehicles. The two of you fell into silence, immediately dropping the conversation and looking ahead of yourselves nonchalantly, or at least attempting to.

“...I hate when it’s slow like this, you know?” The officer in the squad car beside you started conversation. You and JJ both turned your heads in sync.

“Tell me ‘bout it, man.” JJ said cooly, resting his hands atop the steering wheel.

“Hey, what happened to Ricky?” The officer inquired, leaning further in his seat. Ricky was JJ’s cousin, the one he stole the van from. “He bang out?” 

JJ exhaled, sticking his head out of the window to talk to him more clearly. “Somethin’ like that?” 

Fortunately, a female voice broke through the radio inside of the ambulance. “One three Eddie. We got an unknown at KC Detention.”

JJ was quick to pick up the radio and respond. “Uh, yep, ten-four. We’ll be right there. Thank you so much. Over.” Slipping the radio back into its holder, JJ turned back to the officer in the squad car. “Duty calls.” He grimaced, sending the man a light-tipped smile. “I’ll see you later, Officer. You have a good night, though, okay?”

He shifted gears and prepared to drive off while you looked out the passenger side window, fist against your lips. 

“Hold up…” The man demanded, your heart dropping to your ass. “I got nothing to do. I’ll pace you.” He smiled, shifting his own gear and driving off.

JJ whipped his gaze between you and the road, you threw a hand out in the direction of the windshield. “Well, don’t look at me. Follow him.”

ARRIVING AT THE DETENTION CENTER, The guard at the front gate inspected the inside of the ambulance quickly through the driver side window, simply shining a flashlight inside and waving it around before giving you both the green light to proceed into facility.

“I thought this was supposed to be the most advanced security system on the planet.” You muttered under your breath, joking mainly to yourself but you caught JJ smile smally to himself in the corner of your eye.

Reversing the vehicle into the loading dock, a woman approached the driver’s side with a clipboard in her hands, motioning for you and JJ to get out and follow her. You gave each other one last weary look before exiting the vehicle, the woman waiting on the both of you as you came to a stop in front of her.

Her brows pinched together, looking you both up and down. “Where’s Ricky?”

“Ricky?” JJ inquired back, eyebrows raising high as he swung the keys to the van around his fingers. “Food Poisoning.” He shrugged. “Y’know Ming Dynasty off of Highway Twenty-Five? Them egg rolls, dude…They’ll get you good.” He covered as the woman seemed to buy it, nodding her head.

“And where’s your uniform?” She was directing her question towards you.

“I’m…” You dragged out, hands in your back pockets as you searched for the right thing to say. “Training. Yeah, I’m...not certified, just his ride along for the day.” You said cooly, not trying to seem to eager.

The woman seemed to accept your answer as well, sighing and turning around with clipboard in her hand as she walked you further into the loading bay.

“Patient fell out. No LOC but he’s orthostatic.” She explained to the both of you. “Stage four lymphoma. He’s been in and out of chemo for the last three months.” At this, you and JJ exchanged glances. JJ had explained that his idiotic plan of the day was to break John B out of jail. Since when did John B grow a stage four lymphoma?

Your questions were answered when the jail door buzzed and an officer came out, rolling an inmate out in a wheelchair that had too many years under his belt to be John B. JJ’s key swinging stopped as he eyed the patient in the chair, clearly not who he was hoping for as you drew your lips into a thin line and shot the blonde the most disappointed look ever.

“Uhh, is that the only patient here tonight, ma’am?” He asked nervously, peering harshly into the small rectangular window in the door.

She just chuckled as she and the officer wheeled the man closer to the van doors. “Why? You wanna take more than one tonight?”

“I mean, I would if I had to.” He perked up, spinning around to face the woman. “I’m just saying, I was called in because my patient had appendicitis?” He tried to reason, taking the hat off of his head.

It was clear to see that the woman was now skeptical, cocking an eyebrow and crossing her arms. “...This is our only patient.” She said simply, eyeing the two of you back and forth. “Where did you say you work?”

“Kildare County.” You shot out while JJ was too busy stuttering. You shot the woman a lazy, welcoming smile. 

“I worked over there. Never seen you.”

“Like I said, I’m new and not even certified yet. And my superior here, he just transferred from another facility, right? That’s what you told me, isn’t it?” You turned to JJ, trying to play into the whole power dynamic role here.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right.” He said, fitting the hat back onto his head and pulling out the keys. “Look, I would love to sit and chat but we gotta get our patient to the hospital-” He rambled, walking over to the double doors of the vehicle and attempting the first key.

“JJ…” The man in the wheelchair slurred. “Is that you?”

JJ simply looked to you and then the man in the chair before averting his eyes to the woman. “He’s delusional as shit.” No one seemed to see it as a red flag, allowing the blonde to continue trying to open the door to the vehicle. “We just got new rigs up at our facility, so…” He tried to avert any suspicion. 

You don’t know how JJ didn’t know what key opened the door but luckily, you did. When you were younger, his cousin Ricky used to let you, JJ, and John B go for joyrides in the back. The key to open the van was the only silver key on the ring. But you didn’t want to raise suspicion.

“Hey, let me.” You told JJ, holding your palm out. “I broke the key ring the other day, remember? So, the keys are all out of whack, sorry about that.” You directed your apologies to the two people on standby. Isolating the silver key and entering it into the slot, the lock turned easily allowing you to open the doors.

“Alright, let’s get him on up there.” 

JJ assisted the officer in loading the patient into the back of the van just as the phone on the wall began to ring. JJ’s eyes snapped to the phone and to the clock, obviously worried.

“Where’s your partner?” The woman asked JJ. His eyes went to you as he pointed in your direction. “No, she’s not a certified EMT. You need another certified EMT to look after your patient while you’re driving.”

“Can’t she drive?”

“No…” The woman said skeptically. “Again, only certified EMT’s can drive EMT Mandated Vehicles. Do you not know your own policies?”

“No, I do. I do, Uh, what about you officer? Can’t you drive?”

He simply shook his head. “No, he’s an inmate. I gotta be in the back.”

“Okay…Hold on, officer. “JJ started, clearly taking the high moral ground approach. “You’re saying that you’re gonna be responsible for me not taking care of my patient and not giving my ride-along her needed experience to get this oh-so important certification? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?” He continued, actually seeming to do a good job of convincing the two. “Look at him. He’s weak, feeble, and...pale and shit. And I gotta do medical stuff on him, and show my partner how to do medical stuff on him, or else we’re gonna lose him, okay?” He said, hopping into the back of the van as he tossed the officer the keys, holding out a hand to help you up as well.

You took it, using his assistance to get into the vehicle. “You don’t want that on your hands, do you?” He egged on the officer, the man looking back at the woman in charge. 

“...This didn’t happen.” He told her, hesitantly rounding the car to get into the driver’s seat as JJ closed the doors while the woman went to answer the phone. The two of you stared out of the window in the back at her as she talked on the phone, her eyes whipping towards the vehicle you were in just as the officer started to drive off. Her eyes were as wide as golfballs.

As the van exited the loading bay and passed the entrance gates, you and JJ sat down in the van across from one another when a thought crossed your mind. Nudging JJ’s thigh with the tip of your sneakers, he looked at you.

“What?”

“The folder.” You whispered, jutting your head in the direction of the driver and passenger seat. 

“What about it?”

You sighed, smacking your teeth and rolling your eyes. “It’s in the passenger seat, JJ. The folder is sitting in the passenger seat next to the officer.”

Then his own eyes were going wide. “Well, why did you leave it there?” He whispered back harshly.

“Maybe because I didn’t think a police officer would be driving the van while we camped out in the back playing paramedics!” You whisper-shouted back. Just then, a voice broke through the radio up front, it came from the officer’s personal radio.

“10-63 in progress. I repeat, 10-63 in progress. Do you copy?”

“...Copy.” He replied.

“Continue with the patient onto the hospital. We have backup on the way do you copy?” The woman on the radio copied back, you and JJ looked at each other, worry clear in both of your eyes. 

“I read. Ten-four.” He said finally, his eyes peering at the two of you in the back through the rear view mirror.

JJ cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Officer, everything good up there?” The man didn’t respond, simply sliding the plastic cover shut that allowed the people within the different sections of the van to communicate, leaving you and JJ in silence. “...Officer?”

You took initiative and got up, pulling at the handle to see if it would open from the inside.

It wouldn’t.

Just then, blue lights and police sirens gathered your attention, looking up to see at least three police squad cars tailing the ambulance. “Shit…” You cursed, finally starting to let the panic kick in. “JJ.” You turned to the blonde behind you with his hands on his head.

“Get a hold of Pope or Kie or Sarah, tell them where we are, and to find out a way to stop the van. If I lose that folder, we lose everything.”

As JJ texted, you couldn’t take your eyes off of the police cars. It felt like everything was going wrong at once. You finally had what you needed to potentially end this nightmare and it was all going down the drain.

Were you all paying for the sins of the people in your lives that came before you or something? What could a couple of teenagers do to deserve a life like this?

Just then, you and JJ went flying forward as the van came to an abrupt stop. You landed on top of the blonde who landed on his back, your foreheads butting painfully.

“Go! Get out of the way!” The police officer yelled to whoever caused him to stop, you and JJ getting up simultaneously when Kiara’s faint voice filled the air, muffled.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” Without hesitation, you and JJ bumrushed the door, basically breaking it open and hopping out. You knew you couldn’t go anywhere without it, so in one swift motion you ran to the front of the vehicle, swung open the passenger seat and took the folder, the officer too busy yelling at Kie to even notice, even you carefully let the door shut on its own. 

You eventually caught up to JJ, the two of you booking it into the woods without a single cop on your trail. Hopefully, Kiara would take the hint and meet the two of you on the other side.

And that she did.

Coming out of the trees, you spotted her SUV parked and waiting on a secluded street, you and JJ practically rolling inside.

“Go! Go!” JJ urged, slamming the door behind him as you both straightened in the back seat.

“Where?!” Kiara asked, pressing her foot on the petal.

“The police station.” You told her, folder in your lap as you made sure everything was still there. “Go to the police station.”

“AND YOU’RE SURE THIS’LL WORK?” Pope piped up from the passenger seat as Kiara pulled to a stop in front of the police station. You sighed, looking out of the window and up at the building. 

“No.” You told them bluntly, looking at the three people in the car. “But what other choice do we have?” Those were the words you left your friends with as you exited the car and walked up the steps to the Kildare County Police Department.

Walking through the double doors, you spotted a female officer behind the desk, her eyes shooting up as you stood in front of the counter. She eyed the folder clutched to your chest, then looked at you once more.

“...Is there something you need?”

You swallowed harshly, holding the folder tighter against your chest. “I need to see Sheriff Shoupe and Pathologist Daniels.”

“LISTEN, KID. THIS BETTER BE IMPORTANT ‘CAUSE I GOT A WHOLE LOTTA OTHER SHIT I OUGHTA BE DOIN’ RIGHT NOW.” Shoupe warned as he settled into the wheelie chair behind his desk. A man, who you assumed was the pathologist you’d requested, stood on the right side of the man in charge. He looked too calm for your liking.

You were sat in the chair across from Shoupe, the man cocking an eyebrow as he settled into his seat and clasped his hands atop the desk. “C’mon, now. I ain’t got all day-”

“You’re the pathologist, right? M. Daniels?” You cut off Shoupe, eyeing the man behind him. You were calmer than you thought you’d be. He failed to respond but the answer was clear when Shoupe looked at the man to his left, who was staring at you.

He shifted his weight, shoving his hands in his pockets. He didn’t have on any kind of uniform or coat. He didn’t even look like he was on the clock. “...That would be me.”

“Okay.” You said, sitting up straighter in the chair. “Do you recall performing an autopsy on Owen Carter? The man who went missing along with Big John Routledge almost a year ago and was found dead?”

He scratched his head, looking to Shoupe for a brief second before looking away and gathering himself. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“And what were the results of that autopsy?”

“Ah- I…don’t believe I’m allowed to disclose-”

“Just answer her question, Daniels.” Shoupe sighed, almost annoyed. “It’s his daughter.”

The pathologist’s eyes went wide, lips falling apart. He swallowed harshly, shoving his hands in his pockets. “To the best of my knowledge, it was concluded that your father’s injuries were consistent with suicide. There were two sizeable slits made to each wrist which severed several arteries and veins, which he bled out from.”

You nodded suspiciously, sitting up straighter in your seat. “Mhm. And what about the other two injuries?”

“...What?” The man’s faux obliviousness only made you feel better about your next move — flipping open the folder in your lap and placing the original document on the desk for Shoupe and his employee to examine.

Daniels looked like he was wrong move away from shitting bricks, a bead of sweat immediately forming on his hairline.

“The other two injuries.” You reiterated, pointing at the autopsy report on the table as you spoke. “You see, in this report, there are four injuries documented — the two slits on his wrists, which were concluded as not consistent with self-inflicted injuries, alongside the blunt force injury to his right temple and a gunshot wound to the back of his head with no exit point-”

“Now, hold on just a minute-”

“I’ll get to you in a second, Shoupe.” You snapped, piercing eyes gazing into the Sheriff’s before they drifted towards the pathologist once again. “In this report, signed with your signature, it’s concluded that my father’s cause of death was the gunshot wound, not the slits to his wrists that, in your own written words, were ‘made post-mortem’.”

“Alright, alright,” Shoupe cut in, leaning forward on the wooden tabletop. “You can’t just come in here with some unofficial documents claiming that, what exactly, he covered up your father’s death?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. The paper is right in front of you, Shoupe-”

“That paper don’t mean a damn thing. You could’ve printed this out at the local library for all I know.”

You simply scoffed. This man was truly unbelievable. Denial was one thing, blatant disregard was another. “You know what? You’re right. I could’ve have just printed this out and ran down here in hopes to accuse some random pathologist of covering up my father’s murder. But if that were the case…” You dragged out, lifting the plastic bag with the bullet inside up for the two men to see. “Where would I have gotten this, Shoupe?”

“The hell is that?...” Shoupe squinted, eyeing the swinging object as you sat it down the desk and pushed it towards him. The pathologist was visibly shaking at this point. 

“The gunshot wound I mentioned? That’s the bullet that made the injury. The bullet that, Doctor Daniels here, extracted from his skull and basically pawned off. Along with the original autopsy report.”

Shoupe looked up at the man from his seat — Daniels face was a dangerous shade of red, sweat dripping down the sides of his face now. Then, he was turning back to you. “Pawned off to who exactly? Where’d you get all of this?”

“That’s the easiest question you’ve asked me all night.” You quipped. “I got all of this from my mother.”

“...Don’t play games with me, kid.”

“No one is playing games, Sheriff.” You assured. “Haven’t you noticed that she hasn’t been dragging me around Figure Eight for the last couple of weeks?" You pointed out. "I figured out she’d been working with the man who killed my father, taking payments from him periodically ever since my dad died in exchange for her legal services. I got all of this out of a locked drawer in her law office. Haven’t been home since.”

“Working with the man who killed your father? Now, why would she do that?”

“Beats me. My theory is the money. Or maybe because he’s too powerful of a man to take down alone. You actually know him quite well.” You told him. “Ward Cameron?”

Shoupe scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “...You’re trying to tell me that…that Ward, killed your father and then recruited your mother to help him cover it up?” He asked incredulously. “Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“I’m aware of how it sounds.” You hissed, squinting your eyes meanly at the man. “But you cannot deny what’s in front of you, Shoupe. I know Ward is your friend and you want to trust him but we’ve been trying to open your eyes for weeks now. Just consider the facts.” You reprimanded, planting your hands on the desk. “The day Peterkin was murdered, Ward’s plane was the one leaving the tarmac. Gavin, the man me and my friends saw him kill? That was his pilot and he had the gun that Rafe used to kill Peterkin, the same gun we turned into you that he was blackmailing Ward with it. Big John and my dad? They were both out on the water with Ward that day and somehow, Ward was the only one who was still alive a day later." You explained, laying out the pieces. "Can’t you see, Shoupe? He’s playing you.”

“No...” He shook his head, standing from his seat as you followed. “This don’t make any sense…”

“It does. Just listen, for once. Even if I’m wrong, which I’m not, this connects Ward to at least four crimes within this year alone. That has to be enough to bring him in for questioning.”

“Questioning?” He laughed, hand on his forehead as he paced. “Question him about what? Some autopsy report you dug up and a…random bullet?"

“It’s not a random bullet.” You snapped, eyes on the pathologist who was frozen in place. “You didn’t immediately change the report, did you?” The man shook his head despondently, probably silently coming to terms with the fact that his career and life was over. “You changed it when my mother came to you, she wanted you to forge the report to say that my father killed himself and to give her the bullet. But you couldn’t, because you’d already sent it off to the officer on the case to be sent to ballistics, so all you could do was alter the autopsy report, right?” You theoreticized frantically. “Right.” You concluded when he nodded silently, eyes back on Shoupe.

“So, what does she do next?” You threw out, eyes following Shoupe’s frame as he walked slow circles around the room. “The only way she can get the bullet is to go to the officer in charge of the case. She pays them off and secures the bullet before it’s placed into evidence. Her only mistake? The ballistics report had already been processed.” This got Shoupe’s attention, his pacing ceasing as he made eye contact with you. “I read your departments policies online. This county’s police department doesn’t allow files to be deleted without authorization from their superior. They can be deleted from an officer’s personal desktop, but the file is ultimately sent to the trash bin within your computer to be deleted completely if you choose to do so. So, there’s a very good chance that, since you are now the superior following Peterkin’s death, the ballistics report that never made it back to her, is sitting on your computer right now.” You said all in one breath, motioning for the closed laptop on his desk.

Shoupe’s eyes went between you and the laptop before he seemed to cave, sighing heavily and basically slamming himself back down into his chair and opening the device. He typed and scrolled and clicked for a few moments before you saw a visible change in his demeanor. You were still standing, looming over the older man as he searched. 

“...There’s a deleted ballistics report from the officer that was on your father’s case.” He sounded defeated. “The bullet examined was extracted from the body of Owen Carter and was concluded to be fired from a… Colt Rail gun, serial number 18J…Dammit, Ward.” He sighed, clearly realizing the truth. At least you knew he’d at least looked up the gun in the system when you all gave it to him. It was about damn time he did his job with integrity. “What the hell I’m supposed to do with all this, kid? Huh? You just made my job a whole lot harder…”

“I want you to drop the charges against John B.” You told him firmly. “If you need to run the bullet again, run it. If you need to analyze the autopsy report, do it. I don’t care. John B didn’t kill anyone and you know it. You have a minor sitting in jail right now with the death penalty hanging above his head. And I am telling you right now, Shoupe. If John B dies," You warned, walking towards the door

"...I will kill Ward Cameron my damn self and take your entire department down with me.”

next chapter>

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading.

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©loveharlow.

[gyuslvrr]

[ᴄ.ʏᴊ] | 𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗶𝗿

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: being the newest mbank mc comes with its perks - that's in choi yeonjun's case though as he gets to flirt with you on air!

ᴀ/ɴ: gn reader. this is so old it’s from the gbgb era 😭 this is CRINGE!!!

“My darlings are here today.” Yeonjun announces with his usual bright smile stretched across his features. You watch fondly as he speaks about his team members, even if he looks quite stupid as he does so with the fake airline hat that’s a bit too big for his head.

“Right. Isn’t it your first time promoting while being an MC, Yeonjun?” You ask, recalling the scripted conversation that was printed onto your cue cards. You mentally pat yourself on the back after saying the sentence correctly and not fumbling over it.

“Yes!” He replies cheerily “Tell me something, [y/n]” Yeonjun adds.

You blink. You don’t quite remember this in the script.

“Yeah?” You reply as your free hand cards through your hair nervously. The pressure to remember your reply has your heart racing nervously. Maybe it’s a little extra embarrassing to forget your line when past MC Soobin (who was extremely good at his job) is politely stood behind you and Yeonjun with the rest of TXT.

“Do you prefer good boys or bad boys?” He asks daringly. You hear a couple of the TXT boys stifle their laughter behind cupped hands and pursed lips at the question.

Definitely not in the script.

“Bad boys, of course” You reply swiftly. Whether it was a set up to introduce TXT, you’re not sure, but you take the lead to part from Yeonjun to introduce the group.

There’s a couple whoops from behind you, accompanied by an eyebrow wiggle from Beomgyu which you caught after the broadcast (a stern message was sent to him after).

With a swift pre-introduction of the group, you slide away to reveal the five members. They cheerily introduce themselves with Yeonjun switching seamlessly between MC Yeonjun and TXT Yeonjun. It’s amazing how he’s able to switch between personas without fumbling over his words.

You’re almost so amazed that you just about miss your cue.

“Y-Yeonjun,” You stutter, jumping onto your cue “Hopefully it’s not too much to ask, but would you and your members like to sing a couple of your killing parts from Good Boy gone Bad?” You smile, hiding how flustered you are behind your mic. A couple of the members giggle lightly, catching that you almost missed your line.

With flushed faces, each member sings their little killing parts. You can’t help but smile brightly, watching as they become a little flustered when the crew cheers them on.

“집어치워 love 개나 줘 forever

피 대신 흘러 monochrome diamonds

Killed it, I killed it myself

곤두박질 부러진 날개로

추락해도 아프지 않아 anymore

I like being bad.” Yeonjun refuted his rap, exuding a confidence that you don’t think you’ll ever have. Any time an MC has asked you to sing or rap when you’re standing in the idol’s position has felt like the world has caved in on you.

“[Y/N].” Yeonjun starts once you’ve all stopped clapping. You nod, looking eagerly at Yeonjun. The devious expression on his face causes your stomach to drop.

“Since you said you like bad boys, did you hear when I said I like being bad?” He smugly asks, ignoring the bird like screeches emanating from his group (namely Kai and Beomgyu) as well as the flustered yelling of staff.

You look absolutely bewildered and the camera man takes the opportunity to zoom in on you. You stare at Yeonjun who continues to smugly smirk, but you can see a lightly red dusting begin to appear on his cheeks.

“Um…” You stutter, wrecking your head to find anything else in the script. Beomgyu is shouting and to say the least, complete chaos is erupting behind you. Not only have the group made it obvious that this definitely isn’t in the script but your reaction solidifies it.

“Anyway,” You segway, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation “Up next, The Boyz and Astro.”

The crew are still laughing as the camera cuts, even the camera shakes as the camera man tries to keep his laugh in. You let out a flustered laugh, beelining for the general waiting room.

You weave past staff, idols and all sorts of people, dodging their laughs and remarks as they had been watching the whole ordeal on the small monitoring screens places throughout the building.

It’s not hard to hear the pounding footsteps that follow behind you. Kai’s loud laugh and the general noise that follows Beomgyu ensures the thought that they’re practically running after you.

You’re swift, though. You reach the MC room and close the door over, ignoring how the staff fawn over you to fix your hair and makeup. You have probable another hour of recording and you’ve practically sweat all of your makeup off from pure nerves.

“[y/n]!” Yeonjun shouts over the sound of the door thwacking off of its hinges. You jump, not expecting the sound or Yeonjun so quickly.

“Did you have to slam the door?” You query, passing a look over your shoulder. Your hair and makeup team were silently pampering you and therefore not giving you room to move. Yeonjun takes the chance to walk in front of you so he can speak to you properly.

“You got so embarrassed, it was funny.” He smiles, laughing at the annoyed look scrawled across your brows. Your makeup artist taps your forehead, silently telling you to stop creasing. You sigh.

“I am never doing a broadcast with you again. You are so lucky that the other MC isn’t here today.” You scoff.

Yeonjun laughs “What do you mean?”

“Cause I’m going to beat your ass and no one is going to be here to stop me.”

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Hello, since then I have been reading your postings for reader x eltingville and so on. I think they're amazing in writing and catching their personalities I enjoy your posts ♥️♥️ If it's not too much trouble, I did find your parent posts with the Eltingville Club interesting. I wanted to know your thoughts on how they might respond to the more difficult parts of parenting. For example having to ground their child or handle tantrums things like that

sorry if this came out too formal or something like that I got really nervous 💔

( YES I LOVE THIS

"So little yet takes up half the bed."

Josh as a dad dealing with his little girl’s tantrum over wanting to sleep in his bed:

Josh is the kind of dad who thinks he’ll lay down the law but crumbles the second he hears sniffles. The moment his daughter starts crying—full-on meltdown, little fists balled up, tears down her cheeks, saying, “But I’m scared, I don’t wanna sleep alone!”—he’s totally thrown off his game.

At first? He tries to argue like she's another adult:

> “Kiddo, we’ve been over this. Your bed is your bed, and my bed is my bed, okay? That’s the system. There’s a system.”

But she just cries harder. And Josh—who can barely regulate his own emotions—starts pacing. Muttering. Maybe rubbing his temples like, God, this is happening again.

> “You can’t manipulate me with crocodile tears. This isn’t the Wrath of Khan, I’m not falling for it.”

But then she pulls out the big guns: trembling lip, reaching for him with tiny arms. Maybe she says, “But I feel safe with you,” and that’s it. He’s toast. His heart does a full-body cringe.

Cue dramatic sigh and grumbling as he throws back the covers:

> “Fine. But just for tonight. And no kicking me in your sleep this time. You elbowed me in the spleen last week.”

Then, as soon as she curls up beside him and drifts off? He softens. Quiet. Protective. One arm loosely draped around her without even realizing it.

Later, he’ll tell someone—

> “I’m not going soft. She’s got this Jedi mind trick thing. It’s psychological warfare.”

But he’ll sleep better with her there. He always does.

—

"Its not poison its a fairy potion."

Jerry handling his daughter’s tantrum over bad-tasting medicine:

The meltdown starts fast—her little face scrunching up as she shouts, “No! It’s yucky! I hate it!” and maybe even kicks the cabinet where the bottle is kept. Jerry flinches at the noise, nearly spilling the dose on the floor.

> “Okay, okay, sweetie—please don’t—let’s not break the furniture, that’s teak—”

He tries to reason, to plead:

> “You have to take it. You’ve got a fever, and I already called the pediatrician, and I can’t not give it to you—please don’t make me call again.”

But when she starts to cry? Jerry breaks into a sweat. His hands start shaking. His brain is racing—he’s imagining CPS kicking down the door, “Eltingville’s Least Liked Club Member Denies Medicine to Child,” and then—

Idea. His voice shifts, awkwardly adopting a whimsical tone like he’s never done a magic trick in his life but he’s trying.

> “Wait, wait—hang on a second. This isn’t just medicine. This is… um… Fairy Potion. Yeah. Straight from Queen Mildew of the Night Grove.”

His daughter blinks at him, sniffling. He’s surprised it worked even that much, so he doubles down.

> “It’s very rare. Only given to brave little girls who’ve proven themselves worthy by surviving… broccoli night. Which you did. With honors.”

He grabs a clean measuring cup like it’s a chalice, pours in the thick purple goo, and solemnly hands it over.

> “One sip, and you’ll get temporary powers of—uh—dreamflight and… itch resistance. And probably something sparkly. But only if you drink the whole thing.”

She’s skeptical. But she’s also five. So she drinks it, grimacing through the taste.

Jerry gasps theatrically:

> “Did you feel that? I think you’re glowing. We better tuck you in before you start levitating.”

And she giggles. It works. He nearly cries from relief.

Later, he’ll stand at the sink, washing the cup, quietly muttering to himself:

> “God. That was exhausting. I’m not cut out for this. I need flash cards or—something.”

—

"But you promised."

Epilogue Pete with his daughter throwing a tantrum because he won’t play dolls with her:

She’s been begging for twenty minutes while Pete’s trying to fix a busted remote. Wires on the table, screwdriver in hand, but over her shrieking? You’d think he was refusing her water in a desert.

> “I said I don’t wanna play dolls without you! You promised! You promised!”

Pete flinches like she just took a bat to his kneecap. He rubs his face with both hands.

> “Kid, come on. I just got home, my back’s killin’ me, and I don’t know if I got the emotional range to be ‘Princess Glitter Sparkle’ right now, alright?”

But she’s already red in the face, crumpling onto the carpet, letting out this shrill “I’ll never be happy ever again!!” that hits him right in the soul. He stares at her. Swears under his breath.

> “Jesus, you're dramatic. You been watchin’ your mother’s telenovelas again?”

She doesn’t answer. Just sobs harder, clutching her Barbie like it’s the corpse of a fallen soldier.

And that’s it. Pete slams the screwdriver down and mutters:

> “Goddammit. Alright, alright—fine. Lemme just—gimme a sec.”

Cut to two minutes later: he’s sitting cross-legged on the rug, looking utterly dead inside, with a plastic crown too small for his head and a Ken doll shoved in his calloused hand. His daughter perks right up like nothing ever happened, suddenly cheery.

> “Okay, Daddy, now Ken’s in love with the fairy queen, and you gotta make him say something romantic!”

Pete groans.

> “Ken’s got commitment issues, baby. I dunno if he’s ready for all that.”

She glares at him, tiny arms crossed.

Pete sighs again. Deeper. Resigned.

> “…Fine. ‘Ya eyes are like two diamonds in the dark, shinin’ right into my soul or whatever. I’m losin’ my freakin’ mind over here, fairy queen.’”

His daughter bursts into giggles like it's the funniest, most romantic thing she's ever heard. Pete stares at the doll in his hand like it just insulted his lineage, then flicks its molded hair.

> “This guy better appreciate you. I had a social life once, ya know.”

But he’d do it again tomorrow. And the next day. Because his principessa runs the joint.

-‐-

"Beauty and the beast—literally."

Epilogue Bill Dickey with his daughter throwing a tantrum because he didn’t tell Mom (you) she looked beautiful after her makeover:

You finally walk out of the bedroom—hair done, lipstick perfect, dress zipped up without a single snag. You've got your heels on. Your daughter gasps. She claps her hands like you’re a fairy godmother emerging from a transformation sequence.

And Bill? He’s on the couch in a stained “Man-Thing vs. Swamp Thing” T-shirt, shoveling cold lo mein into his mouth, barely glances up.

> “Yuh-huh. You do that yourself? Let’s go, I’m starvin’.”

You shoot him a look. Your daughter does more than that.

> “DADDY!!”

He jumps like she set off fireworks under his ass.

> “Jesus Christ, what now?!”

> “You didn’t say Mommy looked beautiful! You’re supposed to say it! You’re being MEAN!”

> “She knows she looks good! What do you want me to do, serenade her? Paint a mural? She’s my wife, not friggin’ Aphrodite!”

But his daughter’s already halfway to a meltdown. She’s got a tight grip on her My First Makeup Bag and the same look in her eye he used to get when some jerk at the comic shop said “Star Wars” was better than “Star Trek.”

> “If you won’t say it right, I’m putting makeup on you!”

> “No, you’re not. Don’t even—HEY! Don’t open that—you get that mascara wand away from me!”

Cut to Bill, slumped in a chair with a face full of blush and sparkles, eyeshadow up to his eyebrows, and lips painted in a wobbly red mess like he lost a fight with a circus clown.

He looks directly at you, dead serious:

> “If you take a picture of this, I swear to God, I will burn every photo album in this house and salt the earth.”

Your daughter beams. She’s got lip gloss on her forehead and zero regrets.

> “Now say Mommy looks beautiful or I’m putting glitter on your comics!”

Bill lets out a guttural sigh, throws his head back.

> “Fine. You look beautiful, okay?! Like you walked outta one of those perfume commercials with the whispery French voice and the dead-eyed anorexic model falling into a pool.”

Your daughter pauses, then nods. “Good. Now kiss her hand.”

> “What is this, Les Misérables?! I—ugh, fine.”

He kisses your hand dramatically, muttering:

> “This is what I get for raising a drama goblin. You’re both outta your minds.”

But as soon as she's not looking, he gives your hand a little squeeze. And when your back is turned, he saves the lipstick-stained napkin like it’s part of a collector’s set.

---

[mostly-marvel-musings]

Like a moth to a flame

A/N: You and Tony have separated for three months now, raising your five year old daughter Emily as co-parents. This is heavily inspired from something I read recently. Leave a heart, comment or reblog if you enjoyed reading!

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Warnings: 18+ angst, infidelity, some fluff. Nobody’s perfect!

Word count: 3.5k

Tony Stark Masterlist

.

“Did you have fun at Daddy’s?”

You chuckled at your daughter’s enthusiastic nodding as she grabbed your hand and skipped towards your car. Happy had waited for you outside with Emily while you dodged traffic to get to her, making you wonder where Tony was. Probably holed up in his lab? Maybe he was with her? The latter made your stomach drop at the mere thought. It should’ve stopped affecting you by now, right? Wrong.

While you secured Emily in her booster seat, she went on about the things she did during her weekend with her father. She usually spent every other weekend at the Stark Tower being utterly spoiled by her Dad. He didn’t get enough time with her and whatever little he did, he made sure to indulge her and how. You couldn’t complain though, he was a good father. If only he were a good husband, you thought…

“Pepper helped me with my drawing yesterday.”

Her statement made you halt your movements. He was bringing her home now? And with your daughter there? It angered you.

“What was she–I–I mean what did you draw baby?” you forced a smile on your face as you pulled out of the driveway, keeping your eyes on the road.

“The quinjet. And then we had pizzas. And ice-cream!” she exclaimed, fumbling around her little bag to show you what she had drawn. Even at five, she had already taken after her Dad, she was obsessed with his work, his suits, all the tech jargon which you didn’t understand. She had been a Daddy’s girl ever since she had been in your tummy.

Emily had talked your ear off the entire ride home while your mind was still stuck on the fact that Tony had the guts to bring her home. His mistress. The name made you cringe but that’s what she was. You would bring it up with him later, you thought. Bringing her in Emily’s life could lead to tons of questions that you didn’t want to answer. What did he even introduce her to Emily as? A friend? You scoffed at the thought, parking your vehicle in your garage before helping your daughter out with her bags.

You had been silent through dinner, occasionally nodding your head while your daughter spoke about her upcoming dance recital. Your mind was clouded with the thoughts of that fateful night when you walked in on your husband and found out your marriage was over.

Pressing a kiss against Emily’s forehead, you whispered good night before safely tucking her in and making your way out of her room with a smile on your face. FRIDAY announced Tony’s return from a business trip and you had found him in your en-suite hastily discarding his suit. He seemed jumpy when you approached him for a kiss.

“What’s wrong, Tony?” you frowned, noticing a red stain on his white under shirt. Was it lipstick?

Wordlessly, you had unbuttoned his shirt, fingers shaking with anger as your eyes landed on a prominent hickey marked on his shoulder. Was he hoping you wouldn’t notice it? As if right on cue, his phone that was on the counter buzzed with Pepper’s name flashing across the screen. It was a punch in your gut. Only the worst.

With guilt splashed all over his features, Tony walked out behind you as tears clouded your vision.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen, Y/N. It was a mistake. I’m s–”

“You’re sorry?” you yelled, turning to look him in the eye while he lowered his gaze to the floor.

“You’re sorry for sleeping with her or you’re sorry that I found out? How long has this been going on, Tony? You know what? Don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter.” you muttered, pushing past him to pack a suitcase with your things, not having a plan in mind but knowing you needed to get the hell away from him.

“Where are you going, Y/N?” he asked desperately trying to stop you.

“I don’t know. I can’t stay here.”

“Honey, please. We can talk about it, don’t go. Please!”

“You broke your vows, Anthony!” you screamed, brushing away hot tears that streamed down your cheeks as you resumed packing.

All of his attempts to stop you failed, you couldn’t believe what the day had turned into. In the morning Tony had promised to spend the entire weekend with his girls and now the day had ended with a cheating husband and a ruined marriage.

It took you a long time to be civil with him. Every time you looked at him, it reminded you of what he had done. Your heart broke all over again. You refused to speak about the incident, you couldn’t. Yet you couldn’t avoid him forever. Because you had a daughter to think about. A daughter who was concerned about her parents’ strange behavior towards each other. It was out of the blue for her. If only you had the ability to explain.

Three months ago, you separated from Tony, agreeing to make Emily’s life as normal as you possibly could. It took time, a lot of it, but eventually you came to terms with it. Well, almost. Tony was still the father of your child, he was still the man you had fallen madly in love with all those years ago. All that love doesn’t just disappear overnight, right?

“Mama?” you felt Emily tug on your arm, staring up at you with her big brown eyes she’d gotten from her Dad.

“Yes?”

“The story?” she pointed to the book you clutched tightly in your hands, waiting for her bedtime story like she did every night. Shaking your head, you snapped yourself out of it and began reading her the story she’d chosen, putting thoughts of your failed marriage on the backburner.

.

On Friday, you felt you were coming down with a flu. Aching muscles, chills and a stuffy nose, you were miserable and ready to sleep your way through the weekend. You were thankful Tony was coming to pick Emily up for the weekend, you didn’t want your daughter falling ill.

Emily jumped from the couch and ran towards the door the moment your doorbell rang, clearly excited about seeing her Dad after a couple of weeks. You were pleasantly surprised to see Rhodey accompanying your husband as they both greeted your daughter with matching smiles before turning to you.

“Y/N! My favourite Stark!” Rhodey chuckled, sticking his tongue out at Emily who giggled.

You were still a Stark. You never actually got to file for a divorce. Not that you wanted to. It was all too confusing. You still harbored feelings for Tony even though he broke your heart. Those feelings weren’t going anywhere, especially not when he was so good with you and Emily. Watching him interact with her always made you happy. Ever since you’d got together, you had wanted to raise kids with Tony. It had been a dream that turned into a reality the day you found out you were pregnant.

“Rhodey. What a pleasant surprise! I’d hug you but I don’t want to get you sick.” you smiled at your friend, giving Tony the same smile who had a look of concern on his face. Your nose was red and you looked pale, it worried him greatly.

“What happened, Y/N?” he asked, coming over to feel your forehead with the back of his hand, filling your nostrils with his familiar scent.

“Oh it’s just a cold, I’m sure. Nothing to worry about.” you dismissed, contemplating bringing up the Pepper incident from two weeks ago. You still hadn’t addressed it.

While you packed the last of Emily’s things in her bag, Tony knocked on the door of her room and cleared his throat.

“So, I asked Rhodey to take Em to the park. I’m gonna stay over to make you my magic soup.”

The tone of definiteness in his voice left little room for argument, knowing Tony he wouldn’t let up, so you agreed. It was thoughtful of him. It would give you two a chance to talk as well.

“Have fun with Uncle Rhodey and no sprinting out of sight, okay? Call me if you need anything, Rhodes.” you called out to the pair of them.

“I will. Feel better, Y/N.”

“Bye, Mama! Bye Daddy!”

You smiled as Tony blew her a kiss which she pretended to catch, a habit she had picked up watching the two of you, when you were together. That seemed a long time ago now, you thought sadly.

You felt nervous all of a sudden being alone with him, it wasn’t the first time but it was after a long time. Tony’s eyes landed on your t-shirt and a smile appeared on his lips.

“I knew you stole this.”

Looking down at his MIT t-shirt, you smiled back, it had been your favourite clothing to sleep in. You always wore it when you missed him a little extra, even after years of you stealing it, it still distinctly smelled of Tony Stark. Your Tony Stark.

“I can give it back.” you teased, but Tony shook his head.

“Looks better on you anyway.”

You tried to ignore the butterflies you felt at his statement, perching yourself on the counter while Tony grabbed an apron, moving around in your kitchen with ease as he brought the things he needed to make the soup.

You spoke back and forth about your work, chuckling when Tony swatted your hand away as you tried to grab a piece of carrot. It felt nice to have him around you again, it felt familiar. He tried for weeks to get you to talk to him, at first, you had ignored all his pleas. But then, for the sake of your daughter, you met with him, heard his apology, allowed him to gather you in his arms when you broke down.

You still needed time and he respected that. From that day on, you had found a way to be around your husband without the need to punish him for his deeds. It still hurt and you still hadn’t forgiven him, but you were amicable.

Noticing he went upstairs to your bedroom, you frowned as he returned with a large knit blanket.

“You get the full Maria Stark treatment tonight.” he winked, wrapping the blanket around you and placing a soft kiss against your forehead, making those butterflies return. He had explained how his mother always made him a soup that helped with all kinds of cold and flu, causing it to magically disappear, hence the name. You knew Tony missed her.

After all this time, he made sure to mention her to his kid, telling her stories about her grandma who would’ve doted on her granddaughter if she were alive.

After making sure you had a big bowl of soup, Tony and you found yourselves on your couch, with your legs draped across his lap, his hands gently massaging your foot. Rhodey had texted that he was taking Emily to dinner, giving you more time with each other before they returned.

“Why was Pepper at the house, Tony?” you blurted out, not beating around the bush.

“I didn’t know she was gonna show up, Y/N. Honestly, I didn’t want her there but she began speaking to Emily and the next thing I know they’re in Em’s room, colouring away. I didn’t want to have an argument in front of her.”

You scoffed, shaking your head at his statement. Surely he could’ve thrown her out if he didn’t want her there?

“Babe, please–”

“I don’t want her spending time with my child, Tony. You’re free to fuck whoever you wish to but she needs to stay away from Emily.” you fought back tears as you said those words, looking away from the man, not wanting him to see you so weak.

Tony knelt in front of you, grabbing both your hands in his, pleading you to look at him.

“She won’t be around our kid, Y/N. I promise you. I don’t plan on seeing her ever. She took me by surprise that day. It won’t happen again. I need you to believe me.”

You allowed him to wipe your tears away with his thumb, managed a small nod before he sat right beside you, opening his arms for you.

Your eyes fell close as Tony embraced you, hugging you to his chest, rubbing your back soothingly. His familiar scent enveloped your senses, reminding you of home.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to screw this up. I made a mistake for which I probably don’t deserve your forgiveness but I swear I will do whatever it takes to make myself worthy of your love again. I never stopped loving you and I never will. You and Em are my whole world.” he murmured with utmost sincerity, kissing the top of your head repeatedly as you listened, not bothering to wipe the tears that stained his shirt.

You believed him.

.

“Tony. Tony! Anthony Edward Stark, your daughter is kicking for the first time and you’re missing it.”

You called out after your husband ignored your calls, hunched over his work station in the lab. That however made him snap out of it and sprint over to place both his hands on your belly, feeling your baby kick against his hand rather enthusiastically. He knelt in front of you with the biggest grin you’d seen, placing a kiss against your swollen tummy before speaking to your unborn child.

“I can’t wait to meet you either, sweetheart. I love you so much already. I love you both.” he blinked up at you, filling your heart with happiness.

“We still don’t have a name for this one.” you point out as Tony helped you into a chair, scratching the back of his head as he thought about it.

“Hmm. Rose…Lily…Emily?”

At the mention of Emily, you felt a firm kick that you wince.

“Well she likes Emily, so I guess it’s settled.” you laughed as Tony placed his hands on your belly once again to feel his child respond.

The memory roused you from your sleep as you felt someone crawl on your bed. Tony had stayed over and you both passed out on your bed late last night, and now Emily was crawling her way between the two of you, rubbing her eyes that were still heavy with sleep.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Tony’s voice was almost too loud for the time of the day as your daughter snuggled close to you, wrapping both her arms around your neck.

“Are you feeling better?” Tony asked you, checking your temperature once again. You were feeling better than yesterday already although the exhaustion still prevailed.

“I’m gonna make some coffee–”

“Shh, Daddy!” The irritation in her voice made you giggle as you saw your husband huff playfully and rest his head against his palm, watching the two of you with a soft expression on his face.

“Yeah. Shh Daddy.” you repeated with a grin, cradling Emily against your chest as you closed your eyes again. Not long after, you felt a strong pair of arms wrap both of you in a comforting hug as Tony muttered ‘I’m not missing family snuggle time.’

.

It was the day of the big fundraiser at Stark Tower.

You had made a commitment to show up months ago, given you had helped organize the whole thing in the first place. Plus a part of you felt hopeful since the night Tony stayed over, you saw a glimmer of hope after what had been a painfully grey three months.

Since that day, you saw tangible efforts from Tony towards fixing your marriage, he showed up for Emily’s recitals, checked on you more often than he would, spent several nights over at your place just chatting, it felt easy to get back into routine with him, it felt familiar.

Sure it didn’t erase the past but it felt like a step towards the right direction. Deep down, you knew you wouldn’t want to be away from him, the thought of divorcing Tony was far from your mind now.

You dressed up well for the occasion, got your hair and make up done, you wanted to look good, not just for yourself but for your husband too. A part of you wanted him to realize what he had been missing out on for these past few months.

Your sequined red gown showed off your curves perfectly, the plunging neckline offered just enough cleavage for a tease.

“You look so pretty, Mama!” your daughter made you twirl around before you swooped down to kiss her goodbye. You had arranged for a babysitter for Emily tonight, not wanting her to stay up too late.

Tony had Happy pick you up and drive you over to Stark Tower; he had texted you asking about your outfit, wanting to match his pocket square to the colour of your dress. Opening the door for you, Tony felt his breath hitch as his eyes landed on you. You were a vision.

Offering you his hand, he let his eyes shamelessly rake over your form, drinking you in. His heart sang a happy song at the sight of the stunning engagement ring and wedding band sitting on your finger as he clasped your hand in his.

“Y/N, wow…you look so beautiful.”

You blushed under his gaze, heart fluttering happily as he stepped closer. Unable to help himself, Tony captured your lips in a soft kiss, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer, not caring about anything else.

You felt it linger way after it was over, the touch of his lips on yours after such a long time. It made you smile at each other like teenagers who’d kissed for the very first time.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help it.” he cleared his throat as he stepped back, cautious of overwhelming you before he offered you his arm which you gladly took.

As frowned as a vaguely familiar car stopped right outside the entrance, and out stepped the last woman you wanted to lay your eyes on. Pepper Potts.

You weren’t letting her ruin your evening. Not anymore. She had done enough damage. Letting go of Tony’s arm, you stormed right over to her, ready to give her a piece of your mind.

“I don’t remember you being invited here, Pepper. Not tonight. Not ever, actually.” you fumed, trying to keep your anger in check while Tony walked over, glaring at her while keeping an arm around you.

“Oh I never show up unannounced, Tony invited me months ago, didn’t you Tony?” her face was smug, you had to do everything in your power not to punch her right then and there. Tony opened his mouth to say something but you cut him off.

“Unless you want your skinny little arms ripped off, I suggest you crawl back into that car of yours and stay the fuck away from my family.” the death stare you sent her way was enough for her to back off, you saw her gulp and give your husband one last glance before cursing under her breath and leaving.

You strode inside angrily with Tony following two steps behind, equal parts impressed and turned on by your reaction. Motioning the waiter, he offered you a glass of champagne which you downed in one go, letting out a breath you had been holding.

“I can’t believe that just happened.” you whispered, still high on adrenaline as you paced about.

“That was hot, Y/N.” he exclaimed, warily stepping closer to you, glad when you didn’t push him away. You rolled your eyes at his statement but gladly accepted the kiss he offered. He pulled you flush against his chest, pushing his tongue past your lips while your arms found their way behind his neck, tugging on his hair, needing him now more than ever. He shared your sentiment as you felt his erection against your core, making you break the kiss, much to his dismay.

“Really Tony?” you couldn’t help the smile that threatened to split your face as Tony shrugged. Despite the circumstances, the two of you were made for each other, you knew that. You were like a moth to his flame. You couldn’t stay away even if you tried.

“Bathroom. Five minutes.” you gave him a little shove, winking at the man over your shoulder before heading towards the bathroom, ready to claim what was already yours.

[redsrooftopprincess]

Assassin, Part 3

Fem Reader x Raphael

Warning: graphic description of a bipolar crash (or, at least how I experience them) over this chapter and the next. Please take care of yourselves and don't read if you think it might trigger you. Much love to my fellow rapid-cyclers. 💚

Part 1 Part 2 Part 4 Part 5

After the storm of emotion had passed, Splinter sat with Raphael until the moon had crossed over the house, discussing the matter more calmly with his son. Eventually, Raphael felt stable enough to at least make it to bed.

The front steps groaned under his weight, and the paint flaked off the banister like snow in July, as he made his way up the front porch. Today had been a lot.

It had started out beautifully. The early morning mist held fast to the light of dawn as the five of you spent the morning setting everything up. Light swirled around your waist as you worked on place settings, and he was pulled to you.

He walked up behind you, just watching for a moment, affection blooming in his chest. You had ruined his life in the best possible way. Meeting you had brought up so many things he thought he'd let go of a long time ago. It made him hurt in ways he can't even begin to describe. And he is so very grateful.

You'd held each other, swimming in the golden light, and for just one moment he knew how it felt to hold sunlight in his arms.

Then, the ceremony.

Raphael reaches for the screen door handle and depresses the button, pulling it open. The hinges screech their usual protestations, and he cringes as the sound digs the exhaustion headache further into his skull.

That low had hit hard and he should have been expecting it. It'd been a minute since he got triggered like that, but you've always had a way of getting inside his head... You were so damn beautiful...

"Hey," you'd said, peeking around the door to the "boys room" where Casey and the guys were drinking waiting. "You guys almost ready?" When you stepped around and into the room, Raphael forgot how to breathe.

Perfectly coifed and painted in pin curls and neutral make up, and adorned with matching teardrop moissanites in your ears and around your neck (a pre-wedding gift from your brother), you looked like you'd stepped off the silver screen in 1940.

The silk of your floor length forest green dress flowed around you like ink in water, and the thin straps holding it up might as well have been non-existent. His eyes followed the curve of your neck down to your shoulder. His mouth watered and his mind wandered. He wondered what it would taste like. He looked away. Fuck's sake. Couldn't he just look at his beautiful friend in peace?

Minutes later, you'd slipped your arm through his as the two of you waited for your cue to walk down the aisle. A light dusting of pink bloomed in your cheeks when his arm had brushed against your silk covered breast, and your warmth radiated through contact. That warmth poured into his veins, and he felt something in his chest begin to spin.

It had been such a good week. Too good. And some part of him knew that. He'd drawn a deep breath, and exhaled, maintaining a mask of calm. He could feel the crash coming, and prayed he could at least make it to the other side of the wedding before it hit.

He'd spent the week in bliss, planning, packing, driving, and setting up his best friend's wedding with the most beautiful, sweet, smart, and sassy woman in the world. Now, he was going to pay for it.

Don't think about it. Don't think about where you are, or what this is, or that she's literally about to walk down an aisle with you. *Don't* think about it.

The awaited cue came and the two of you stepped out into the early evening light. He'd tried so hard not to look at you as you crossed the threshold, but it had been a lost cause from the beginning.

A Summer Goddess walked beside him. Skin full of golden sunlight, you'd caught his eye out of the corner of yours and your playful smile could have lit up the world. When three steps in the skirt of your dress fully bloomed to reveal a scandalous amout of leg from the slit three-quarters of the way up your thigh, he nearly tripped.

Every look, every brush of silk against his skin sent ripples through him, pushing the spinning in his chest faster. It was the longest twenty-five feet of his life.

When you reached the archway, you turned to him and your hand slid, feather light, down his arm into his. He gazed down at you and smiled.

He wanted to stop you. To pull back on your hand and pull you into him. To take his own and place it softly against your cheek, the other around your waist. He wanted to look into your eyes with every word he's choked down since the moment he met you. He wanted to slide his hand into your hair, tilt your head up, and capture your mouth with his.

This was the closest he would ever get.

With one last gentle squeeze, your hand slipped from his, and his fingers tingled from the loss of contact. You'd each walked to your respective places, and when the music changed over and Bride walked down the aisle, all eyes were on April.

Except his.

.....

Less a lover, more a fighter

But I'm tired of fighting to hold on

Got too many scars to hide them

So it's easier being on my own

But you

Shoot first, draw blood, before I know

Yeah you

One shot, one touch, and I let go

How did this happen?

My walls were up and

You moved without a sound

Never imagined, like an assassin

One look to me down

Assassin - Sultan + Shepherd

...

Tag list:

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll

[rosesradio]

Hello! I saw that you were taking requests. Would you mind writing a Peter Parker x Reader fic where he is just absolutely head over heels and the reader just doesn't know. The two are good friends so when the reader needs a date for a destination wedding she asks Peter. Cue the classic tropes. ✨💕

hii, here you go !! 🫶 i put in all the best tropes, including friends to lovers, fake dating, only one bed, he fell first she fell harder…it’s a lot, and it was so fun to write. thanks for the request & reblogs are appreciated <3

my inbox is open, please read my pinned!

word count: 4,105

warnings: light swearing, some sexually suggestive jokes

The Wedding Date

"Hm," you hummed, pacing from one side of your living room to the other. In balancing out your racing train of thought, you had picked up the giant stuffed teddy bear that rested on your couch. "Hm, hm, hm..."

"Hm," Peter echoed, narrowing his eyes as he watched you, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Can I ask what's bothering you, or am I gonna be left in the dark while you keep humming for another five minutes?"

"Ugh, I'm sorry," you sighed, forcing yourself to stand still and hug the giant bear to your chest. It was then that you remembered how you got this bear, Teddy, in the first place: Peter won it for you at a carnival. He must have played the stupid, rigged ring toss half a dozen times before he finally scored the big prize. He was such a gentleman, too, holding on to it while you got cotton candy for the both of you.

He was the most selfless person you knew. When you saw behind the Spider-Man mask after two years of knowing Peter, you weren't at all surprised; anyone else with his abilities would have given in to darker fantasies, though he had none.

If Peter was always so willing to be helpful, he could probably do you this tiny favor, right?

"I was just thinking," you started. "I got this wedding invitation recently from my friend, Lindsey—"

"A wedding?" Peter asked with raised brows. "On—on purpose?"

Noticing his smile, you rolled your eyes and flipped him the bird, unable to help but smile yourself. "I know, we're at that age—we're gonna get a ton of wedding invitations, and each one is gonna prompt some sort of crisis where we feel both too old and too young for any major milestone."

"Wow," Peter whistled. "That's so wise—are you seeing a therapist?" Without waiting for an answer to his rhetorical question, he continued: "You know, you could avoid a lot of crises if you just didn't have friends." He gestured to himself.

You looked at him incredulously. "You have me—and Ned. And MJ."

Peter hesitated. His brows furrowed, and he avoided your eyes. "Sure, but...I mean...you're not even close to getting married. You don't even have a boyfriend."

"Gee, thanks."

"Sorry," Peter cringed. "I didn't mean—"

"That's okay," you said. "You kinda have a point. That's actually what I've been contemplating. My plus one."

Peter's brows rose. "You need a wedding date."

You nodded. "I don't have to have one—and I'd ordinarily just say screw it and tell MJ to put on her best suit, but..." you shrugged, putting Teddy back down on the couch. "Lindsey is..." you sighed. "She means well, but she can be a bit...uppity about my love life? She always points out when I don't have a boyfriend, and it obviously makes me feel...well, like crap."

"Again, sorry," Peter said, grabbing Teddy and cuddling into him. It was honestly a cute picture—not that you would admit that to your best friend. "But you don't have to find a date to the wedding unless you really want one, you know? You shouldn't do anything just because of what other people are gonna think."

You smiled slightly. "Peter, you're starting to sound like an after-school special again." You paused. "But you have a point...I don't want the stress of finding some random guy for the wedding, and I can't bring just a friend..." you lit up. "So, I could make my own boyfriend! Peter, you're a boy, right?"

Peter laughed softly. "Last time I checked, yeah."

"Could you..." you started. "I mean, I don't want to take advantage. You're too kind for your own good sometimes. But, if you wanted to go to a beautiful destination wedding on a beach at Prince Edward Island..." you rocked on your feet from heel to toe. "You could maybe play the role of my fake boyfriend?"

Peter blinked, the smile not leaving his face, though his eyes appeared distant. "I don't know, y/n. That seems—"

"You're right," you shook your head. "It's not right of me to ask that—you need to be here because Spider-Man needs to be here. Forget I said anything. I'll figure something out. Maybe I'll download Tinder again..." although you tried not to, you made a face at the thought of plunging back into the cesspool.

Peter gave you a strange look, then, as if there were some sort of misunderstanding. You didn't like that—understanding social cues were a hit or miss, but communication with Peter was usually crystal clear.

"Wait," Peter shook his head with a sigh. "It's a beach wedding, right? At some point, they're probably gonna have popcorn shrimp..."

You smiled slightly. "Are you seriously thinking of going on a four hour plane ride there and back, pretending to be my boyfriend, and giving up your entire weekend just for...popcorn shrimp?"

"Yeah, of course," Peter nodded. "I've gone on trips and taken time away from being Spider-Man before. If anything really goes wrong, I can find my way back and try to help. Besides, I don't want this Lindsey girl to make you feel bad. I might not be the best looking stand-in boyfriend, but at least I'm here with fast and free shipping." He did some half-hearted jazz hands, though his smile was genuine.

"You're the best, Peter!" You sat down beside him, pulling him (and Teddy) into a hug. "And don't you dare talk bad about yourself. We're gonna go to that wedding with two missions—one, we're gonna make everyone jealous with what a cute fake couple we are. Two, we're gonna get you as much popcorn shrimp as you want."

"Sounds like a plan," Peter agreed, leaning his head against yours.

You could only hope that he really wanted to do this. You remembered all of those faux-sweet comments Lindsey would make about how she worried about you being alone. With Peter's help, you'd make even those newlyweds jealous, all the while making sure you and Peter had the times of your life on the trip.

———

The first bump in the road hit you when you arrived at the hotel room.

The flight there was nice; you and Peter watched movies and played games. In the last hour, you had drifted off to sleep leaning against Peter's shoulder. That was a little embarrassing to wake up to, but it was nothing that hadn't happened before.

This had never happened before.

"One bed," Peter commented blankly, though the surprise across his features was clear.

"You've gotta be kidding me," you huffed, dropping your bags down onto the massive bed. The place appeared pretty romantic, with a plush red duvet and a light dimmer. There was even a bucket of ice with a bottle of champagne, and—

"Chocolate dipped strawberries," you lit up, going over to the display and reading the adjoining card.

"Are we in the wrong room?" Peter asked. "'Cause I can go back down and—"

You shook your head, holding up the card with a smile. "For y/n and Peter, Compliments of Lindsey and Matt. You know, this doesn't surprise me at all. Lindsey's always had money, and she likes to keep up her appearances."

Peter narrowed his eyes, an amused smile tugging at his lips as he watched you eat one of the strawberries. "I'm still not sure if we're supposed to like Lindsey."

You shrugged. "She's got her flaws, but I like her. Almost as much as I like these strawberries. Almost." You offered him a strawberry, expecting him to take it. What you did not expect was for him to lean forward and take the strawberry with his mouth. Your face flushed, though you weren't sure why. You and Peter had done that with fries before, why were strawberries different? It was probably just the romantic vibe of the room, with the dimmed lights and the—

"So, the bed," you tried to distract yourself from that odd train of thought. "I can try to get a different room, but Lindsey might get wind of it and start asking questions...it's fine." You shook your head, offering Peter a smile. "I can just sleep on the floor."

Peter laughed. "You'd sleep on the floor? No way. This isn't like crashing at Ned's studio after a night out. This is a nice vacation. I'll take the floor."

"I don't want you on the floor," you protested.

"I don't think anyone wants either of us on the floor, that's why we're here fake-dating each other." Peter pointed out. He said the joke quickly, as if not thinking about it, and his cheeks grew pink.

You snickered. You knew Peter hated when he let the dirty jokes in his mind get ahead of him, but it was something that endeared you to him. He wasn't always Spider-Man the superhero, or Peter Parker, dressed like a Mormon to meet your parents for brunch. Sometimes he was almost...normal.

You knew more than anything that nothing could be normal for Peter.

You rolled your eyes and finally settled. "If it's not pushing any boundaries, maybe we could just...share the bed? If you promise not to sleep naked, I mean."

You don't know what prompted you to say that...or to picture it, though you quickly tried to dismiss it.

"Okay," Peter's voice was surprisingly soft at the suggestion. "I mean, just a couple hours ago you were drooling on my shoulder on the plane, so—"

"I said I was sorry!" You interjected, your own cheeks heating.

Peter grinned. "You know, I think I brought my nightgown in case this exact thing—" the rest of his smartass reply was cut off as you pushed a pillow into his face, only able to hear a muffled laugh.

———

You were too focused on your own breathing. It was unnatural.

You rolled over to see the clock on Peter's side. 12:54 AM. You huffed, trying to nuzzle into your pillow. You'd had a couple glasses of champagne with Peter, which typically would have put you to sleep as soon as your head hit the pillow, but...

But...

"Can't sleep?"

Peter's voice was soft and low with sleep, though not so much so that you worried you had woken him. You couldn't see him in the dark, though you could picture him—tussled brown hair, his baggy I Survived NYC shirt wrinkled against the sheets.

You always took notice of him in the mornings—when you spent the night at his place or vice versa, and he'd make you both waffles. You could appreciate a gesture from a friend, but in those strange moments, he seemed almost like a boyfriend.

"No," you replied. "Not used to the space, I guess."

Peter nodded—you could hear it against the sheets in the darkness. "I get that—'m living the dream, though. Couldn't tell you the last time I had a girl in my bed."

"Gross," you jabbed him in the ribs, and you smiled at the sound of his snicker. "In your dreams, Parker."

"Yeah, yeah," Peter murmured. "I do kinda miss it, though. I don't have a lot of...experience, but that's not what I'm thinking about..."

In that moment, you were sure Peter was talking some half-asleep nonsense. You were tempted to ask him some silly questions, like what his dream blunt rotation would be, or what his social security number was.

Instead, you pressed on, curious. "What are you thinking about, then?"

"Mm," Peter hummed, hesitant even in this careless state. "Just...being in bed with someone, holding them close, feeling 'em breathe. Knowing that you're keeping them safe. Knowing they want you there, that you're not a screwup..."

Something in Peter's tone made your eyes sting. "You're nowhere near a screwup. You're a hero."

"I know..." he let out a soft breath, though something in it sounded heavy.

"I was friends with you before I knew about that, anyway," you pointed out. "Because you're more than a hero. You're Peter. That matters so much more than anything else you do. Anybody would be lucky to be in bed with you...even if you have the dirty mind of a teen about it." You grinned.

Peter let out another breath, this one of laughter. A comfortable silence spanned between the pair of you.

It was silent for so long, you thought Peter had fallen asleep.

"Do you," he started, and you listened curiously. "Would you be okay with maybe cuddling with me? We've done it on the couch with movies, but I know this is different, so..."

"Yeah," you replied in agreement. "I mean, um—yeah, of course, that's fine..."

Slowly, a little awkwardly in the dark, Peter reached out, his fingertips delicate against your skin as he sought you out. He found your forearm first, reaching up and tracing along the palm of your hand.

"Sorry," his voice seemed much more awake now, much more aware. "If you could maybe just..."

You nodded even though he couldn't see you in the dark. You rolled onto your other side, facing away from him as you pushed back against him. You felt the warmth of his chest against your back, the feeling all-too-overwhelming. The feeling increased tenfold when, all implications disregarded, Peter wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close against him. You could feel the warmth of his breath against the crook of your neck.

You couldn't remember the last time you had been in bed with someone like this.

You let out a soft, shaky breath of your own, trying to calm the sudden bout of nervous butterflies in your stomach that now fluttered with no bounds. Strangely enough, that feeling only lasted for a moment. The last thing you remember was the feeling of Peter's thigh moving against yours, wrapping you closer in the embrace. It was then that comfort overwhelmed you, and you found yourself drifting off to sleep easier than ever before.

———

The morning light was bright despite the blinds, waking you up as you hummed in protest.

You and Peter were still cuddled close together, though the embrace had lost all structure. His leg was slung over your waist, his hand somehow cupping the side of your face. He was nuzzled between your shoulder blades, letting out warm breaths against your skin that woke you up far more than the brightness.

"Peter," your voice was low in your drowsiness. You rolled away before stretching. "You were a second away from putting me in a headlock..."

"Mm," Peter hummed. "Sorry..." he yawned, blinking as he processed what was going on. Something then seemed to click within him, and he stiffened like a deer in headlights. "Shit, sorry!" He repeated, his cheeks flushing. "Man, I didn't mean to do that..."

"It's okay," you insisted. "Why are you all jumpy? What, were you worried about your super-strength or something?"

"Oh, uh," Peter avoided your eyes. "Yeah, that's exactly it—I mean, I could crush a watermelon between my thighs without even worrying—without even thinking about it, so..." he lifted his arm up to flex, which you glanced at with raised brows. He was no Captain America, but he was built well enough.

"Okay," you said slowly. Realization then dawned on you, and you sighed, your cheeks heating. “Is it that we, like, cuddled last night? Because that didn't have to mean anything—we both just like cuddling."

"Sure," Peter nodded. "I mean, I cuddled with Ned all the time in high school, but..."

"But?" You inquired.

"No but!" Peter shook his head. "No but at all, an absolute flat-ass situation..." he paused to catch his breath before nodding, his mouth pressed in a thin line. "I'm gonna go get ready."

He then went and locked himself in the bathroom. You looked at the door, then over to the closet where his clothes were, wondering what the heck had gotten into Peter.

———

Luckily, Peter seemed calmed down by the reception. The ceremony must have bored him; he kept glancing at you the entire time, as well as shaking his leg until you put a hand on his knee to still him.

Despite the social atmosphere, Peter seemed to open up more. After the first few times of introducing himself as "y/n's boyfriend", the obvious looks in your direction slowed to a stop. That did not stop his awkwardness, though. As endeared as you were to him, you were glad he never had to do any acting to save the world.

"Excuse me," a small voice piped up. It wasn't the umpteenth elderly couple doing their rounds of greetings, but instead a little girl of about six years old. She wore a pastel pink dress and small matching heels.

"Oh, hi," you smiled at the little girl. "You were the flower girl—Katie, right?"

Katie nodded. "I wanted a dance." She looked over at Peter, then back at you. "Mind if I take him for a spin?"

You nearly snorted. "Oh, sure—what do you think, Peter?"

Peter seemed to be trying to tone down his amused smile. "I'd be honored, Katie." He took her hand and allowed her to lead him to the floor.

As you ate—the shrimp here being unfortunately coconut, not popcorn—you watched them dance. She was standing on top of his shoes, and he seemed to be masking the pain from the jabbing of her tiny heels. As he smiled and chatted with her, you couldn't help but smile as well. Peter was good with kids—you wondered if that came from being Spider-Man, or just being Peter.

When the song was over, Katie curtsied and Peter bowed in turn, as if they were at a ball. Peter returned to the table beaming, and for some reason, it made your heart catch in your chest. You felt as if you wanted to say something, though you weren't sure what, or if you were allowed to.

Just as you opened your mouth to say something, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned around to see Lindsey, who was practically glowing with excitement in her cream-colored reception gown.

"Hey!" You gave her a hug. "Wow, you look gorgeous. Congratulations!"

"Thank you," Lindsey swept a black, curly strand of hair from her face. "And you do too! Is this," she gestured to Peter. "Is this your plus one? I saw him dancing with Katie, it was adorable!"

Peter nodded. "I'm y/n's boyfriend," he stood to shake her hand, then her new husband's. "Peter."

"It's so nice to meet you, Peter," Lindsey replied. "I didn't think y/n was seeing anyone, but she never lets me get too nosy. I was worried about her for a little bit, though!" She laughed.

Peter gave you a look, as if some of your previous description of her was clicking into place.

"We've been together for a little while," Peter shrugged, fixing Lindsey with a curious look. "Nine months, right, babe?" He glanced back at you and smiled, his gaze warm. "It feels like it's been years, but also a few great days."

For a moment, you sat in stunned silence, unsure of how to respond. His acting was so real; he seemed utterly infatuated.

Lindsey gasped softly, placing a hand on her heart. "That's exactly how I feel with my husband. Well, how'd you two meet?"

"Um," Peter started with a slight smile. "We were at this bagel place on 76th, and I was ordering my usual—"

"An everything bagel," you added out of habit. "With plain cream cheese, smushed down really flat, like a weirdo."

"Exactly," Peter laughed. "And you said that, too, remember? I remember you scoffed, and when I asked, you said that only a weirdo would want a bagel that was...what was it? Looked like it was ran over?"

"I had a point," you replied. "And you asked me what I liked, since I was such an expert in all things bagel. So I got my—"

"Blueberry bagel," Peter recalled. "Strawberry cream cheese, plus you paid extra for assorted fruit on top, like an absolute princess."

You grinned. "But you paid for mine...and you walked me to the subway, like a gentleman, while I spent the entire time roasting you on your food preferences."

"And then I offered to take her to dinner," Peter looked up at Lindsey. "I said that I knew this great pizza place, and if she wasn't blown away, I'd cover her bill. Turns out she was blown away, as expected," he met your eyes with a smile, reaching over and grabbing your hand. "But I paid, anyway. It was worth it times a thousand to get to know her..."

You squeezed his hand, and in that moment, you felt as if something were squeezing your heart, too. The way he talked about it made it sound so romantic...but, of course, neither of you mentioned the fact that his friends were at the dinner. That you had asked for it to not be a date, because you had been stood up a few nights before and were not feeling the dating scene. It was a friend thing, and at that dinner your friend status was cemented.

You never thought you wanted anything else, but...

"Excuse me," Peter's voice brought you back to reality. He smiled thinly at both you and Lindsey before standing and starting for the exit.

Perhaps he just needed to use the restroom down the hall, but something about his exit seemed...swift. Offering a smile to Lindsey as well, you followed in Peter's steps.

When you finally found him, he had a hand over his eyes, his face flushed as he tried to steady his breathing.

You felt as if you'd walked in on something you shouldn't have—or perhaps you needed to.

"Peter?" You asked softly.

Peter nearly jumped, looking at you before making a pointed effort not to do so. "Hey! Hey...y/n...I'm alright. Just...taking a second to—"

"Cry?" You asked, the word slipping out before you could think about it, and you slapped a hand over your mouth.

Peter laughed. You rushed through surprise, relief, and concern so fast, you had whiplash.

"Yeah," Peter admitted with a sigh. "I'm...not alright. But I'm trying to be. Just...go enjoy the reception, don't let me ruin it."

You shook your head. "That story...it was how we met, but you made it sound romantic."

Peter nodded. "I thought that was what we were supposed to do."

You swallowed. "It sounded really convincing. You...you like me, don't you, Peter?"

Peter seemed laser-focused on the sleeve of his suit. "How could I not, y/n?" He settled. "You're beautiful, you're fun in the same weird way I am, and you have no idea when someone's into you—you're exactly my type. But...I mean, I was trying so hard not to be that guy. You know, the 'be my girlfriend or I'll never talk to you again' guy? I can't do that—not to you, and not to myself. I want you in my life in whatever way I can have you, even if it kills me, because you're really important to me. And if you don't want to talk to me again, I understand, I won't push—"

His words faltered into silence as you reached out and held his hand.

"I like you, too, Peter. I don't think I realized it until now, but..." You started to smile. "You're one of my favorite people in the world. You’re already a great friend, so I'd love to be your girlfriend."

Peter seemed incredulous, though a moment later, his uncertain smile grew until he was fully beaming. His smile was contagious, and you couldn't help but smile as well. You went in for a hug, and he in turn lifted you, spinning you around as if you were in a romcom.

"So," Peter started. "Do you wanna go back in there and turn up the charm now that we're a real couple?"

You pondered the idea for about a half a second before shaking your head. "Screw those guys." You said. "You wanna get out of here? I bet we could find a good ice cream place."

"Sounds good to me," Peter replied, offering you a fist to bump. "Let's go to the room and get changed into some comfier clothes."

As he started towards the stairs, you reached for his hand, your heart skipping a beat as he squeezed your hand gently. You didn't want to rush things, though you wondered...perhaps when you got up to the room, you could kiss him. Perhaps, if he were interested—and while that romantic room was on someone else's bill—you could do a little bit more.

[unnecessaryheadache]

Okay. Snape as a roller-skating breakfast server. I THINK that this would be funny to imagine

|

"Flapjacks & Flashbacks" - a retro-themed breakfast diner. Snape, sporting a bright yellow apron with "Flapjacks & Flashbacks" emblazoned on it, short shorts that are way too short, a teal polo shirt, and roller skates, was meticulously counting a stack of pounds. He was also rocking surprisingly stylish half-up space buns (let me cook).

Snape rolled around, avoiding customers with ease, counting his money with a thumb. He muttered to himself, "Finally...a decent tip. These Muggles...customers…aren't entirely devoid of generosity. Perhaps this shift won't be a complete waste of time after all."

The bell above the front door jingled, and in strolled the Marauders. Some were hangry (cough Remus cough COUGH Sirius cough), others were aching for sugar. Lots of it. Kilos of it. Some were also very observant, so when Snape rolled by, an eyebrow was immediately raised.

James's jaw dropped.

Then, he suddenly remembered the punch Severus gave him just months ago and how long it took to regain his senses. He snapped it closed, but didn't refrain from leaning sideways to whisper to Sirius. "Padfoot," James hissed, smacking the boy's thigh urgently.

"PADF-"

"Oh my God, what?" Sirius groaned, smacking James back harder.

James pouted, rubbing his thigh, and then nodded to Snape. "Doesn't that server look familiar to you?"

Sirius blinked owlishly before twisting his head around like someone trying to spot air molecules. "Is it Marlene? I told her I was vacationing in Canada-"

"No, Mr. Worldwide player. That one over there wearing the shorts." James face-palmed.

"James," Remus sighed, lifting his hand to slide it over his sweaty face, cringing at the dew. "Eugh. Ahem, James, nearly every worker here wears shorts."

James made an 'o' shape with his mouth before shaking his head and pointing aggressively. "Dark hair, pale skin, no waist."

"WHERE?!" Sirius gasped, finally spotting who James was gesturing at. The first thing he looked at? "Nice ass," he nodded, a proud smile on his face. James side-eyed him. "That's a dude."

"Nice ass."

"It's Snivellus."

"Nice - WHAT?'"

So, that took him about a minute to realize. "No way. Moony, pinch me, now. Or better, kiss me, we haven't done that in a while."

Remus tried to maintain composure, but a smile was playing on his lips. "…I wish I had a camera on me."

Peter looked Snape up and down, pondered, looked him up and down again, then physically recoiled. "He looks odd,"

"Is this where he's been? I mean, he left the school early to help his dad with something...I guess that meant earning money," James recounted as he rubbed the back of his neck. Then he began to beam. "Could never be me-" "James." Remus scolded.

Snape, hearing his name, froze. He slowly turned (cue door creaking sound) around, his smile vanishing, to see the four figures standing there. His face must've gone through about five different shades of red in the space of two seconds. Who wouldn't be embarrassed?

With a strained voice, he welcomed the boys while stuffing the cash into his front apron pocket. "Welcome to Flapjacks & Flashbacks. Table for four?"

Oh, that was the funniest thing of the century, actually.

James barely contained his laughter and answered with a wavering voice. "Uh, yeah. We'll SNORT take a booth - eheh- And…uh-HA - ahem… could we get some extra syrup? And maybe…a side of…" he looked at Snape's outfit. Good God. "Surprise?"

Sirius turned around to face the door, his shoulders shaking with every quiet wheeze he released, earning a firm smack on the back of his head from Remus, who was being a complete hypocrite. He found it hilarious..

Snape's eyes narrowed, and he personally wanted the God of the Dead to take their souls, but broke people don't have such luxury. "The "surprise" is whatever the chef feels like creating. But mkay."

And so, he glided (slightly unsteadily) over to a booth, grabbed four menus, and threw them down on the table. He then skated back to the counter, muttering under his breath.

I'd rather be sniffing toxic fumes right now. I swear to God, I'm going to rip these shit-buns off my head. Where's my wand? WHERE is my wand? Why didn't I bring it with me-

He grabbed a notepad and pen, his hand shaking slightly. He skated back to the booth, trying to project an air of nonchalance that he absolutely didn't feel.

Snape had to force a smile. It physically hurt to do. "Alright, what can I get for you…" pocket lint eaters "gentlemen?"

Sirius, ever the generous client, leaned back in his seat beside Remus, ready to order. "Well, Severus or should I say…Sunshine?" Definitely not aimed at the name tag or anything. "I think I'll have the "Marauder's Special." Extra bacon, extra sausages, extra everything. And...could you maybe add a little potion to it? Just to give it a little kick?"

Remus elbowed Sirius in the ribs.

He apologetically nodded at Snape. "He means ketchup. Lots of ketchup with the "Sunny's Special"."

Snape gritted his teeth, held back a retort, and cleared his throat. "Of course. Ketchup."

He scribbled down the order, his pen nearly snapping in his hand.

James gave Snape a Cheshire cat smirk before pointing lazily at the top of the menu without glancing down at what he was motioning to. "And I'll have the "Lily's Delight." Extra whipped cream and a cherry on toP." He requested, popping his 'p' with audacity.

That wasn't even what the ice cream was called. It was "Barny's Summer Day". Arse.

Peter didn't like the idea of getting on Snape's nerves at the moment. He sank further in his seat until only the top part of his face showed. "I'll just have the…uh…the toast."

That didn't work to soothe a thing. Snape snapped his notepad shut, his gaze blazing. "Excellent. Toast. And…delights.

He skated back to the kitchen, leaving the Marauders in a fit of laughter. As he pushed through the swinging doors, he could be heard yelling:

KITCHEN! I NEED FOUR "FLAPJACKS OF DOOM" AND A PLATE OF…FUCKING TOAST! AND SOMEONE HIDE THESE SHORTS AND GIVE ME PANTS BEFORE I BURN THEM!

The Marauders erupted in even louder laughter.

[irisintheafterglow]

More Than It Seams (Chapter 1)

summary: you're a hero costume tech working for one of the biggest fashion companies in quirk society, and the days until the most important fashion event of the year are dwindling fast. if you weren't stressed enough, a certain half-and-half hero keeps appearing with rips in his suit. (pro!todoroki x reader)

word count: 3k

cw/tags: swearing, mentions of needles, probably inaccurate fashion design vocabulary, strangers to lovers, no specified pronouns for reader

note: aaaaa ok first chapter of my first series. hope you enjoy!! i'm planning on this to be five chapters, and the second chapter I'm planning to release this friday. i <3 shoto todoroki

likes/reblogs/feedback are always appreciated!!!

She couldn’t be serious. You shake your head as if to reset your eyeballs and read over the two scribbled cursive sentences over and over until the reality of your situation set in. 

Hey, not gonna be in starting today for maternity leave. Don’t disappoint me. Xo, M 

You counted the days on your fingers and groaned, dragging a palm down the front of your face. 7:00 A.M was too early to find out you had to run a multi-million dollar business that wouldn’t hesitate to fire you if you disappointed at the most important fashion event of the year. The coffee maker beeped its readiness right on cue, and you debated making two cups instead of just one. You settled for one but left out a cup with your name on it for a possible second, and plopped down at your station. The sun was just starting to shine through the glass walls of the building you called your office, an odd combination of exposed brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Crooked rows of work tables lined up on one side of the expansive area, with several dozen mannequins and rolls of fabric occupying the other side. A long counter separated the work area from the sitting area, where clients waited for their fittings on plush couches and sipped on complimentary sparkling drinks that M paid for instead of giving her workers a raise. 

“G’morning!” The other designer for the company swung open the gate allowing access between the work area and the sitting area, deflating when he saw you throw your head down on your desk in frustration and slam it a few times for good measure. “Or not…” A loud gasp of shock indicated to you that he had read the note, and a long string of expletives left his mouth as you lifted your head and nodded. “She has to be joking.”

You clicked your tongue in agreement. “She is not.” 

“HB’s in two weeks, and she decides now is a good time to have her baby?”

“If it were up to me, she wouldn’t even be the head of this place, or having another baby. God knows we don’t need any more of her.” Your coworker scoffs in disbelief, throwing his bag down on his desk and wheeling over a mannequin. “Hey, did you finish working up that fabric design for Cellophane’s suit? He’s supposed to come in on Friday and I think it’d be smart to have a sample of the fabric ready so he can tell us if he doesn’t like it.” 

“Yep, I’ll have that over to you ASAP. You don’t need to remind me what happened last year with Dynamight two days before the Ball.” 

You cringed at the memory of the Number Two Hero burning your work to ashes right in front of you and telling you to get a color that matched his eyes better. To be fair, the color that his stylist had chosen clashed with his skin tone and you respected Bakugo for recognizing that, but he could have given you back the suit to use as scrap fabric. “It’s the price of working with the best.” 

“You mean for the best,” he corrects, giving you a grouchy look before switching on his machine and beginning to hem the miles of fabric for Creati’s dress. You’d asked him if he wanted you to hem the fabric since your quirk would have it done by lunch, but he declined and said that you should focus on designing the remaining heroes’ pieces. The rest of your seamstresses trickled in as the morning progressed, filing into their stations with a polite “good morning” and picking up their scissors. Soon, the office milled with the familiar sounds of cutting fabric, sewing machines, and rolling mannequins, and you spaced out as you sketched your idea for Pinky’s updated costume. 

At 11:30, your receptionist sitting at the counter slammed down the phone in alarm, startling the entire room into silence. Her face was nothing short of panic, and you rose quickly from your station to pull her into a corner and figure out why she looked like she had received a bomb threat. 

“What’s going on?”

“Shoto is here.”

“Who?”

“Shoto. The pro hero. Is here,” she hisses at you through her teeth, her hands shaking with uncontrollable anxiety. 

You blinked at her. “Okay… and?” Pros showing up to the office themselves rather than sending assistants was uncommon but had been done numerous times before. Deku and Creati tended to visit a few times a month, and Pinky liked to stop by on Fridays to treat her favorite staff to ice cream. It was Shoto’s first time appearing in person, as he usually sent an assistant to drop off what was essentially his laundry; you’d always assumed that being a top-ranked hero controlling large sums of inheritance was just too busy to worry about his costume. Still, a customer visiting the office in person, no matter how attractive they were, was the least of your laundry list of problems.  

Your receptionist stares at you like you’ve sprouted three heads, and addresses you with an attitude that would have had her fired if M was in office. “What the hell do you mean ‘and’? It’s Shoto… the Number Three Hero. ProMagazine’s #1 ranked hottie.” 

“I’m aware,” you state a little impatiently, annoyed by her insistence that this was much more significant than it actually was. “I’m struggling to understand the fuss over just another client–” 

A chorus of shocked excitement washed over your staff as the elevator doors dinged and a lean, well-dressed silhouette entered the office. Several of your seamstresses had stood from their chairs and huddled together for moral support, whispering to each other about the stranger who had exited the elevator. Your receptionist’s eyes widen to the size of dollar coins, her hands coming up to your shoulders to push you toward the counter as she disappeared behind rolls of fabric. You rolled your eyes and took a breath, adjusting the measuring tape around your neck and meeting Shoto as he approached the vacant receptionist’s computer. His voice was polite and soft when he spoke, and you swear you hear your workers swooning behind you. 

“Hello, I’m here to drop these items off for repair,” he states, gently placing a small stack of folded fabric on the counter in front of you. You couldn’t help but notice how pretty his hands were, and how one ran through his two-toned hair, combing it with elegant fingers. His eyes were each an enchanting shade of blue and grey, and you found it hard to break eye contact with him. ProMagazine was definitely correct.

“Great, I’ll, uh, have this ready in just a bit,” you reply, gesturing towards the waiting area and encouraging Shoto to have a seat. Taking a deep breath in and out and shooting your staff a stern look to get back to work, you unfold the tattered costume on a nearby station behind the counter. His suit wasn’t in the worst condition, but the tears on the arms and chest area posed a significant safety hazard, especially if they continued to open. As hot as it would be to have muscle windows in Shoto’s suit, it’d reflect badly on you if you’d refused to repair the costume for the sake of professionally shot ab photos. 

After another steadying breath, you visualize a sewing machine dial in your mind, picking up a spool of strong nylon thread and running your thumb over the torn pieces of fabric; like clockwork, it repaired itself with a neat straight stitch wherever you touched. Your quirk is why M hired you in the first place since you could assemble three pieces in the time it took a machine to do one. You couldn’t send sheets of fabric flying like Best Jeanist, but your ability to telekinetically manipulate thread into stitches proved useful for a career in fashion design. With a few more reinforcement stitches to some worn edges and a quick polish of the suit’s buckles, Shoto’s costume was good as new. 

“Here you go; you’re all set.” He turns to look at you, surprised and preoccupied with examining the large posters of costumes M’s company had designed. Frames of initial sketches for his first professional costume were flanked by life-size prints of Pinky, Deku, and Red Riot’s attire. A plaque engraved with Creati’s endorsement message for the company hung in the center, surrounded by fabric swatches and Post-It notes scribbled with measurements. It looked like he had just finished reading through Creati’s statement when you informed him that his suit was ready. “I went ahead and cleaned off some of the grime from the suit’s hardware and sprayed it with anti-rust so it shouldn’t be tarnishing any time soon.” 

Shoto looks at you with an expression that you can’t read, gazes down at the repaired suit in front of him, and then back up at you. “Oh. That’s it?”

You release a slightly nervous chuckle to try to ease some of the awkwardness that had settled between you two. “Uh, yep. That’s it.” After another painfully quiet beat, your customer service persona finally kicks back into gear. “Is there anything else I can assist you with today?” 

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, it was a pleasure working with you today–”

“How does your quirk work?” His question arrives completely out of left field, and your brain short-circuits at his genuine expression of interest in your abilities. 

“Well, um, I can manipulate thread to follow certain stitch patterns, like the stitch selection on a sewing machine. See, like, here.” You point at one of the newly repaired tears in his costume, running a finger over the fresh seam. You’re keenly aware of how his eyes follow your finger and you attempt to keep your voice even. “I mended this panel of fabric torn down the middle with a straight stitch, which is the sturdiest stitch I can create.” 

“So you wave your hands and the threads start moving?” The boyish cluelessness on his face makes your heart flutter. A smile breaks its way into your expression. 

“I wish, but I actually have to be touching the fabric.” 

“I suppose it’s very useful for a fashion designer, then.” His face is carefully put together, but the tiniest hint of sarcasm bleeds its way into his voice. Was he… joking with you? 

“Definitely. I’m essentially a human sewing machine but without needles sprouting from my thumbs.” Your thumb pops up on its own accord for added effect, but then you realize what you just said and shove your hand back in an apron pocket. It was meant as a joke, but the macabre nature of your last quip slips your mind and a part of you dies inside when Shoto physically cringes at the grotesque image. Before you have the chance to apologize for such a distressing remark, he politely nods his head in farewell and gives you a soft “thank you” before returning to the elevator. 

Releasing a frustrated noise from your throat at the fact that you just scared off Todoroki Shoto, you lay your forehead on the counter between your elbows. The elevator button dings, and to your horror, you realize that he hadn’t left the office yet. Instead, he was looking at you amusedly over his toned shoulder. The corner of his mouth quirks up the tiniest bit as he watches your burning face attempt to regain its composure, and then he’s gone. 

“That was a shit show,” your other designer mutters under his breath, handing you another cup of coffee. 

Tuesday morning at 11:30 on the dot, Shoto visits again and catches your receptionist off guard, reducing her to a puddle of “How can I help you?” and “Can I get you a sparkling drink?” With your back turned to the doors, you don’t notice him immediately as you concentrate on draping expensive maroon fabric around Creati’s mannequin. Eyebrows drawn in concentration and holding a pin between your teeth, your hands work meticulously to create perfect pleats under the waistline of the bodice. It isn’t until your receptionist nervously calls out your name that you abruptly drop the fabric, Shoto’s mouth twitching as he watches you hurriedly place your box of pins on a nearby station and approach the counter. You lightly tap your receptionist’s shoulder, snapping her out of her daze to find Shoto a drink that you knew was out of stock and leaving you two alone again. 

“Shoto, it’s a pleasure to see you.” You try to mask the unease in your voice with a forced smile. “What can I help you with today?”

His face is blank, but his eyes shine like he’s analyzing you. “I ripped the suit again.”

Your face falls in comical disbelief. “Again?”

He shrugs. “I guess I need stronger stitches.” His heterochromatic eyes stare into yours, and you meet his challenge with a slight squint. 

“Guess you do.” You take the folded suit from his hands and drop the volume of your voice. “Or maybe you need to stop tearing my work.”

He huffs out a breath that sounds like a choked laugh and you smile innocently at him, hoping this interaction replaced the awkwardness of yesterday. Your hand gestures to the seating area again, but he shakes his head, instead crossing his muscular arms and watching you intently as you work. The damage to his suit could barely be considered a tear, and you don’t even bother using your quirk to repair it. You feel him staring at you as you easily patch up the suit with a backstitch, and you swear you could hear him hum thoughtfully behind you. Minutes after he entered the office, you slide the garment back to him with a satisfied smile. 

He does that thing again, looking at you, down at his suit, then back at you. “You didn’t use your quirk.” 

It was your turn to shrug. “Didn’t need to.” As entertaining as his presence was, it would have taken longer to repair it with your quirk, and you had three mannequins of patterns demanding your immediate attention. “Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”

Shoto dodges your question, instead scanning the seamstresses at their work areas trying not to stare at him. “You’re awfully good at getting people in and out.” One eyebrow quirks in question. He’s testing you, silently asking whether you were trying to get rid of him quickly. 

“With all due respect, a rip on a Pro’s suit is the least of my worries right now.” 

“What are the most of your worries?” You direct his attention to the three mannequins behind you, covered in multi-colored pins and beige pattern panels. “Red Riot, Pinky, and Cellophane’s Ball outfits. Need to have them done by next Friday, and I was just in the middle of pleating the skirt of Momo’s dress. It’s taking a lot longer than expected because I tragically only have two hands.” 

Shoto’s mouth opens in an ah of realization, taking in the elaborate construction plan of the layered asymmetrical gown. You couldn’t have predicted his reply to save your life. 

“May I help you?”

Your mind halts the production of coherent thoughts. “Oh, no, really. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Why not?”

“It’s not your job.”

“But there is something I can help with.”

“I mean, yes, but–”

“Then please, show me what to do.” You decide that it would be pointless to fight his stubborn determination, so you try not to notice the gasps from your staff as Shoto pushes open the gate into the work area and stands beside Creati’s mannequin. You knelt into the same position as before, sitting back on your heels as you searched for the last pleat you made. 

“So I just need you to hold the fabric in place so that it doesn’t unfold, like this,” you direct, scrunching the edge into a carefully measured fold. He watches you diligently, allowing you to reposition his hands so that you could effectively create a seam. His hands were soft beneath your fingers as you brushed veins and lean muscle. You push away the thought of what else he could do with his hands, refocusing on your work and delicately rotating the mannequin as you made your way around its waist. To your surprise, Shoto made soft conversation with you, asking about other Pros’ looks and the design inspiration behind them. Small talk flowed easily as you worked, and he proved to be much more witty than interviews captured. 

When you finished, Shoto ran his finger over the pleats you had just made in admiration. A glance at the rest of the mannequins leads to his expression becoming puzzled. “Where is mine?” He offers an open hand to you as you rise from the floor, and you revel in the cool touch of his palm against your tired thumb. 

You open your mouth to reply, but no words come out. The truth was, his stylist had ordered a simple black suit for him, barely different than the suit he wore the previous year and all of the years prior. Shoto’s media reputation had him notorious for attending as few public events as possible, and donning safe solid-colored suits when he did appear. His eyebrows rise in anticipation of your answer, still holding your hand, and you finally conjure up an explanation. “Well, technically, your look is already finished. It was one of the first looks we finished because of its simplicity.” 

“Simplicity?” He releases your hand, flexing his fingers like he was squeezing a stress ball. Shit, were your hands sweaty?

“Yeah, your stylist tends to request subdued designs for public appearances.”

A low hum is all you receive in acknowledgment, and a look of deep thought washes over his handsome expression. 

“Maybe I will aim for a different design this year, then.” 

And just the same as Monday, he nods farewell before heading back to the elevator, leaving you frozen by the mannequin. A split second before the doors slide open, he gives you a mischievous look and a single thumbs-up, a reminder of the embarrassing interaction from the day before. You roll your eyes at him and are delighted to see the corner of his mouth turn up again.   

The elevator doors shut, and you can’t help hoping he creates another tear in his suit for tomorrow.

[badkitty3000]

You Can't Go Home Again

Chapter 7 (Final)

Link to Chapter 6

Link to Chapter 5

Link to Chapters 3 and 4

Link to Chapters 1 and 2

All Five wants to do is rest. But when yet another apocalypse threatens to doom them all, he doesn't have that luxury. This time, the only solution for the Hargreeves to try and save the world is to unite Five with another, alternate version of himself.

Five starts to spiral when he is faced with the alternate life that he could have had, if only he hadn't gone and ruined everything. But maybe, just maybe, there's still time for him to obtain the happy ending he deserves.

An alternate season three rewrite for a request I received.

This is the final chapter! Thank you everyone that has been following this story!

Warnings: None

Chapter Seven: The Idea of Happiness

The three men appeared out of the portal, stumbling into the living room of the house. There was a collective sigh of relief from the other siblings when they saw Five and Klaus were still in one piece. Marie gave a short shriek of surprise from them appearing out of nowhere, but as soon as she saw her husband she started to make her way over to him. She stopped as soon as she saw Reginald’s pistol that was still in his hand.

“What are you doing with a gun, Five?” she asked warily.

Her Five’s eyebrows drew together in confusion until he looked down and remembered he had been holding it when they teleported out of the Academy.

“Oh, shit,” he said to himself. “I’m sorry…it’s…”

“Here,” Five said, taking it out of his hand with an exaggerated eye roll and shoving it in the back of his pants.

After the gun was put away, Marie approached her husband again, looking at him curiously, as if seeing him for the first time. She stared into his eyes, her own filling up with tears again.

“You left,” she said, her voice barely audible. “You left us.” When he went to take her hand, she pulled it away with a shake of her head.

“Marie, I’m sorry. I was just so angry, I felt like I had to do something to –” His apology was cut short when his wife slapped him hard across the face. The rest of the adults in the room cringed and let out a collective “Ooooh.”

“That’s gotta hurt,” Klaus whispered to Lila.

“What I wouldn’t give to smack either one of these wankers across the face,” she responded, not quite as quietly as Klaus. “She’s got good form, though, I’ll give her that.”

As the other Five was recovering from his slap, Marie’s anger started building. “You selfish bastard! What were you trying to prove, huh?”

“I’m sorry. But I wasn’t leaving you or the kids, I promise. That was the whole point. I had the watch, so I was returning right away.”

“But you didn’t even tell me! Where the hell did you go anyway? And why do you have a gun? I demand some goddamn answers, Five! WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?”

Until now, Five had assumed Marie was a sweet, soft-spoken woman that never raised her voice. But as soon as he saw her losing her shit, he had to smile. Of course his other version would be married to a woman with some fight in her. That only made sense.

Five didn’t really want to piss her off anymore, but he felt obligated to step in. “Marie, he wasn’t going to leave you. That’s the truth. We would never do that.” She and her Five both looked at him in surprise because he had used the word we. “I understand what he did and why. The urge to protect your family at all costs is a strong one.” Five looked around at his siblings. “Sometimes it makes you do stupid shit like getting them stranded decades in the past, or in a completely wrong timeline.” He turned back to Marie. “But I can assure you it was all done out of his love for you. Because that’s what we do.”

Klaus put a hand to his heart and was about to say something about Five being a big softy after all, but Lila clapped a hand over his mouth.

“All of that is true,” the other Five said. “And I can explain everything to you. But right now, I think our guests need to get going.”

As if on cue, another kugel wave shot through the house, accompanied by the thunderous sound of the row of houses across the street breaking off and disappearing, leaving a giant chasm in its wake. The universe was collapsing at an accelerated rate, with whole sections of the earth cracking off into the void.

As everyone gasped, Five nodded. “It’s now or never.”

“Wait!” Marie cried, hurrying off to the other room.

While she was gone, Jack suddenly blinked out of the room, as well.

“Where the hell is everyone going?” Five’s other self asked before looking down at Maddie. The little girl just shrugged.

In another second, Jack was back, blinking into the living room again and directly in front of Five. He held out a small plastic baggie with cookies inside. “Blinking makes me hungry, so I figured you probably get that way too. So, in case you need a snack, here. They’re chocolate chip.”

Five reached for the bag and inspected it. “Chocolate chip is my favorite kind. How did you know?”

Jack laughed. “Cause that’s my dad’s favorite, too!”

Five chuckled and put the bag in his back pocket. “Thank you, Jack. You keep an eye on your sister and keep practicing those blinks, ok?”

The little boy nodded before throwing his arms around Five’s small waist, pulling away again before Five could react. Then he was gone across the room in a flash again.

At that moment, Marie came hurrying in, carrying a garment bag on a hanger. She shoved it at Five. “Here. I cleaned it as best I could. The dry cleaner was destroyed, so I had to improvise. But I figured you’d want your own clothes when you got back home.”

Five took the suit from her with a shy smile. “Thank you, Marie. That was not necessary, but I appreciate it very much. And thank you for letting us invade your home.”

She nodded. “I’d say come back anytime, but that would probably mean disaster for all of us if you did.”

The rest of the siblings gathered around, thanking Marie for her hospitality and the other Five for helping them get out of there. Allison hugged the kids, getting misty eyed with the thought that maybe she’d get to see Claire again soon.

Five turned to his doppelganger. The two men regarded one another, not knowing what to say. What was there to say? Thanks for letting me get wasted and have an existential crisis in your basement. Thanks for talking me out of killing our father who’s not really our father because of my childhood trauma. See you at the next fucked-up family reunion!

After a few seconds of pondering, they didn’t say anything. It wasn’t really necessary, anyway. They were the same person, just slightly different models. Their thoughts were essentially the same. They knew what the other would say if there was more time or if either of them had more emotional capacity.

Instead, they just nodded at one another with small smiles.

Five programmed his watch and stood in the center of the room while his siblings and Lila gathered around. With the earth cracking loudly outside the home and a fiery glow coming from the windows, they each put a hand on one of Five’s shoulders or arms, like spokes off the central hub of a wheel.

With one more look at his other self, Five put his finger on the activation button. “Let me know how this turns out.” And then they were gone.

*********************************************************

Falling onto the floor in a groaning heap, the seven of them pushed and rolled off of one another, trying to get their bearings and stand up again.

“Gross…get off me!” Viktor whined as he tried to shove Lila off the top of him.

Lila smirked and climbed off, ruffling Viktor’s hair in the process. “You’re welcome for that.”

“Ow, get your boot off my face!” Allison yelled at Klaus.

“Well, get your face off my boot!”

Five tried unsuccessfully to pull his leg out from where it was pinned under Luther. “Get off my leg before you snap it in half, asshole!”

“Oh shit, sorry, Five.”

“Everyone move…I’m going to be sick again!” Diego moaned as he tried to scramble away from the group on his hands and knees.

“It’s ok, honey, there’s a plant in the corner over there,” Lila said with a sigh.

With more groans and grumbles, the group finally righted themselves and took a look around.

“I think we did it,” Luther exclaimed after seeing they were once again in the Academy foyer.

“Don’t assume anything,” Five said warily as he started casing the room, looking for clues as to what date, and more importantly, what timeline they were in.

Allison picked up the newspaper on the front table. “Ok, this is a good sign.” She held it up for everyone to see. “March 24th, 2019.”

Five snatched it out of her hand and started rifling through the pages. “Reginald Hargreeves is dead. The Umbrella Academy and all of our names are mentioned. No sign of the Sparrows. Ok, yeah, this could be good.”

The sound of high heels clicking on the floor caused all of their heads to jerk up in unison. No one said anything as Grace appeared in the doorway, wearing her pink polka-dot dress and usual cheery smile.

“Oh, there you kids are! I’m sure everyone is hungry after the funeral, so I’ve put dinner in the oven and it should be ready shortly.” She looked over at Lila with another smile. “And it seems we have a guest! How lovely. I’ll be sure to set an extra place.”

“Mom?” Diego said weakly from the floor next to the potted plant he’d just barfed into. “You’re ok. And not…weird.”

“Of course I’m ok, silly. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Mom? Do you know anything about the Sparrows?” Luther asked.

Grace hesitated for a moment. “Sparrows? Well, we certainly get a lot of those brown little creatures at the birdfeeder every day. They do like to make a mess with the seeds, though.”

Everyone let out a sigh of relief and Grace smoothed her skirt down. “Alright, then. Dinner is in fifteen minutes sharp.”

“This is good, right?” Klaus asked Five, who was still reluctant to declare things safe just yet.

Before he could answer, more familiar footsteps could be heard approaching. This time they were accompanied by the tap of a cane on the floor. The siblings stiffened for a moment before Pogo came into view, looking not so thrilled. He paused in the doorway and took everyone in thoughtfully, his gaze landing on Lila for a moment, but not saying anything. Then he turned to Luther.

“Master Luther,” he started before addressing Diego on the floor, “Master Diego. I am greatly disappointed in your behavior at your father’s funeral today. I expect you two to clean up the courtyard and repair your brother’s statue that you desecrated with your childish antics. And I expect you to do it without further incident. Is that clear?”

The two brothers were instantly cowed by the remarks and they nodded their heads guiltily. “Yes Pogo,” they both said meekly.

“Good,” said the chimp with a tap of his cane for emphasis. “Now, I would love to have a nice dinner with the entire family here before all of you children return to your lives. Can we do that?”

“Yes Pogo,” everyone said with a nod.

“Very good. I shall see you at the dinner table, then.”

As Pogo shuffled away and out of sight, the siblings were left standing and staring at one another in shock.

“I think we did it,” Five finally said.

“If this is the day of Dad’s funeral, that means I haven’t met Leonard yet. I won’t destroy the moon,” Viktor said.

“And I haven’t gone to Vietnam or met Dave,” Klaus said a little sadly.

“Claire!” Allison cried with a smile before rushing off to use the phone in the hallway.

“Patch is still alive.” Diego looked at Lila and grabbed her hand with a squeeze. “I’ll explain some things.”

Luther shrugged, looking around the room. “I guess I’m back from the moon for good.”

Everyone’s eyes fell on Five and he suddenly felt very exposed. They all had lives to return to and resume like normal. All of them except for him.

“What are you going to do, Five?” Klaus asked.

He shook his head. “I’m…I’m not sure.” Then he cleared his throat and grabbed the hanging bag with his clean suit from off the floor. “Shower and change for one. And I advise you all to do the same. You smell like shit.” Then he was gone in a blink without another word.

******************************************************

Back in his old room in the attic, Five sat on the edge of his bed. The extra-long shower he had taken had felt good, but he was still anxious. He had fixed it, he thought. So far nothing had appeared out of the ordinary from when they had left a couple of weeks ago. But that didn’t mean something horrible wasn’t lurking around the corner, ready to pull the rug out from under them. There was something else gnawing at him, though. And that was the fact that even if things were completely back to normal, what did that mean for him?

Five ran a hand down his face and glanced around his room. Everything was how he remembered it. This time there was no manic math on the walls and Dolores wasn’t there with him. His first thought was that he should go out and find her, just like he did before. But so much had happened to him since then, and something just felt wrong. He had let her go once before. He needed to do it again.

When his eyes landed on his desk, he noticed something that had not been there before; a bottle of what looked like whiskey. Getting up to get a closer look, Five saw that it was the exact same whiskey that he had polished off in his other self’s basement a couple of days ago. Next to the bottle, written on a piece of paper that had been lying on the desk, was a note in his handwriting.

“Everything restored. Life is good.”

Five picked up the note and then looked at the bottle. With a slow smile creeping over his face, he shook his head. “Asshole had to show me up again.”

*********************************************************

As Five stood in front of his wardrobe mirror, fixing the knot on his tie and straightening his suit jacket, there was a knock on the door.

“Five, dear…dinner is ready. Are you coming down?”

“Yeah, be right there, Mom,” he called, catching himself off guard by the automatic response to something that hadn’t been said in decades.

He paused, his hands still at his tie, as he heard Grace’s heels click back down the stairs. He stared into the same thirteen year-old eyes that he had looked into in that very mirror so long ago. He always was the last one of the kids to arrive at the table; always blinking in at the last second right before Reginald would come striding in. Five always had more important things to be doing other than joining his family for meals and being forced to listen to whatever bullshit their father was “instilling” in them that day. He had physics to study, and books to read. He needed to sneak out of the fire escape just to get out of the house and breathe for once. He needed to work on his spatial jumps. Anything but spend time with his family.

With a hard swallow and one more adjustment of his tie, he grabbed the whiskey bottle off the desk and took a swallow. He had already helped himself to about a quarter of the bottle so far, and he expected to have it finished off before the night was over. But right now, he was still relatively sober, and he set the bottle back down before blinking away to join his siblings at the table.

Dinner was loud and lively as everyone talked over one another excitedly, passing dishes and laughing. Pogo sat in their father’s seat and looked on with an amused smile, just happy to have his children all back in the same house again. Lila sat in Ben’s old seat, which she had initially felt very awkward about, but everyone assured her it was ok. She was family now and Ben wouldn’t have minded. Grace moved in and out of the room, bringing in more platters of food and refilling glasses, all with the same beautiful smile plastered on her face. She patted Diego on the shoulder on her way past and he smiled up at her with a mouthful of food.

As everyone chattered away about how they were going to restart their lives in a more positive way now that they were offered a second chance, Five sat in silence and ate his food slowly. The longer he listened to his siblings’ plans, the better he felt inside. He had done it. He had finally accomplished what he’d sworn to himself to do 45 years ago. His family was safe and the world was in one piece. Even his other self in a completely separate timeline was presumably happy and with his family. Five smiled as he looked out over the table.

“What about you, Fivey?” Klaus asked, pointing a fork at his smaller brother. “You going to go back to school or something?”

Five frowned. “Why would I do that?”

Allison leaned forward to talk to him. “Well, you’re welcome to come stay with me and Claire in L.A. I have plenty of room.”

Five shook his head. “No…thank you…I…I’m not sure what I’m going to do just yet.”

“Well,” Luther started, looking a little nervous. “We were talking earlier…all of us…about maybe, you know, helping you out a little.”

“Yeah,” Viktor added. “We want to make sure you’re ok. You’ve been through a lot and you haven’t really been dealing with it that great.”

Five’s initial reaction was to snap back and tell them he didn’t need any of their pity or their help; that he was doing just fine. But, of course, that wasn’t true and he just didn’t have the energy to fight with them anymore.

“I appreciate your concern,” Five said. “But you can’t help me.”

Lila groaned. “Oh, come on, you little shit. Don’t be such a martyr.”

“Thank you, Lila, and also, fuck you,” Five stated plainly before turning back to the rest of his siblings. “I’m not trying to be a martyr. I can admit I’m not doing great. But you can’t help me. None of you can.  

“Master Five, you are more than welcome to stay here as long as you like. The Academy will always be your home,” Pogo interjected.

Five nodded. “Thank you, Pogo. But I can’t stay here, either.”

Diego spoke up. “But where are you going to live or work? You’re a kid. Or, you know, you look like one anyway.”

“And the drinking…” Luther added.

Five held up a hand. “I know, I know. I admit, it doesn’t bode well for me. And I promise to get a handle on the drinking. But for right now, I need to figure some things out on my own.”

There was silence around the table and then Five laughed. No one had ever heard Five laugh without it being followed by a snarky remark that was usually aimed at one of them. They exchanged nervous glances.

“Really, guys, I’m going to be ok,” Five insisted. “At least, I’m going to try and be ok.”

“We just want you to be happy, Five,” Viktor told him.

“I know,” Five said with a sad smile. “I’m not sure happiness is in the cards for me, Viktor, but thank you for saying that.”

************************

As the sunlight filtered through the grimy window of his bedroom and spread across his face, Five stirred. After drinking down the rest of the whiskey the night before, accompanied by Jack’s cookies, Five had tried to come up with as many solutions to his problem as possible. He was smart, he could figure out a way to live independently in this body; he just needed to think.

Stumbling up from the bed where he had passed out on top of the covers in just his suit pants and undershirt, Five made his way over to the desk again. Squinting down at the notebook where he had been listing various ideas, he noticed how his writing had gotten less legible the drunker he got. He also noticed how the ideas became increasingly dumber.

“Join the circus?” he said out loud before flopping down in the chair. “Jesus, I’m an idiot.” With a sigh he looked over the rest of the list. Nothing written there was actually helpful or made much sense. Which was exactly what Five had been afraid of. “Fuck.”

There was only one real answer to all of this, and Five had known it as soon as they had come crashing back into the mansion yesterday. He’d know it longer than that, actually. It had always been in the back of his mind; he just hadn’t wanted to admit it. But there was no getting around it now.

Unless he wanted to live the next five or six years in the custody of one of his siblings, Five was going to have to go back to being the person he hated the most. An assassin for the Commission.

He had thought about staying there at the Academy, maybe for a couple of weeks, almost like a vacation, and to maybe try and dry out a little. But that was just another dumb idea he had. The longer he put it off, the harder it would be. And he was fooling himself if he thought he wouldn’t drink himself half to death if left alone with nothing to do for days at a time.

There was another very real concern, too. And that was that he was fairly sure it was just a matter of time before they started looking for him again. They had returned to the beginning, and a gang of angry Commission agents were probably on their way right now to find him and drag him back or kill him. So, it was best if he just went willingly this time. If he couldn’t spare himself, he could at least spare his family.

Five had decided, though, that if they wanted him back there was going to be some changes. He had no idea what state the Commission was in at the moment. So many timelines had been fucked up in his little journey through space and time that he wasn’t sure if the Handler was dead or alive, or if AJ was still in charge, or someone else. Either way, Five knew he was their greatest asset, and he wasn’t going to come slinking back with his tail between his legs.

He had specific demands and allocations that he was prepared to negotiate for. He was no longer going to be one of their drones that worked for them unquestionably until he was killed in the line of duty. No, he knew his worth. If he was going to walk back into that building again, things were going to be different. Five was a fucking Commission legend, and it was time he was treated like one.

He wanted his own apartment in the real world, not in Commission headquarters, so that he could visit and keep tabs on his siblings. He didn’t want to be tracked wherever he went, so no microchip this time. He wanted to be able to pick the jobs with full power to turn them down for any reason.

He would sign their five-year contract, but if those additions were not added, then there would be no deal.

If they had a problem with that, then, that was going to be their big mistake. Because Five had no problem fighting and outrunning them for the rest of his life; using up their precious resources and all of their best field agents in the process. Bring it on. He had nothing else to do.

After another shower and change back into his Academy uniform because the suit was pretty ripe by now and the clothes Marie had given him made him feel somehow younger, Five stood at the top of the staircase. He could hear his family down there, laughing, talking, and arguing. The sound of clinking silverware and the smell of his mother’s cooking was drifting upwards. He could even make out a soft chuckle from Pogo.

There was that moment of panic again. Five could feel it, reaching up from his guts and wrapping its hand tightly around his heart. He reached up to loosen his tie and tried to take in big breaths of air. He wanted to join them. To walk breezily down the stairs, grab a plate and sit down at the table to join in their conversation. He wanted to chat with Pogo about some of the interesting physics theories he had studied up on during his alone time in the Apocalypse. He longed to sit quietly at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and a newspaper while Grace went about her chores, listening to her hum her happy little tunes.

But he couldn’t. Despite what Pogo had told him, this was not his home anymore. It hadn’t been in many years. Five needed to move on, no matter how hard that was. He wasn’t a stranger to hardship, so for him this was just another kick in the nuts that life was throwing at him. This time, though, he wasn’t going to stay away. He had survived and saved his siblings for a reason, and he wasn’t going to throw all of that away now. So, he would come back from time to time. He would keep in touch and hopefully watch them flourish and have families of their own.

And who knows, maybe Five would luck out. Maybe down the road he could knock off the booze and meet someone special to share his life with. Maybe he could have his own home and family one day. His other self had shown him he was capable of it. Five doubted it, but maybe he could find his own happiness with the right person.

Nothing was impossible.

If anyone is interested in my other works, here is a link to my Masterlist ❤️

@kaybreezy3000 @lunalovesangst

[thatfeelinwhenyou]

KINDRED — 09

It’s your final year of highschool, and your only goal is to graduate top of your cohort, as usual. Except as student council president, your advisor can’t seem to leave you alone. What happens when you take Decelis Academy’s top student, their star athlete and put them in front of a camera?

smau + written (2.4k words)

❥･• episode 9 — operation we-don’t-really-hate-each-other

As the production crew ushers you into the room, your heart races with excitement. The once-deserted classroom has undergone a remarkable transformation, now standing as a confessional studio bathed in the warm glow of overhead lights. An intricate web of cameras and meticulous lighting equipment encircles two inviting stools, positioned neatly right next to each other. The aura within is electric, humming with a blend of excitement and tension.

Amidst this carefully orchestrated symphony of activity, the leading producer paces about, her brows furrowed in concentration, as she meticulously scrutinises the script clutched in her hands for what you assume is the nth time. Nearby, a small brigade of cameramen work with precision, each minor adjustment made to capture the most exquisite angles. And it hit you—this is really happening.

You nod attentively as you receive instructions from the crew that they will be filming the opening sequence to the documentary today, asking only a few questions to you and none other than Yang Jungwon.

Fully embracing the captivating allure of reality TV, complete with its intriguing and heart-pounding suspense, the producer resolutely quashes your hopeful plea for a sneak peek at those darn interview questions.

Frankly speaking, you are a bundle of jitters. It was known to the whole school that you were the embodiment of preparation; concepts securely etched into your mind, and meticulously crafted notes that served as your guide through yours exams. But now, standing right smack in the middle of the room, you're like a lost puppy wandering into uncharted waters. Yet, determined to guard your vulnerability from prying eyes, particularly those of Yang Jungwon's, you employ a carefully constructed façade of coy self-assurance.

And then, as if on cue, he materialises—a figure cast in a demeanour that is both effortlessly casual and frustratingly unperturbed. A pang of annoyance mingles with the surge of nerves as he nonchalantly strolls into the room (just five minutes late, as always).

"Yang Jungwon?" The words cut through the air, tinged with a hint of impatience. "Take a seat, would you? We're on a tight schedule." The crew member ushers him with practised efficiency toward the vacant stool at your side. A sharp, involuntary cringe tugs at your features as your gazes inadvertently lock for a fleeting moment. It's like this weird mix of nerves and irritation—a little tug-of-war playing out in plain sight.

"Shall we begin?" The authoritative resonance of Producer Choi's voice cuts through the room, casting a spell of anticipation over the set. Settling gracefully onto her stool, she assumes a poised stance behind the camera. You offer a subtle nod, a silent testament to your readiness that doesn’t escape her notice. Jungwon's eyes, however, roll in a gesture that practically screams his disdain for what he perceives as your pretentious façade of a good-girl persona.

"Alright, let’s kick things off." Producer Choi declares, her tone dripping with intrigue. Her gaze sweeps over you both, the opening chord of this unforeseen duet. "We've got a series of questions lined up, and all you need to do is answer them as best you can."

“First off, let's get those introductions going." With a pointed gesture, Producer Choi directs her attention toward Jungwon, signalling for him to lead the charge.

"Yang Jungwon, age nineteen, Taekwondo athlete," he utters, his words a blend of confidence and haste. He concludes with an almost reluctant scoff, a rebellion against formalities he can't entirely suppress. The edge of his scoff doesn't go unnoticed; his message is clear even as he chooses to ignore your presence. You, however, are not one to be silenced. Rolling your eyes with a mix of exasperation and amusement, you address the cameras with a poised smile.

"Greetings, dear viewers. I am Park Y/N, a final-year student at Decelis Academy and student body president for the Decelis Student Council. It’s an honour to be here.” Your words hold an unspoken challenge, one pointed towards Yang Jungwon and the inexplicable sense of rivalry the two of you built up.

The camera falls silent as Producer Choi brings her decisive hand into play, her frustration tangible. "Jungwon, I need more enthusiasm, and Y/N, this isn't a grand ceremony; there’s no need for the formalities." The faint sound of a stifled laugh brushes against your ears, a reaction you steadfastly choose to ignore. "Let’s try that again."

"Moving on to the next question, could you each briefly describe your after-school curriculum?”

"For me," you begin with a candid note in your tone, "if there's no student council business demanding my attention, I’ll usually be in the library, my unofficial second home. I catch up on lectures and assignments there." You let out a small, self-aware chuckle. "I guess everyone in the school knows where to find me if they need something-"

"Oh, absolutely, she's practically a monk. Always got her nose in a book and apparently, other people’s businesses." Jungwon's voice cuts in with the precision of a finely honed blade, his words tinged with an undercurrent of amusement. The interruption draws a sigh of irritation from you, but you forge ahead. You're quick to retake the spotlight, your voice a dance of resolve and exasperation.

"I suppose you could say that. With free time on my hands, I've come to believe in putting it to good use." A casual shrug punctuates your response, and you cast a sidelong glance at the boy seated beside you, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.

"I mean, why not, right?" You continue, your words a challenge woven in playful nonchalance. "If there's time to spare, I'd rather channel it into something productive." The tilt of your chin conveys an invitation for his response—an unspoken duel of words and wits. You throw him an artful smile, a silent promise of your tenacity to match his.

"If we're talking productivity," Jungwon retorts, his words a measured challenge, "I'm an athlete. So, after-school training is a part of my routine. Not everyone's got their head buried in books.” His gaze locks with yours, and the tension between you is palpable.

It's like a duel of wills—a silent battle neither of you intends to back down from. The intensity is so thick, it's as if you're caught in a staring contest, each vying for the upper hand. The world around you fades into the background, leaving only the simmering tension that crackles like electricity.

The only interruption is a slight cough, and the reality of the situation rushes back as awareness dawns that you're being captured on camera. Reality snaps back into focus, and you're acutely aware of the weight of expectations resting on your shoulders. The watchful eyes of not only the production crew but also the prestigious universities, the very ones your mother has been weaving dreams of, are watching your every move.

Your glare softens, your defiance tempered by a reminder of your surroundings. With a subtle adjustment of your posture, you manage a quiet apology under your breath, a concession to the circumstances.

Jungwon, on the other hand, wears a triumphant smirk, his victory achieved by stirring a reaction out of you, evidently content that he managed to get under your skin.

"There seems to be some tension lingering between you two. Care to elaborate on your relationship?" Producer Choi's inquiry comes with a raised eyebrow and an undercurrent of curiosity clearly dancing in her eyes. The unspoken rivalry that simmers between you and Jungwon has clearly captured her attention.

Unbeknownst to her before casting the two of you, this uncharted territory has presented itself as a thrilling discovery, painted across her face in a delighted smile. The promise of raw content and untamed drama is endless—the very essence of what a reality TV show thrives upon.

"We're exactly as you see it," Jungwon answers, his voice cool and his words laced with a mix of indifference and disdain. He rises from his seat with an air of defiance, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "No relationship, just mutual detestment." His tongue clicks with emphasis, an unspoken challenge hanging in the air. "Are we done here? I've got places to be."

Producer Choi concedes to his request, her words are a concession to the present circumstances. "I suppose that’s enough for today. We'll reconvene after school at your respective activities." Her tone takes on a breezy cadence, but it's clear that her expectations won't be sidestepped.

"As we discussed, Mondays will be separate shoots, but to uphold our end of the bargain, we need both of you together for the rest of the week. Agreed?" Her assumption of authority, coupled with her audacity to steer the situation, is a stark contrast to the formality she adopts when conversing with your teachers. While annoyance simmers within you, you refrain from voicing your thoughts.

The feeling doesn’t seem to be an isolated thought when your gaze shifts to Jungwon, finding his eyes locked on yours. The unspoken words that sit on the tip of his tongue threaten to escape, his teeth grazing his lower lip in contemplation. However, he brushes off the impulse, and his exit from the classroom is marked by a subtle tension, with the cameras following closely behind him—a testament to the intricate predicament you've found yourselves in.

You, on the other hand, leave the classroom after wrapping up a few more questions. Missing your first period was already stressful enough, but there's something about Producer Choi that sets off alarm bells in your head, reminding you of those bossy characters you thought only existed in dramas.

Lost in thought, you walk down the deserted hallway, quickening your pace to make it to second period on time. Your distraction becomes even more apparent as you inadvertently pass by Yang Jungwon, leaning casually against the lockers.

"Park," his familiar voice halts you in your tracks, and you glance back to find him looking straight at you. Was he... waiting for you?

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have places to be?” You mock him, recalling his cold demeanor in the classroom. He scoffs in response, rolling his eyes, “Can we talk?”

"Depends. If you're here to lecture me about Taekwondo again, save it."

“As much as I would love to annoy you with my apparent obsession with my own sport, but no, it’s about the documentary.” Jungwon pushes himself off the lockers and walks over to you. Just then, from the corner of his eye, he spots the production crew turning the corner, and in a fit of panic, he grabs your hand and pulls you away from the building. Before you could even process it, he was already dragging you half-way across the campus.

“Let go! What is it that you can’t just tell me over text?” You manage to yank your hand free, irritation simmering. “It’s already bad enough that I have to put up with that tyrant of a producer; I really don’t need you adding to it.”

"Normally, I'd disagree, but thank fucking God you find that woman as irritating as I do."

“The way she spoke to us? Sure, I signed a contract, but I’m not her puppet.” He places a hand on his hip, an action oddly reminiscent of your grandmother when she would scold you for not visiting her more often. The image loiters in your mind as you stifle a laughter that unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed by Jungwon.

“What’s so funny?” He raises his eyebrows, and you shake your head to brush him off, but it only fuels his curiosity even more. “I’m assuming you dragged me all the way here to discuss Producer Choi?” His annoyance is evident, as he nods vigorously. It's an unexpected sight—Yang Jungwon, the epitome of nonchalance, riled up by a woman not much older than him. It's kind of endearing, but you would rather die than admit that out loud, so you bury that atrocious thought in the back of your head.

“Speaking of which, she couldn’t even hide her delighted expression when she found out we practically hate each other-”

“Whoa, ‘hate’ is a pretty strong word. If that's your opinion of me, okay, but I definitely don't hate you. Just a minor difference." You spoke without thinking yet again, and although Beomgyu would be very disappointed if he were here with you, the sentiment is out there now.

Jungwon seems taken aback by your confession, hurriedly clearing his throat. "As I was saying, she's clearly trying to stir up drama, as if I'd willingly play along." He scoffs, crossing his arms in front of his chest, his tongue poking the insides of his cheeks.

“I know you’re taking a risk on this documentary, and don’t even bother denying it because I know you’re trying to gain publicity and favour.”

"How did you—did Sunoo tell you?"

"That's not the point; the thing is, I am too."

"And what university would even take YOU?" He rolls his eyes at your teasing, not bothering to argue.

"I'm an athlete, remember? A Taekwondoin on top of that. I have a really important competition next month, and God forbid that I be shown on national television as someone who picks fights with girls. It goes against the sport's values." He explains, trying to get his point across. Sadly, it flies over your head.

"Seriously? My point is that we need to act as if we don't hate—well, dislike—each other. I know we said we'd ignore each other, but now she's making you sit in for my trainings and me study with you in the library. It's physically impossible." He shudders at the thought of having to even step foot into that place, and though you really wish you didn’t have to be around him, Jungwon is right—there's no escaping this situation.

You sort of know you're heading down the deep end when Producer Choi insists on having you and Jungwon sit side-by-side in class, despite the documentary's official filming schedule commencing only after school. The array of cameras meticulously arranged around your classroom, ostensibly to capture mundane "B-Roll" footage, fuels your suspicions. Deep down, you're well aware that their true purpose is to capture any moment of vulnerability or connection between you and Jungwon.

It doesn't require a genius to discern their ulterior motive—they're determined to exploit your relationship for the camera's sake. The bizarre part is, this isn't even a dating show. The intention behind it all remains an enigma, leaving you to grapple with the looming uncertainty that now defines your academic life.

I guess you can say that ‘Operation We-Don’t-Really-Hate-Each-Other’ is a go.

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[busines-as-unusual]

˖ ࣪ ⭑⟡Chapter 1 - Key Signature⟡⭑ ࣪ ˖

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“Where the fuck is that fucking raccoon slag?!”

The avian-like demon stomped backstage at his sleazy burlesque show, not caring if the roar of his voice was louder than the band playing down in the pit. Sinners under his employ dashed back and forth to keep busy and stay out of his way. The unlucky few who got caught in the Overlord’s crossfire of his rage were sent flying through the air with a flap of his wings, crashing painfully on props or other demons.

The demon yanked the cigar out of his mouth to wipe the drool of alcohol gathering in the corner of his mouth. “Bitch, you got to the count of four–”

That always did the trick. You scrambled out of your dressing room in a blur of purple and silver. You wore your signature outfit: a corset pushing up your best assets, with fringe and feathers everywhere hiding nothing from view. He'd have you for himself tonight if he weren't so irritated.

Your arms were crossed, face in a shitty frown, eyes trained on something behind him. “Yes, Roman?”

“Yes, Roman,” he mocked, taking pleasure when you cringed in on yourself. “You know you're on in five?”

“Of course I know,” you spat the words, testing out your defiance. “I-I was just–”

He yanked you by the arm, talons threatening to pierce your skin. You winced, shaking in his grasp, looking up at the demon who owned your soul with barefaced vitriol.

Roman cupped your cheek in a grotesque caricature of an affectionate gesture. His thumb caressed your cheek right under your eye, right where he knew a bruise was hiding under your shitty makeup job. It would be invisible on stage under the harsh lights, not that anyone would care if it wasn't. This was Hell after all.

He took a drag of his cigar. “You can give me all the lip you want after you do your fucking job. Capiche, honey?”

You grimaced, trying not to gag on the acrid smell of his cigar curdling in your lungs. “Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

You fumed in silence, wishing you could tell him to wrap his lips around a Smith and Wesson. But you swallowed the retort, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear. “...yes, daddy.”

He grinned. “There's my favorite girl.”

With a smack on your ass, he pushed you to take your mark. One of the stagehands reminded you of your cue to enter, but their voice mixed with the band and backstage chaos turning into pure white noise irritating your brain. This had been your routine since nearly your first days in Hell. You did not need a recap.

Squaring your shoulders, you plastered on a well practiced show-stopping smile. You strutted center stage with all the confidence in Hell, hands on exaggeratedly swiveling hips to greet your adoring audience of savage beast.

The music swelled as if the instruments themselves were applauding the sultry sway of your body.

You allowed yourself to get lost in the music, your body taking over the reigns as it did what it did best. It was the only way you could get through this with your sanity intact. In life, you’d made it your mission to dance to your own rhythm, but in Hell you found yourself once again forced to follow another's rhythm for survival, your well-being at the mercy of vile men.

You could strangle every single one of them.

Rip them apart with your bare hands.

Like most denizens in Hell, you loathed the owner of your soul. Once a fresh sinner, confused with your new surroundings, and terrified of heaven's wrath, you made your deal out of naivety and fear. Only later did you understand what you’d done when it was far too late to take it back.

So you danced every night for the pleasure of others, preferring to let your eyes burn staring at the spotlights rather than at the hungry faces of lustful demons, preferring to let the music deafen you so you couldn’t hear their wolf whistles and vulgar comments.

Your soul and body no longer moved in tandem, the pain of the unsynchronization intractable and ever-present.

You were so far away the flickering lights above didn't reach you until they all went out, bathing the club in darkness. All at once you returned to yourself, body stopping on its own accord. The patrons muttered, confused, concerned, and disgruntled. Somewhere not far away enough, Roman was shouting at some poor soul to fix the lights.

The temperature dropped in the blink of an eye. Pins and needles scratched at the underside of your skin, a sensation felt by all as silence swept throughout the establishment, louder than the band.

“R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻, R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻, R̸͙̃ő̶̧͍͠ḿ̶̨̺̋a̸͈̱̽̓ñ̸̻…”

The familiar voice distorted by static was enough to make everyone lose their collective shit. Screams pierced the air as patrons and employees alike rushed to the exit, trampling on each other and shattering windows, clawing for escape.

You froze as the chaos unfolded. A light fixture above you crashed and shattered on the floor, shards of glass flying, biting your skin.

The building shook. Tendrils of shadows snaked through the windows and doors like murderous tornadoes, tearing through concrete and sinners alike with no discretion, cutting them down like weeds. Like a house of cards the building crumbled on top of you, the darkness all-consuming.

The weight of a collapsed building in Hell was the equivalent of a stubbed toe. It won't kill you, but it'll hurt like a motherfucker.

You clawed your way out of the rubble, coughing up dust and debris that invaded your lungs. You breached the surface and gulped down fresh Hellish air. The sounds of a bloody brawl were mere background noise as you assessed your damage. Blood dripped and bruises ached but you were alright otherwise. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for the other residents of the club.

Hell made one accustomed to blood and gore, but it was still a shock to see it unprompted. Blood soaked into the remains of the ex-establishment, limbs strewn about with abandon. The air grew thick with copper. A leg free from its owner stood beside you, comically upright.

You regarded the leg with mild distaste, then to the rubble still covering your own legs.

You’d done grosser things…

With the leg, you shoved off the remainder of the rubble pinning you down, tossing it behind you with a sigh of relief. You stood, then immediately nearly collapsed like the building.

Your chest burned as if your heart combusted. Grabbing at the white-hot pain behind your ribs, you dropped to one knee, drawing in ragged breaths that couldn’t reach your lungs. Vision blurred as your body struggled to stay upright. A scream shredded itself across Hell like a bloodied siren was drowned out by the maddening ringing in your ears.

As suddenly as the sensation appeared, it stopped, replaced with an invisible weight lifting from your shoulders. You felt inexplicably lighter.

A crimson chain— your chain, bestowed on you by Roman— manifested around your neck, then shattered like glass on a hardwood floor, dissipating into the wind like smoke from his cigars. In that moment you knew he was deader than dead. His soul was no more.

And you were free.

You nearly sobbed at the realization, euphoria washing over you like a wave. Fingers instinctively stroked your throat in disbelief.

The celebration was cut short when the familiar chill of static crawled over your skin. Sensing the presence behind you, you turned, and there he was.

The Radio Demon.

He had quickly made a name for himself down in Hell as one of the realm's most powerful, dangerous, and evil beings. You’d been around for a year before he made his presence known, but even then you could tell how much he alone had changed the landscape of Hell.

His broadcast kept him a mystery for the most part, but there were a few artistic renditions of his likeness from sinners who crossed his path and lived to tell the tale. Some were more accurate than others, but they all got his sadistic smile down perfectly.

And now that smile was aimed your way.

You should be terrified, and maybe you supposed you were, but pure awe overshadowed the prudent fear that should be in its place.

Your eyes made contact with the dials in place of his irises. His grin skewed in thought as he approached her, theatrically spinning his cane around him.

You didn't shrink back. You couldn't if you wanted to. Curiosity took hold of your flight or fight instincts as you watched him draw near, stopping when he was less than a meter away.

He was a lot redder than you expected, with antlers like a deer perched on oddly fluffy hair and golden teeth like a shark. His pinstriped suit was pristine and exquisite despite the battle he'd been part of not too long ago. The dials of his eyes vanished, replaced with red.

It was like he bathed in blood.

And you supposed he did.

You stared up at the towering demon, feeling small but not intimidated. He inspected you, crimson stare taking you in, intrigued by your next move. You were all too aware of your heart in your chest.

“That was quick,” was all you thought to say.

His smile turned closed mouthed, head tilting in amusement more so than confusion. “Oh? And did you expect the buffoon to have me put up a bigger fight?”

You shrugged. “The buffoon was an Overlord for over five hundred years. You don't accomplish that without knowing how to hold your own in a fight. At least that's what he always told me.”

The Radio Demon laughed, a hearty, campy sound full of bravado. “Braggarts souls like him, I find, are always the fastest to fall. You can never trust a man who sings his own praises, my dear.

You snickered in agreement but held back a retort. Something about the demon before you rang familiar. His voice, the way he talked and held himself, it all nagged at you to place where you’d met him before. But you couldn't have, you’d definitely remember a man like this.

Unless… you didn't meet in Hell?

Before you could ask, he grabbed your face with a single hand and forced you to look at him. Thumb and forefinger dug into your cheeks bruisingly as he smiled down at you. His eyes glimmered with hunger, and not the lustful hunger of need you were familiar with. He looked ready to devour you.

“Subservience to utter filth is unbecoming of you. You'd do well to use that brain of yours to not find yourself in the gutter again.”

You didn't pull away, scowling up at him for having the nerve to condescend to you. You weren’t stupid. You were always determined that if you were ever freed of Roman, you'd never let another demon have your soul ever again. You finally, finally belonged to you again, you weren’t dumb enough to jeopardize it.

You'd rather die permanently than give up your freedom.

Somehow, the Radio Demon read your intent. His smile grew despite the daggers you shot at him. His hand fell from your face and gave a dramatic bow. “Well I must be off! Do have a Hellish evening, my dear.” He turned on his heel and retreated, shadows swallowing him before he was even out of view.

You scrambled off the ashen remains of her past afterlife. You needed to act, and fast.

You stepped out onto the porch of your mansion to greet another wonderfully Hellish day in paradise. The air was sweet with the scent of blood and brimstone. In the distance the usual turf battle soundtracked the morning. With a final goodbye to your house staff, you closed the door and skipped off to meet Rosie for mid-morning tea.

For decades, you two would meet biweekly at a cafe not too far from either of your territories to gossip and catch up. Rosie wasn’t like your normal company of rowdy barflies, shakers, and movers, but she was the kindest soul in the nine circles and never held a dull conversation. She was your oldest friend, not just in Hell but ever, having helped you land back on your feet after your soul contract came to a welcomed end.

You all but danced down the street, waving back to the friendly faces and familiar demons along your well-traveled path.

When Rosie spotted you, she beamed and waved you down to the table. You returned the warm smile as you sat and greeted your friend. An impish waiter sat a pot of piping tea on the table along with sugar, milk, and a basket of scones before scurrying off.

“Rosie, love!” You sang, pouring both of them a cup. “How’s tricks?”

“Oh you know, same old same old.” She pulled out a familiar tin and popped it open. Rows of dismembered fingers, some polished and some with the rings still on, lined the dainty box. She carded through them like an address book before landing on one she deemed tastiest to use like a stirrer to cool her drink. “Although I know a gal who may be looking for an acting gig.”

You chuckled and poured milk into your tea. “Send her my way. We’ll see what she's made of. But you know I don’t play favorites.”

They both laughed, and the two of them settled into the usual pleasantries: the state of Rosie’s colony and residents, her upcoming appointments; your beloved theater company, and even more beloved bar and club.

You were proud to run two successful businesses in Hell after decades of hard, dirty, violent work. You owned plenty of souls who were happy to do their jobs in return for protection and good pay. The assets left behind in the wake of Roman’s death were used to rebuild your life in Hell.

In life, you ran a little speakeasy and a small off, off Broadway theater and did quite well for yourself all things considered, but your success in Hell made your living accomplishments look like small potatoes.

Rosie laughed at the anecdote you told , shaking her head in amused disapproval. “Tem, dear, stop antagonizing poor Ramona. You already slept with her husband.”

“I’ll stop when she stops sending bombs to my club.” You reached for your third scone. “Poor Jet is getting tired of diffusing them, and half the time the damn things don’t even work! I thought she was some kind of weapons expert.”

“She sells knives door to door.”

“Good lord, that's even sadder.”

Your laughter died down as the air dipped in a staticky chill, making your damn raccoon tail involuntarily twitch, fur stand on end. From a cloud of shadows stepped a familiar grinning face that always had your stomach doing undesirable flips.

“Alastor!” Rosie cried in delight. “Where have you been hiding? Don’t be shy, pull up a chair!”

The Radio Demon did just that. With a snap of his fingers he manifested a chair beneath, sat his cane to the side, and sat with a flourish. He was never one to do something mundanely, even something as simple as sitting. “Rosie, Temerity! Always the pleasure to be in the company of two fine ladies.”

You returned the greeting casually, then turned your attention to your cup of tea, taking a long sip as Rosie chatted Alastor up. You were happy to let Rosie take the lead in the conversation, as your heart decided now was the perfect time to take up tap dancing. Dead at thirty-four, in Hell for nearly three times as long, but here you were, heart a-twitter like a virgin at a petting party.

You wanted to drown in the feeling everytime. It made you sick.

Your ears perked when Rosie mentioned your name, your cue to rejoin the conversation. “It is certainly a surprise to see you out this way this morning, Alastor.” Your smile was bright but guarded. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I’m actually in the business of business this morning.” The crackle of the white noise that accompanied him always made his voice so warm in a way you could never describe, but by Satan’s glorious wrath, you’d be willing to listen to him talk for hours to figure it out. Thankfully, upon his return from his seven year holiday, his radio broadcasts were once again a pleasant addition to your morning routine.

“Always with the work, this guy,” Rosie said, playfully tapping him on the shoulder. “What did you need this time, darling?”

“I’m in need of Tem’s services.”

It was a gift you didn’t spew tea all over them. “My services? You’ll have to be more specific.”

His perpetual smile was hard to read, his eyes conveyed nothing but mirth. “I’m sure you’re well aware of my dealings with the princess of Hell and her hotel for wayward sinners?”

You nodded. It was common knowledge Princess Charlotte was trying to redeem sinners and Alastor had taken up the duty of the hotel’s protector. It was the stuff of rumors. Why was the Radio Demon involved in such an endeavor? What sinister plot was he playing at? What diabolical plans was he brewing? Personally, you thought he was there for shits and giggles. You knew how he liked to watch people struggle and fail; the hotel was his own personal circus.

“The poor thing is anxious that check-ins are slow and is pulling hair for recruitment ideas,” Alastor continued. “So I told her I had a friend who may be able to help draw in potential souls.”

You frowned, ears shifting in confusion against your will. You tried so hard to keep careful control of how others perceived your emotions, but those damned ears and tail of yours were determined to always give you away. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow.”

“Why your performing arts company, my dear! I think your shows and entertainment expertise are precisely the thing Charlie is looking for to draw in more damned souls.”

“Oh!” You were at full attention, ears popping up in excitement. You had no higher power to be grateful to, but were nonetheless glad Alastor couldn’t see your excited tail swish behind the chair. “I see your vision now. You've come to the right gal.”

“Splendid!” His smile shifted in tone. Something at the crossroads of satisfied, cheerful, and a third something you couldn't quite place. It reached his eyes, lending them a mischievous twinkle.

The two of you finalized a plan to meet up with Princess Charlotte, and with that Alastor was gone as quickly as he came, melting into the shadows. Once gone, Rosie served you a devilishly knowing grin.

“Don’t,” you warned.

“What?” Rosie asked with faux innocence from behind her tea cup. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

She didn’t need to say anything, because you were near bursting at the seams.

You rested your forehead on a hand, flushed skin warm under your palm. “What is it about that man that’s got me so… what do the kids say these days? Down bad?”

“That’s the word for it.” She took a bite of her finger like a biscuit softened by milk. “I still say you should tell him. Get it over with, his reaction be damned.”

“Rosie. Sweetheart.” You looked at said friend, eyes dead serious as her tone. “What about me makes you think I’m suicidal?”

“I’m just saying. With your taste in men, you could do a lot worse, hun.”

“Oh, please. I have soliloquized about your taste in men.”

“Touche, dear. But you'll never see me this worked up over a fella like you get with Alastor.”

“I am not ‘worked up!’” You waggled her fingers, rolling your eyes at the phrase. “Rosie, you know me. I do not get worked up over any man.”

Rosie nodded, knowing look still on her face.

“I just happen to find Alastor… deeply and endlessly enthralling and morbidly attractive.”

“So you're down bad but not worked up?”

“Precisely!”

Rosie was right, and you hated it. You’ve been stupidly worked up for decades over the worst man to be worked up over.

In life and death, you’ve had more than your fair share of flings, swings, and misses. No harm, no foul. You were in the game for fun. And what fun would it be if there was never a chase or challenge?

But when it came to Alastor, there was no game to be played. Which wouldn’t be so bad if your feelings for Alastor were shallow and fleeting like they were with most men, and not the twisted web of complications and confusion you spent so much of her afterlife trying to understand so you could properly suppress it.

At first, they were trifling, easy to ignore as you made moves to turn your shitty afterlife around. The two of you rarely crossed paths in the beginning. Then, somehow, he managed to worm his way into your life in little ways. An appearance at your birthday parties here, joining in on picnics with Rosie there, an occasional run-in at the bar Mimzy performs at for free drinks. You became cordial acquaintances on the surface, but deep down each meeting only fanned the flames of longing you developed for him. After fifty years you couldn't write it off as simple infatuation.

You smacked your cheeks. Now was the time to get your shit together. You were an adult, not some love-struck teenager. You spent a lifetime and more practicing careful control of her emotions, your mother hammered in the importance of temperance until you bled; unrequited feelings shouldn't be a problem.

After leaving your theater in the capable hands of your co-managers, you waited outside for Alastor to pick you up. You’d changed outfits since this morning; something more akin to doing business, but still plenty cute and classy.

(And no, you didn’t change to impress Alastor. That would be stupid and fruitless.)

Your signature choker graced your lovely neck. A simple black lace choker held a large pendant. Within were two intertwined bloodshot eyes, wide and restless and unblinking. They swam and circled each other like rabid cyclones.

The shadows folded and solidified beside you and Alastor appeared in all his glory, startling a sinner passing by. The poor sap ran, not looking where he was going, and was pulverized by a speeding car, the man left in its wake now half a grease spot on the road.

Alastor tutted and shook his head, his ever-present smile curled in twisted amusement.

You’ve seen sinners do that before, preferring to be maimed over crossing paths with the Radio Demon. You always found it darkly hilarious. No doubt Alastor did as well, though he hid it better behind that dapper smile of his.

“Jaywalkers,” you said with a sigh, not noticing when Alastor’s grin grew a hair.

“Shall we, doll?” He held out his hand and you tried not to look too eager to take it. His shadows wrapped around you both as he whisked you and him away.

A/N: This was a bitch to do on a tablet, lol. Please message me if you want to be added to the taglist.

Previous Chapter|Next chapter

[saintmagx]

I Knew you were Trouble❤️‍🔥

Part 3

Pairing: Jimmy Uso x reader

AN: if you would like tagged let me know 💖 Trinity is still with WWE. No specific timeline

⚠️ Warnings: 18+ , swearing, violence (this is the WWE after all) slight smut, infidelity, jealous Jimmy, bad writing, cringe story telling, the Usos (because they are a warning in themselves) ⚠️

JIMMY IS SO FINE LIKE 😭🤤 HELP!!!! Also is anyone else just loving how much fun he’s having on Smackdown right now????? YEEET 🤪 NO YEET 😐

The hustle and bustle of the gorilla can be a bit much for some people but not me, it strangely helps me get in the zone, ready to become my onscreen persona and throw yn out the window. Hunter confirmed the timeline for myself and trinity to win the tag team titles - five weeks away at Summerslam. Trin was still determined to get us an in ring team name and had enlisted Beverly the seamstress to start working on matching outfits - I love her but when she sets her mind to something - nothing and I mean nothing stands in her way.

Tonight I had a singles match against Liv Morgan, a simple one on one match with a clean win for me. Waiting for my cue the Uso’s come through the curtain after finishing their match. Josh greets me with his huge infectious smile and warm embrace, Jon on the other hand greets me with his signature fiery stare.

“Good luck out there yn. The crowd is on fire tonight!”

Josh walks away leaving me standing with Jon once more.

“We need to stop meeting like this.” Jon says with a smirk

“Ah yes, however it is hard when we work at the same place and are friends with the same people, the likelihood of us continually bumping into each other is pretty high.” Proud of my self for my reply I look at him smiling awaiting his response.

“Ya know, for a pretty girl you have a pretty smartass mouth. I sure hope you ain’t all talk and can back up that mouth babygirl.” He gives me a final once over and heads over to Josh who is standing chatting to his cousin Joe.

Focus yn, focus.

“Yn, you’ve missed your cue, get out there NOW.”

Shit. I don’t need distractions right now, I need to prove to Hunter and everyone backstage that i deserve to be here and I deserve these titles.

My match against Liv went to plan, we only had a 7 minute slot so it was quick and effective.

Trin

Hey so a few of us are heading to dinner before you guys have to be back on the road for the European tour. You in?

Yn

Of course girl, lemme get ready and I’ll meet you at the car 💗

Trin

I’ve already left the arena, but Jon and Josh are still there, tag along with them and I’ll see you at dinner 💕

Great. The more I try to keep away from Jon the more fate keeps throwing us together.

The car ride to the restaurant was pretty normal actually. Jon and Josh were in the front talking tactics from their match and goofing off. Me on the other hand was a simple bystander to this, it was nice. The bond the boys have is special, really warms the heart.

“Earth to yn!”

Josh snaps me out of my thoughts

“Sorry, um what were you saying?”

“Damn, not even paying attention to me huh.”

“Oh shush Josh, I’m tired.” I say laughing, I wouldn’t tell them that the real reason I was preoccupied was because I was in awe of them and their bond, those boys don’t need bigger heads.

With Josh fake falling out with me, I turn my attention to Jon.

“Can you tell me what he said?”

“Please?” I beg batting my eyelids, being a little flirtatious always gave me the upper hand, but with Jon it was dangerous territory I was entering.

Looking at me from the mirror he licks his lips.

“Sorry yn! Ain’t no way I ain’t siding with my bro.”

“That’s right uce. Day ones!”

Josh turns to me with a smug ass look on his face. Rolling my eyes I turn my attention to my phone ignoring them both.

Sighing I question “how am I going to manage myself with you two double teaming me.”

Jon’s eyes dart to the mirror with a playful glint in his eyes.

“Im sure you’ll be able to take us.” His eyes revert back to the road as we pull up to the restaurant.

Fluttering. Everywhere. That’s the only way I can describe it. There wasn’t a part in my body left that hadn’t been effected by Jon and his words. When I said double teaming me I hadn’t meant anything by it other than then ganging up on me but now, all I can think about is both their hands on me, Josh attacking my neck, Jon all over my breasts sucking and caressing them.

“You’ve been pretty quiet tonight, what’s up?” Trin enquires.

Truth is I’ve been distracted, Jon’s words in the car, watching Jon interact with Trin like a normal husband and wife, the feeling of jealousy and shame washing over me.

“I’m just tired honestly, plus I’ve still got so much to do before I leave for Europe tomorrow.”

“And moody, was all pissy with me in the car earlier, right Jon?”

“She sure was.”

I look at the twins and flip them off making the everyone at the table laugh lightening the mood. I hate how one man has effect me so much. And I know it’s only going to get worse once we kick of the European tour. No wife and me close by for 7 whole days - it has disaster written all over it.

Sorry it’s kinda short, felt like this was a good place to end! Anyhooo

Tagged: @southerngirl41 @missfamilyjeweles @jeyusos-girl @christinabae @jeyusosgirl @raya-hunter01 @harlem11680 @theogsamoanqueen @harmshake

[creatingnikki]

things to remember in 2024

i. more quiet time, more silence. more shavasana, more stillness.

ii. keep promises you make to yourself. everyone else can be disregarded — the promises they make, the promises you make to them.

iii. there is no "should do this" or "should be that way" as a universal rule book. your experiences and lessons teach you what are your values, preferences, and takes on life and people. you don't need to convince others of them, you don't even need to most times articulate them to follow them and do as you please.

iv. things that increase your risk of chronic health (mental and physical) issues: sitting, smoking, and situationships. your legs, lungs, and love life deserve much better.

v. 'the best way to take care of the future is to take care of the present moment'. fight the instant gratification, the fomo, the yolo. do the healthy thing for you in the moment, every moment.

vi. go to the salon, the bookstore, the train station, the beach, the bakery more than you go to the bar, the boy's house, and self doubt/loathing.

vii. travel even if you don't have a big budget and cannot do everything you'd want to in that destination because you do now want some travel experiences and stories while you're still in your 20s. make it a priority now, you don't want to feel bitter later.

viii. stop trying to frustrate and confuse yourself so much. you are both the vivacious, warm, kind, person and the somber, detached, pensive person. it's not one betraying the other. it's both you — the sunflower and the black orchid.

ix. ask people of things, it's no virtue to only give and not take. however, don't be so sensitive or shattered if not given or denied. people don't have as much power over your heart as you believe. your heart is happily vacationing on the moon most months of the year away from this worldly chaos. it's your ego that cannot take it. acknowledge the role of your ego, learn to understand it so that you can work with it.

x. do the cringe things. post a hundred reels on Instagram even if you get five likes on each. cringe at that part of you that cringes when you do the things you want instead of cringing at yourself. when you do that you're viewing yourself as a third-party judging yourself and honestly love aren't there thousands out there to do that job already? so then you stick to your job — support yourself no matter how you decide to live your life.

xi. love and romance are not the centre or purpose of your life. you are. the genre of your life is neither rom com nor tragic passionate romance. it's slice of life. love and romance will happen when it happens and will be one part of your life. but all the other parts? they belong to you — to your art and writing, to your joy and exploration of yourself and this world, to your family and friends, to food and cats, to travel and music, to peace and sleep. live a full life.

xii. set processes for your routine that streamline everything and make it easy. your morning work commute, your night skincare, going over your monthly budget, saving and investing for your goals, how you organize your life and time. and when problems show up, simply problem solve. don't take it personally, try to not feel dejected and doomed. and for the times you do, don't try to fix anything. take a shower, eat a good meal, go to sleep.

xiii. when setting boundaries, and when those boundaries are crossed, you don't have to break your head trying to get the other person to change their behaviour. instead, you should change your behaviour. if they cross a boundary, then that should be your cue for a behaviour change, a decision. don't be at the mercy of another's understanding and compassion to have your life be aligned to your needs and values.

xiv. three steps taken > three hundred steps planned. pausing for three months > abandoning for three years. three people you love and who love you > thirty people who are fluff. idk why three is the magic number here but you get the gist. moderation, my love, and balance. regulation and removal.

xv. cut out the noise. you'll figure out more of what that means as you begin to do it. it's social media, yes. it's societal conditioning, yes. but it's also the things your loved ones say despite having the best intentions at heart for you. it's the things the younger you believed and thought and wrote. it's the friends and lovers who come and go and don't really know you well. it's all of it. you have to cut out the noise. build noise-cancelling headphones for your soul over time and carry them with you everywhere.

[ao3s-personal-smut-connoisseur]

A little goober I wrote in 2021

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: EraserMic

Rating: Explicit

Title: Fasten Your Seatbelt: Take Off (on AO3)

—————————————————————————

Airplane seating doesn't allow for much leg room, something Pro Hero Eraserhead was made aware of multiple times by Pro Hero Present Mic. The couple was traveling for their vacation as civilians, so they didn't get the special treatment of first class tickets.

"I can't get comfortable," the loud blonde whined, "it's like the people who build airplanes forget that tall people exist!"

Shota Aizawa covered his face with embarrassment, turning his body to look out the small window. Thankfully, the seat between him and Hizashi Yamada remained empty, so it gave room for Yamada to wiggle around. He could only imagine what it would have been like if someone was filling the middle seat, causing him to cringe in annoyance.

"Shotaaaa are you ignoring me?"

"I'm trying to. But you're too loud to completely drown out."

"That's not very nice," Yamada sulked. He continued to fidget around, trying to find a comfortable position to place his legs in.

Aizawa pulled his scarf up higher around his face. While he didn't have his hero costume on, he decided to keep his scarf on him, just in case he came across a villain. He adjusted his ponytail and leaned his head back against the seat. This was going to be a long flight.

A voice came on over the announcement system. "Good afternoon everyone, this is your captain speaking. Once our lovely attendants go over the safety procedures, we'll be taking off. Today's flight will be about four hours long. A meal, as well as a few snacks, will be provided. Please pay attention to anything the flight attendants have to say, and have a wonderful flight." On cue, two slim, dark haired women walk down the aisle, taking their places to begin the safety demonstration. Aizawa has been on planes enough that he didn't bother to truly pay attention to the attendants. However, he took notice of how close one of them was to Yamada.

After the demonstration, it took another five minutes for the plane to be cleared for take off. The engines roared next to Aizawa's head. Yamada finally found a comfortable position to sit in. Once the plane was in the air and the passengers were allowed to unfasten their seatbelts, the flight attendants went to each passenger offering a small bag of pretzels and a choice of a drink.

"Here you go sir," the attendant said in a sweet voice to Yamada, "if there's anything else I can get you, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask." She quickly patted the top of his hand before heading over to the next row. Aizawa was watching from his peripheral vision. He frowned slightly, unsure if she was being flirty or overly friendly with his boyfriend. He opened his own bag of pretzels, deciding to shrug it off for now. About twenty minutes later, Yamada got up to walk up and down the aisle to stretch his cramped legs. 'He's so overly dramatic,' Aizawa thought to himself.

Once Yamada was out of view a couple rows back, the same flight attendant quickly rushed over to his seat, leaving another bag of pretzels on the food tray. She didn't even look at Aizawa, acting as if he wasn't there. He watched as she rushed back to the front where the other attendant was giving her a big smile.

"Yo, Shota! Look at this!" Aizawa's attention turned back to Yamada, who was currently trying to fit back into the seat, wiggling around to get comfortable again. "I got another snack! How cool is that?"

"Very," Aizawa muttered. His boyfriend didn't seem to hear his tone of voice, too focused on the new snack in front of him.

Around the first hour mark, the flight attendance came back around, collecting trash and refilling everyone's cups. Once again, the one showing interest in Yamada positioned herself so her arm would brush up against him. Yamada seemed to be completely oblivious to her slight advances. Aizawa turned his body more towards the two of them, clearing his throat and asking for another drink. She seemed slightly annoyed by the interruption. The only clue she gave was the slight wrinkle in her forehead that came and went in a blink of an eye.

"Of course sir, I'll be right back with your drink. Could I get another one for you sir?" She asked Yamada. He laughs "Oh, no thank you, I'm good."

"Are you sure? I don't mind getting you another."

"No really, I'm ok. I'm saving room for dinner."

The attendant giggled. "Strong men like you have to make sure they eat well, huh?" She picked his trash off the tray and headed to the back of the plane to grab Aizawa another drink.

Aizawa gave Yamada a cold glare. "You better shut that down."

"Shota, do you really feel threatened by this woman? I don-"

Ice dripped off of Aizawa's eyes, shutting the blonde up. "Yes, of course I will," he said in a small voice.

Giving a small smile, Aizawa turned back into his seat. He decided to take a nap until the attendants came back around to ask for dinner orders.

It was about an hour before Yamada woke up Aizawa. The attendants had started from each end of the aisle. And of course, the one that was flirting with Yamada took their order.

"What could I get for the both of you? We have a chicken option, or a vegetarian option."

Both men chose the chicken option, but before Yamada could get into another word, the attendant hurried off to get another row's orders. Yamada glanced nervously over at Aizawa, who was glaring at the attendant.

"Hizashi, you better tell her next time, or I will." Yamada sunk down in his chair, and took a nervous gulp. He knew what would happen if he didn't stop the flight attendant's flirting.

She came back a few minutes later with a meal in each hand. After she had placed down Yamada's meal, she quickly slid him a packet of utensils, however, unlike Aizawa's, Yamada's had a piece of paper taped around it. Upon further inspection, the flight attendant had written her name, number, and a winky face. Yamada tried to hide it from Aizawa's view. He awkwardly shuffled it under the plastic bowl and started eating his food. Aizawa kept a watchful eye on him as he shoved his food into his mouth. The awkward slowness that Aizawa ate his food with made the air between them even more tense, like Aizawa knew what was on the paper. Like he was making Yamada suffer with anticipation for his punishment.

It took Aizawa twenty minutes to finish his food. Twenty antagonizing minutes. When he finally finished eating, he set down his fork and knife, resting his hands on the tray, unmoving like a statue for a while. Suddenly, his arm moved as fast as a striking snake, snatching the piece of paper from under the empty bowl on Yamada's tray. Yamada tried to grab the paper back, but Aizawa only waved it teasingly.

"Trying to hide this from me huh? Why is that? Wanted to call her some time?"

"What? No! I would never!" Yamada stuttered.

"I thought I told you to end her nonsense."

"I-I was planning to she just walked away so quickly I-"

"Go to the bathroom. Open it only when you hear my knock."

"Alright Shota..."

Aizawa grabbed Yamada's wrist as he stood up. "Excuse me?" He questioned, giving the blonde's arm a squeeze. Yamada lowered his head, and spoke loud enough that only Aizawa could hear. "Yes sir..." Letting go of his wrist, Aizawa sat back in his seat, staying there long enough for Yamada to wallow in unrest. When he finally decided to stand up, he took his sweet time walking to the bathroom in the back of the plane. As he walked by the small area where the attendants sat, he handed the piece of paper back to the woman who hit on his boyfriend. She opened it, finding her name crossed out. Under it, Aizawa had written: 'sorry, he's taken.' He casually walked up to the bathroom door, using the secret knock only him and Yamada knew. The door unlocked slowly. Aizawa pushed into the small closet-like space, quickly closing the door and locking it behind him. Yamada stood backed up against the window. His left shoulder shrugged up, his arms half-assed wrapped around his torso in some sort of make shift self defense.

"I gave your little girlfriend back her note. I told her that you weren't interested."

"Thank you sir."

"I only had to do that because you couldn't stand up for yourself."

"Yes sir. I know that sir."

Aizawa placed his foot on the airplane wall, trapping Yamada between him and the half wall where the toilet is. He pulled on the collar of Yamada's Hawaiian shirt, bringing his boyfriend closer to his face.

A menacing smile appeared on his face. "You've been very naughty, defying my orders. You do know what happens next?"

"Yes sir, I know what happens next."

"Good, good. Now stand up straight like a good boy."

Yamada did as he was told. His hands gripped onto the bottom of his shirt, his knuckles starting to show hints of white. Aizawa slowly started to unbutton the flamingo patterned shirt, taking his time to keep Yamada on edge. He knew the power he held over his boyfriend, and he planned on using it.

With the final button undone, he leaned into Yamada. He could feel the other's heart beat even with his own shirt on. His finger ran up his boyfriend's bare chest, stopping right below his nipple. He then flicked it, drawing a reaction out of Yamada, who let out a small hiss of pleasure. "Now Hizashi. Tell me again, what have you been during the plane ride so far?"

"A bad boy. I've been a bad boy, sir," a tear forming in the corner of his eye.

As soon as the last word fell out of his partner's mouth, Aizawa placed his lips on the exposed skin of Yamada's neck. His skin tasted slightly salty, probably due to a nervous sweat that had been built up from anticipation. Aizawa gently nibbled on Yamada's skin while rubbing his nipple in small circles. With his other hand, he went around the blonde's back, reaching down into his pants, under his boxers, taking a firm hold on one of Yamada's ass cheeks.

"Tell me Hizashi, do you like the way this feels? Be honest with me now, I can tell when you lie," he asked between love bites.

"Yes sir, I do like it."

Aizawa removed his hands and lips from his boyfriend's body. "I guess that means I have to stop."

Yamada's expression dropped. "What? Why?!"

Eraserhead's hand pressed into Present Mic's mouth, making a tight clamp. "Now now, not so loud. We wouldn't want anyone to hear you, especially your new girlfriend."

"Sir please! She isn't my girlfriend I swear! You're my one and only, I promise!"

A smile slid across Aizawa's face. He traced a finger up Yamada's chest, up to his neck, stopping under his chin, lifting his head back. "Now that's a good boy, that's what I like to hear." The already forming bulge in the voice hero's pants grew bigger. He resisted his urges to pull his lover into him. Now wasn't the time. He knew he needed to be punished, so he let Aizawa do what needed to be done. Aizawa took notice of the growing bulge and decided to play nice. He started to palm Yamada's cock through the khaki shorts he wore. "I have other ways I can punish you," Aizawa whispered, "so for now, I'll give you what you want." He once again placed his lips on Yamada's neck, sucking on the tender skin enough so blood came to the surface, making a nice, purple-blue mark. "I have to show to her that you're mine." The palming continued as his other hand slipped back down Yamada's backside, grabbing tightly onto his other cheek. "I think these need to come off. Be a good boy and slide them down for me."

Yamada did as he was told. However, Aizawa didn't loosen his grip on the ass cheek in his hand, making it just a bit harder for Yamada to get his pants and boxers down to his ankles. Aizawa spun him around, pressing Yamada's front side into the interior wall of the plane. "I love it when you listen to me," he groaned enthusiastically into the other's ear, "I suppose I can reward you for that." He took the index finger of the hand grasping Yamada's cheek and slid it down his crack until it found the waiting hole. Just before Aizawa's finger tip was about to slip inside, he pulled away, suddenly shoving his finger between Yamada's lips. "Wet my finger for me."

Again, Yamada followed the orders he had been given, going even farther by licking and sucking on Aizawa's middle and ring finger as well, and Aizawa rewarded him with what he wanted. The first finger caused Yamada to bite his lip. The second caused a hitch in his breathing. The third caused a small moan to escape his lips.

"Good boys stay quiet while their asses get finger fucked. Can you do that for me?" Aizawa cooed.

He was answered with a few quick nods. It was very obvious that it was a strain on Yamada to hold back his moans as Aizawa moved his fingers around, scissoring them to stretch out his submissive. Wet noises softly become audible, even with the sound of the plane's engines. Aizawa could feel his own bulge being restricted by the fabric of his pants. As much as he wanted to cum, punishing Yamada took top priority. His own desires would have to wait. Shota pushed his fingers further and further up Hizashi’s rectum, eventually hitting his prostate. A moan did come out of Yamada's mouth, who quickly slapped a hand over his lips to keep more from getting out. Taking his other hand, Aizawa felt around Yamada's taint, finding his prostate that way, and gave it double the amount of attention. Yamada's knees began to shake, and after a few minutes of the stimulation, he turned his head over his shoulder and whispered. "S-sir, I'm gonna cum... I'm so close, if you keep going I'm-"

And just like that, Aizawa stopped. "Bad boys who try to replace me with new girlfriends don't get to cum."

Yamada looked shocked. "But sir, you said I was a good boy!"

Aizawa activated his quirk, cutting the sound out of Yamada, and snaking his scarf around his mouth. He pulled Yamada's head back with his scarf and growled into his ear. "Don't think I haven't forgotten your punishment. You really pissed me off, not telling that flight attendant you already had someone." He roughly shoved his fingers further up through Yamada's hole. "You hurt me Hizashi. And for that, you have to be punished."

Yamada looked crushed. He didn't know that Aizawa was this affected by it. While he knew it wasn't a deep enough problem to turn into a fight, but he hated being bad. All he wanted was to please his lover, in any way possible. With a cinch of his eyebrows, he gave an understanding nod, accepting his punishment whole heartedly. "I'm sorry sir."

Aizawa gave him a quick kiss behind his ear. "I forgive you. Take your punishment well and I'll shove my cock in your ass."

Yamada's eyes widened as he nodded his head vigorously. He loved the way Aizawa filled him up. He loved the way Aizawa held onto him as he fucked him passionately. He loved the warm feeling of Aizawa's cum being shot into him. He held back the tears of pleasure as Aizawa started back up fingering his prostate from inside and out. A euphoric wave began to form, and he notified Aizawa with a muffled sound. Aizawa stopped, pulling his fingers out, giving Yamada only a few seconds before grabbing onto his dick. Eyes rolling slightly back, Yamada began to move his hips on instinct, which got him a spank on the ass, and Aizawa's nails gripping into his ass cheek. "No no no, I don't think so. You have to stand there and take it."

And so he did. He fought against his own body as Aizawa pumped his hand around Yamada's cock, taking time to use his finger tips to move around Yamada's pre-cum to act as lube. Aizawa twirled his finger around the sensitive spot on the underside of Yamada's cock, right where the tip connects to the shaft. Yamada's toes curled from the feeling, his breathing picking up in pace.

"If you cum before I say you can, I'll have to give you another punishment when we get to the hotel," Aizawa whispered, "and I won't give bad boy's like that and slack. Understand?"

A muffled 'yes sir, I understand' came from under Aizawa's scarf, soon followed by another warning that Yamada was about to cum. Aizawa released his grip on Yamada's cock, and unwrapped his scarf from the man's mouth. Yamada was shaking after being edged twice. He waited for Aizawa to continue his punishment, but was only met by the sound of Aizawa's belt buckle. Suddenly, he felt the thickness of Aizawa's cock sliding along his ass crack.

"Bend over as much as you can, and spread your ass open."

Yamada did as instructed, but without warning, Aizawa thrusted his cock into Yamada's pre-stretched hole. A sensual gasp jumped out of Yamada's mouth. Aizawa instantly started thrusting, wrapping his arms around Yamada's hips, grabbing a hold of the front of his thighs. Even though Yamada bit his mouth closed, moans of varying loudness came through.

Aizawa kept pounding Yamada's ass, wet sounds ringing in the air. Even Aizawa let off a few grunts, making Yamada's cock throb with excitement. Each thrust hit against Yamada's prostate, until he blurted out; "Sir! I'm gonna-"

"Hold it. You aren't allowed to cum yet," Aizawa snapped.

Yamada pinched on the head of his dick, and compressed his abs, desperately trying to keep himself from cumming. It started to hurt, but it only turned him on more, making not cumming even harder. Aizawa slowed down his pace to make it a bit easier. He knew his partner's limits. The wetness of Aizawa's pre-cum coating the inside of Yamada's ass felt incredible, a feeling that never ceased to tighten his core. The slick movements brushing against all the right places along his shaft.

"Fuck," Aizawa moaned, "I'm getting close myself." He pulled his dick all the way out before slamming it all the way back in. He leaned back a bit, lifting Yamada's bottom half up a little bit, getting in even deeper. He used small, quick thrusts at this angle to get himself to cum. His fingers dug into Yamada's skin, his eyes half closed. He took a minute to ride out the high of his orgasm before speaking again. "You didn't cum yet, did you?"

"No sir, I haven't, and it's starting to hurt."

Aizawa didn't let him say anything else. He started to thrust fast again. Cum leaked and squirted out of Yamada's ass hole. Aizawa activated his quirk to help keep Yamada quiet as he fucked him more.

"Cum for me. Be a good boy and cum for me."

The two shuffled to face the toilet, and Yamada aimed into it as cum gushed out of the tip. He tried his best to moan with his mouth closed, but still happened to be loud, even with his quirk disabled. Yamada panted and squirmed until his climax was over. He was tired, but the pain from the edging was gone. He heard Aizawa pull up his pants and buckle them again.

After helping Yamada clean up and redress, Aizawa left the bathroom, shortly after, followed by Yamada. Both flight attendants watched with embarrassed faces as Aizawa left the small bathroom. He smirked at the one, nodding at the note crumpled up in her hand. Yamada sheepishly returned to his seat, his face bright red the entire walk back. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke.

"Shota, I'm sorry I didn't say anything right from the start. I didn't even notice she was hitting on me until you brought it up. I love you, you know that right?"

Aizawa leaned over and grabbed his hand. "I know. And I know you do. I forgive you. Thank you for being such a good boy."

A happy Yamada leaned over the middle seat and met Aizawa's lips for a kiss, the flight attendant watching them from the back of the plane. She didn't say another word to them for the rest of the flight.