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yutahoes · 3 years

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‘Mark me in your heart’

This was supposed to be my birthday special for Mark but a lot of things happened so this came out late. 😅 This is in connection to my Sakura series and requested by @cosmiclatte28

characters : babysitter! Mark Lee, Yuta, Yuta’s wife, Cherry, Jae, the girl Mark likes

word count : 2k words

genre: fluff

summary : Cherry and Jae tried to help Mark with the girl he liked.

warnings : Mark being bullied by two kids and their dad

a/n: I didn’t use Y/N here to avoid confusion and sorry for the endless conversations.

Mark tapped his foot along the concrete of the front of the Nakamoto household’s door. Maybe it will be Yuta who would open the door for him since he was the one who asked him to come. Maybe Jae since he liked visitors so much or even Cherry, when the other three are focused on what they usually do. So it was a surprise when his hyung’s wife opened the door for him, “Hi Mark,” she greeted, opening the door wide for him. “Thank you for agreeing to babysit.”

He shook his head. He had nothing to do anyway. And it’s fun spending time with the two kids. They both stopped in the living room of the house seeing the youngest in the household jumping on the couch, next to his dad. The older girl visibly sighed as Cherry can be seen on another chair, reading a book. “Mom is already angry.” She warned but Yuta kept jumping on the squeaking couch making Jae giggle.

The guest shook his head at the visible annoyance of the woman beside him. “I swear I’m taking care of three kids.” She whispered before calling Yuta’s name and giving him a glare.

“We really should have bought the trampoline,” he said, jumping on the couch then landing on the floor. “Hi, Mark. Thanks for agreeing to this.”

“No problem, hyung.” he whispered while bumping their fist together. Jae did the same, bumping fists with Mark, before returning to jumping on the couch that made Cherry roll her eyes. “I hope the check-up goes well.”

Cherry put down her book on the table. “Can’t I really not come, eomma?” She asked, pouting at her mom. “I want to see the baby.” She whispered before touching the older’s stomach bump.

The older woman shook her head, smiling at her. “We talked about this, right? We can come and see the baby later.” Cherry nodded that made her giggle then kissed the top of her head. “Don’t give Mark samchon a hard time.” Cherry nodded before kissing her on the cheek. “Jae.” The youngest boy went down the couch and kissed his mom’s cheek. “Behave yourself.”

“Can you buy me ice cream when you get back?” Jae asked that made his mom shake her head. He turned to Yuta who only nodded, making his wife hiss at him. “Also buy donuts for noona, she likes chocolates.” Yuta chuckled, nodding at him. “Mark samchon likes watermelons and buy apples for the baby, appa.”

“I swear you’re more pregnant than your mom.” Yuta joked before giving him a kiss on the top of his head. “Jae, no playing with anything flammable. And Cherry…”

“Yes dad, I know where the fire extinguisher is.”

Mark laughed. They’re a weird family. The couple bid farewell, again thanking Mark for looking after the two kids. He even heard Yuta apologizing although he doesn’t know why. Jae kept on jumping on the couch, Cherry lying on the small chair and still reading her book.

“Appa said you shouldn’t read against the light, noona.” Jae warned in between huffing breaths.

“And eomma will scold you if you keep jumping on the couch.” she claimed before flipping the page of her book, “Are you a monkey?”

Jae huffed and sat on the couch with a pout. “I swear you two are just like your parents.” The two kids made a disgusted expression, Jae explaining that they’re always hugging each other while Cherry claimed that Jae doesn’t shower so she doesn’t want to hug her brother. Mark only laugh at that.

“Samchon, don’t you have anything else to do today? It’s Saturday.” the younger boy asked and Mark shook his head, asking Jae what he wants to do while sitting next to him. “I’m a little tired. Can we just sit down?” Totally weird.

Cherry closed her book with a loud thud that made the two look at her. “Samchon, don’t you have a girlfriend?” Jae started bouncing on the couch, asking him repeatedly if he is seeing someone. Really, what’s wrong with these two? Mark shook his head. “Do you want me to introduce you to someone? My art teacher...”

“My Math teacher is pretty.” Jae stopped Cherry on her words then smiled as if proud of what he did. Mark just chuckled when the older glare at her brother. “She’s also hot.”

“Hot? Do you know what that means?”

“Pretty? Appa calls eomma that.” Mark shrugged. “Do you like someone, samchon?” A smile crept up Mark’s lips then masked it with a cough. “You do? Noona is good with love stuff. Appa comes to her for help.”

Cherry looked sideways with a smile on her lips that looks very much like her dad’s. They’re becoming too alike. "So who is this girl, samchon?" the girl asked, book forgotten on the table.

Mark sighed before leaning on the couch, the two kids on both his sides listening attentively. "She works in the coffee shop opposite the office building."

"Have you talked to her?" Jae asked.

"Did you ask for her name?" Cherry chimed in.

"I ordered coffee from her. And her name is written on the name tag." Cherry whispered that he's no fun and Jae just scoffed at him. "I just find her pretty. Like a crush."

Again, Jae laughed. "All girls are pretty. That was what appa says." Wow, Mark thought, he didn't know Yuta is that romantic. "You should talk to her. Cherry noona can help you."

He does want to strike up a conversation with her and not the usual 'I'll get a watermelon shake' or 'My name is Mark'. He wanted to know her name and what she likes for coffee. "You can help me?"

The younger girl smirked then lightly coughed. "The first step is to get her flowers." But he doesn't know what flowers she liked. And isn't it awkward? They haven't talked before and giving her flowers will be too much. "Pink roses are good, they mean admiration."

"How do you know these about the flowers?" Mark lightly glanced at Jae who just shrugged, whispering that it's a girl thing. "Pink roses. Got it."

"Then ask her out for a date." Jae claimed.

"That quickly?"

"It can be a dinner or movie," Cherry noted. "But samchon, don't ask her for coffee. She works in a café, she's probably sick of coffee." Mark nodded, that's right. Why didn't he realize that before?

So flowers then dinner or movies. "Then walk her home." Jae continued. Walk her home, got it.

"Don't kiss her yet." Wait, what? "Ask her if she wants to go for another date."

"What if she doesn't want to?"

"Then it's game over, samchon." Jae teased, tapping his shoulder.

Cherry smiled. "You'll do great, samchon. My technique is tried and tested by eomma and appa." Mark chuckled. "How are you going to introduce yourself to her?"

"I'm Mark…" he said hesitatingly, "You can mark me in your heart."

Jae giggled while Cherry just stared at him in surprise. "You do need a lot of help, samchon." The youngest exclaimed.

--------

The house is quiet, too quiet, that Yuta and his wife had to look at each other before entering the house. Did something happen? Yuta shouted for the kids and it was Jae who answered that they're upstairs. The pregnant woman sat on the couch and noticed the book Cherry was reading earlier as her husband put the snacks and fruits in the kitchen.

Footsteps can be heard followed by Jae jumping next to his mom and hugging her, whispering that he missed her. Yuta's laugh echoed through the whole room when Mark came down the stairs, his white hoodie filled with different colored stains that looks like make-up. His lips are red, eyes highlighted with thick eyeliner that he looks like a panda. There's a red circle on his cheeks and a colorful hat that is probably Jae's with a colorful scarf wrapped on his neck that is owned by Cherry.

"What did the two of you do to Mark?" the older girl asked, standing up to get some towels for the younger guy. He thanked her then wiped the color on his face, surprised that they put too much makeup on him.

Both Chery and Jae looked so guilty seated on the couch. "He's going on a date but samchon is really clueless." Cherry answered and Yuta bit his lip to prevent from laughing. Mark was surprised, he suddenly felt called out.

"He even said that she can mark him in her heart because his name is Mark." Jae chimed in.

Their mom sighed. "I know you two care about Mark samchon but isn't it better for him to be himself when he wants to date a girl?" Both Cherry and Jae nodded, apologizing for what they had done.

"And we can mark him in our hearts." Yuta teased that earned a glare from both his wife and Mark. He's really childish sometimes.

"What happened to the check-up?" Mark asked, sitting beside Jae on the couch and still wiping his face. The cap and scarf have already been removed. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy!" Jae exclaimed.

"A girl," Cherry claimed calmly. "And appa you said you're going to give us money if we guessed right."

The older girl glared at Yuta who took out his wallet and gave each kid a bill. Mark's eyes widened in surprise, "You have twins?" The pregnant girl nodded. "Congratulations noona!"

"I hope you won't get tired of babysitting." She whispered and Mark swore he saw his life flashed in his very eyes. Another boy and girl after Jae and Cherry? This will be chaotic as hell.

Jae handed him the two bills Yuta gave that startled the adults. "Samchon, you need this money to date." Cherry claimed that made the younger boy nodded.

"Thank you for saving me money to give Mark." Yuta exclaimed that made the two kids revolt.

"You pay samchon for playing with us?"

"I won't be a soccer player when I grow up, I'll be like Mark samchon instead."

Mark laughed. They're a handful but being with them is fun. Maybe he can still take care of them in the long run.

-----

Mark blew large breaths to regulate his breathing while staring at his reflection from the doors of the café. “Introduce yourself, ask her name, ask her for dinner.” he repeated to himself before blowing another heavy breath. “You can do this Mark. Cherry’s plan is foul proof.” With another heavy breath, he opened the door that created a small bell sound.

She was already smiling, welcoming her. “I’ll get an iced latte.” he started, twirling his fingers.

“Not the usual watermelon shake, Mark?” the girl asked that startled him. She knows his name? Knows what his order is? Of course, Mark. You always drink watermelon shake. He shook his head, not knowing what to say. She already knows his name, he doesn’t have to introduce himself. What now? “And thank you for the pink roses, Mark.”

Wait, what? “Pink roses?”

She gestured to the vase behind with three pink roses. “Your nephew and niece are really cute.” She smiled while writing his name on the cup. That took Mark’s attention. Nephew and niece? He looked at her in confusion and she pointed at three customers by the window of the coffee shop. Of course, it’s the three of them.

“I’m sorry. It might have confused you.” He said rubbing the back of his neck. “But I think you’re really pretty.” The girl lightly giggled. “Do you want to have dinner with me after your shift?” He lightly glanced at her nametag and mentioned her name.

“I’m here until six pm.”

“I’ll wait,” Mark claimed then handed her the payment for the coffee and his loyalty card.

“Samchon, buy me a carrot cake,” Jae shouted and Yuta hushed him up, pulling the cap down his face in an attempt to hide from Mark. He even heard Cherry whisper that the plan will get ruined because of him. Really, those three.

“They’re really cute.” The girl whispered, smiling at them.

Mark smiled. “You’re cuter.”

He rolled his eyes when Yuta faked vomit and Jae laughed. “At least it’s better than ‘mark me in your heart’,” Cherry claimed that made the two boys laugh.

The girl laughed at his defeated look. “No worries Mark, I already marked you.” She claimed before handing him the coffee and the card with the sticker.

Mark smiled. This might be the start of something new.

#mark lee #mark fluff #mark lee fluff #nct mark #mark lee scenario #nct mark fluff

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delldarling · 3 years

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all that matters | merrick

chasing truth | chapter nine male faerie x gender/body neutral reader 7803 words lemon | teasing about relationship, communication about feelings and past relationships, kissing, nipping/mild biting, hair pulling, oral, hands, lube, penetrative sex, banter & talking during sex chapter index? or chapter eight?

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

For a moment or two, you can bury the knowledge of Faerie behind the facades you've come to know and care for. You've known Gar as nothing more than a handsome, nerdy human being for years, and Merrick? Sarcastic, awkward Merrick has been one of your closest friends over the past year and change. It's safe to say that you've spent ample time in their presence, trading jokes and building stories you know you'll share for years to come.

That false screen over their true selves won’t ever last now though. You know what lies under their glamour, and you know them too well. You can't ignore the things you've seen. Neither you nor Merrick will ever doubt Gar's morality and honesty again. Not when it comes to those he cares for. Not after what he’s told you and Merrick about his Court.

The car doors close in quick succession, one after the other, echoing down the dim, silent street. No one comes to investigate. No lights flicker behind the curtained windows, and no one cracks open their door. It's a relief, and yet a mild disappointment, knowing what you're all about to do.

“This still doesn’t sit particularly right with me,” you say softly, words barely more than a breath tickling your lower lip. You clutch your bag to your chest, fingertips digging into the seams to better distract yourself. Ditching the car and taking another makes sense, but just because it makes sense doesn’t mean you have to like it. Or approve of it.

Merrick can’t quite look you in the face, but Gar only shrugs. “It’s not the kindest option, not by a long shot, but we can’t travel on foot,” he says. Part of you wants to cringe because Gar doesn’t mean we, he means you. “Besides, we need to make it to where we’re staying in the next few hours, and this is the quickest way to tempt Roran closer without putting any of us in danger.”

You turn, eyeing the cars lining the street, and sigh. More stealing. It’s fairly silly that you’re worrying about this kind of crime, especially when you’ve already been riding around in a stolen car all day with a faerie assassin. You can’t stop the itch of the thought in the back of your brain, which probably means this is how you’re attempting to compartmentalize everything.

“I won’t even break the seatbelts this time,” Merrick tells you, cautiously placing his hand on your shoulder, fingers feather light. Relief eases the tension around his eyes when you don’t move away, and he sighs when you step into the circle of his arms. “If you don’t want to witness it,” he whispers, leaning his head against yours, “then I suggest you keep holding me. He’s right though. We can’t keep the same car, not after we clouded the whole thing with glamour.”

“I know,” you say against his neck, enjoying the warmth of his skin against your cheek and temple. “I get it, the whole thing, but it’s not going to stop feeling wrong just because I know it’s necessary.”

Merrick breathes deep, and you can already tell that he’s going to keep trying to explain it away. “If we thought that-”

“You don’t need to defend yourself. We’ll get in the new car, we’ll head to our stop for the night and it’ll be fine. I just… Need to compartmentalize, and that’s rather new.” You sigh against his neck, the tickle of breath making him shiver. Merrick shifts, hands leaving your back and sliding up your shoulders until he can cradle your face in his hands. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones, tender and careful, and you can’t think to do anything but blink up at him.

“Or I could distract you?” He offers, and bends his head down, covering your lips with his. A few hours ago and you would have been too tired, too on edge and hungry for food to let him try this, no matter how attracted you are to him. But everything with him, regardless of the fear and adrenaline, is still brand new and leaves your fingers aching, eager to keep him close. Even with all that you’ve learned, Merrick still feels the same, warm skin and calloused fingers, and it’s familiar and… comforting. When his mouth opens, breath hitching as you lean in against him, you find yourself wondering how eager he’s been for more of this. More of you.

Merrick puts his whole body into the kiss, pressed against you from chest to thigh, the taste of floral tea filling your senses as his fingertips carefully stroke behind your ears. He hums into your mouth when you roll your tongue and even though your eyes have fallen closed, you could almost swear that a brilliant light is beginning to shi—

“Hey!” Gar shouts hoarsely, and something hard bounces off of Merrick’s forehead. When the two of you stop kissing, eyes darting to the small item rolling slowly away from you, it turns out to be a small, wizened acorn, cap long lost. The two of you turn to look at Gar with startled expressions and find him trying to hold a fierce scowl on his lips. A muscle in his cheek jumps, betraying his amusement.

“I hope the both of you realize what happens every time that starts up! And if you do then I suggest you take a moment to reflect... You don’t,” Gar says after a moment, stalking closer with a steady frown now on his lips. “Merrick, you light up like a firefly every time you touch! You may as well be a torch in the middle of the street!”

Merrick’s mouth opens, attempting to disagree, but his lips curl and his nose wrinkles, like he’s tasted something off.

“You do. I’m over here jimmying open a car door, trying to steal it, and suddenly there’s a blazing light in the middle of the road! Everyone on this street is probably going to come out here, and-” Gar freezes when you shush him, eyebrows rising.

“Everyone is going to wake up if you’re shouting!” You snap, embarrassed but mostly tense because you still cannot quite believe you’re both being chastised for a handful of kisses. Both of the faeries grimace, shoulders hunching like they want the ground to swallow them whole. “I’m never going to say this again,” you mutter, already regretting your interruption, “but please: Go back to stealing the car, and Merrick and I will discuss his—his enthusiasm.” The frown on Gar’s face promptly vanishes.

“Enthusiasm,” he mutters, a goofy smile replacing his initial ire. He looks slyly at Merrick, but then holds up his hands in surrender when Merrick glares. “Right. Stealing. I’ll be quiet until it’s time to go.” He turns on his heel, heading back towards an old looking Datsun, a ridiculous little spring in his step. You’re fairly certain Merrick is going to make him pay for that later.

“So,” you say, your heart suddenly ricocheting off of your ribcage before it settles back into place. “You… You glow?” You have to fight not to laugh, though Merrick notices straight off. His eyes narrow before he sucks a deep breath in through his mouth.

He tries, twice, to say something, but ends up shaking his head and closing his eyes, breathing out through his nose. “Apparently,” he finally settles on. “You make me happy, make me- forget myself. Or forget everything else. I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again, but I’ll be more conscious of it.”

“Is that a normal thing?” You can’t help asking, laughing quietly when his shoulders slump.

“For my sake, I hope it isn’t. We should go though. I believe Gar is finishing up.” He nods his head in Gar’s direction, but you don’t even look towards your friend. Your eyes are caught on the collar of Merrick’s shirt, replaying everything Gar had confessed to earlier in the car.

“Gar doesn’t lie,” you murmur. “You agreed, he can’t have been lying. After everything he’s been through.... Is there any way—”

Merrick presses his lips together until they’re nothing more than a slash across his face. “If what Gar says is the truth, then none of us should have lived the lives we have.” Merrick grits his teeth, hands growing loose in their grip on your arms and nods towards Gar again. “Back in the car. Roran might not be close yet, but it still isn’t safe. The last thing we need is humans with guns seeing us stealing vehicles.”

You have to agree with that, but you still can’t help wondering about it all in the ensuing silence. Gar worked as a Guard in the Court of Land for the entirety of his adult life. He refused the Queen’s direct orders to kill a disobeying gardener, but... The Fae aren’t supposed to be able to disobey their monarchs. After Gar’s confession, he and Merrick had shared a serious, silent conversation with only a look. One you had no hope of deciphering and while you know you can’t actually do anything about Gar’s situation, you can’t stop yourself from worrying about it. You turn it over and over in your mind as the three of you drive away, meager belongings in hand, and time slowly slips away from you. You barely notice when you leave the main roads behind, but when the car pulls to a stop in almost full darkness, you lift your eyes. Gar has parked in the driveway of a rather ornately decorated cabin, surrounded on all sides by tall trees. You glance back down the drive, but all it reveals is more forest. You must be out in the middle of nowhere.

“I thought we were heading to a hotel?” You ask, confused as Gar gets out, grabbing both his bag and your own before you can even think to take hold of it..

“I said I knew how to use the internet, not that I was going to head to a hotel.” He gestures to the surrounding woods, trees shading parts of the cabin from view. “Hotels, or motels even, have too many witnesses. Even if we lock down on any glamour use and I hide my hands and ears?” Gar makes one pointed look Merrick’s way, eyes roving from his face, to the way he carries himself. Both of them have always been lovely, and Gar definitely has his fair share of admirers—Em comes immediately to mind—but Merrick?

With his fair curls, and the utter disdain he directs at just about everyone who shows him attention that he doesn’t want, he’s always stood out. Never mind that he hides his ears, and the great tattoos of his wings, you were hardly the only person who had been unable to tear your eyes away from him every time you met. You’re still not sure how he managed to hide so much of himself for so long, especially after all the times he’d hung out on camping trips or went out for drinks. Yeah. Gar doesn’t have to say anything else. No matter where you go, there is going to be someone who won’t be able to forget Merrick’s face, or demeanor, or both.

You glance back at the cabin as Gar passes you by. The clean windows and paved driveway, and the careful tending done to the planter boxes hanging from the windows...

“Did you book us an Airbnb?” You can’t help asking, rushing to keep up when Merrick starts walking to the door too.

Gar throws a sweet grin over his shoulder, cheek growing a shade darker with green. “Two bedrooms and everything. I’m going to leave you and Merrick to get settled,” he teases. You would like to kick him for that one, but you can’t actually deny that a few moments alone with Merrick will be pleasant. “And I’m going to grab food from a supermarket. I’ll be less... conspicuous by myself,” he says idly, like he’s still thinking everything through. He unlocks the door, not even bothering to set down the bags to do it, and then sweeps inside.

Gar is a whirlwind as he moves through the cabin, turning on lights and dropping your stuff in the small, but cozy main room. He gives you enough time to get through the door, checking out the small windows in the common area and the kitchen, and then turns to leave. He clasps Merrick’s shoulder once, nods his head at both of you, eyes already distant and then he’s gone, back through the still open door. You take a few steps after him, mouth opening to call out a goodbye, but he’s vanished. You blink, confused, because he didn’t even take the car, but then… Well, you knew already that the only reason they hadn’t left town on foot was because of you.

“That was weirdly intentional,” you mutter, quietly closing the door. For a moment, you hesitate, hand over the lock, mind racing. You can’t really ignore the fact that you don’t need any food. They’d brought plenty of things from the apartment in the array of bags that Merrick had brought in. Maybe he’s really just trying to give you and Merrick some time on your own? And he has the key, you remind yourself, finally locking the door. You turn, quietly wandering around the little cabin you’re going to be staying at for… who knows how long. You can feel Merrick’s eyes on you, but he doesn’t actually follow until you head into one of the bedrooms. Both of the rooms are medium sized, clean, and better than any standard motel, that’s for sure. The decor all has some kind of woodsy theme that makes you wrinkle your nose, but Gar might appreciate the irony of it, what with his tree affinity. We’re not X-Men, slips back into your head, making you smile wryly.

Merrick slides past you, groaning as he flops backwards onto the bed. His hat slips off of his head as he bounces, his curls falling in a picture perfect halo around his face. With no one else around, you’re not sure if his hair looks so bright because you don’t normally see him with his hat off, or if it’s because he’s beginning to glow in your presence. You bite back a smile.

“How are.. How are you holding up?” You ask, sitting so you can kick the knock-off keds down on the floor. You stay where you are at the lower corner, but after a moment you pull your legs up to cross them, noticing the storage space under the bed. The place is definitely lovely, but it’s still out in the middle of nowhere, and unknown. You wonder if anyone ever gets over wondering if something is underneath the bed, but you can’t bring yourself to get down and check. The momentary image of Roran waiting underneath has your heart speeding, though you’re not sure whether you want to laugh or shiver.

Merrick swallows, but summons up a smile for you. It’s not brilliant or blinding, but it’s real, if soft. “To be honest, I’m not actually sure?”

“You don’t have to know, Merrick.” You reach out, tugging a wrinkle in his trousers, just under his knee. “I’m asking if you need to talk about things. If you don’t want to—” You stop when Merrick shakes his head.

“I’m… I’m happy, because of you. Because you found out about me and you didn’t run. And... I’m hurting because of Roran.” His cheeks tense, which likely means he’s gritting his teeth again, trying to puzzle his way through the labyrinth of his own feelings.

You take a deep breath, unsure as to whether he’s going to be okay with the line of questioning you’re opening up, but you have to do it. It’s not even that you have to know, but Merrick very much looks like he needs to talk about it. He might not get another chance, not without Gar around, and you’re not sure he wants to do that, not after what you heard in the car.

“...Is Roran your ex?” You ask, fully expecting a wince and closed eyes, or for him to immediately look away.

“Are you going to be surprising me like this forever?” He asks instead, laughing softly. You give him a small smile, but otherwise continue to stare. Human or Faerie, the question he asked isn’t actually one you can answer and keep truthful, and besides, you’re trying to get him to open up. You don’t want to push, or have him change the subject so quickly. “Not exactly,” he finally says.

“Merrick,” you softly chastise, because you know there’s more to the both of them than that. He sighs, brows furrowing, but finally begins to speak.

“We made no declarations. Roran had plenty of other lovers and I didn’t mind. I—I was never much interested in anyone, but I didn’t mind passing the time with Roran. My interest in him was sparse, at best.” He frowns, like he realizes how that sounds and pauses to lick his lips. “I cared about his well being and I enjoyed his company, especially as a friend, but my interest lay in my work. In fulfilling the orders the King gave me, and I never felt like I had anything left to truly give him. Not really.”

“Did he.. Think you were exclusive to him?” You ask, drawing your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You can’t deny that it’s an awkward feeling, knowing this. But Merrick has been by your side for a year, and you knew he was keeping secrets. It doesn’t change your feelings, however strange it might be, finding out that he’s been with others, but the knowledge does put a different spin on what you witnessed back at your house. “I’m not condoning anything, his actions or—I’m just trying to understand where he’s coming from,” you rush to say, when Merrick looks slightly pained.

“Not exactly,” he says again, and truly grimaces when the words pass his lips. “He asked for my love, asked for any scrap of attention I would be willing to throw his way, and for a time it was easy. I always liked him, and giving him that much had never really been a problem. But before I came, I told him I wasn’t his. That my heart was my own.” Merrick sits up, and he looks torn, staring down at his empty hands. “I told him I wouldn’t die, and that, I think, is what he was initially angry about. He thought I’d died, and I never made the effort to correct that worry.”

That you might be able to understand.

“Okay, that I might agree with,” you tell him softly, shrugging when he looks at you, dark eyes wide. “Do Faeries apologize? Because leaving someone who cares for you is one thing, but letting them think you’re dead is… a little much. Granted, we’ve been raised very differently, so I can’t actually speak for him.”

“I, yeah, I do owe him that,” Merrick agrees. “But my heart—it’s yours, now,” he tells you, voice low and fierce, and desperately earnest. His eyes search your face, trace your slowly smiling mouth and you’re suddenly very thankful that Gar decided to vacate the premises for a while. “I can’t change how I feel, though by Air I tried at first. But I don’t want to change how I feel about you. No matter what happens with Gar, or with Roran, I want to stay with you, if you’ll let me.”

Your chest feels as if it’s all tangled up in knots, nerves and worry utterly strangled by the sudden tidal wave of softness. “I want you to stay, too,” you say, eyes drifting to the leaf pattern on the bedspread. “Even if you do change your feelings, you’ve been in my life for a year now, and.. I see you in the future, you know? If it’s with me, then great, if it’s as friends? I can see that t-”

Merrick leans in close, your name on his lips, interrupting the awkward string of words spilling out of you. “Then I won’t be leaving,” he assures you, his curls crushed against your forehead. “Not for any of them. I can’t turn away from this, and I have to help Gar, but I won’t leave,” he whispers, watching you closely, like he’s afraid you might disagree. You reel him in for a kiss instead, trying not to let your eyes linger on the way his lips tremble, but then he’s smiling against your mouth.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

It almost doesn’t make sense, knowing you’d spent hours in your bed with Merrick, exploring each other, mapping out every inch of each other’s flesh with fingers and mouths… And all of that was less than two days ago. While it had been happening, it had felt like the only thing that mattered, like you’d never forget it. Your heartbeat had been so loud in your head that you could barely hear yourself think beyond the next touch, the next kiss.

After the day you’ve had, after everything that’s happened since you forced yourself to grab a few hours of rest in a stolen car, part of you wonders if there aren’t things you imagined. Did Merrick really like it when you touched his ears, or bit at the lobe of them and traced the cartilage with your tongue? Had he really made you fall to pieces so quickly on the kitchen counter, or had it only seemed that way, with adrenaline and hope and lust running high?

The first touch of his fingertips under your shirt is electric though, and the callous on his thumb catching at your hip makes you shiver. Regardless of the time you’d taken before, or how fast or slow things had actually happened, the chemistry between you is a heady thing.

Merrick’s kiss is slow, and more than just the press or slide of his lips on yours. It’s the pause before he kisses you, the beat as he pulls away, mouth parted, his breath soft against your skin before his tongue touches your lower lip, and then his mouth closes, sucking slightly, like he’s trying to taste a drop of honey that he knows was left behind.

How are you supposed to keep quiet with such attention focused on you?

The first soft gasp has Merrick’s hands skimming over your middle, hand coming to rest on your heart, to gauge your pulse before he tries to get your shirt off of you. Part of you thinks you should tease him and struggle with the material—he’s always trying to undress you first, isn’t he? But you’re too eager to get his mouth back on yours, to curl your hand into the curls at the base of his skull and pull, exposing his throat for kissing.

As soon as you do that, as soon as your fingers are tangled in his hair, Merrick glows. You don’t bother to point it out, you don’t really want to halt things at the moment, but you bite at his neck, wondering if any marks you leave will glow too.

His eyes close when you pull a little harder, his cheeks grow ruddy with color and then you let your own eyes unfocus, losing yourself in the feeling of him under your hands. He runs just slightly warmer, though you’re certain that could be your imagination. The heat of him against you feels wonderful though, and leaves you wanting more. You slide a hand along his back, reveling in the change of temperature, and sigh when he shudders under the sweep of your fingers.

He doesn’t pull away—his breath is coming faster as you suck at the skin of his neck—but Merrick’s hips shift, his legs settling to either side of yours and then he’s groaning, erection rutting against your thigh, trapped in his trousers.

“Harder,” he whispers, and for a second you’re not sure whether he means you to use your mouth or the hand in his hair, but a twitch of your wrist answers that question. His mouth falls open and you have to release his neck so you can lean back and take in the sight. It’s—It’s intoxicating, seeing how much you affect him. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen someone so eager for you, and then his eyes open, wonderfully dark underneath those pale lashes and arousal grows so strong in you that the ache of it is painful.

“What do you want?” You ask, voice low as his eyes trace your lips. You have to ask, because you’re not sure what you want, if you want to feel his mouth again, or use your mouth on him, or maybe-

“Everything,” he whispers, because it’s the truth, and that’s all that matters to him.

You huff out a laugh, knowing you probably look punch-drunk off of his kisses, off of touching him at all. “Merrick, as wonderful as that sounds, we’re going to have to narrow things down.”

He barely looks sheepish, though you catch his eyes darting to your bag near the side of the bed.

“I packed… Things?” He says, and his tone is so unsure that you want to pat his cheek.

“I could have sworn I looked through that bag,” you mutter, fighting a smile, but Merrick sits up on your thighs and you let him go. He looks, well—He already has sex hair, with the way you’ve been yanking at it, and neither of you have actually gotten there. Gar is going to have a field day when he comes back.

“Did you check the side pocket?” Merrick asks, and he leans over the edge of the bed, pants riding low on his hips and exposing the dimple on his lower back. He tugs at the zipper, fumbling about and comes up with lube and condoms, and a handful of other things you’d kept in your bedside drawer.

“Are all faeries this prepared?” You tease, smiling widely when he rolls his eyes. “Or am I just terribly lucky?”

He doesn’t respond, just hops off of you—and you can feel the difference now, as it’s cold without him—and pulls off his clothes like he has no sense of modesty. It’s always a rush, seeing him bare this way. The tattoos of his wings are still impressive, catching your eye and drawing your gaze over his shoulder and bicep as he turns to face you fully, but then your eyes lower and your breath quickens.

“I can’t get enough of this,” Merrick murmurs and he looks so damned earnest, sitting down next to you on the bed and leaning over you so he can brace himself up on his forearms. “The way you look at me. For so long I thought I was imagining things-” And you do laugh when he says that.

“You thought you were?” You ask, reaching up to trace a fingertip over his cheekbone and down his jaw. “At first, I thought I had a chance, but then we were friends and... Honestly, I was sure you didn’t like anyone. I watched you reject person after person and was convinced that I’d only ever fooled myself. The other day when you joked about sharing a bed? I thought—”

Merrick frowns. “I was trying to be sly,” he murmurs, wincing when you raise an eyebrow.

“It came across as a joke, after the way I’ve seen you talk to other people.”

“I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” you hasten to say, slipping your arms around him and tugging at his shoulders, wanting him closer. “I know that now,” you correct, pleased when he’s nose to nose with you. “But I didn’t then. That’s why I grabbed your hat and reacted like I did. Every time you said something even remotely similar, I convinced myself that I was only hearing what I wanted to hear. I was only hearing what I thought about when you weren’t around.”

“You fantasized about me?” Merrick asks, and he sounds entirely too gleeful about that.

“...Did you fantasize about me?” You shoot back, knowing it will likely shut him up.

“Yes,” he says instead, completely surprising you. “I… I felt like I shouldn’t have, but I kept thinking about the way you talked to me and I was lonely and—It was more than once,” he blurts with a sigh, and he looks like he hates the fact that he has to tell the truth.

You just grin at him, feeling ridiculous, until Merrick shakes his head, and gets back to kissing you. Apparently he’s decided the time for talk is over. Or at least, talking about this subject is over. His kisses trail down your neck though, which you suppose means he’s decided on what he wants, and you can’t really complain.

He uses tongue and teeth as he moves down your body, hands kneading gently at your thighs, stroking with fingertips and pressing with his thumbs. He lingers at your hip for a moment, sucking kisses into the skin there that you know are going to ache later, and then his hand is on you.

He definitely remembers everything he’d learned back at your place. He knows how to stroke, how much pressure to use, how to curl his fingers just so, and your thighs are starting to tense and his mouth isn’t even on you yet.

“Merrick,” you murmur, clutching at the blankets under your hands. You want to watch him, want to see his pink tongue lick—but you’re mildly distracted by that glow of his, shimmering softly over the walls. The light is on in the room, ceiling fixture bright, but there’s movement to the light on the walls that matches the rolling of his shoulders and the arch of his back.

His mouth closes over you, tongue flicking.

“Fuck,” you say immediately, tensing when he pauses, waiting for you to relax under his touch. He doesn’t use his teeth here, that’s for sure. There’s just his tongue at first, hot and wet, and his breath, soft against your bare skin. Then Merrick sucks until his cheeks have hollowed out, fingers curling just right and you have to bite your bottom lip, using the pain of your own teeth in your flesh to try and keep yourself from thrusting your hips up into his face.

He pulls off of you with a wet pop, leaving you whimpering and can’t help the little smirk he directs your way before he speaks. “You don’t have to be gentle with me,” he tells you, smirk growing a little wider. “You’ve seen some of what we can do. You can let go,” he assures you, hand still working you over, tongue sliding over his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of you on his own skin.

“Sure,” you say shakily, and then your eyes are nearly rolling into the back of your head as his mouth closes over you again. You’re fairly certain he’s doing it just to leave you breathless, to leave you speechless. “I’ll just—just go to town,” you mutter, rolling your hips, but only just. “You could probably, uh, could just pick me-”

Merrick stops using his hand on you, hooks his arms underneath your legs and lifts your hips as he kneels on the bed. He curls his arms around you to hold you in place, legs hanging over his shoulders, and rolls his tongue over you before he starts sucking again, making soft noises that are driving you crazy.

“Oh, oh, fuck, you’re going to-” Your hands are totally tangled in the blankets now, having dragged them with you as he lifted you partially off the bed. You’re going to lose it if he keeps up with this, blood rushing towards your head, leaving your face feeling hot and your thighs shaking against his ears.

You shout as you come, trying to arch your back, to get closer to his mouth and pull away from it, all at once, but Merrick is holding you too tightly. After a moment it gets to be too much and you’re gasping, panting and reaching out to try and slap at his knee, though you can’t quite reach. “Enough,” you say once, and Merrick slows, but he doesn’t pull his mouth off of you until you wail the word. For a second you think he’ll just drop your overstimulated self back to the bed, but Merrick is more careful than that. He lowers you down, revealing his messy face and heavy lidded eyes. His cock slides over your most sensitive parts as he sets your ass in his lap and carefully takes your legs off of his shoulders. Your calves feel like they won’t hold you up for a week.

“I’m going to die,” you say, all dramatics, and then Merrick is chuckling, wiping at his lips.

“I hardly think you will,” he says, confident in his words. “But if it was too much, I have no problem ceasing while we’re ahead. Soon enough, Gar will be back and...” He licks his lips again, frowning slightly as something occurs to him. “Did I glow, like Gar said earlier?” You can’t help laughing, but that only makes you move against him, leaving the both of you making soft, shocked noises.

“Would you—would you like to find out?” You ask, breathless when he presses himself between your legs.

Merrick hesitates, nearly frowning for a moment before he settles on an easy, slightly awkward grin.

“It’s a bit of a toss up,” he explains, eyes tracing you from head to toe. He lingers on the spots he’s kissed, on the way your mouth is parted, breath still coming heavy, like it’s being drawn up from the absolute depths of your lungs. “I want to do the things that could potentially lead to me glowing.” He can’t seem to stop himself from rolling his hips, from rutting in between your thighs and leaving himself trembling at the touch. “But do I want to know if I’m actually making a fool of myself?”

“Making a fool of yourself?” You repeat, laughing. “Is that what happens when faeries glow during sex? They’re considered fools?”

“Maybe not fools,” he amends, looking a little awkward as he tucks a few stray curls behind his pointed ears. “But… Horribly transparent. You can see how much you affect me, and leaving our emotions laid bare?”

That you can understand. Granted, you don’t think you’ll ever mind the fact that he shows just how much he wants you. That he’s incapable of hiding how he feels when you touch him. You desperately want to kiss him again, to return the gesture. You might not be able to glow, but you’re fairly certain anyone looking at you can see how you feel—especially now that you’ve both laid it all out in the open.

“Come here,” you urge, crooking a single finger.

He pauses, dark eyes darting between you and himself, and you see the thought cross his mind. He could try and press inside you, he wants it, but—Merrick leans over you, arm stretching until he’s braced himself next to your shoulder, as close as he can get without being inside you. His hair falls back into his face.

“Kiss me,” you say, stroking your hands along his sides and up and over his shoulders. You have to concentrate, keep yourself from getting distracted when the pads of your fingertips catch on the wing tattoos. They have such texture, and one day you’d love to trace those lines with your tongue, if he’ll let you.

Merrick falls back into kissing you like he’s never left. Tilts his head and slots his mouth along your lips, soft at first and then his tongue finds yours, sweet and warm. He starts grinding against you, making you shudder underneath him because you’re still oversensitive. You’re not sure you have the energy in you for more than lying here, for hooking your ankles behind his back as he works himself to completion inside you, but just the thought of that has your pulse speeding again.

When he pulls away from the kiss to breathe, you reach up to try and adjust his hair, tucking the curls back once more, but you don’t actually succeed in anything other than making it look messier.

“Lube,” you remind him, when he seems plenty content to simply stare at your face, blinking slowly. He jumps at that, snatching at the pile of things he’d left on the bed when he’d stripped off his clothes and shakes his head once he has the bottle open, tilted over to spill the gel into his palm.

“So you want to witness my shame?” He asks archly, and that tone of his is all an act. You wonder how many times you fell for it, how many times he said exactly what you were thinking and you wrote it off, purely because of his tone and-

No. There’s no need to dwell on it, not now.

“I have witnessed it,” you say instead, breathing out slowly as you reach for his hand. You slide your fingers through the lube and then reach down to prep yourself, watching his face all the while.

Merrick looks gutted. He swallows, eyes intent on your hand, on your fingers, stroking and pressing into you and he snaps the lube bottle closed. He tosses it over the edge of the bed, pressing himself close again so your hand brushes against him every time your fingers move.

“At some point,” he says hoarsely, and your eyes get caught on the gel starting to drip over the edges of his hands. “I would like to watch this. Just this, but—” He glances at you, gauging your reaction and joins in. You’re shaking again, watching his face, feeling his fingers move in tandem with yours, but the feeling is a lot and eventually you let him take over. Merrick breathes out when you pull your hand away, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and licks his lips. “We’re on a bit of a deadline,” he murmurs, looking just a slight bit disappointed by that fact.

“Then hurry up,” you tease him, though it’s a little hard when he’s touching you this way. When he’s making your thighs tremble all over again. “I want you at least once before we get interrupted.” Before Gar gets back, before you have to crash for the night because you’re exhausted, before—Before you have to get up tomorrow, and possibly get back on the road to who knows where. This would be the absolute worst time for Roran to find us, crosses your mind and your heart speeds for all the wrong reasons.

“Noted,” Merrick says, breaking through your thoughts with a smug smile as he removes his fingers. The first stroke of him against you has you clenching your hands in the blankets again. Just the wet slide of his cock against you is enough: lust sweeps over you in a tidal wave, your thighs shifting like they’re trying to spread, even though they’re open already.

When he takes himself in hand though, when he finally presses into you? You lose a few moments, just enjoying the heat of him, the feeling of fullness.

Then he’s glowing.

There’s no hiding it from him this time. His eyes aren’t closed, and his face isn’t pressed into your neck, or your body, intent on bringing you pleasure first. Merrick blinks when the glow is cast on the walls. It’s not enough to blaze through the window and the closed blinds, but he sees it now, and his face turns an absolutely lovely shade of pink.

He doesn’t stop his movements, or try to stop himself from glowing. He takes a couple quick breaths and thrusts into you, gasping when you tighten around him reflexively.

Merrick doesn’t do things by halves. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t pound into you, chasing after his own pleasure, he builds it between you. It takes long enough that when you realize time has passed, you’re fairly sure that Gar must have returned, but—But Merrick’s hands are sliding over your body and his hips are pressed against the back of your thighs, and you don’t have time to think.

He whispers your name and his eyes are so heavy lidded, he looks like he could fall asleep where he is. You think the only reason his eyes are even open is to watch you, to see the look on your face every time he pulls back, only to slide back in, leaving you languid and terribly warm. You’re going to ache tomorrow.

As soon as the thought crosses your mind, you see that Merrick is clenching his jaw, trying to keep the slow rhythm he’s got going, but his hips are stuttering. You tug him close, angling your legs until they’re tight against his ass and he groans, being so deep inside you.

“I want you,” you murmur. “Merrick, I-” But then he’s nearly shouting as he comes, burying his face in your shoulder as he shakes apart and you can hear the front door closing. Merrick doesn’t bother trying to quiet himself, just pants against you until he’s finished, until he can sit up on his own. The smile he directs your way is mildly embarrassed, but mostly smug, especially when his pulling out leaves your legs shaking.

“Have you decided yet?” You hear from the main room of the cabin, followed by bags being set on the small kitchen counter.

You raise your eyebrows, wondering what exactly Gar means. Merrick’s shoulders tense up a little though, and you think back to what was happening before the two of you started this much needed romp in the sheets.

“...What does he mean?” You finally ask, sitting up slowly and glancing around the room. You’re going to need to clean up, and never have you wished more that Faerie glamour or magic came with a quick spell for messes. A quick snap of your fingers or the wiggle of a nose would be quiet and unobtrusive right now.

“Give us a moment,” Merrick calls out and gets off of the bed with a sigh. “I’ll—Let me help you, first,” he says, focusing on you after a moment. “Once we’re both clean we can discuss it.”

Gar gives you both the asked for privacy. He retreats to the other empty room so you and Merrick can dart into the shower. It’s barely big enough for the both of you, but the water is hot, and the pressure isn’t horrible. Once you’re both cleaned up and clothed, all three of you find yourselves back in the main room, sitting around the small pot belly stove, a fire crackling inside of it.

“So?” You find yourself asking, when neither of them make a move to fill the silence. “What are we deciding?”

“Not we,” Gar says, lips twisting wryly. “Just Merrick.”

“What is Merrick deciding then?” You ask, exasperated with the non-answers. You know you’re going to have to deal with this regularly, now that you know what both of them are, but it’s still irksome.

“I need to decide what I should do about Roran,” Merrick finally murmurs, letting you take his hand when you reach for it. “We always have the option to end his life, but I would rather not,” he says, directing his stare straight at Gar. “I want to convince him.”

Gar stares at Merrick, resigned, like he’d never expected another answer. Maybe he hadn’t. According to Faerie standards, or maybe just Gar’s standards, Merrick is apparently easy to read. “Then you’re going to have to figure out a way to draw him in that doesn’t involve cutting my head from my shoulders. He won’t be lured in by us just standing around again either. He’s going to be eager to get us apart, to take you hostage, if need be,” Gar reminds you, with a tip of his head in your direction.

“If he finds me first-”

“I’m going to con—” Merrick starts, and then he’s knocked to the floor, with Gar straddling his prone body and holding a shaking hand over his mouth. You’re on your feet with a shout.

“Don’t make promises you’re not sure you can keep,” Gar bites out. Your heart is racing. You didn’t even see him move, he was just—there. “Don’t leave yourself open to even the possibility of lies. You know better, Merrick. You know better. Don’t let sentimentality cloud your decisions.”

“How about we calm down?” You ask, knowing you likely sound a little silly. You know they can’t lie, you know it does something to them, but it’s- You hadn’t quite realized it was all so serious. The lying.

Gar gets off of Merrick and points a finger directly at you, still staring at his friend. “You have someone else to worry about now. Someone who cares, deeply. You don’t know if you’re going to convince Roran. Try, sure. But don’t—” Gar cuts himself off, and takes a deep breath, letting it out very, very slowly.

“I’m not tired,” he says after a moment. “But you two probably are. Get some rest, I’ll stay up and keep watch.”

That, more than anything else in the last hour, feels utterly surreal. Keeping watch is something that happens in fantasy novels, out in the wilderness, waiting for bandits. You don’t keep watch in an Airbnb, in modern times, waiting to see if a lonely Fae assassin shows up on the doorstep.

“That’s a good idea,” Merrick murmurs, and lets you pull him up to his feet. He still clasps his hand on Gar’s shoulder as he passes, like he doesn’t mind in the slightest that Gar just knocked him to the ground with nary a thought. They’d been close to the fire too, and worry makes the scene play out differently in your head. If Gar had taken one more step forward- You can’t let yourself get angry or defensive about this. They’re faeries and no matter how long you’ve known them, how much they care, you don’t know everything that’s at stake.

“I’ll come back after I grab a few hours rest,” Merrick promises, and escorts you back into the bedroom you’d both claimed as your own. You want to protest, to say you can take the next watch, but even with the Sight now, you’re not sure you would even have a chance of alerting them if someone like Roran showed up. What you’d witnessed in the square, and what you’d seen just now in the main room spelled it out all too well: Human eyes simply can’t move fast enough.

⊱ ────── .⋅ 🜁 ⋅. ────── ⊰

...turn the page?

#exophilia #faerie boyfriend #fae boyfriend #faerie x reader #fairy boyfriend #male faerie x reader #d.darling writes

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idk-maybe-i-did-it · 3 years

Text

Home

Fred Weasley x Slytherin!Reader

Requested: @pierce-the-shelby

Warnings: T.W. caps-lock, yelling, arguments, swearing, implied sèx

A/N: I did change it a bit so I’m sorry if this doesn’t suit your tastes my friend. Also, I haven’t proof-read this yet so I’ll have to come back and edit it a tad later okay.

Fred Weasley was many things, a brother, a twin, a son, a friend, a jokester, a smartass, a smart person and a boyfriend.

Well, maybe not that last one for long.

But one thing he didn’t have, was the title ‘humble’.

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

“ OH COME ON Y/N, YOU’VE BEEN WITH HIM THIS WHOLE WEEK AND CLAIM THAT YOU HAVE NO FEELINGS FOR HIM! I’M YOU’RE FUDGING BOYFRIEND YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO TALK TO ME!”

“ I GET THAT AND ALL FRED BUT I HAVE A RIGHT TO WHO I DO AND WHO I DON’T HANG OUT WITH OKAY! YOU CAN’T CONTROL ME LIKE THAT. AND IF YOU TRUSTED ME YOU WOULD KNOW THAT DRACO IS ONLY LIKE MY BROTHER BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, YOU STUPID GIT!”

“ I’M NOT TRYING TO CONTROL YOU I’M JUST SCARED! CAN’T YOU SEE THAT Y/N?!”

“ Oh yeah, scared of what Weasley? Scared of a blonde haired pimp to take me away?”

Fred watched as her breaths slowed and her would-be pissed off face quickly masked into a soft expression, maiming innocence.

“ Yes!”

He threw his hands in the air and threaded them through his hair, attempting to calm down before he turnt back to the h/c female he had come to learn and love over the years.

Y/n leant in closer to him, dangerously close, her arms crossed, and whispered into his ear so quietly in a voice sprinkled with such a hint of innocent annoyance that he barely had time to recognize it before she turned away.

“ Do you not trust me enough to realize I would never leave you Weasley?”

A shiver ran down Fred’s spine at the feeling of her breath on his earlobe and he did quick work to push all of those tainted thoughts away.

That’s just what she wanted, to distract him from the point.

Y/n shoved Fred’s shoulder and looked up to him expectantly, a hint of annoyance and sheer hurt on her face.

“ Come on then Freddie boy, we’re in a relationship, we’re partners. Communication is important Fred, I don’t know what all is going down in that thinking cap of yours and as partners we need to work together to solve this issue.”

Fred’s heart visibly cracked while listening to her say those words, the ache for her showing on his face and in his next movements.

Her would-be quip filled words insecurity as she continued, her walls started to crack as he watched and her voice began to show as such.

Y/n L/n, his Slytherin girlfriend, had been many things before. She had been cheated on, she held the title of best pranker once, her voice had never once wavered throughout the years.

She held multiple titles, yet one of them had never seemed to be ‘fragile’, ‘meek’ or ‘quiet’.

Fred was starting to see that people didn’t always need a title for something to define them.

And that maybe he had been over thinking things a bit.

Y/n’s hand slowly snapped to her mouth while the other came to rest in her hair and she gasped, her words coming out as raw as watery as she watched her boyfriend hesitate with his response.

“ This really is why you’ve been ignoring me for the past week isn’t it Fred? You honestly don’t trust me enough do you...”

And suddenly, every inch of his body began to fill with guilt; deep, dark, and heavy guilt.

A soft sob escaped her throat and her knees buckled. Fred immediately crossed the distance between them and tugged her frail body into his grasp, letting her grip onto him and cry, sob and whimper while he gently shook his head and whispered sweet nothings in her ear.

“ Darling no, not darling that’s not what I meant... I trust you love. This isn’t a game of trust, I was just a bit confused is all...”

The taller boy went back to softly kissing her temple, the tips of her ears, her brows, her hairline, her nose, her cheeks, her face and mouth.

Fred pulled her body backward and used his left hand—his right had been wrapped around Y/n’s waist the entire time— to swipe her tears away as he began to press feather-light kisses to her lips.

“ Sweetheart... I’m so sorry for making it seem as if I didn’t trust you... it was never my intent. I was simply scared you would leave, I had been worried that you would realize that you deserved someone better than I—“

He cut his sentence off as he pushed a stray lock of her hair back behind her ear, cupping her face while she leant into his touch and tugged him closer by his collar. Fred chuckled and bent down, lightly tugging at her hips to pull her flush against his body, before he kissed her feverishly with the passion of a man on his wedding-day; breaking it off shortly afterwards to finish his sentence.

“—Did you ever think that maybe I was trult jealous of a blonde-haired pimp named Malfoy.”

Y/n shook her head teasingly and looked up at him, her eyes still watery and her smile still mixed with a hint of sadness, “ Did you ever stop and remember that I love you?”

Fred’s mind flashed with guilt momentarily and his face mirrored his internal hurt before he masked it again, choosing to instead look his love in the eye.

“ I did, but fear had clouded my vision. Will you be able to forgive me princess?”

Y/n wrapped her arms around his body and sniffled, pressing up closer against him if even possible.

Fred’s mind instantly went south again and for a moment all he could think about was how he had made her cry, how he had been the reason she had been sad, how he had yelled at her— a light tug at the buckle on his jeans snapped him out of the endless downward cycle of darkness and the boy peered down at his beloved, subtly smirking as he saw how she was biting her lip in concentration.

Fred gently tugged her chin upwards and gazed down at her once more, chuckling lightly when he noticed Y/n’s fingers still looped on the waistband of his jeans.

“ Tell me what’s going through that pretty head of yours angel.”

“ You.”

———————————————————————

Fred chuckled, dropping an arm around her waist as she curled up in his embrace. Y/n tilted her head upwards by a fraction of an inch and gently blew a breath of air up at Fred’s face, smiling lopsidedly when she saw the way his nose crinkled while his hair flipped down to hang on his eyes.

Fred smiled at the young woman laying beside him, frowning when he saw her shiver.

The boy quickly went to pull his long sleeved muggle t-shirt off of his body and gingerly pulled it over her nude upper body, careful to keep his fingers off of any sensitive parts. Y/n helped pull the shirt over her abdomen before nuzzling back up into his side while he plucked the quilt higher up on their bodies.

“ I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier.”

Fred glanced down again to see her yawning, her h/c tresses fanning out around her head on his muscled chest and his heart melted at the sight.

Fred leant down and smeared his lips across her brow before he leant over and flicked off the lights, “ ‘m sorry too love, shouldn’ta gotten mad. Should’ve listened to ya.”

Y/n reached over to entwine their fingers, her eyes still closed, “ I forgive you.” “ I forgive you too button.”

“ I love you Freddie...”

“ As I do you m’sweet girl.”

———————————————————————

The two of them alone are many things yet, those would never compare to the two of them together.

Because to them that feels like home.

———————————————————————

HI BBY, I’m sorry this took so long! I’ve been buried in school work and I’m in a toxic relationship atm so I’ve been finding less and less time to write. I hope you can forgive me.

Drink some water, eat some food, take some screen breaks and remember You Are Loved!

^ - ^

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pyroclaststan · 3 years

Text

The Reveal

CW: cursing—younger Kingsley used to curse up a storm outside the stutter, soft shit

Your left hand busies itself with your coffee, an almost-burn from the heat seeping through the cardboard holder, scalding in a way you can handle and appreciate.

Your free hand clenches. Unclenches. Clenches. An old song and dance that will never leave you; a reflex you can’t shake. You would start another internal diatribe about how that’s going to get you killed or found out one day, but your mind is too busy to start a fight: even with you.

Your shields are up, held close and tight to keep out the majority of the hive that moves through the city. Small stretches of the mind now and then assure you that you’re not being watched, but you always retreat quickly before you accidentally latch onto some feeling or thought that might drain you before your day has even begun. So far the coast has been clear, but that means nothing when it comes to the kind of people you’re hiding from.

The woman on the opposite end of the patio having coffee with her friends is glancing at you again over the lip of her mug. You sense no deception, no recognition… why does she keep looking at you? Small smiles your way you’re not used to receiving. Hunching down a little, you politely push her focus back to her friends, leaving behind the feeling that she’d mistaken you for someone else: you’re simply a kind old lady enjoying some tea. Keeping a mental watch on her, she is quietly fed small bits of supporting emotions until her group leaves.

An unbidden shudder climbs up your spine, so you tighten your grip into a tight fist as if you could physically wring it out if not mentally. Again and again, as always: the stress, anxiety, every bit of nerves—all compiling and in overdrive. Today is the day. The light pain of nails into palm takes the edge off before you sink into a spiral of thoughts about this decision. You take a drink to ease your mood.

“You’re late, Chrysantamum!” a voice calls out from behind you, startling you mid-sip of said scalding hot coffee.

“Fucking fuck!” you spew, your customary curse half garbled by liquid.

Luckily, your hands are fast enough to pull the cup away and mitigate most of the damage: just a burnt tongue and throat for you. Some light coffee spots for your clothes. A bundle of napkins takes care of those and the spill on the table.

That ridiculous name alone tells you who got the jump on you, let alone the fact that someone got the jump on you at all with your vigilance.

Ricardo Ortega.

At least you can say he learned not to jump out and surprise you from the front—you can proudly say he knows better after that kick he took to the chest… and the various incidents after. And he’s been apparently been experimenting with your name now that he’s learned that, too.

Delightful.

You suppress the collection of biting words and spicy curses you come up with in response to him, once again quietly regretting you ever gave him a name at all. More so, regretting that once you turn around, he will finally see your face.

Why, for the love of any and every deity you could pull from your repertoire, did you agree to this? Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile—you know this, but here you are: ever forward ever deathward towards his orbit. Your sigh comes from a depth you didn’t realise you had in you. There might have been a little Steel channeled into it, if you’re honest.

You can’t say you’re surprised Ricardo knew it was you. This is specifically the address you were supposed to meet at, he’s noticed a few curls poke out from under your mask when your hair wasn’t braided, and even with you sitting he’s learned your signature slouch by now. ‘Fucking fuck’ probably isn’t an everyday curse either, but who’s to say?

Looking down, the clothes on your back are also a dead giveaway. A decently okay grey button down that was liberated from Ortega’s locker at Ranger’s HQ, the skinsuit that anyone else would mistake for a turtleneck peeking out from the sleeves and collar, an ages old hoodie hole-filled and sun bleached on the back of your chair, your secondhand high-water dress pants not quite long enough for your lanky legs, and your ratty old stompers bear laces in a telltale Ranger blue—courtesy of Anathema.

Of the few things you paid attention to today you made sure you didn’t give Ortega the ego boost of wearing the Charge laces they’d also gotten you, though you hope he doesn’t notice the earring out of the many lining your ears. They’re stacked with studs instead of rings today, in case you need to slip your mask on and make an escape. You should’ve have by now.

You are a particular brand of patchworked charity both subtle and recognisable to the favoured few who get to know you. Today is the day they’ll get to know you. Again, you remind yourself how much you already regret it. You hope you’re a decent enough ‘you’ for them to get to know.

Right hand into your thick curls you pull silently at a coil, reminding yourself that this is you here, and eventually that’s got to be enough for someone. Even if it’s never going to be for enough you. You idly ponder what colour your new braids should be as a self-distraction tactic before slipping your hand out and deciding to crumple up a napkin instead, fiddling with the texture of it. One stim for another as you wait out your impending doom.

Ortega’s steps grow louder as he gets closer, telltale modded weight in each step, and your cheeks begin to heat up at the approach, the buzz of his mind coming into staticky focus. Ha! There’s a new nervousness building now, and a little panic? Or rather, a touch of anxiety over your looks—he’s rubbing off on you in the worst ways. But you can’t hide the thought: if he doesn’t like what he sees? He’s only ever known you—and kissed you—with your mask on. You never care to care how you look; you’ve never tried to dress in any way that wasn’t covert and unassuming.

Damn it. You remember you forgot your cap.

Yours, not the Rangers one Anathema also got you (always buying you merch in a heavy-handed gesture) that you pointedly only wear when Chen is around, always over your mask.

He hates it, you love that he hates it. You wish he’d like—

The Steel-related thoughts you have on that note are mashed down before they can even bubble up. No time for that molotov cocktail of clusterfuck.

This meet-up has been planned for nearly a month, allowing you time to stake out a place, begin preparations, and come up with ample excuses to back out. You didn’t.

Idiot.

You made Ortega swear on his life that he would keep your face out of the papers, off the net, and completely unaffiliated with anything having to do with him. The front of his shirt was in dire need of dry cleaning by the time you finally let go of it, losing your nervous edge once the deal had been done. This is a risk beyond any you’ve ever taken and you’re doing it because you like him enough to try and make your fake life a little more real. Because you like having friends. Fucking fuck.

You make a mental note to have ‘World’s Greatest Idiot’ put into any possible epitaph you may get after this.

A weighted pause. You just realised what he said. How are you late? He’s here an hour after the agreed upon time in classic Ortega fashion. He’d almost be exasperating if he wasn’t so calming at the same time. Stupid static mind, resisting your every touch but giving out just enough feedback to settle you.

Wrapping your annoyance, frustration, and nerves around you like a brittle shield, you gather any venom you have left as a defence mechanism. A hard look very softened by the blush on your freckled bronze cheeks as you hear his steps stop just on the other side of the cafe railing to your left. The white noise of his mind quiets so many of your errant thoughts, and while the impenetrability would usually annoy you, right now it is a soothing reminder than this is, in fact, your best friend beside you.

You pointedly ignore the growing heat in your ears. And cheeks. And throat. And stomach.

“I’m uh, not an expert on interpersonal bullshit, but aren’t nicknames supposed to be sh-shorter than your actual name?” you huff, trying to put as much edge into your voice as you can in your current state.

Finally you turn your head, an annoyed glare in Ricardo’s direction before he can get out his smart ass response. Refusing to be soft, refusing to make this an easy reveal and hopefully showing how completely uncomfortable with all of this you are. How far out on a limb you’re going.

He won’t get it anyway.

And if you did show it, he sure doesn’t respond to it: instead, his face is lit up like a Christmas tree. His eyes dart around so fast, taking in every inch of yours so quick that you fear they may come loose and fly right out of his head. His grin is blinding—amazed and beautiful—and it takes every ounce of self-control for you not to turn away from him or vault the fence and make a run for it. You avoid the temptation to look closer at what you briefly noticed was a very nice, very new suit… as a preventative measure, of course. Can’t let him see you sweat, or, y’know.

The two of you finally make real eye contact but after even a few beats it’s too much for you, so you pointedly look away from his gaze, sipping your coffee and allowing him the privacy to study you while he can. As if being looked at wasn’t already distasteful enough for you, having your features memorised and scrutinised gives you even less pleasure, but at least now he’ll stop pestering you about it. Not at all happy that you wish you could read his mind to find out what he thinks.

No sooner than you have that thought does the soft little ‘mierda’ come from under his breath, making you want to die on the spot—you sincerely hope you’re not becoming a tomato.

“Kingsley Chrysanta,” he half announces, half inquires. Testing the reigns of his newfound knowledge most likely. Placing the name alongside the face in his head, and connecting a string between them like the many on his whiteboard. At his blooming smile your heart speeds up and your stomach does a flip. Id-i-ot!

“Yeah yeah,” you mutter against the rim of your now empty coffee cup, “we get it: you know my whole name now.” You look back at him, holding his line of sight with a half-hearted sneer. “I can do it too, Ricardo Felipe José García Sparkles Ortega. See? We b-both know words.”

He’s got a look of triumph and an even brighter grin on that note, your teasing bouncing right off of his impenetrable shield of sunshine, like he’s happy you memorised his name. Ricardo’s airy laugh is almost mystified, and the exhalation that he lets out is suspiciously soft before he confirms, “It really is you.”

“Got it in one,” you can’t stop your answering smile, suddenly aware of how crooked yours is compared to his. And that halts you. How disheveled and awkward and unreal you are compared to him.

Don’t go there. Not now.

“Your speech is getting better,” he comments softly, carefully. “Looks like me annoying you into talking really is good for you.” His sly smile aimed down at his shoes.

Your speech has been getting better, though that is also a product of your own efforts, not just his: he always thought you said so little for no reason. Taking it slow, smaller sentences, and keeping calm have helped you manage your impediment—you get less frustrated trying to speak. You think less about the fists that gave you the problem in the first place. You ultimately refuse to acknowledge his statement, correct as it may be.

“My point still stands: that’s long for a nickname,” your deflection hopefully going unnoticed. “Don’t you, uh, usually just call me King? What happened to that one?”

He’s much closer now, leaning forward over the barrier in that way that puts him right inside everyone’s bubble: personal, personable. In his defence, however, he’s keeping his hands firmly on the railing, as if to stop the rest of himself from going right over. The twitch on his lips and the white-knuckled grip of his hands are the only clues to how much he’s feigning composure right now—well, that and the static to his mods. But still being patient, still keeping your direct space open, and keeping quiet about whatever is on his mind. Always so kind to you when you need it, and even when you don’t.

“Anyone can call you King: mine’s more personal,” he smiles even wider, nodding like his words are sagely.

“And long,” you frown, complaining just to complain. Being contrarian has been a trusted weapon in the face of Ricardo’s… everything.

“I think it works,” he answers your complaint with a smug look back at you. “Chrysanta, Chrysantamum. Get it?” A bright laugh. “It’s a good pun, with how your hair kind of reminds me of the flower in a way. ‘Cause of all the layers and petals, but instead they’re curls—plus we met in November! That’s that month’s flower, or the flower of that month, and…”

You’re stunned by the rationale he’s giving as he continues to list things off: insight and perception you’ve often accused him of not having. His hands are moving about, his head tilting to and fro, his expressions and gestures and movements all clockwork to you by now. But more importantly: he’s rambling, downright nervous, more focused on counting off on his fingers than looking at you. Suspicious. New. Cute. You focus back onto his words.

“…and it’s when I’ve decided your birthday will be, since you refuse to give me a date,” he finishes while you’re mulling over thoughts, a look in your direction for a reaction.

“Are you calling me a flower?” A frown, not taking any birthday bait.

The faces he makes go on a journey for a few moments before he collects himself with a small exhalation, rubbing at his forehead before dropping his hands into his pockets. He seems a little flushed. Probably not best to stand around in the Los Diablos heat.

A small smile perks up inevitably. “Would it be better if I answer that with the idea that I’m calling you my flower?”

You can’t even hide your groan on that one, responding to his repeatedly lifting brows with a furrow of your own. Half disgust, half embarrassment, all stomach flip.

“Stop! I’ll vomit. Or worse, get a migraine.” You make a face at him and rub your temple, but it only seems to delight him further. Shades of you he’s never seen before being revealed now.

“Right right, not in public.” He gives a conspiratorial wink, rotating left and right on his heels, as bad at staying still as you are—your leg’s been bouncing up a storm and your napkin can’t get much more crumpled. “Anathema should be showing up soon, anyway. We can save our personal stuff for later.”

You absolutely do not colour slightly at the innuendo in that statement, and you assuredly do not glance down at his lips. At this point your skin colour may as well be burgundy.

“Oh, so you gave them the wrong time so you wouldn’t be the last to arrive, huh? Should’ve known something was off when I got to actually enjoy a moment of quiet in this city.”

Aiming quickly, you bullseye him in the forehead with the balled-up napkin.

“Oooh, sassy when your shell’s off: now I get why ‘Thema voted for King Crab instead of the flowers.”

You make a very sour face. He cackles, his whole upper body bending back almost losing balance as he holds his stomach. You immediately reach out and force away the attention of everyone who’s looking to see what’s going on, making them all register the sound further away and from the opposite end of the street.

“Fucking fuck—f-for a nickname? That’s it. I’m moving to San Francisco and getting better friends.”

“That implies anyone else in the world would want to befriend you.” He states gleefully as he jumps out of your reach, dodging your swipe at him as you lunge from your chair.

“I’m sure some single, lonely Ranger up there might also have a th-thing for tall, angry vigilantes.” Your turn for a sly look. “Maybe there’ll be an uh, autumnal wedding—I’d still let you be my best man.”

“Just don’t get mad at me if I object: someone has to act in the groom’s best interest.” He shrugs exaggeratedly, matching your smile and banter.

Reflexive, telepathic pushes make the others on the patio and in the cafe ignore the two of you and your shenanigans. It’s draining, but you can pick up on how quickly your distractions melt away and Ricardo gets recognised again in his public face. You’d almost forgotten about that with the warm buzz of Ortega on your shields and occupying your mind. Dangerous to be so inside your own head that you forget about the ones around you.

Time to get moving then. A quick glance about as you step aside to throw away your empty cup—training telling you to check for exits, hats, and thoughts pointed at you.

“I suppose it would also be too cruel of me to subject, uh, anyone else to your friendship.” You straighten your shirt and pick up your mottled jacket and small bag, adding drama to your sigh as you slip them on to head out.

“Perish the thought: who’d last a day by my side with the trouble we get into?”

“Being your friend will be the death of me, I’m sure.” Funny in a dark way, considering how close you two have come to death together, so many times.

“And yet…” he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and looks at you thoughtfully, walking down the street with a light pace, “…you still choose to do all this. With me.”

Falling into step, your tongue stills in your mouth. You question yourself and your intentions but ultimately: you decide to slip him a piece of truth. Walking the dangerous lines like he does but in quieter ways.

“I’ve uh, never really known wh-what to do with choice: I’ve always just done what I’m supposed to do. Everything that’s happened since I came here… it’s liberating and it’s terrifying, but it’s mine, right?”

You want to kick yourself for the little lilt to your voice at the end, but your eyes are too busy silently pleading for some kind of understanding and validation.

These little choices, these silent confessions, these quiet surrenders… these are everything you have to give to a man with the whole world before him. You have nothing else, and no one will never understand how much weight and truth is behind that. You’ve wanted nothing but to help people since the day you were decanted: you have always felt so deeply, all too easily touched by other minds, and once you picked from enough thoughts to develop the words and concepts for it, you knew you wanted to be a hero. A not-so-gentle reminder that it was them who taught you to fight the bad and save the good, but pleasing in that you know they’d disapprove of how you do that now.

From one government operation to the next, you stupid, silly fool.

In that, Ricardo has always been symbolic to you: heroics and freedom made flesh. You’ve known since the day he saved your life—in your early days, homeless and squatting with your first ‘friends’—that you would follow this man into hell. But now, you know him. You know you would do whatever it takes to protect him, because he’s not a symbol, he’s all too real, too human—and that has made him even greater to you. No longer content with being a shadow, but wanting to be a shield. He is an inspiration, yes, but he is foremost your friend and partner. Maybe something more.

He responds to your question with a fond, sincere smile and a nod, and you start to think maybe it might be the same for him.

“It always will be,” he says quietly, pausing mid-step to look at you like he’s really seeing you. Not like earlier, but like he does when you’re in your suit: searching, trying to reach out, but only as far as you’ll let him.

It’s a deep look between the two of you, holding too much meaning but from sides of understanding the other will never get. The white noise of his mind hinders any opportunity to glimpse what he’s thinking or feeling, leaving your telepathic fingers missing any chance to understand what that look of his means. The soft moment is interrupted by a cheerful, “Hey!” sung out in the distance.

A familiar mind practically screaming in elation and pointedly directed at you, impossible to ignore and so easy to pinpoint.

Anathema is in the middle of the street, wildly waving and doing a little jump as if there were any way that you could miss those red curls and freckled arms out there in the open, even if there was a crowd. With a laugh, they come running over to you and Ortega once you two wave back, enthusiasm filling the air with an almost heady energy.

Someone is happy to see you… you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to that outside of a fight.

“Look at you! It’s YOU!” Anathema declares with a flailing of arms pointed at you, looking between you, who looks rather uncomfortable with the attention, and Ortega, who is beaming and loving this.

He immediately hops to their side, arm around their bare shoulders pulling at their cut-off tank top’s strap to pull them in, the other also flailing in your direction.

“It’s them! They’re real!” he exclaims in response, partially mocking but another part still hyped up from the revelation. “Sidestep, in the flesh!”

The two of them are jumping up and down, holding onto each other and chanting your name repeatedly, either in an attempt to welcome you excitedly or to embarrass you completely. While their intent may be the former, you are feeling entirely the latter. More minds you focus on pushing away light up: these two draw so much attention.

“Please, stop,” you mumble looking around at all the owners to the minds you feel trained on you. “You’re making a scene… and my s-secret identity is supposed to be, y’know, a secret.”

They both stop their hopping, attempting to look sorry but their grins are just the opposite. Their frozen pose looks like circus act waiting to begin.

“You can’t blame us for getting excited—the big secret has been revealed! I mean, look at you!” Another manic gesture from Anathema. “You’re so! Wow! Real!”

“Thank you for your o-observation: scientists may now rest knowing the universe’s grandest mystery has been laid to rest,” you snark.

“Wow,” they sigh almost dreamily, “it really is you, dude.”

“I feel like we’ve established that ten, maybe, maybe fifteen times now,” you sigh exasperatedly. You’re absolutely not embarrassed or flattered, you’re just scratching your ear because you’re checking for all your piercings, not because of any heat.

“Well, you gotta forgive me, y’know? Like, you haven’t been exactly the most accessible person in our day-to-day lives given the ratio to how often you’re around and in the shit with us. And then here you are: unmasked, named, walking down the street with ‘Tega like you live here or something.” It’s a grand smile they aim at you, one that you can’t resist answering.

“Yeah, I’ve been known to wander to and fro in the city now and then. Usually uh, when a group of blue unitard wearing assholes get into trouble they can’t get out of themselves. Heroes, y’know? Can’t even match the same shade m-much less clean up their own mess.”

After about a full minute of laughter at that joke you fear Anathema might keel over right in front of you: they’ve got a death grip on their ribs and their face is as red as a tomato.

Ortega claps you on your shoulder causing you to flinch: you didn’t pick up his intentions to do that of course, or even notice him slipping in by your side, so you shoot him a dirty look that he doesn’t notice while he looks at Anathema.

“Vigilantes and their egos over here… can’t live with ‘em—“ he trails off.

“—Can’t live without ‘em,” they finish.

You suddenly understand Steel’s complete and absolute refusal to ever hang out with the three of you. In fact, you let out another one of his customary groans in respect for his sacrifice: having the three of you as allies.

“Did you chucklefucks rehearse this skit or have you been i-improv comedians the whole time? At least I know that if you’re hero careers fall through you’ll uh, have a back-up option.”

You’re getting nervous out here unmasked and in the open with two of the Los Diablos Rangers, and the effort to actively track and distract any minds coming your way is burning you out fast. It shows in the harsh tone you’re starting to adopt and the jokes you use to deflect: always the type to swing instead of run.

“I forget you have such a filthy tongue sometimes,” Anathema pouts, only partially serious. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“No, and I got it from my babysitter, thank you very much.”

Your flinch goes unnoticed but it’s still time to stop talking and get moving. Your smile is caustic, easily mistaken for an annoyed look with your joke, but you too easily told the truth.

You technically had a sitter, and you did pick up her incessant cursing as a defence mechanism: it makes for a good character trait and convinces people to leave you the hell alone when you don’t use your telepathy to do the trick. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a bit good, too.

Ortega is frowning at you, but as you turn to look at him it disappears before you even see it. Instead, you get a grin.

“Truly, this asshole is where I hath lain my affections,” he bemoans, genuflecting along with his performance before carrying on to walk ahead.

“We never said you had taste.” Anathema’s elbow catches his ribs as he passes them, falling into step after you.

You roll your eyes. “Clowns.”

“Welcome to the circus, Saltstep,” they shoot back.

“Alright, I’ll concede to that one,” you rub your neck and cast a guilty look towards your friends.

Sometimes you find the heat all too easily and throw back harder than you mean to, never quite sure of how hard you hit. She taught you more severity than restraint, but the point of being under your own control is to be better than that. “I can show that I am capable of, uh, not being a dick head for at least an evening.”

“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?!” Ortega yells, throwing his hands into the air dramatically, getting a good laugh from Anathema behind you.

“Please, don’t hurt yourself on our behalf, ‘Step,” they follow up, still laughing.

“Kingsley,” you supply, casting a look back and down at them over your shoulder. “You can call me Kingsley… that’s kind of the point today, right?”

A soft smile in your direction, followed by a hushed tone, “I hope you didn’t mind the song and dance back there, I just know that if we didn’t show you how happy we are to see you, you wouldn’t believe it.”

As good at reading you as you are them.

You rub your neck and flex your hand. Reality catching up to reassert it’s weight on your shoulders. You suddenly feel watched—seen. Anyone anywhere could be looking at you and you haven’t even been paying attention. You scan yours surroundings, peeking into minds and shuffling through emotions, guiding any and everyone to forget any glimpse of you. Your ‘don’t look’ aura is as hard as the expression on your face.

“…I believe it.” A truth that won’t kill you.

“So soft, Chrysantamum,” Ortega says sweetly from up ahead, making sure not to look at you or make a big deal of it. He knows you’ll run if put under any more pressure. Especially with where he’s leading you.

“Cállate, Rico,” a playful smack to the back of his head like you’ve seen his mother pantomime doing.

Oh no. She’s going see your face one day, too. Your regrets are playing Tetris at this point.

“Aww! I want a personalised nickname for ‘em too! Hmm…” they fall into silence for a while, making plenty of exaggerated sounds. “Yeah, I’m stuck on King Crab.”

“What?! Why?” you whine.

“‘Cause you’re so tough and snappy but you’re so soft underneath the shell,” they supply, far too pleased with themself.

“I like it,” Ortega laughs.

“You’re killing me today guys.”

You all stop walking. Or rather Ortega stops, and you crash into him—that damned blank spot of a man—and Anathema crashes into you, always speed walking trying to keep up with your legs.

Three Stooges, just like Owl said. You bristle at the thought of her and wrinkle your nose.

“You’re not dead just yet. One more stop to go,” Ortega says, rubbing his neck as he turns and looks at you sheepishly.

“Huh?”

You turn your head and see exactly what he means: Rangers HQ.

“…No. Absolutely not.”

Before you can even side step either of them, they’ve both got you by an arm, planting themselves.

“King! It’s just the rest of the team: you know them.” Anathema’s looking up at you, trying to give you a half-assed puppy dog face you blatantly ignore by looking over their short head.

“Oh, yeah. It’s only Sentinel and Sunstream and the entire staff and whoever w-watches your security and visitors and Steel! Nothing big.” You stress the last name heavily, as if that should say all it needs to.

“It’s just Steel, Chrysantamum. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You can’t resist the modded strength pulling you towards the building, and stepping back onto Anathema’s toes will do nothing: even if they weren’t wearing boots. Their cut off shorts stop right above the knee, but a kick like that won’t work either. Damned invulnerability.

“Let’s see: he could say he hates m-me to my actual face, he could see my actual face, he could exist within the same r-room with me outside of my suit, I could exist in the same room with him—also outside of my suit…”

The moment they let go to throw their hands up in defeat you reach up, grabbing your hood and tearing it down over your face harshly, just as you all get into the lobby. You turn on the spot and step into Ortega’s space aggressively, fists balled.

“No one gets my name who’s not core team. No one gets my f-face who’s not core team. You erase, or let me erase, all traces of me from the, from the cameras and security checks, and any room we end up in I get to disable any electronics. I’m not taking another step until you agree.”

At this close a proximity, Ricardo has to look up at you. His face is soft and understanding, as Anathema walks away to handle the front desk clerk. “Hey,” his voice equally soft but serious, “I promised. No cameras, no press, no net. Nothing you don’t feel comfortable doing.”

“I don’t feel comfortable w-with any of this, but I can’t exactly wipe your minds and go about my merry way, now can I? You know that’s a lot of work, even for me.”

You both wince at that low blow, instantly regretting it slipping past but refusing to back down. Neither of you need to mention the name Riley to know the implications of your comment.

“Got it, you feel cornered,” he sighs. “At any point: any time—doesn’t matter when—you decide you wanna leave? Just tell me, and I’ll walk you out; we’ll take the back way out, the works.” His face softens a bit to an apologetic smile. “Buuut I definitely can’t let you into our security system without clearance: you’ll have to settle for tearing apart accessible wires. We’ll call it a security test.”

“Deal.” You stomp away, headed over to the elevator where Anathema is waiting, trying to gather your nerves into adrenaline.

Just think of this like a fight.

The doors chime and open and your stomach pools to the floor as those two step right past you and go in, one leaning on the left, one leaning on the right. Both smug.

Bastards. Trapping you in a small space, easily pacified, easily taken out. Right in the belly of the beast itself. Not like before: a new threat.

You step in and turn around, looking out the doors like they’re your last chance at salvation. Your hands clench and unclench, your breathing is getting a little rough, you start to sweat and thoughts—too many to sift through—start to bubble.

Please no, not a panic attack in an elevator with two people you see regularly.

A hand quietly slips into yours and gives it a squeeze. The doors are closing but you look to your left, at Ortega who is looking up at the floor display, not at all paying close attention to you. You get another squeeze and catch a small lift in the corner of his lips. A squeeze back and they lift a little higher.

You turn back to the closed doors, swallowing hard as the movement kicks in, and take in a deep breath to kick out the images of an older, crueler place.

You’re only about to expose yourself to the entirety of a government-owned and monitored team of superheroes. You’ve done worse. Like escape another government-owned and independently ran black site. This is a piece of cake by comparison—it only completely puts your life in danger. Your teeth grind as the beep of arrival sounds.

Chen is at the doors, just as they open, looking up from the papers in hand. He looks wide-eyed at you, trying to figure out who you are before his eyes go down to your hand in Ortega’s. He frowns and narrows his eyes at you.

Idiot, idiot, idiot!

#the mischief scribbles #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #Ricardo Ortega #Anathema #fallen hero: rebirth #pre-Rebirth #fh:r #Sidestep #King thinks wordy thoughts but says so little #chargestep (implied)

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Ride With Me (part 24) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±9400 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part 24: John’s presence at the horse show flips Dean’s world upside down, sending him a tailspin that could have serious consequences. Will Y/N and his friends be able to get through to him? Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak, slowburn. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: How Do You Get ‘Em Back - David Ramirez. Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @atc74, and @winchest09 for helping me. Also a special thanks to @jules-1999, who has offered me her knowledge about rodeo events like these, and @squirrelnotsam, who knows Arizona like the back of her hand. Guys, this is going to be a heavy one. 9.3K of angst. If you are invested in this story, I suggest you’ll have the tissues ready before you start reading. Godspeed.

Ride With Me Masterlist

“Hello, son.”

Only two words, but it’s more than Dean has heard his father say in a long while. The simple greeting lingers between them, like smog polluting the air, stealing his breath. A force of habit the cowboy assumed was long forgotten has him square his shoulders. After all, if there’s anything John taught him it's that men can’t be weak.

What does he call him? Dad? Sir? The cowboy isn’t even sure and so he decides to keep his mouth closed. Instead, he measures the man before him. He is but a ghost of the parent Dean remembers - or at least idolized for so long. His boots are dusty and worn, the leather tearing at the creases. His clothes are dirty, stains on the white t-shirt he’s wearing under a camel jacket. He grew a beard, the tough hairs grey now. A black cowboy hat hides most of his slick hair, but they don’t conceal the dark circles under his father’s eyes, nor the tale of pain and sorrow that are still apparent. Nothing has changed, really. He just got older.

Dean can feel his knees weaken as his breaths come out shaky, but he is able to stand his ground. He sets his jaw, gritting away the frustration that continues to build, his fists clenched, nails digging into his palm. But it’s more than just aggravation that courses through him; it’s joined with an overwhelming sense of panic and fear. He wants to run, far away from confrontations and the dull blade that is tearing open old wounds. What he would give to go back in time, just an hour or so, to prevent this moment. What he would give to be able to live the life he naively pictured, with his family, with Y/N.

Meanwhile, John watches him, eyes glossed over and wearing a small smile. “It’s good to see you.” Still, Dean can’t speak. He just stares at his father. Even the gentle words falling from John’s chapped lips don’t lift the tension. Where Dean was thankful that the stables were empty just a few minutes ago, he now wishes it was swarming with people, because being cut out from the public eye is not a position the cowboy wants his girlfriend to be in. When John steps closer hesitatingly, Dean moves in front of her, one hand back to make sure she stays behind him. It’s instinct, a reaction that is fed by years of doing the same for Sammy. He did everything possible to protect his brother then, and now he has to do the same for her. Dean has to get her out of here. Now.

The cowboy turns his head slightly, addressing Y/N without letting his old man out of his sight. “You should get Joplin warmed up. I’ll be right there.” “Dean? Are you s--” “Go,” he insists, wincing at the strict tone of his own voice.

John has halted and watches the exchange, his gaze following the cowgirl who moves to the box on her right and takes off the halter of a black horse inside the stable. Without a word but with concern and confusion evident in her eyes - which flick to his before she averts them quickly - she takes the Quarter by the reins and guides the mare out of the stable. When she’s out of earshot, Dean’s father returns his focus to his son. “That your girlfriend?” he wonders. “No,” the wrangler claims, wanting to keep her out of this at all costs. John doesn’t have to know about his relationships with her or with his friends. It will make them vulnerable to his influence. “She’s just an intern,” he adds.

Believing the statement to be true, he dips his chin, nodding slightly, and Dean is able to exhale. At least he got Y/N out of harm’s way, now he just needs to somehow prepare himself to take the fire. It’s been a long time coming, but it’s time to face the faults of the past. He allowed the family to fall apart on that dreadful night when the bond between the Winchesters was shattered to pieces. Dean destroyed it all.

Carefully, his old man moves closer once more, and involuntarily the young cowboy steps back. He doesn’t want to. He intends to stand tall and hold position, but trepidation has him back up before he can stop himself. Apparently aware of the effect he has on Dean, John ceases his attempt to close the unbreachable gap between father and son.

Leaving a safe distance between them, he speaks again. “You’ve grown up to be quite the man, Dean. Your aunt and uncle must have taken good care of you.” More than you’ve ever done, Dean thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it out loud, too apprehensive for the reaction it might trigger. “They have.” “Well, I’m glad,” John smiles at the ground. “I’m glad you landed on your feet. Do you know if Sammy did too?”

Dean’s eyes fill to the brim before he can blink. He doesn’t know. The big brother who was supposed to look out for him, who was supposed to give everything to provide his younger sibling the safety and care that he deserved, doesn’t know. The question is a punch in the gut, a verification of the fact that he has failed Sam like he has failed so many others. “I don’t,” he admits, doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady. “I haven’t seen him since.”

John sighs, sniffles slightly and glances up, as if he’s mad for a prayer that has been left unanswered. The news does a number on the old guy, and suddenly Dean feels sorry for the man standing before him. His father was already lost when their mother died, and it only got worse when Sam disappeared. The agony it triggered has never left him, just like it never left his son. That loss will always remain, a piece of their heart cut away violently, leaving a hole that bleeds to this day. They both had to settle for a life without Mary and the youngest Winchester in it. As much as Dean wants to hate his father, he simply can’t. He wouldn’t want to wish that kind of torture upon anyone, let alone his dad. It doesn’t matter how many mistakes he has made.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hoped that maybe…” John pauses, shaking his head slightly. “I hoped you boys at least found your way back to each other.”

Dean swallows with difficulty, his bottom lashes barely clinging to the tears that threaten to roll down his face, but he manages to keep it together. He wishes the same, because life without his sibling feels incomplete. God, he misses Sam. And all that guilt, the sorrow, and the uncertainty of his well-being come rushing back to him in a magnitude that he can’t cope with.

John watches his son again, a grown man now, yet still his boy. “I was wondering if maybe we could sit down someday. Have a drink or something, y’know? Try and put this all behind us?”

Astonished, Dean stares at him. A part of him wants to mend this broken relationship, but John must be aware that rekindling the father-son bond will never undo all the trauma their family endured. There’s no going back to how things were, there is no returning to the time the Winchesters were happy. Mom died, and her death set them on a course of total ruination. And yet, Dean can’t answer. He can’t tell his father ‘no’.

“John Winchester!” Hasty footsteps echo between the stable walls, and when the conflicted cowboy glances past his father, he notices Bobby, moving closer with determined strides. A shuddering sigh of relief escapes Dean, and he’s glad the man opposite of him turns around to face his former brother-in-law so that he doesn’t witness the sign of weakness. With his uncle here, he instantly feels safer, knowing that even if this conversation develops into an argument, he has back-up now.

The elder man holds a fury in his eyes that is visible even in the shadows of the worn ball cap he always wears. “You better walk away,” he warns. “We were just talkin’,” John assures, calmly. “I don’t care if you are holding a family reunion,” Bobby sneers. “If you don’t leave right now, I will get my gun and blast your sorry ass so full of buckshot that you will never sit in a saddle again without scratching the leather.”

Dean’s gaze bounces between his father and his uncle, weary of the clash that is about to kick off, as the two older men keep their eyes locked on each other, tension rising by the second. But then, against his expectations, John gives in to Bobby’s request and steps aside. He glances back at his son one last time, giving him a sad smile, before he breaks away and strolls off, shoulders slumped and defeat obvious.

Collecting himself by taking a breath and blowing it out as slowly as he can, the younger cowboy makes eye contact with his uncle, who approaches him until he’s in arm’s reach. He puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, gently encouraging the troubled young man to look at him, hoping the touch will ground his nephew. “You alright?” Bobby asks, the lines in his forehead deepening as he frowns. Dean swallows down the lump in his throat and nods, his lips pressed together in a firm line. He can’t speak and has to break away from his uncle’s observant gaze. Bobby’s grip loosens; he’s aware that Dean isn’t ready to expose his true feelings about this unfortunate run-in. “I’m gonna make sure he leaves the premises,” he assures. With those words, the man - who once again has provided him safety - turns away to follow John, committed to matching action with his words if the guy doesn’t take his threat seriously.

Finally alone, the unsettled cowboy tries to inhale again, but his diaphragm seems to have risen to chest height. He can feel anxiety like he has never experienced before in his adult life get a grip on him, and whatever he tries, he can’t stop it. Afraid that his legs might give way, he takes a step to the side and holds on to one of the stable bars, but he still can’t breathe. Unable to hold the frontline in the battle he’s fighting with the overwhelming sense of distress, the tears break through his defense, spilling down his cheeks. Suddenly, he feels sick. He needs to get out, he needs fresh air.

Feeling the bile creeping up from deep inside him as he stumbles outside, he quickly turns the corner behind the tent before he heaves this morning’s partly digested breakfast into the grass. He throws up everything he has been holding, hoping the anguish will leave his body as well, but it doesn’t. When his stomach is empty, he is still left with the same misery. “Fuck,” he chokes out, steadying himself against the steel corner pillar of the stable. He wipes at his runny nose and his tears, sniffling. Get a hold of yourself, Dean, he lectures, you need to keep it together now. He straightens his back, looking down at the mess he made, closing his eyes for a second as he pulls in a careful breath.

“Dean?” Recognizing his friend’s voice, the cowboy turns around. Benny stands behind him, worry in his clear blue eyes. Manning up and finding his footing again, Dean walks up to meet him. The Southerner hands him a bottle of water, and even though the receiver is thankful for having something to rinse his mouth with, he wishes it to be something a whole lot stronger.

Taking a swig, he lets it wash away the sour taste before he spits it onto the ground. After another attempt he realizes that it’s no use and takes a careful sip this time, swallowing it down to put out the fire inside his chest. He glances at Benny, giving him a nod. “I - I’m good,” he says, not just trying to convince his companion. “I’m good.”

Knowing him well, his best friend doesn’t contradict him, even though it’s clear as day the statement is far from the truth. Dean’s eyes are bloodshot, his hand trembling when he moves the bottle to his mouth. “You might wanna get to the warm-up,” Benny reminds him, handing him the headset. The wrangler grimaces. “Shit, yeah. What time is it?” “Two-thirty. Her starting time is in twenty-five minutes,” the Southerner says. “I gotta get goin’,” Dean realizes after cursing again, moving past him to make his way to the arena. He holds up the water bottle as he jogs away. “Thanks.”

Hoping his friend will understand that he’s thanking him for a lot more than just the drink, he hastens away. Right now, he has someone else who needs his support. Y/N has left the stables well over fifteen minutes ago, so he hopes she’s not nervous because of his late arrival. When he finally reaches the fence, he spots her amongst the other riders, warming up Joplin. He can tell she’s focused, or is she upset with him for not being on time? Finding it hard to read her from a distance, he sums it up to a mixture of both. Without disturbing the other competitors, he bends down to duck under the barrier, approaching her and her horse. But when she ignores him completely and continues to work the Quarter on a small circle, he hesitates.

“Y/N?” he calls out, not sure if she saw him from inside her bubble. “What?” she snaps. Taken aback by her reaction, he watches how she keeps circling, slowing down to a walk, but still not stopping to take the headset or even grant him a look. “C’mon, let me help you,” he ushers, holding up the device for her. But when she looks him in the eye, the coldness they behold frightens him. “Why do you even care?” she wonders. “I’m ‘just an intern’ anyway.”

Like she just slapped him across the face, Dean stares at the cowgirl, the daggers she’s shooting at him with her powerful gaze stabbing him right in the heart. No no no, he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes. She wasn’t supposed to hear him say that to his father. He labeled her as an intern only to make sure John wouldn’t be able to get to Dean through his girlfriend. Of course he didn’t mean a word of it! He has to make her understand. “Yankee, I’m sorry. I--” “Forget it, Dean. I can handle myself,” she snarls. “Leave me alone.”

With that, she moves away from her boyfriend, riding Joplin to the other side of the warm-up ring, as far from him as possible. Regretful, her trainer saunters back towards the fence, making his way out of the ring. When he straightens himself, he is met by Jo, who has her arms crossed in front of her chest as she narrows her eyes at her cousin. It’s clear as day that she’s about to rip him a new one as well. “What did you do?” she demands to know, sternly.

Dean looks at her, opening his mouth to answer, but unable to even utter a word. I fucked up, that’s what I did, he realizes. Like he has fucked up everything else that was ever good in his life. He doesn’t reply, though, and instead shakes his head, admitting his loss. “Here.” Dean hands her the small device with a microphone attached to it, his fingers still trembling. “Help her if she needs assistance, alright?” Perplexed, she watches him walk off. She at least expected a counter with a claim that he didn’t do anything wrong. “You’re not gonna even watch her ride?” she asks before he’s too far gone. “I’ll watch from the bleachers. I don’t wanna distract her,” he returns, sadly looking into her eyes before he carries on.

Observing her cousin, an uneasy feeling settles in her stomach. The guilt is oozing from him in great amounts as he disappears in the crowd, his head hanging, the usual upbeat attitude nowhere to be found. What has gotten into him? Something must have happened, something bad. She can’t recall the last time she has seen him this troubled, not since… Jo’s eyes grow a little larger, her brows that were knitted together a moment ago now rising. Suddenly it dawns on her; she hasn’t seen him so thrown into disarray since he arrived at the ranch at fourteen years of age. She might have been only eight at the time, but those memories lingered. The sight of a kid so scared, so depressed, and so broken left an impression. Even as a little girl she knew he had been through hell, and by the looks of her cousin now, it seems like those dark days are catching up with him.

Jo wants to go after the poor guy, but she knows she can’t abandon her best friend. When the steward calls out Y/N’s name, announcing she’s up next, she focuses on the rider again. Right now she is her main priority, because whatever happened between the intern and the wrangler, Jo knows she’s Dean’s priority too.

“Ready?” she checks while quickly drying Joplin with a towel before they head towards the gate. “Yeah, I am,” Y/N assures, pushing Dean from her thoughts. “Remember that it’s fine to pick your first cow from the side of the herd, okay? Don’t set the bar too high. It’s your first time,” the blonde cowgirl offers. “I know,” she assures, even though she’s not planning on playing it safe.

The frustration has morphed into determination, a strong will to prove that she can manage just fine and that Bobby has every reason to dote on her. She much rather feels aggravated than insecure, so she allows the anger to flood the worry, shutting out her usual insecurity. She’s not going to let anyone down, especially not herself.

Concentrated, she goes to the gate, eye for the prize. Joplin already has her ears perked towards the cattle, knowing it’s game time. The clock starts to tick, and with confidence, she guides Joplin through the group of heifers, picking one dead in the middle to single out.

She doesn’t know Dean is watching from the sidelines, and intense sadness filling his soul. She doesn’t know how proud he is when she makes two amazing cuts and she scores 73 points, outclassing him. She doesn’t know that he’s very much aware that his girl doesn’t need him anymore.

Swift strokes brush the dirt out of Joplin’s dark coat. Dust particles dance in the air, illuminated by the orange rays of the setting sun that fall through the window of the stable. The mare allows the pampering, on hindleg resting on its toe, her head hanging low. Big, brown eyes are half closed, falling shut every once in a while. Sleep almost taking the normally feisty horse, the grooming having a relaxing effect on her. It’s almost as if she realizes she’s about to go on a new adventure, and she’s taking this moment to recharge after her run.

Jody has matched Joplin with a great family. A sixteen-year-old girl will be riding her. The teenager and her parents came to meet her new horse right after the great performance, absolutely beaming, knowing this wonderful animal was now theirs. In about fifteen minutes, Joplin’s new owners will be here to take her to their farm in Alamo, New Mexico. The family promised to give the Quarter a forever home, and they showed Y/N pictures of the beautiful barn where the little dark horse is going to live. She’s going to a good place, but the farewell remains bittersweet.

Once the Joplin is thoroughly cleaned, her rider takes her by the halter, raking her fingers through her mane. Y/N has never been good at saying goodbye, but it’s time now. “Be good, okay?” she whispers, letting her hands gently run down the horse’s neck. “And don’t pin your ears back too much. People are gonna think you’re mean, but I know you’re a softy.”

Joplin breathes out a sigh through her nose as if answering the person who has been her companion for the past month. It’s peculiar how fast a bond between human and animal can form. There has been a connection between them since the first time Y/N saddled her up for a trail. The thought of buying the beautiful Quarter herself has crossed the cowgirl’s mind ever since she learned Bobby planned to sell her, but no matter how difficult, this is also an aspect of the business that she needs to get used to. When she will finally have her own stables in a year's time, horses will come and go. She can’t keep every one of them, and so she needs to set Joplin free.

Judging by the hollow sounds under the tent’s roof, the new owners are on their way. She can distinguish Jody’s voice, and Bobby’s too. A girl with long, brown hair and bright eyes peers over the stable door, already glancing at the beautiful horse lovingly. “I bought her new transport boots,” she announces enthusiastically. “Wouldn’t want her to get hurt on the trailer. I also got a rug for when it gets a little colder during the night. Do you think she will like that?” The teenager holds up a red, woolen rug, which matches the leg protection perfectly. Y/N chuckles at the sight. Joplin is going to get so spoiled. “Those look amazing.” She reaches for one of the boots. “Here, let me help.”

They strap on the protective wear together while Bobby, Jody, and the parents close the deal on the other side of the alleyway. After the money is counted, the ranch owner hands over the horse’s passport together with a certificate of ownership, shaking their hands once more. Y/N waits for her boss to look her way, wondering if he - as owner - should give Joplin away, but the old man gives her a friendly nod, telling her without words that she will have the honor.

“Well, I guess this is it,” she says, fumbling with the leadrope. “She’s yours now.” “Thank you,” the young cowgirl returns. “We will take good care of her. Promise.” Not trusting her voice, the Y/N smiles warmly, but there isn’t a doubt in her mind that the family will. She doesn’t want to get emotional, it wouldn’t be professional after all. And so she does her very best to blink the mist from her eyes when she offers the leadrope, handing over Joplin to her new owner.

The family who just gained an additional member exits the stables, heading to the trailers to start their journey home. The rider, the trader, and the rancher watch them leave, all with smiles on their faces. Everyone involved in this sale wins. Y/N can’t help it, though, and has to wipe a lonely tear from her cheek. Jody, who notices, wraps an arm around her shoulder, sheltering and comforting. “Sorry,” the cowgirl excuses, a little embarrassed. “Don’t be sorry, honey,” she dismisses sweetly. “Caring matters, especially when money comes into play. Someone who cares has far better judgment than someone who’s greedy. Remember that.” Y/N smiles at the wise words, storing that piece of advice with all the others she has picked up along the way.

“Pretty good ride,” Bobby compliments his intern, in his own way trying to cheer her up. “Especially at your first cutting class.” Jody glances aside at the ranch owner, not impressed with his choice of words, before pulling the cowgirl closer into a side hug. “Pretty good? Are you kidding me? You absolutely slayed it! If you’re not giving that girl a rider’s fee, I will.” “Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Y/N objects. “No, you deserve it,” he insists while leafing through the hundred dollar bills in a large envelope. “Bobby, it’s okay. I am already super grateful for everything I’m learning and the experiences that I’m gaining. You have already given me a room and a stable, not to mention Ellen’s cooking. You really don’t have to pay me.”

Y/N shortly places her hand on her boss’s to seize his actions, wanting him to stop counting. The Gold Canyon Ranch might have made good money over the past three days, yet that doesn’t mean a financial disaster is avoided. She doesn’t want a share. The old man holds her gaze and she can tell he’s wondering if either Dean or Jo have spilled a little too much information. Maybe it is because of that assumption that he settles and lets it go. “At least lemme buy you a drink, huh?” he offers before he turns to his business partner. “I just have to round a few things up with Jody here.” “Alright, see you in a bit,” Y/N returns.

As the two business partners walk off to look for a private place where Bobby can give the woman who has made the sale possible her commissioner’s fee, the cowgirl slips into the tack room. She decides to start packing, since the crew presumingly will leave in a couple of hours. She has to keep busy, but Dean breaks into thoughts straight away. Sighing deeply, the cowgirl tries to wrap her head around her boyfriend’s reasoning. His words, which had her freeze to the ground for a second as she left him with his father, still ring in her ears. She’s just an intern. Why would he say such a thing? Why hadn’t he expressed that she is his girlfriend? Why did he never mention his father to her? And if he isn’t even able to talk to her about his family, what else is he hiding?

Her train of thought is interrupted by Jo, who hastily rushes around the corner, her restless eyes searching the tack room before she checks the stables. “Have you seen Dean?” she asks, concerned. “No,” Y/N bitterly answers. “Okay, enough.” Jo places her hands on her hips, shifting her weight to one leg. “What the hell is going on with you two?” “You tell me,” her friend responds coldly. “I was under the impression we were doing just fine until Dean wasn’t even able to introduce me. Clearly, I value our relationship more than he does.”

“What are you talking about? He’s crazy about you,” the blonde cowgirl reminds her. “Is he?” Y/N spins on her heels, finally looking her in the eye. “Because for someone who claims to care about me, he sure keeps an awful lot of secrets.” Jo sighs. “Look, I know Dean isn’t the guy who’s very chatty about those kinds of things, but what makes you say that he doesn’t care?” “Because he couldn’t even tell his family - who he failed to tell me about, by the way - that I’m his girlfriend! He told his father that I am just an int--” “Whoa whoa, wait. His father?” Her best friend stares at her bug-eyed, needing a moment to process the information. “His father is here?!” “Yeah, he showed up in the stables earlier to visit him, before I got on Joplin,” she confirms, somewhat confused by her shocked expression. Jo steps towards the intern, grabbing both her shoulders and looking at her intensely. “Are you absolutely sure?” Y/N shrugs a little, not understanding the earnesty. “He looked a lot like Dean, and he called him his son, so I’m assuming.”

Her best friend just gapes at her, her cousin’s demeanor by the warm-up ring suddenly making much more sense. If he had an encounter with his father, his entire world just got turned upside down. Judging by how messed up he was when his only living parent left him to rot when he was still a child, she can only imagine what his return after all that time has set in motion.

“We need to find Dean, now,” she says, grabbing her friend by the wrist and pulling her out of the tack room. “I’ll explain along the way.” Unsettled, Y/N fastens her pace to jog next to the ranch owner’s daughter. “Jo, what’s going on?” “Dean didn’t lie to you when he said that he hadn’t seen his family in a while. In fact, the two haven’t been in contact for fifteen years,” she explains as they exit the stables.

Stunned by the revelation, the cowgirl next to her tries to make sense of it all. Fifteen years? Why would he have cut all ties with his dad for fifteen years? She can’t possibly imagine doing such a thing. Something horrible must have happened, something beyond comprehension. “That still doesn’t explain why he described me as anything else but his girlfriend,” Y/N brings up. “Listen, you don’t know John. He is a manipulative son of a bitch who has played dirty mind games before. If Dean let on that you were just someone working at the ranch, he was trying to protect you.” Y/N stops dead in her tracks, her hand which is still entwined with Jo’s causing her friend to spin around. “He w - what?”

“You need to talk to him,” her friend insists, dragging her into motion again. “My guess is that he found a place to be alone or he’s liquoring up. Either way, your man is spiraling out of control and he's gonna need his girl in order to get out of that vicious circle.” “He - he won’t talk to me,” she stammers. “Not after how I was with him before my run. God, I can’t believe I was so self-absorbed. I thought he didn’t want me there because he was embarrassed of me, and you’re telling me he was making sure I was safe?”

Jo wishes her companion wouldn’t put herself down like that, because the blonde cowgirl honestly gets why she reacted the way she did, being unaware of the family drama. She never thought the day would come, but here she is, defending her cousin’s honor.

“Like I said; he’s crazy about you, Sis. He has never been like this with somebody else, so if there’s anyone who can through to him it’s you. He might try to--” “- push me away, I know. That’s kind of his thing. I won’t let him,” Y/N promises. Jo nods at that, glad she was able to convince her. “Good, now we just have to find him.”

They arrive at the square where all the shops are situated, most of the stand holders packing their unsold products into cars and onto trailers. The sun has disappeared behind the horizon, the skies painted with red. There are a few people around, music coming from the tent further up where the after-party is in full swing. They meet Benny at the crossing, though, who is looking for his friend as well. “Have you seen him?” Y/N asks the farrier, who has the same worried frown on his face as the girls. “I tried the trailers, but no luck,” Benny says. “Stables?” But she shakes her head. “We were just there.”

The three glance aside when a group of young guys stumbles out of the tent, alternated colored beams in their wake, coming from the disco lights inside. The concern that has Jo’s intestines in knots worsens, because if Dean has hit the bar, reasoning with him is going to be problematic.

Y/N enters the tent, backed up by the other two members of the Gold Canyon Ranch. The band plays a happy, upbeat country song that contradicts the alarming anxiety and dread that is riding her nerves like a racetrack. Frantically, she looks around, trying to identify her boyfriend amongst the crowd. She doesn’t see him in the booths on her right, nor around the dancefloor which she and Dean owned two nights prior. Once she convinces him that she understands why he said those things and that he did nothing wrong, she can wrap her arms around him again, comfort him with a kiss and ask him for another dance. He can continue to be the wonderful, supportive boyfriend, making her laugh and making her smile, lifting her up and making her feel appreciated. They can go back to how things were.

Trying to convince herself that everything is going to be fine, she moves through the mass of people towards the beer taps, when she stops suddenly, the wind being knocked from her lungs by the sight in front of her. At the end of the bar, she finds Dean. Not nursing a beer, sad and alone like she expected to find him, but in company of the same girl who was all over him on Friday night as well; Jamie. The cowboy, already intoxicated, leaning into her when the blonde whispers something in his ear, touching his arm as she does. A blind man would be able to see the chemistry, their conversation easy and carefree. The beautiful girl seated on the stool next to her boyfriend doesn’t show a sign of insecurity, her cheerful and confident personality matching Dean’s perfectly. She is everything Y/N isn’t.

Unable to move, she watches the film play out before her, a story of fun and romance that will push her story with Dean to a tragic end. Tears begin to fill her eyes, her breath hitching in her throat. A part of her hopes that he will turn around and see the devastation that his actions are causing, but he doesn’t, occupied by the gorgeous old flame which seems to have ignited something new. He doesn’t even see me, she realizes. He doesn’t see her, because once again it has been made perfectly clear she’s not worth holding on to. That has always been the case whenever it came to love, hasn’t it? So why on earth did she think that with Dean it was going to be any different? And just like that, she’s back to being invisible again.

Abruptly, Y/N turns around, desperately needing to get out of the buzzing atmosphere, but she collides with Jo the second she does. “Woah! Where are you--” Jo steadies her friend when she almost falls over, holding her by her arms. Stunned, she stares into her eyes, noticing how they are glazed over with absolute heartbreak. “What’s going on?”

But Y/N just shakes her head, moving past her hastily; she can’t stay here a second longer. The upset girl struggles towards the exit and ignores Benny, who watches her departure, perplexed. When he straightens himself again, he glances at Jo, as much confusion on his features as on hers. But when his focus locks on his buddy at the bar, his face falls. “That son of a bitch,” he mutters, his remark triggering the blonde cowgirl before him to turn around as well.

Jo’s jaw falls slack, observing as the two order another round of shots. She can’t believe what she’s seeing. She can’t believe she’s witnessing the man who she thought had made a change for the better, now making a turn for the worse. Frustration boils inside of the petite yet feisty woman, who is biting down hard on her bottom lip when she faces Benny again. “You talk some sense into him before he really crosses the line,” she directs. “I’m gonna go after Y/N and see if I can repair the damage.”

The broad-shouldered wrangler nods and watches Jo take off before he goes in the other direction. He pushes through the mass of people who are enjoying the last party of the event, all oblivious to the dramatic scene they are all a part of. He senses that the drama might become a whole lot worse if he doesn’t manage to pull Dean’s head off his ass.

“What do you think you’re doin’, brother?” Benny claps his hand on his friend’s shoulder, interrupting him before he downs the shot waiting for him on the bar. He scoffs. “What does it look like?” “Seems to me you’re about to get a lil’ too friendly with a gal that ain’t yours,” the farrier says with a lowered voice, hoping it will enlighten him. “We’re just having a drink,” Dean counters, annoyed, reaching for the glass in front of him, but Benny pushes it out of reach. “Do you think that’s what Y/N saw too when she was here just now?” Now he does get the cowboy’s attention, common sense finally pushing to the forefront. “She was here?” he questions, dumbfounded. “Yep, and you’ve got somethin’ to fix. Let’s go,” Benny suggests, his large hand flat on his companion’s back calmly pushing him off the chair and onto his feet, both men giving Jamie a short nod before they leave the party.

The fresh air slaps Dean in the face when he exits the tent, sobering him up enough to realize how bad he screwed up. He knew it was a horrible idea to do the one thing his dad always did when the pain got too much to bear; hit the alcohol and drown his sorrow. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? No matter how hard he fights, no matter how different he aspires to be, he will always be just like his father. The same ego-centric, selfish and spineless dick that breaks everything he touches.

When the two men stop in the middle of the square, Benny looks around, trying to find the girls. He doesn’t spot them sitting at any of the outside tables, nor by the restrooms. “It don’t matter, I already fucked it up anyway,” Dean mutters when his friend glances between the market shops. The farrier pauses his search and gazes at him superciliously through half-lidded eyes. “No disrespect, Chief, but what the hell is wrong with you?” “You really want me to get started on that list? Because if so, we’re gonna be here for a while,” the wrangler returns snarky, avoiding his friend’s blue eyes, taking a few steps away with his hands on his hips. “John showing up here is not y—” “Don’t!” Dean interrupts with venom in his voice, spinning around and pointing a firm finger at Benny. “Don’t you dare bring up my father.”

He’s trembling, the anger that ran in John’s blood for years now raging through his veins. Fire sets alight his insides, flames dancing in his pupils that glare at his comrade warningly. The Southerner takes a tentative step towards him, realizing he needs to get through to Dean, but has to handle the subject as carefully as possible. “You are not him. I know this,” he speaks slow. “I know you love Y/N, too.”

But Dean scoffs and shakes his head, not just denying that he does, but refusing to allow himself that kind of fulfillment. He was stupid to even think that he ever had a chance with her. It was just a matter of time before it all would come crashing down on him, ruining everything that he never deserved in the first place. He can’t love her, because if he does, she will fall victim to him, just like he did to his dad.

“Listen, brother. You’re not seein’ straight right now, but you can still make this right,” Benny continues. “You care too much about her to just throw in the towel. Remember when she first came to the ranch? You were smitten the second she walked through those doors. You called dibs on her for a reason.”

The cowboy’s shoulders rise as he inhales deeply and fall again when he blows out a breath. Of course he remembers. He remembers the first time he laid eyes on her over his poker cards, how she responded to him from across the saloon. He remembers how she gave him a run for his money when he came on too strong. He remembers how he panicked when she didn’t seem interested and the idea of her being with someone else had him strike an agreement with his best mate. He remembers the rides, their first kiss, the moment i-- “You called dibs on me?”

Stunned by the unexpected voice, both men turn to where it came from. Benny gulps thickly when he notices Y/N stepping from under the awning of one of the food trucks, Jo in her shadow. Even in the dim glow from the overhanging strings of lightbulbs, he can see her eyes shimmer with despair. “Y/N, it ain’t as bad as it s--” But the cowgirl cuts him off immediately, shooting Benny a glare. “You can stop with the Southern smooth talk. I need to talk to Dean alone.”

After exchanging looks over the course of several uncomfortable seconds, both Benny and Jo step aside, sauntering away from the couple. Once their friends have disappeared behind one of the trailers, Y/N returns her focus to her boyfriend again, her judgemental stare boring into his soul. “I asked you a question,” she repeats, managing to prevent her voice from trembling. “Did you make some kind of pact with your buddies?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he sets his jaw, the muscles flexing under his stubble. He lifts his eyes from the ground for a moment, glancing over before he averts them again. The woman standing a few feet away from him chuckles cynically; she knows enough.

“So what, women are like cattle to you? This is a funny bet?” The cowboy frustratingly shakes his head once. “You know it’s not.” “Do I?!” Y/N returns, her tone sharper and higher than anticipated. “Because if this isn’t just a game, then why did you shove me aside for some blonde broad--” “For fuck’s sake, we were just having a drink! We had this argument already!” Dean snaps, throwing his arms to the side.

Taken aback by the hostility, Y/N stares at him. She has seen this anger before, but just a glimpse of it. It was when Ash lost his job and blamed them, in particular Dean, who took the acquisitions hard. That evening it was mostly guilt that triggered the cowboy to lash out to her and the second he realized he had upset her, he apologized. But now an apology doesn’t even seem to cross his mind that is clouded by darkness far greater. At this point, she’s not sure if she would be able to accept it anyway.

“Well, it didn’t make much of a difference, now did it?” she returns after using the dreadful silence to recover. “Apparently not,” Dean scoffs, shifting his unfocused gaze aside. Mulling over the chain of events that have led to this moment, he swallows with difficulty, indignation taking off the heat for a bit, stopping it from boiling over. The calm gives Y/N enough courage to step closer. “Dean, I know today was a whirlwind. I know - I’m aware that what happened in the stables earlier has sent you into a tailspin,” she sympathizes, careful not to mention his father after witnessing his outburst with Benny when he did, “but this isn’t you.”

The disheartened guy before her huffs again, sardonic and hopeless. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Because it’s exactly who he is. This is who he was always destined to be. It’s how he was raised, it’s in his DNA. For two months he allowed himself to hope that maybe he could change, that maybe he could be better than the poor excuse of a man his father was. Y/N gave him that pipe dream, and even though it’s unreasonable to be upset with her for seeing the good in him, it’s amongst one of the many frustrations he’s experiencing.

“It is. This -” Dean points at himself, his upper lip twitching with disgust. “- this is who I am.” She shakes her head, not ready to give up. “It’s not. You are kind, loving, your heart is--” “You don’t know me!” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair and trapping the light-brown locks between his fingers before he gestures wildly. “You think you do, but you don’t have a fucking clue! I haven’t told you anything about my life--” “Then talk to me!” Y/N yells back as he turns away from her. “I CAN’T!!”

Dean is facing her again, vexation flaring in his emerald green eyes. His heart beats so vigorously that it has his entire body pulsating. He takes her in, the beautiful young woman who he fell for, and he can see that her hope is fading. It pains him to hurt her, but he’s left with no choice. Being angry with him will make things easier, though. It will help her move on. If she is going to feel sorry for him, the pity would only prompt the caring girl to hold on and try to piece the shattered shards back together, and he can’t let that happen, simply because it’s useless. He refuses to take her down with him, to burden her with the same demons that he has to live with. He can’t do that to her, not to the one he loves. She’s way too good for him, so pure, so selfless and gentle. She’s everything he shouldn’t have, everything he isn’t worthy of. It’s better this way, it’s better to end it now.

“I can’t. Who you think I am, it’s not me. I’ve been lying to you, pretending. I can’t be the person you need me to be,” he claims, calmer now that he knows what he has to do.

Y/N’s breathing picks up slightly, the air leaving her with a shudder each time. His words seem so definite already, but he can’t possibly believe that they are not right for each other, can he? All those moments they shared, all the affection he offered; that was real. That was him. Why can’t he see he’s exactly the man she needs? “And what person is that?” she questions, hoping that whatever argument he fires back, she can turn around.

Dean is quiet for a few seconds, thinking about a fitting answer. The profound fondness he feels for her begins to resurface and it’s tearing him apart. She needs to understand that the fairytale they have been living is a facade he can’t continue to maintain. Dreams never last forever, this is where they wake up. “You need a guy who is honest, who you can trust. Look at us; I can’t even bring myself to tell you about my family, my past, or anything for that matter,” he reminds her. “I knew what I was in for, Dean. I don’t expect you to spill every dark secret you think you have. You don’t have to spell out everything to be with me. We can work it out!” she argues desperately. But the cowboy shakes his head, feeling the sorrow brim in his eyes. He wants her to be right so bad, but he knows he can’t live a lie. “You don’t get it, okay? I’m a fucking mess. I did things that are unforgivable. I don’t have my shit together, but you do,” he says, a sad smile barely pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You know exactly where you wanna go in life, what you want to achieve.” She steps closer, praying that if he lets her, she can eventually bridge the space between them. “We can do that together,” she pleads with all the hope she has left. “We can’t,” he returns, having gathered every bit of strength to look at her before he pronounces the words who he knows are the truth. “This isn’t gonna work.”

The tears that have gathered become too much even for a dam to withhold roll down her cheeks now. An already unbearable ache gets worse, her heart physically hurting and taking up so much space that Y/N feels like she can’t breathe. He can’t be doing this. He can’t pull the plug, not after all the epic moments they shared. Every warm look, every gentle touch, every loving kiss; every blissful memory. How can he possibly let go of that? Refusal has her reach out to him, one last attempt to repair what is already broken. “Dean, stop… Why are you hurting me like this?” she cries.

The cowboy drops his gaze while fighting the tears and the grief for what he’s losing. He wants to reach out too, take her hand in his, but he can’t cave now, he can’t be selfish. He has to do this for her. “Because if I don’t, if I allow this to go any further, it’s gonna hurt a lot more.” Dean fixates on anything but Y/N, no longer able to endure the sight of her falling apart in front of him. It’s dreadfully quiet as if the world stopped turning, and in a way, for the two individuals in the middle of the square, it just did. “So - so what? This is it?” she stammers, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re breaking up with me?” Biting his lip now, he focuses on what this decision will offer the woman at arm’s reach. An uncomplicated life in which she can pursue her dreams without having to worry about someone dragging her down. She can be free to do whatever she wishes and that’s all he can ask for. But in order to provide her with that opportunity, he has to let her go. “Yeah. We’re over.”

Like a bullet fired from a gun, the defining words rip through her chest and pierce her heart. The silence after the shot is deafening, canceling out the sounds of their surroundings. The streaming pathways of desolation gather at the end of her chin and drip down on the dry soil, enough to darken the dust. Her eyes are glued on him, though, but he doesn’t return her gaze. The conclusion of their relationship sinks in with every passing second, leaving her soul in ruins. It’s over. They are over. And there is nothing she can do to change the course of history.

Unable to be in his presence, she forces her feet to move, turning away from the man she is no longer with. Dean can’t watch her leave, fixed on the dark earth where her tears fell just moments ago. From his peripheral vision, he notices Jo rushing by to go after her friend. Good, he thinks to himself, she’ll have someone to lean on.

After standing there for what feels like an hour, he takes a few hesitant steps towards one of the trailers, placing both hands flat on the metal, searching for something to ground him while he closes his eyes and lets his head hang. He can’t find it, though, not in the cold steel, not in his reasoning behind this brutal decision. The resentment builds again, and Dean pulls his right hand back, balls his fist, and almost puts a dent into the barrier before him. The action only confirms what he deep down knew to be true all along. All that rage, the self-hatred; he can’t bottle it up forever, so it’s for the best that Y/N will no longer be there to witness it.

Dean bends his elbows, his forearms now pressed against the iron and his forehead resting between his clenching fists, as he struggles to pull in a shaky breath. He feels like he’s imploding, the outer frame of his structure caving in on itself. His mouth falls open, his bottom lip trembling, then he allows the tears to cascade down his face.

He can sense Benny by his side, but Dean is too wrapped up in his own destruction to really acknowledge him. The comforting hand on his shoulder is a touch he barely registers, his body is already rebuilding its emotional walls, caging away his ability to feel and casting it in a permanent shadow. That’s where it will remain, encapsulated in darkness, cut out from the light that his girl had to give. Benny stays by his side, though, letting him know that he is there for his friend, as much as Jo is there for hers.

“Sis, wait,” the ranch owner’s daughter tries desperately, following the woman who just had her heart broken into the stables. Her request remains unanswered, Y/N only stopping when she has reached Meadow’s box, her hands shaking while she tries to unlock the door. When she’s unable to, Jo quickly steps in and opens the gate, holding it for her companion. The bay horse has lifted her head, alerted by the commotion in the alley, but clearly recognizes the person stepping inside. She seems confused by her owner’s frail state of mind, though, pricked ears and concerned eyes taking in the situation.

The cowgirl folds an arm around Meadow’s neck while she buries her face in the Quarter’s brown coat, then she breaks. She breaks into a million segments, lost in the mixture of wood shavings and straw underneath their feet. The air is too thin to breathe and sobs wreck her entire form.

Never in her life has she felt so unwanted, purposeless, and vulnerable as she’s feeling now. Dean let her in and she trusted him to handle her with grace, yet the second she was comfortable with this new way of being, he pushed her out. She thought she knew the man she felt such a strong connection with. Yes, she realized very early on that it was going to be difficult to get through to him. The soldier with thick armor had stacked the barricades high, but that never intimidated her. After all, she had climbed mountains before.

She gave Dean her all, but in the end, it turns out it was useless. Y/N isn’t even sure what’s real and what’s not, if the cowboy has been wearing a mask all along, or just now turned into someone that he isn’t. It doesn’t matter, though. He has made himself perfectly clear; she is not the girl he wants to be with.

The only one stopping her from collapsing is Meadow, who holds still like a statue, aware that if she moves, her owner will fall to the ground and might never be able to get up again. The horse senses exactly how to handle Y/N, the usually so spirited mare now timid and calm, picking up on the despairing energy.

Jo, who had silently slipped into the tack box to get a bottle of water and some tissues, comes back into the stable, tearing up at the sight of the two who have such a strong bond. The thousand-pound animal has curved her neck around her human, resting her large head on the cowgirl’s shoulder. As if trying to comfort her, Meadow twitches her lips, gently rubbing them against her owner’s back, her way of showing affection. People can be cruel sometimes, to others, to horses. Jo has witnessed it, and she knows Dean has too, which has ultimately led to his dreadful decision to cut Y/N loose, and by doing so he has hurt her in terrible ways himself. But at least the girl has her horse.

Meadow, who is oblivious to the reason behind her owner’s sorrow, offers solace nonetheless. Quietly, she waits until the cries die down and the tears begin to dry, and even then she stays close to her person, having a better sense of direction than most humans do. Y/N’s four-legged friend is honest, treats her with kindness, and loves her unconditionally. It’s a special connection no man can ever steal away, yet many can learn from. This incredible being is her soul horse, a term Dean has taught her, the one who she thought was going to be her partner in life until he decided otherwise. He is right, though; it is over between them. She has lost Dean’s heart, but at the end of the day, no matter what happens, she will always have Meadow.

That’s that then. They are over...

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part twenty-five here

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blueprint-han · 3 years

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☆⌒ hilltop — bang chan | fluff, boyfriend au | 1394 words | slight kissing

“Hey, you mint-head!”

Chan stops in his path halfway through, turning around to squint through the lush green trees and bushes when he spots your ruined and debilitated form trying to catch up with her overly-active boyfriend. He chuckles when you hesitantly place a hand on a tall tree’s bark, crouching down on the moist, wet floor to catch your breath.

“I’m not as fit as you are, did you forget?” You heave out, shifting from one foot to the other because the trekking shoes Chan had given you were one-size-too-small, and now your feet felt like they were enclosed with molten-hot-lava. Yikes, not cool.

“Did you just call me mint-head?” Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow, sauntering towards you before taking a seat on the random wooden bench that’s littered here and there on the pat to the top of the hill.

“Well,” You take a deep breath, uncapping the water bottle — thank god you’d brought one — before taking a nice gulp of the liquid. It feels cool and refreshing when it runs down your throat. Once you cap the bottle back, you speak again. “You deserve it, for dragging my ass to this —” A clapping sound echoes throughout the space and you separate your hands, pushing off the dead mosquito on your hand. “— wild forest, even though I told you we could’ve just taken the photos on the apartment’s terrace.”

“Oh come on,” Chan laughs heartily, slinging an arm over your shoulder before dabbing his handkerchief over your sweaty forehead. “It’s just a fucking hill, stop being such a drama llama. It’s literally just a straight walk up.”

“But we’ve been walking for hours!”

“Actually, we’ve only been walking for five minutes.”

“Sorry, you’re the one who literally carried me against my will from my comfortable bed and into this weird ass place, and all for dumb —” you swat at another mosquito. “Photos. Yeah, I think I have to right to be mad.”

“Hey, now let’s not get too angry there.” Chan runs his hand through his mint green hair. “The view from the top is magnificent, just give it a chance, babe. You do remember what I promised you once we’ve successfully reached the top, right?”

You scowl and then that gradually morphs into a pout as you shove your water bottle back into your backpack, slinging it over your shoulder. “It doesn’t even seem worthy anymore — all this climbing for one kiss?”

“Oh please,” Chan smirks, crossing his arms against his chest. “You’ve always told me I’m a good kisser, so you can’t tell me that you aren’t the slightest bit excited for this.”

“Yeesh, stop being so cocky—” A slap at his chest and you get up, ignoring the fiery feeling in the apples of your cheeks as you walk further up the hill. “You better catch up or no kiss for you!”

“Hey that was my deal!”

Once you and Chan both reach the top of the hill — albeit with a lot of groaning and complaining — the first thing you do is kick off your damn shoes and revel in the feeling of the cold grass under your feet, and finally, finally, some circulation to let your feet breathe! You feel as free as a bird, as calm as a swan in a lake —

“Why are you standing over there like you’re in the Titanic movie?” Chan asks, biting his lip to muffle out his giggles while you scowl at him once again.

“Because someone —” You smile, pointing at your boyfriend who’s trying hilariously hard to not laugh at how silly you look right now. “Decided to bring me here when I was totally—”

“Oh shut it, don’t start again.” Honestly, Chan isn’t even offended over how dramatic you’re being. You’re overly loud, chaotic, and look at the fun sides in life (expect for now, surprisingly) and Chan is calm, patient and more diplomatic in his approach. You two are opposites, but that’s what attracts both of you.

Plus, he finds it absolutely adorable, and all he wants to do is throw his camera away and cradle you into his arms and shower you in praise. Your dorkiness only brings out his affectionate side more — and Chan’s an affectionate person already.

“Ugh, fineeee...” You whine. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Okay, so — stand there.” He points to the railing that surrounds the hill and you nod, moving to take your position. The cold grass and the air feels oddly nice, so you feel energetic. Maybe this photoshoot will go well after all.

The next two hours is spent with you and Chan taking pictures of each other, the scenery, and you also throw in a couple photos of Chan stuffing his cheeks with the sushi you’d picked up on the way — those were private and confidential though, because your boyfriend looked so cute when his cheeks were filled with food, and you were selfish and wanted all that serotonin for yourself.

Honestly Chan doesn’t even care about the photos — neither do you, but you’ve made it clear since the beginning — he just wants to spend quality time with his girlfriend, and college’s been an absolute pain in the ass — he misses going on silly yet nice dates with you.

Even Chan manages to catch a few portrait photos of you when you aren’t looking, and for all intents and purposes he will be keeping it to himself — because your beauty deserves to be admired, and just like you, Chan is selfish to share it.

Seems like you both fit together perfectly.

When the photoshoot is done, you decide to separate from the cameras a bit and gaze at the sun that’s going down bit by but, bestowing it’s existence with a magnificent view. The sky is tinted the slightest orange, mixed with a hint of pink and blue, and the scenery itself is picture-worthy.

“So...” You say, having calmed down from your burst of energy from before. “Today was nice.”

“What —” Chan says with sarcastic intent, gasping and clutching at his heart like he’s in grave shock. Now he’s the one who’s being dramatic. “— Didn’t you say it wasn’t worth my kiss?”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes playfully, quirking your brow before gazing off into the afternoon-evening sky.

“Pfft, I’ll shut up after we finish the one more picture we have to take.”

“What picture, didn’t we have all of them already?”

“Nope, stand here.”

Chan runs to fix his tripod stand a few feet away from where you’re standing, setting the timer before rushing back to his place.

“This one’s special, so please get rid of the grouchy face.” You frown, but nonetheless smile at his excitement.

“Okay so, close your eyes.”

A raised eyebrow is thrown in his direction, but you still comply, extremely curious to know what your boyfriend was up to.

“I swear to god, if you pull that thing you did to me last time when you put a bug in my hand I will —” Hey, you were just being proactive! The bug incident had freaked the fuck out of you, so much that you didn’t go near Chan for a whole two days until he’d apologized and bought you McDonalds.

But oh god, what you felt was so, so much better than that prank.

Soft lips press against your own and efficiently shut you up, leave be for the muffled nose that rolls off your tongue in surprise. His lips move with synchrony, and you barely notice the camera flash behind you when Chan cups your cheeks and you wrap your hands around his waist, delving deeper and deeper and deeper until you ran out of breath. Not that you didn’t feel breathless when Chan got like this, and you loved every bit of it.

When you pull away, you gasp for air, panting as you rest your forehead against Chan’s.

“So,” He says, rubbing his thumb against your cheek and kissing the tip of your nose. “Was it worth it?” He cocks an eyebrow, and you giggly softly, pulling him into a hug.

“You know it always will be.”

And the framed picture of you and Chan kissing under the medium-orange toned sunset looks ever-the-pretty on your room’s wall.

*:･ﾟ✧ find the other fics here !

#skz fluff #stray kids fluff #skz x reader #skz x you #skz x y/n #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz chan fluff #stray kids chan fluff #chan fluff #bang chan fluff #chan imagines #chan scenarios

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morkleemelon · 4 years

Text

Jet Lag✈️

1) you and Mark are both idols and you're on video call from different countries and you miss each other. You surprise Mark secretly visiting Korea and you then surprise him in his room and you guys cuddle and stuff ^~^

@smolninja thank you for your request! I hope it’s everything you wanted! I’m sorry for the delay, I had so many issues with Tumblr and accidentally deleted it when I was like 70% done it was so sad. Nonetheless, I really liked writing it! Enjoy :)

Warnings: mild swearing

Word Count: 3k

Genre: Fluff, slight angst

Fem Idol!reader x Mark Lee

The set up: you’re in a 7 member kpop group called Girl Trouble and you’ve just finished the first concert of your Japanese tour. We’re pretending corona doesn’t exist :) The general public does not know that you are dating Mark Lee

-----

You feel the van come to a stop as flashing lights bloom from outside the tinted windows, waking you from your much needed sleep.

“We’re at the hotel y/n,” your bandmate, Yeeun, informs, fixing her hair in her phone camera to make sure she was ready to be photographed.

The excited cheers coming from the street bring you out of your sleepy stupor and you stretch your arms above you in a big yawn.

“How do I look?” you ask Nayoo, your best friend in the group who’s sitting next to you, touching up her concealer.

“Perfect as always y/n, duh,” she replied, playfully winking as she put her stuff away.

“Ok I’m opening the door!” you warn as you grab the handle and take a deep breath, putting on your best smile.

Swinging the door open, you’re met with an uproar of fans calling out your name and a storm of camera flashes eager to capture your latest look. It was your group’s first time in Japan so the fans were especially excited to finally have the chance to see you.

*Click click click click*

You stepped out of the car as gracefully as you could, smile never faltering as you showed off your pearly white teeth and prize-winning dimples. Brushing your hair back slightly as you walk, you tease your new gold earrings as a subtle endorsement to the brand. Your members following suit, you wave to the crowd and make your way to the entrance, nodding at a few fansites you recognized.

- - -

Throwing yourself onto the bed, your freshly showered hair promptly soaks through the comforter but you couldn’t care less.

“Ugh...,” you sighed, melting into the plush goodness of the hotel mattress, “I’m so goddamn tired.”

If only he were here with you...

“Oh!” you gasp, head shooting up from your now wet pillow, “I promised I’d call!”. You rolled off the bed and scrambled to find your phone in your bag, suddenly wide awake.

“You’re calling loverrr boyyyy?” Nayoo teased, dragging out the letters because she knew how much you hated it.

“Stopppp!” you whined, throwing your soggy pillow at her and trying to hide the growing blush on your cheeks.

Frantically unlocking your phone, you scroll through your contacts to find your boyfriend, heart racing with anticipation. It’s been a few weeks since you’ve seen Mark and you know it’ll be a few more until you have the chance. You promised each other to call whenever you could, but with NCT dream having a new comeback and Girl Trouble was starting to be really popular, there was only so much you could do. On top of that, it was stressful trying to keep your relationship a secret with all of the prying eyes around you and Mark’s intense fan base. Nevertheless, you’ve been going strong for about 8 months now you know that everything, every struggle, is worth it because of how much you truly love him.

Calling: Baby💕💋🦁...

You don’t bother to fix your makeup-less face and frizzy hair because you know that he’ll say you’re beautiful.

You smile at the thought of him as the FaceTime chimes ring.

*whoom*

“Marky!” you whisper cry, heart racing with excitement as you see his face for the first time in days.

“Baby!” Mark squeals back in the same tone, losing himself to giggles as you both giddily recover from the excitement of getting to see each other. You can hear the sound of voices mocking him in the background and Chenle’s piercing scream cuts through the audio.

“How have you been, baby?” you ask adoringly, ignoring the dreamies and look longingly at the boy in round glasses and his favorite grey hoodie.

“Shut up guys! I’m trying to talk to y/n!” he yells back at them, met with only more mocking and screaming. Sighing and giving up, he turns back to the camera, “Ah you know, I’ve been alright. We’ve been pretty busy with practice. I’m actually at practice right now if you can’t tell”. He pans the camera to the other members of dream who are clearly only taking a break because Mark made them stop for this phone call.

Guilt grips at you as you realize how you were probably inconveniencing them. After all, it was getting late and they all have to stay even later now because of you.

“Oh... if now’s not a good time we can always try tomorrow,” you offer, smiling slightly but not enough to hide your disappointment and guilt.

“Aw baby I’m sorry,” Mark soothes, “don’t worry about us I didn’t mean it like that. I missed you so much and these guys can spare a few minutes it’s fine”.

“I wish you were here, Mark. Or I was there,” you whisper, lying down on your bed once again. Placing your phone in front of you, it’s almost, almost, as if he were there lying with you.

Mark wears a pensive expression as he looks down, using his free hand to fiddle with his hoodie strings.

“Yeah. Me too”.

His voice is strained as he thinks about the nights you’ve snuck out together and the secret dates you shared. He misses the way you feel in his arms and the way your soft hair felt when it tickled him awake in the morning. He misses your terrible dad jokes and your night cooking. It was really frustrating how you were both so young and so in love, but everything else in life had to get in the way. Mark really missed you.

You reach out instinctively to stroke his hair but instead of comforting the boy you loved, your hands are met with only the cold surface of your screen.

The two of you talked for a few more minutes, trying to make the most of the time before he had to go. You could tell by the way his voice strained that he was really exhausted.

When he finally hung up, you couldn’t shake the empty feeling off; not being next to him, being able to touch him, to comfort him, to be with him was the worst feeling in the world.

And before you could stop yourself, warm tears began to fall as your shoulders shook with your heartbroken sobs. Video calls were supposed to make you miss each other less, not more. You loved him so much that you’d miss him even if he was right there with you. Being apart was devastating.

“Oh, honey…,” Nayoo coos, crawling into your bed to give you a much needed hug, “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Let it out”.

Wrapping your arms around your best friend, you let the tears fall onto your already soaked pillow and spilling out the feelings you’ve kept buried inside for so long.

“I just miss him so much,” you gasp, squeezing your fists around the fabric of Nayoo’s sweatshirt.

“Oh I know y/n, I know,” she comforted, “remember back when we were trainees and you just started dating Mark? And I was always there to distract Manager Kim when you snuck out to meet him?”.

You let out a small laugh at her attempt to lighten the mood. Nayoo was truly a good friend and she always had your back. You were really lucky to have her in your life.

“I do, Nayoo. I never thanked you enough for that”

“You know I love you. I’d do it again now if you wanted to sneak out and meet him. Actually I bet you could pull it off since our next show isn’t for another 4 days”

“Wait…”

Both of you sat up at the same time, looking at each other with wide eyes.

------

“I can’t believe we’re doing this”

“Shush! We already bought the tickets there’s no backing out now”

“What if someone notices me?”

“They won’t. Look at you”

You looked in the mirror of the lobby bathroom you were hiding in. You were dressed in plain, unbranded clothes, your hair tucked in a low, messy bun. The majority of your face was covered by a mask and a baseball hat, making you look nearly unidentifiable to anyone looking.

“I guess,” you sighed, still nervous, “let’s just go over the plan again”.

“Alright sheesh,” Nayoo groaned, “as if I am not a wizard of distracting our manager. You’ll get into the Uber we just called and go to Japan Airport. Your flight is at 2:30am and you’ll arrive in Korea at about 4:00am. Then you’ll go to Mark’s dorm and make out with him yadda yadda-”.

You punched her in the arm.

“Okay! Did I lie though? Anyways, you’ll be on your return flight the next day at the same time so you better savor your time. MY job is to tell Manager Kim that you are having lady problems and you can’t make it to practice today. He hates when we talk about periods so this is fool proof seriously. Plus we know that you will do fine on stage without one day of practice”.

“Okay…,” you chewed your lip nervously, half dreading the thought of being caught and half thrilled at the thought of being in Mark’s arms in a few hours. Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you looked at the notification.

*your Uber driver Ayako is here! Look for license plate A29&Q on a black Honda Pilot*

Hugging Nayoo goodbye, you rush out of the hotel and into the cab, adjusting your cap and mask to make sure it covers your face.

Each second that passed, you became more excited about seeing your boyfriend and less nervous about the consequences.

Mark, I’m here for you. I’m coming, just wait a little bit longer.

Your hands itched to call him and tell him what you were doing but you knew that he was catching up on some much needed sleep by now.

When you arrived at the Japan Airport, you thanked the driver and walked briskly through the airport. You had nothing except a small backpack and your plane ticket so getting through security was quick. Thankfully, there weren’t too many people there at 2 in the morning so you began to relax.

Successfully making it through security, you finally board the plane and claim your seat at the very back.

Looking out the window to the dark, starry skies, the lights of the airplane wings illuminate the drops of rain that began to fall.

-----

You jolt awake as the plane lands at the South Korea Airport with a rumbling thud. Your hands dart to your face to make sure your mask and hat are still there, sighing in relief when they remain unmoved.

Grabbing your bag, you walk down the aisle of the half-empty plane, each step bringing you closer to Mark.

Rushing out of the airport, your steps gain traction as you feel your heart racing in excitement at the thought of seeing your boyfriend so soon. The cold night air greets you familiarly as you call the nearest cab over. Telling the driver the address of Mark’s dorm building, you watch as the streetlights pass by and you near the boy you’ve been dying to see for weeks.

At last, you arrive at the steps of the apartment complex. Thanking the driver, you rush into the building and attack the elevator button going up. Your breathing is shallow with excitement knowing that he’s there right now. He’s there and you’re going to be with him.

Every second in the elevator feels like hours and you kick yourself for not taking the stairs. The floors seem like they’re all a mile away from the last and you tap your foot impatiently on the carpeted floor.

8...9...10

*Ding*

You speed out of the elevator and find your way expertly to the infamous 10th floor dorm room. Feeling around the crevices of the carpet floor for the spare key, you feel a slight twinge of nerves because you’re technically breaking into their home. But, as soon as you enter the familiar room, any guilt you have washes away and the only thing you can feel is the rapid beating of your heart filled with love and anticipation.

Making your way silently through the dark common room, you stop at the oh-so-familiar door. When your hand touches the cold metal of the doorknob, you swear that the beating of your heart was loud enough to wake the entire building.

Taking a deep breath, you open the door and you see him. Your breath hitches at your throat and you fight back the urge to cry right then and there. Mark was lying on his bed, snuggled under the covers with his arms and legs wrapped around a pillow like he always does when he sleeps. His soft breathing was rhythmic and calming, the warm scent of his room inviting you in.

Without wasting another second away from him, you drop your bag on the messy floor and walk up to his bed. Carefully, you pull at the pillow in his embrace and replace it with your own body. Mark shifts slightly and you freeze, not wanting to wake him up from his rare sleep. His eyes remain closed and his arms instinctively tighten around you. You can see through the darkness that his eyebrows furrow slightly and his lips part, and you wonder if he knew you were there.

“Finally,” you thought to yourself, reaching up slowly to caress his hair, “we’re finally together”. It didn’t feel real. You couldn’t believe that you were finally here in his arms. His body was so warm and felt like home to you.

You can feel Mark’s fingers autonomously rub circles into your back. As if his body realized what was happening, Mark’s eyes opened slowly and he peered into your face, blinking slowly to process this new information.

“I’m here, Mark,” you whisper as softly as you can.

Without any hesitation, Mark leans forward and presses a deep kiss onto your lips, conveying ten thousand words with his actions that could only be interpreted as “I missed you so much”.

You kiss him back, fingers gripping onto his shirt with raw emotion in an “I missed you too”. You breathe in deeply, not wanting to forsake any aspect of him, taking in all of his scent and drinking it all like a flower with no water.

He pulls away with a sigh and presses his forehead against yours. Mumbling incoherent words, you notice that he seems to have fallen back asleep.

Your own eyelids feel heavy and they flutter closed as you succumb to the warm welcome of sleep, your heart whole with love.

-----

Dull beams of sun fell slanted through the curtains as you drifted awake the next morning. You felt a hand playing with your hair and you opened your eyes slowly, temporarily forgetting what you had done the night before. Memories flooded back and your attention narrowed in at the smiling boy in front of you.

“You’re really here,” Mark whispered, “how are you here?”.

“It’s a long story,” you whispered back, voice still hoarse from sleep.

He pulled you in closer to his chest and you gladly snuggled into his warm body, nuzzling at his favorite hoodie, the one you got him for Christmas.

“I thought it was all a dream when I saw you last night,” he admitted.

“Stay with me today?,” you ask, worried that your time together would be short. If he had to go to practice, you could hardly see him at all and you’d go back to missing him a thousand miles away.

“I’m not going anywhere today,” Mark replies, kissing the top of your head, “my wishes have finally come true and you magically appeared in my bed. I’d be an idiot to leave”.

You giggled at his words, working your fingers to draw shapes into his back.

You start to tell him what happened after you called him the night before and how devastated you were when you weren’t with him. Mark’s arms tightened around you as you told him you cried when you saw how tired he was and you weren’t there to cheer him up. You told him about how you put on a disguise and snuck around Manager Kim who thought you were dying right now. His body shook with laughter at the crazy night you had and you both agreed that this was the wildest thing you had ever done.

“How long are you gonna stay here?”

“My flight back to Japan is at 2:30am tomorrow morning. What time is it now?”

Mark shifts to unlock his phone on the nightstand.

“It’s 10:49am”

You sighed and buried your face deeper into his chest, trying to get impossibly closer to the love of your life and make the most of your hard-earned time together.

“Let’s do everything today,” you heard him say.

“What do you mean?” you ask, tilting your chin up to look at him, pressing a small his to his jaw.

“Let’s just do everything we always wanted to do. Let’s get ramen from the convenience store together and then go on a walk at the park. Let’s get matching sweaters from the mall and then full sugar boba tea. You’ll drink half of mine and I’ll let you because I’m a good boyfriend”. Mark giggles at his imagination and peppers kisses across your face.

You laugh at the ticklish sensation and your heart swells with love for the Canadian boy.

Your whole body tingled, the feel of his body around yours and his lips on yours sending your head spinning. Rubbing your nose adoringly against his in an eskimo kiss, you vow that you would be strong for him from now on. You might be apart for work a lot, but the love you share is inseparable and undeniable. Nothing could ever come between you. You were his and he was yours.

“Let’s do it, Everything”

209 notes · View notes

zoinkshaggy · 3 years

Photo

stats --

name: remus russell rogers

faceclaim: ricardo hoyos

age: 21 years

pronouns: he/him

sexuality: bisexual, biromantic

birthday: february 4th

zodiac: aquarius

abilities: none

occupation: college student

traits: boyish, committed, selfish, sarcastic, caring

likes: fallout, drums, allison, pumpkin spice, picnics, smoking, sneakers, camping, swearing, taco bell

dislikes: papercuts, feeling stupid, mustard, celebrities, lavender scents, urinals, peeps, set times, baseball caps, skinny jeans

biography --

remus didn’t know stability until he was eleven years old. dropped off at the police station with no explanation the year he was supposed to start kindergarten, he bounced from foster home to foster home until he landed in the rogers’. no one wanted the angry kid. and the longer that he went on feeling unwanted, the angrier he got. he assumed shaggy and velma were just another stop along the way, already accepting of the idea he’d end up aging out of the system and he’d be in someone else’s house next year. but they were different. their kindness from the beginning never wavered. they didn’t see a stubborn, rebellious, broken preteen. they saw a sad, lonely little boy. he didn’t need to be fixed, he just needed to be loved. he fought the love at first, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. eventually he was able to accept that this was his family. instead of changing homes in a few months, he changed his last name. and his first, because he didn’t want to be the namesake of the man that abandoned him. trouble always found its way in, though, and just as he’d allowed himself to believe everything was okay, his new parents shipped him off... with no explanation, the way his birth parents had. he’d noticed that his father had stopped joking as much, wasn’t eating, sleeping in too late, but he still managed to convince himself it was all about him. it was his fault. his family had come to realize how much they didn’t want him, and instead of admitting it they decided to get rid of him by sending him and his sister to a school in another city. they kept in touch, but remus began to become reserved and angry all over again. it was a slippery slope. it led to alcohol addiction before he was legal, outbursts at the people that were supposed to be his friends. he was destroying everything he knew, including himself. but he reached a point where he realized he needed help. it’s been over a year now since he’s picked up a drink. therapy has helped some, but it’s the support system that made him able to get through it. now he can see with a clear head that everything isn’t always about him. shaggy had been struggling too. it wasn’t that he was a burden, it was that sometimes things aren’t okay and you have to work through them. people make mistakes and bad decisions. the world doesn’t revolve around him. his family is still his family. he’s still loved. along with his sobriety, remus has been turning to healthier coping mechanisms --- apologies to the other people who live in his apartment, he bought a drum set --- and being more open and honest. he’s in love, in a healthy relationship for the first time. life is all around better than it ever has been before. except for one little thing. the person that keeps trying to contact him and broke into his home, insisting they’re his birth mother. his birth mother, whom he recently found out died seven years ago.

connections --

*annyoance: any gender, any age. he’ll try his best to be nice to them. but this person just gets on his very last nerve. he doesn’t wish them any ill will, he just wants them to leave him alone. childhood friend: jordan bellefonte. now that the angst has died down from him practically abandoning her when they were foster siblings then pushing her away, he considers jordan one of his best friends again. family, even. dad: shaggy rogers. his dad is pretty lame, but it’s the coolest thing about him. he’s glad he’s doing better now, and he knows that he can come to him whenever he needs to. *ex girlfriend: female, close in age. before his relationship with allison, remus was definitely toxic, and there’s plenty of room for angst and regret on his end. maybe he even loved her, but they just couldn’t work. ex, kind of: perry van dort. they had a... thing. shortly after remus was adopted and realizing he might be into boys too. it’s safe to say perry was his bi awakening, but he was too afraid to make anything public, so to this day he’s his biggest secret. *foster family: any gender, any age. either fostered by their parents and it didn’t work out or someone else that was in the system and ended up in the same home at the same time. girlfriend: allison hawkins. remus has no idea how he got so lucky. from the moment he met alli, he was drawn to her. now that he they’ve been official for over a year, he still can’t wrap his mind around being able to call her his. honorary friends: mystery inc and van dort kids. his parents are loyal to the people they care about. it’s only natural he’d also care about their friend’s kids he grew up around. mom: velma rogers. remus is definitely a mama’s boy. he had a lot of distrust coming into yet another new home, but it was easy to warm up to velma. he loves her so much. probably his favorite person in the entire world. *music buddy: any gender, any age. they can come over and sing or play guitar or something while he bangs on the drums. fair warning, he isn’t that great, but he’s getting better. past drinking buddy: aya leu. the two of them partied hard when they partied. he kind of abandoned her, because he can’t be around that kind of life and stay sober. *tutor: any gender, any age. remus has never been good at school. his grades have been better lately, mostly thanks to this person taking the time to explain things how he can understand it. he’ll pay for the service. he just wants to graduate. sister: olive rogers. remus wasn’t sure he ever wanted siblings because that would draw attention away from him, but he got over that hurdle and he’s glad olive came around. she’s the best big sis he could ask for.

* open connection, this could be you !! hmu.

#tw addiction #tw stalking #waltnextgen #my og boi :')))#i just love him. so fckn much #next gen: remus rogers.#next gen.#rb.

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ynsrg · 3 years

Text

PRETENDING

CHAPTER 4

She closes the door behind them with slightly shaking hands. Excellent acting, Catherine. The audience will really believe that Emma is crazy about Ryan.

She turns to face Bo – Ryan – and he’s close to her, almost touching her, hunger written all over his face. Excellent acting, Bo. The audience will really believe that Ryan is crazy about Emma.

“You want a drink, Ryan?”

It’s a bit mental how easy she finds it to do a convincing American accent these days. She struggled with it for ages.

“Sure,” he breathes, and she swallows hard as she looks up at him for a moment, with dark eyes that are getting darker. She has this urge to place her hand on his chest, so she does, just for a second.

His pupils dilate when she does that, and that’s not something you can act.

If she left her hand there for longer, would she feel his heartbeat? Would it be racing as fast as hers is?

She reminds herself that they need to move this along, so she removes her hand and – somewhat reluctantly – takes a step back. “Coming right up,” she nods stiffly, working in the character’s social anxiety.

Pretty easy for you to do a convincing job of that, eh Cath?

She slips past him and walks ahead, knowing that the camera will be focusing on the dress – or lack of – at her back. She sways her hips a little, and chances a glance over her shoulder.

His eyes are fixed on her arse, and he doesn’t even notice her looking.

She snaps her head forward again, trying to calm herself down. The knot in her stomach that’s been a constant for her over the past few days has turned into a dull, hot ache which now sits low – far too low – in her abdomen.

No, no, no. This isn’t happening. You are an actor, you are a professional, you are not getting wet.

She walks into the ‘lounge’, to her spot, reaches for two glasses and picks up the bottle of ‘alcohol’, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers, pulse thumping in her ears because she knows what’s about to happen.

A brush of long fingers against her lower back. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and tries not to whimper. Then that same hand, flat against her skin, and moving to her side – her waist – slipping under the smooth material as his other hand moves to her opposite side, her hip, and pulls her back into his body.

Her eyes flutter closed, for just a second, and she lets out a shaky breath.

“Forget the drink, Emma,” comes his voice, low and hoarse in her ear, lips brushing against her skin.

She wonders how far he had to bend down to do that. She can’t see what he’s doing because he’s holding her firmly in place.

She likes that, a lot.

Anyway. Acting. Script.

“Ryan,” she breathes ‘his name’ like it’s a prayer, doing everything she can not to say ‘Robert’ by accident.

His hand pulls at the clip holding her hair in place, and it tumbles down to her shoulders in waves.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs, and it sends a bolt of electricity straight to her cunt. She allows a small moan to pass her lips, and his fingers dig into her hip by way of response.

Acting. Script.

Catherine turns her head to meet his lips, which brush against hers tentatively at first. She raises her right hand up and slightly behind her, to tangle in his impossibly soft hair and pull him closer. When his tongue seeks access with a small swipe across her bottom lip, she melts into it with a sigh.

Jesus fucking Christ, mother of God and all that is Holy, may the Lord strike her lapsed Catholic arse down, he’s an incredible kisser.

He removes his hand from her hip, her cue to turn around to face him, which she does with enthusiasm that isn’t coming from acting. She snakes her arms around his neck and her nails lightly scratch at his scalp, just above the nape of his neck. He moans into her mouth as his hands trail down her back to sit just above her pert, round arse – one of her better features, she has to admit, and it seems like Bo might agree – and when she nibbles at his bottom lip, that moan turns into a growl and then both of his hands are cupping it.

“Fuck,” she exhales shakily against his lips, and that wasn’t in the script. She feels him smirk against her. Oh dear.

It’s far, far too easy to let herself be backed up against the wall by him. Her back meets the cool plaster with a thud as his lips move to her neck, fairly chaste kisses at first but rapidly becoming open-mouthed, hot and wet, with the occasional scrape of teeth. Her small fingers work, numbly, at the buttons on his shirt as his hands slip the straps of her dress down her shoulders and his lips move down to the skin that’s been revealed. She dimly remembers that she’s not wearing a bra. She doesn’t care.

The heat between her thighs is really becoming quite problematic for her at this point, and when she writhes against him, pinned in place by his torso with their lower bodies frustratingly separated out of shot, it works well for the scene but she’s beginning to forget that she’s supposed to be someone else.

Please, Bo.

“Please, Ryan,” she pants, as his thumb grazes her hardened nipple through her dress, and she swears she sees stars for a second.

He captures her mouth again in a searing kiss, before pulling away just a little to murmur against her wet, swollen lips. “Please what, Emma?”

Not in the script, not in the script, not in the script.

She’s never seen his eyes so dark, pupils blown like saucers, and the lace of her underwear is hot and damp against her aching pussy. “Don’t make me beg,” she whispers breathlessly, looking him dead in the eye.

Decidedly, definitely not in the script.

There’s no cameras anymore, only them. He pauses for just a second, breathing heavily, searching her face for any sign of hesitation and finding nothing. He trails his hands down her sides again, over her arse, to her upper thighs, and she wriggles against him with a wanton moan. “Someone’s eager,” he chuckles darkly as she slips her hands under his shirt, and she should be embarrassed – they both should be – but it doesn’t come.

“Please,” she whimpers again, and something inside him snaps.

He stoops, just a little, his large hands slipping under her thighs to hoist her, and her legs fall open instinctively to allow his body – his whole body – to settle in between them.

His hips pin her to the wall, and she feels him hot and hard and fucking big, pressed right against her swollen clit. She pushes herself against him and his fingers dig into her so hard she’s sure they’ll leave bruises.

She certainly hopes so.

“Emma,” he pants against her lips, “baby,” she shudders when he calls her – Emma – that, “how can I give you what you need, if you won’t tell me what you need?”

Guess yous are just giving up on the lines altogether.

She whimpers and drags her nails down his back under his shirt, something the cameras won’t see, just between them. “Ryan,” she gasps, her head falling back against the wall as he shifts his hips against her, subtly – just a little friction and she’s horrified by how close she is to coming, just from this. “Ryan,” she repeats, “please fuck me.”

He groans against her skin, and she isn’t entirely sure but she thinks she feels his cock twitch against her through his jeans. She wants more than anything to get her hands, mouth, cunt around it, and she’s beginning to wonder if this is all some sort of fever dream because no man has ever had this effect on her.

“Bed,” he mumbles against her, and she takes the cue to tighten her legs around his waist, a distant part of her brain reminding her that this’ll be over soon and boy oh boy, things are about to get awkward between them.

But she pushes the thoughts away as he carries her – with ease, and surprising grace – down the little corridor and into Emma’s bedroom, and then they fall onto the bed. Her legs are still wrapped around him as he decides to be bold and slips his hand into her dress to cup her breast without any material barrier.

“Sorry,” he whispers in her ear, quiet enough to evade the microphones, but the fact that he follows that up with a nip at her earlobe and a jerk of his hips renders his ‘apology’ a little hollow.

“Liar,” she whispers back, head turned away from the cameras, tightening her legs again, pulling him hard against her and she’s glad that this isn’t a full sex scene because she wouldn’t trust herself not to slip his dick inside her while they were ‘acting’ under the covers.

Her face flushes with arousal as that particular thought worms its way into her brain, and as if he can read her mind, she feels him grinning against her neck. “Don’t tempt me,” he murmurs, his breath hot and wet against her skin, and it almost tips her over the edge.

“Alright, guys, we can cut there,” comes Em’s voice, and the two of them freeze immediately.

Fuck.

Catherine’s arms fall to her side as she shakily unwraps her legs from around his waist, allowing him to roll off her before they both push themselves up to sit on the opposite sides of ‘her’ bed, legs hanging off the the edges with their backs to each other.

Catherine pushes the straps of her dress back up to her shoulders, and runs a hand through her hair, trying to make herself look a little less… 30 seconds away from an orgasm. She has a little glance over her shoulder, and Bo is buttoning his shirt back up.

And presumably willing his raging boner out of existence.

The corner of Catherine’s mouth twitches as she just about fends off the smirk that threatens to spread across her face.

“Jesus, you two,” Em huffs out a laugh as the crew shuffle around them, fiddling with cameras and cables and lights. “That was an easy sell alright.”

Catherine’s face is burning. “Sorry for the, uh… improv.”

Em raises her eyebrows but doesn’t say anything, which makes Catherine blush even harder.

Bo clears his throat behind her, getting to his feet only a little uncertainly. “I’m just, ah… gonna go grab a coffee. I’ll be back for the run-through.”

Em wags her finger. “No need, we’re done for the day.”

The two of them snap their heads to the director and utter ‘what?’ in unison.

Em’s eyes are glowing with mirth. “I need to take Clem to the vets. Ear infection.”

Catherine narrows her eyes at her boss and Bo makes a cute little grumbling sound. “Right,” Catherine drawls.

Em smiles at them innocently, completely unphased. “Maybe you two can grab a coffee together?”

“Maybe,” Bo growls, and Catherine chews the inside of her cheek.

“And take the day off tomorrow,” Em squeezes Catherine’s shoulder, “I want you both to have a nice rest.”

If looks could kill, Em would be dead and Catherine would be a murderer.

“Okay, thanks,” Catherine forces the word out from behind gritted teeth.

“Great!” Em claps her hands together. “Well then, I’d better get going.”

“Uh-huh,” Bo grouses from beside Catherine, and Catherine whacks his arm lightly to say be nice. Em catches that, of course, and smirks.

“See you Thursday, Em,” Catherine tries to make her voice sound light and airy, but it comes out sounding quite weird.

“See you Thursday, hon,” she grins. “Behave yourselves.”

Catherine gives Em a death stare which melts into a fond smile, because despite the current situation, she does quite like and respect her. As Em gives them an exaggerated wave before she walks away from them, Catherine notices Bo shifting his weight awkwardly besides her.

“I’d better, uh…” he trails off, refusing to look at her.

Yep. Awkward, and faster than expected. Great stuff.

“Oh, yeah,” Catherine nods, trying to ignore the screaming inside her head. “Me too.”

He nods stiffly. “See you Thursday, Catherine.”

She nods stiffly right back at him. “See you Thursday, Robert.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a split second longer than necessary, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.

As she begins to walk away, he calls after her.

“Really nice dress.”

And there’s still crew around when she turns to face him, walking backwards, a genuine shit-eating grin on her face. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Even from a distance, she doesn’t miss the look in his eyes. It’s the same way he looked at her when he had her pinned to the wall with his hips.

As she walks out of the set into the late afternoon sun, in the same dress, in the same soiled panties, eyeliner a little smudged, body on fire, she pulls out her iPhone and begins to type.

I’ll be in Accomplice, if you’d like a drink.

#bo burnham fic #bo burnham smut

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thesetrashimagines · 4 years

Text

The Man

A Peaky Blinders imagine (reader insert)

Warnings: fighting, blood, bullet wounds, swearing, murder.

GIF is not mine!

Summary: Accidentally busting into a bar while trying to finish a job may not have been the smartest idea.

Pt.2

You knew they were on your trail, it was part of the plan. And it was going perfectly. What you didn't expect was for one them to be in a car, driving straight for you. Thinking fast you looked for some kind of cover. Seeing a pair double doors, you made a run for them and honestly in the moment you weren't thinking about who or what was on the other side.

Throwing the doors open and slamming them behind you, you rushed to the side and waited for the shadowy figures belonging to your targets to enter. It didn't take long which you were greatful for, means that you would get to go home sooner, the group of 3 men walked into the bar. Being behind them gave you an advantage, pulling out some piano wire you threw yourself onto the back of one them. He wasn't able to get his fingers underneath the wire making his death come quickly. The other two men turned around to the sounds of their partner yelling and as soon as the body hit the floor they pounced.

Ducking down from most their collective swings, you scrambled towards one of the tables, there was a bottle on it. Picking it up you turned and saw the bigger man of the two come towards you. Spinnig the bottle in your hand, you rose your brows and gestured your arms out in a 'come on and get me' kind of way. The man barrelled forward and threw a hard punch, hitting you in jaw, you staggered to the side and swung the bottle right onto the back of his bald head, he stumbled before you pulled the back of his collar exposing his chest where you plunged the broken end of the bottle into his right breast. You turned the two of you around and faced the other man, his eyes widened at the scene in front of him. Taking his moment of stun, you pushed the bald man forward into the arms of the smaller man, knocking him over with a loud thud as he hit the floor, this action obvisously drove the broken bottle further into the bald man which caused him to cry out in pain.

Neither man can move now, the smaller man started babbling while the bald one was crying. Pulling out the knife from your shoe you waltzed over to the stacked bodies. "We all know why this is your fate," Spitting out blood you continued, "stop making so much fucking noise."

Leaning over them you stabbed the knife into the smaller man's neck before grabbing the bald man's hand and telling him to hold it there, he was trying to fight agaisnt you but you could tell that he was getting weaker with every shift he made. "The more you move the more you bleed." He stopped moving, "You wont die from that bottle unless I want you to." The man started crying again. Grabbing one of the chairs closest to you, you sat down. "You throw a good punch by the way." His hand slipped off the knife's slick handle. "What did I say to do?" He finally tried to speak.

"Please let me go......how was I suppose to know?" Standing with a sigh you walked back over to the man and gently placed your hands on his neck. "Don't lie, you always knew." Snapping his neck quickly and straightening back up, you finally glanced around the room to assess the damage. 1 broken bottle, and some blood. 'Not too bad', you think to yourself. Turning back around to your chair you started to push it back in when the back door opened and footsteps caught your attention.

"The fuck happened here!?" A man with a mustache started yelling. "Buisness." Glancing up as you answered you noticed there was 4 of them. The man with the mustache, another with a cap on, the third had a ciggarette hanging out of mouth, and the last one had a baby face. With the adrenaline running out you started to feel the pain, looking down you saw your shirt soaked in blood. "Fuck...," looking back to the gaggle of men, who were still glaring at you, 3 of them even pulled out guns. "Look I'll pay for the bottle and the labour for the blood, I apologise for the mess too. Are you lot gonna tell the police?" Now their expressions changed looking st you as if you had multiple heads. "Police!? We're the fucking peaky blinders!" The man with the mustache yelled at you, cocking his gun, "and who the fuck are you!?"

"Nobody." Turning yourself toward the door, "The money will be here by first light." Hearing the other men cocking their guns you stopped and stared at the door in front of you, a different voice spoke out. "It is already first light, its actually 5 in the morning. We were told by some of our men that a group broke in here and were stupid enough to leave their car outside." Closing your eyes you sighed, 'well there goes my ride', you thought to yourself again. The men began talking to you again but you were thinking about how you were going to be leaving, 'Maybe I can still take the car, worst they could've done is fuck with the engine.' Smiling to yourself you turned back to the men.

"Look gentlemen, I dont know who the peaky blinders are. Never heard of you lot sadly, as for me don't worry about it. I'm just another man walking the streets, well not these ones but..." You looked back down and noticed another blood spot was slowly getting bigger, " I've got to get going now, I already got a few bullets in me so if you'll excuse me, you'll find me in the hospitial."

With that you turned and dashed through the door as bullets went flying around you for the 2nd time today It's something you've gotten used to over the years. With every step you took, the pain spiked. Gritting your teeth you hopped into the car and started it. The machine shook alive and you let out a little laugh.The men were now rushing out the door and aiming at the car, stepping on the gas you bolted down the road. Nothing was more exciting then driving a fast car.

"The fucker's getting away!" Arthur shouted, "What do you want us to do Arthur? Chase after the car?" Michael questioned his cousin. John lowered his gun and tried catching his breath, "Did you see the bodies in there? Something don't add up, one of them had a knife in his fucking throat." Tommy walked out of the Garrison doors, "Yeah and the one on top of him has a bottle in his chest. Then there's the one by the door, he's got a mark on his neck, wire looks like." Everyone was silent, mulling over the situation. "He said he'd be at the hospital, we should send someone over there." Michael looked to Tom, taking out another cigarette. "You know Michael that isn't a bad idea, we'll send Finn and Isaiah."

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Getting back to the apartment was easy. No one was up yet, it was 5 AM at the latest, the sun was just starting to peak through the horizon. Taking off your shirt you started unwrapping the binding on your chest, taking a deep breathe would've been nice but the bullet hole in your side reminded you it was still there. Grabbing your supplies and sitting on the bed, you got to work on removing the bullet, luckly it wasn't near any important parts. Biting down on some cloth you pulled the bullet out. "Fuck ,fuck, fuck, fuck!" Tossing the stupid thing on the floor you splashed some alcohol into the wound. Feeling a little woozy you grabbed the needle and thread, 'Come on YN youère almost done.' Stitching yourself up wasn't new but your hands still shake with every pass. The slash on your arm only needed a few stitches but the awkward angle was enough to give you trouble.

Spinning around you realized there wasn't any bandages left, throwing your head back with an audible "ugh" you stood and started to throw on a new shirt, careful not to bump anything and open it back up you threw a oversized coat on and a hat.

The air was cool which was nice on your flushed cheeks, cool air was always nice after a job, espiecally one that you walked away from with new wounds. You kept your head slightly down and collar popped, hiding your face. You knew this life wasn't easy but you knew nothing else, you grew up doing this, your whole life dedicated to this and everything associated with it. Your thoughts cleared when you came up to the hospitial. In and out. Grab bandages, and leave, simple.

Walking into the hospitial you saw nurses bustling about and doctors checking boards and holding conversation with each other. Good, people were busy. Watching one of the nurses walk down the hall and enter a door that said nurses only, you set your attentions there. Everybody glanced at you but with a simple tip of the hat and a "here to see the wife and babe" nobody questioned you, babies were always being born. You could hear some of them coming into the world, the cries of life. Not like the ones you were used to too.

Entering the room some murses looked up at you and some were about to start yelling but you were quicker. "Oh I'm so sorry everyone for being late, you know how it is." Laughing gently you took off the hat and shook out your chin length hair. "Excuse me but I dont think I've ever seen around before." One nurse spoke. Looking over to her while sliping off your coat, "Oh well pardon me, I'm Leanna. I've been sent over for a few days with a patient before we go back home, I'm his personal nurse." Most of the nurses ignored you and left to get on with work you presumed. "Which patient?" You went behind a curtain and changed into a nurses uniform, "Mr.Smith." You replied, Smith was a rather common name anywhere you went in Britain so it was a safe name to throw around. "Smith? I don't think I've heard of him sorry." Stepping out fully dressed you gave her a gently smile "It's quite alright we won't be here long. it was nice meeting you but I have to get going Mr.Smith gets upset when he doesn't recognize where he is." With that you left and walked the halls.

While looking for the supply closet you saw 2 boys dressed very similarly to the men from the pub walk in, you could hear them ask doctors and nurses of they've had a man in with bullet wounds. Of course they said no. But now there was a problem, while walking towards another section of the hospitial these two boys bumped into you, knocking you to the ground, and you felt a pop. Quickly standing back up, you ignored the hands trying to help you up. "Miss! Sorry! We weren't looking where we were going, you know we're trying to look for someone. Maybe you've seen them? A man who was shot-" "shot in the side." Tying your cardigan around your waist you looked up at the boys. One was lean, had freckles and curly hair, the other was a little more built (he did knock you down), smooth skin, and had dark hair. "It's alright, no I havent seen a man, now please excuse me." Keeping things short, you left and found the supplies closet.

You dressed your own wounds and stuck the rest of the bandages into the bust of the dress. Shifting the bust of the dress around you gave yourself the okay and left the closet. The boys were still in the same spot but now babyface and the cap wearing man had joined them. 'Shit.' Holding your head down you passed them again. " *whisle* thats one pretty girlie, oi nurse!" The capped man was catcalling you.....honestly could've be worse. Walking faster you made it back to the lockers, changing was nice until you noticed the smallest blood stain on the dress, "Oh for fucks sake." You held the dress in the crook of your elbow, now standing in the nurses locker room, dressed in mens clothing with coat pockets full of bandages and other supplies, holding a nures's dress, to make it even better a nurse walked in and was staring at you with wide eyes. 'fuck'

"Look miss my girl works here and she asked me to throw her uniform in the laundry here, you see there's some blood on it and she's in the bathroom right now, the blood it makes her dizzy, I-I I'll leave, oh Lord this is embarrassing." Lying came easy, sometimes you enjoyed it, every word created a story and here you were acting in it, you found it funny. 'No! No! It's quite alright you're just trying to be a good husband here lemme take it for you, you go see how she is alright." The nurse came over placing a hand on your arm and grabbed the uniform. "Thank you miss" You gave her a smile and left the room swiftly.

Leaving the hospitial was suppose to be as easy as getting into it but the tiny detail you forgot about was now you were in the same building as those men from the pub. Wanting to face plant into the ground and wanting to let put the biggest groan, you kept silent and your head on a swivel. Looking around every corner and down every hallway. Alas your efforts were futile when you rounded a corner and bumped into the same chest as earlier. You landed on the ground again and quickly pulled your hat down to cover the majority of your face. "Oi watch where your going." You nodded and stood up making sure not to make eye contact, side stepping around them you carried on your way when you heard, "Isaiah thats him!" Upon those words you ran, 'so much goddamn running.'

You weren't far from the entrance when some men stepped in front of the hospitals doors, wearing those stupid hats, 'you've got to be fucking kidding me'. Looking around you noticed a open window, you slowed down to a halt and stared at the men at the door, they slowky walked forward and you could hear the shoes hitting the floor in chase behind you. Throwing a smirk at the two at the door you dashed to the window and used your arms to send yourself out of it legs first. Sticking the landing you stood up and glanced into an alleyway and decided to take it, you could still hear the men running after you. Looking up at the walls around you, specifically at the windows again and these were barred. Perfect. Stopping in front of one you noticed how high it was, your arms weren't gonna be long enough. The slapping of shoes filled the alleyway, making up your mind in that moment, you decided on a run and jump. The first attempt didnt work, at all.

By now when you started the second attempt the men could see you easly scale the windows, then the fire escape, then they watched you jump onto the roof and disappear. "Now who in the fuck does that?" Isaiah looked back at the group of men. All of them were out of breath. "Yeah who the fuck is he? Why's he so important?" Finn looked at his older brother, "He broke into The Garrison and killed 3 blokes" John answered. Finn looked to the roof and laughed. "Fucking hell."

The group started their journey back to the betting shop but what they didn't know was that they were being followed by the 'man' on the roof. Granted jumping from roof to roof only worked so far before you had to get down, you watched them enter a building and recognized the area around you, it wasn't too far from the apartment, letting out a sigh you walked back 'home'. How were you going to leave this place now? Taking everything off you started yourself a bath. Seeing your reflection was weird, you were so used to being seen as a man by the outside world that when you did see the feminine parts of you it was like a surprise, a nice surprise cause you knew you were one badass lady. Taking off the bandage made you huff in annoyance, getting knocked over causing your stitches to pop open and then all that running and climbing, all that hard work just to be back at square one. Walking to your room you redid the stitches, not as shaky this time, then climbed into the bath.

It's at moments like these where you wished you had your beloved record player with you. Music is always able to help you calm down. You could say music was your only weakness.

You lounged there wondering when you should drop off that money, would they even want it? They didn't seem to enthustiastic about your offer. Whatever you promised, maybe you could deliver the new bottle...nope, knock and run away? Yeah that sounds alright.

The water was getting cold so you stood up and wrapped yourself in a towel and made your way to your room to grab the bandages from your coat after dressing yourself you noticed there was a whole in your coat, 'the windows', letting out another sigh you grabbed some wide cloth and binded your chest, then grabbed a shirt, trousers, your hat, and some cash, then headed to the nearest store to buy a bottle of whatever you could find. Seeing as your coat had a hole in it you couldn't help but stick your hand in and out of it as you walked, you even pulled at the frayed edges before you mentally yelled at yourself saying that you're only gonna make it worse. Shoving your hands into the pockets you walked into the first store, it looked like a general store, had a little bit of everything. Looking around the shelves you noticed they had a very small liqour selection and guessing by the dust on some of the bottles, they weren't very popular. You saw an older man with a white beard and mustache behind the counter, "Excuse me sir, what kind of drink is this?" Throwing a gesture towards the shelf with your head the man looked to the side at the bottles.

"You want to buy them?" He looked surprised. "Yes but only if you tell me what it is." You let out a small laugh. The older man chuckled, "Yes well, the ones in the front row are whiskey but everything behind them is rum." Rum? You haven't had rum in awhile. "I'll take two bottles of rum, the ones in the furthest back please." He turned and set them down in front of you. "Is that everything?" He asked with a raised brow, "No, do you sell coats by any chance? Or know of somewhere that does?" The older man was about to answer when a woman behind you spoke, "You can buy coats down the road now can you please hurry im in a rush." Turning towards the woman you noticed the short haircut, to the chin like yours, her eyes were a bright blue and she wore red lipstick, she was also wearing a fur coat. Once your gaze went back up to her face, she had a mischievous look on her face. "Are you finished? Thats a rather large hole in your coat, what happened?" Laughing to yourself, you turned back towards the man and placed 2 bills down. "keep the change." With that you left and hearing the older man yelling thank you as you left, put a smile on your face. You enjoyed making people happy.

The store selling coats was crowded, people were everywhere in there, some were customers, and others were employess with tape measures around their necks. A woman walked up to you when you steped through the door. "Hello! How may I help you?" You locked eyes with her and gave her your most charming smile, "I'm looking for a coat, mines got a hole in it." Showing her the whole she gasped. "My thats a rather large rip, well if you could follow me I can show you some im sure you'll like." She gently wrapped her arm around yours and took off down the racks of coats before stopping in front of a section with many black and navy coats. "So here we have some coats that match the colour and wear as the one you have on now." Going through a few you noticed one a little further down the racks. "What about this one?" Pulling out the dark forest green jacket, you turned to her and smiled, "Can I try this one on?" She stared at you for a moment.

"Yes of course you can sir though I do have to warn you it is one of our more expensive pieces." Taking off the jacket you had on and giving it to the lady, you swung the green fabric over your shoulders, your arm protested but you masked the pain. You looked over yourself and you were quite happy with how it looked on you. "I quite like it, miss I think I'll take this one." The woman started speaking fast, "but sir that jacket is very expensive, yes you look very handsome in it but-!" You walked over to her and grabbed her hands, "It's alright, but now I have to get it if I look so handsome in it." Winking at her, you let go of her hands and grabbed your old coat, pulling out some money. "Is this enough?" She glanced at the money in your hands and grabbed the bills, she refiled through them then handed back 2 bills. "There its yours." She smiled at you with flushed cheeks. Smiling back, you placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly, "thank you miss, have nice day." Her face got brighter as you walked away, you wished she kept the old coat but you needed to get the bottle of rum to the building before sundown.

You saw the woman from earlier walk out of another shop in front of you. Her arms carrying a box and a bag on top of it. You could hear the clicking of her heelings against the pavement, she was walking with purpose you decided, guess she was telling the truth about being in a hurry. Then you noticed the men, the men in caps,'they're everywhere'. The woman noticed them too. "If you're just gonna watch me all day atleast be helpful and bring this back to the house." She placed the box and bag into the arms of one of the men and kept on walking before entering a car.

You watched the car leave and felt jealous but kept on with your travel on foot. You walked towards your street and on the way you saw a small girl running in nothing but a dress. Watching with careful eyes you examined the path the girl was running in and saw a pump in the road, almost as you were about to call out she tripped and fell. Rushing over, you picked her up and sat her on your knee and brushed off her legs and arms of the gravel stuck to them. She had her face tucked into your neck as she cried, getting you wet with her tears. "Hey you're alright now, I've gotcha." You gently brushed the dirty and gravel off her injured knee. "Nothing more than a little scrape aye?" She looked down at her knee and sniffled, "It hurts." Rubbing her back you replied, "I know darling but you're a strong girl. You look tough now and once this little scrape heals you'll be good as new." She studied the side of your face as you were checking the rest of her legs for scrapes.

"You've got long hair mr." She was gently pulling on the strands poking out from under your hat, "It looks pretty." She giggled as the hair sprung back into place. "Why thank you, I must admit I only ever want my hair to look pretty." You wrapped your large coat over her small frame and tied the long ends in a knot. "There you can have my coat, now I know there's a hole in it but you can throw it when you get home, it's just something to keep you warm yeah?" She looked at you with big eyes "Yea!" "Now watch where you run." She nodded, hugged you and ran away. The sleeves of the coat covering her hands.

Laughing you turned back and continued the walk. When you finally reached your street you saw the car the woman left in, 'curiouser and curiouser', the car was parked in front of your rums destination. Standing next to the car you gently leaned against it and began to come up with your 'escape' plan. "So after almost a day of my men trying to find you, you end up on my door step." Spinning your head towards the alley and the voice, you made eye contact with the man from the pub, and just like when you first saw him, he was smoking. Looking back to the door you answered, "I was just going to leave the bottle and money and be on my mary way." You heard in let out a airy laugh. "Mary way? I didn't peg you as the type of man to go about things maryly especially after what I saw you do to those 3 in the bar." Looking up at the sky you sighed.

Still sitting on the car you tilted your upper half and placed one of the bottles of rum on the top of the car, then you held up some cash and placed the bottle on top of the pile. Holding up your own bottle of rum and stepped off the car, "I'll be on my mary way." Throwing him a small smile you walked past him. "This rum?" You spun back around to him and opened your bottle. "Yep." You gave the bottle a swig and let out a hum. "It's pretty good too." You tipped the bottle towards him, "Cheers." You spun back around and walked towards your aprtment.

Watching you walk to the apartments at the end of lane Tommy smirked and grabbed the rum. He opened the bottle and gave it a sniff and quickly scowled at it. He put the top back on the bottle and counted the money, eyes shooting up to your apartment again. Where the hell did you get this type of money?

"You alright Tom?" Turning towards his sister he placed the bottle of rum in her hand, "I'm fine Ada." Recognizing the bottle, Ada made eye contact with her brother. "Where'd you get this from?" Tom looked at the bottle then back at his sister, "why?" Ada shook her head. "It nothing I just saw a man earlier today buying a few bottles," she let out a laugh, "he was asking where to buy a new coat cause his had this giant tear in his." Thomas glanced down the lane again to the apartment building he watched you enter earlier.

"A man eh?"

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Aaaahhh it's been forever since I last wrote anything, truly am sorry, but! I have been craving to write for peaky blinders again (I honestly love that show and its universe) I had loads of fun writing this and I actually know where I want this story to go so please let me know if you want a part 2 or maybe I'll write a part 2 anyways cause I have many plans for it. Anyways enough of my rambling, I really hope you enjoyed this and thank you so much for reading! <3

#Peaky Blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinders x reader #x reader #tommy shelby x reader #ada thorne x reader #finn shelby x reader #michael gray x reader #john shelby x reader #arthur shelby x ready #reader insert

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jubans · 4 years

Text

title: honeysuckle pairing: settsu banri/fem!reader rating: m (mature) premise: contrary to popular belief, there exist certain things that not even banri “easy mode” settsu is particularly good at, and that lacking skill just happens to coincide with yours.

“Settsu-kun…”

Your voice is hoarse with desire when Banri trails a path of fire from the jut your collarbone to the corner of your mouth—a wicked smile ghosting across your feverish skin. When he raises his face to look at you, his sandy hair falls across his face in loose tufts, framing blue eyes that glint with hunger in the receding sunlight. He hovers over your pitiful form, helplessly pliant from where he has you pinned under his weight. Banri always wondered if you would kick his ass if he suggested kissing you on top of your desk in the council room, but the heady look in your eyes subverted his expectations entirely.

“Please,” you breathe, lips parted with need as you tug on the lapels of his blazer.

He spares you a soft laugh, dipping his head to nuzzle the crook of your neck—the sweet scent of honeysuckle filling his nose.

“Please what, prez?”

The mirth melts right off his face when he feels you squirming beneath him, raising one of your thighs to massage the growing heat in his trousers. Banri stiffens, the practiced charisma he’s gotten so used to taunting you with falling apart all in a single moment. When you pull him down to slant his mouth on top of yours, he’s too stunned to reciprocate but you’re too consumed by your own lust to notice.

“Please, I...I need you.”

Breaking his predicament down to the roots, Banri supposes that this all started over a harmless discussion shared between his classmates.

He usually opted to just ignore people whenever they tried to strike up a conversation with him, and when the other party was a little more persistent, he’d scare them off with a single glare. Though he may not have Hyodo’s naturally terrifying disposition, Banri likes to think that he’s intimidating in his own right. He should have just done the usual and told those losers off with an offhand comment before playing hooky somewhere else. Yet, he ended up breaking character, falling prey to a teenage boy’s natural curiosities in the end.

“Kanae-chan’s adorable when I try to kiss her,” Classmate 1 (Banri doesn’t really bother remembering their names) bragged with stars in his eyes. “She turns all red and says she doesn’t want me to kiss her until she’s the one who initiates instead.”

Classmate 2 pushed up his glasses on the bridge of his nose with a scoff. (This guy pissed Banri off the most. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he reminded him of someone—someone annoying.) “You like girls who play hard-to-get? That’s kind of childish. I want someone who knows exactly what they want.”

“You talk like you’ve already kissed someone,” snickered Classmate 3, who slings an arm across Banri’s shoulders despite the latter being a good three inches taller. “What about you, Settsu? With all those girls fawning over you, I doubt you don’t have any experience with any of them.”

Banri frowned, feeling his face flush. “The hell does that mean?”

“Aw, don’t be like that, man! Care to share your secrets with commoners like us? How do you get them wrapped around your finger like that?”

The more Classmate 3 implied that he was Hana High’s local Cassanova, the more Banri had to shove down the embarrassment that was beginning to bubble in his chest. What even gave these guys the idea that he was good at...at kissing? Sure, he was inherently talented in anything that didn’t involve cozying up to another human being, but that didn’t automatically make him a—

“Can you stop talking about girls like inanimate objects?”

Upon hearing your voice, Banri rolled his eyes more out of reflex than anything else. He could count on the student council president to badger him about every aspect of his high school life at the most inconvenient of times. You stood a few feet away from the corner of the classroom they’d claimed for themselves, hands braced on your hips as your brows knit with thinly veiled disgust.

“Prez, it’s not like that,” groaned Classmate 1. “I swear, you’re too uptight; always hounding people at the vaguest sign of disrespect—”

“So you do admit to disrespecting women.” You narrowed your eyes.

Classmate 3 sighed, peeling away from the group as he scratched his head irritably. “No wonder everyone else thinks you’re annoying. C’mon, guys. She isn’t worth arguing with.”

As your classmates stalked back to their own seats, Banri’s shoulders eased with finally being spared from their frivolous questions. He nearly made a beeline for the door so he could take a nap at the rooftop, but he caught the frown tugging on your lips from the corner of his eye, momentarily stunting his plans.

Not having any real sympathy for you, Banri merely sighed. “If you don’t want to be called annoying then stop being annoying.”

He left the classroom before you could offer up any sort of response, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. A bunch of girls from other classes greeted him on his way to the stairwell, earning themselves an irritated look from him that they responded to by giggling into their hands. What the hell was up with these people? Do they like asshole delinquents by default?

When he finally made it to the solitude of Hana High’s rooftop, he climbed the ladder placed right next to the door. Banri hoisted himself up with ease, sighing with satisfaction as he laid beneath a rake of warm sunlight. It was a bit cloudy today, plunging his surroundings in a temperature comfortable enough to lull him to sleep. But just when he was about to toe the boundary between slumber and consciousness, the sound of the door below creaking on its hinges reeled him back into awareness.

Banri strained his ears, hearing only one set of footsteps that paced around for a few moments before the door swung shut once again. He relaxed, convinced that whoever was about to interrupt his siesta had already gone—only to be caught off guard when someone emerged from the ladder.

“What the…” He scrambled to sit upright, squinting at the intruder. “What’re you doing here, prez?”

You swallowed thickly, averting your eyes from his scrutinizing gaze before hesitantly walking over to take a seat beside him. Banri observed you with rapt attention, watching as you pulled your knees to your chest—resting your chin on the ridge in between.

“You’ve never kissed a girl in your life, have you?”

He practically choked on the next breath he drew, causing you to whip your head to stare at him with concern lining your eyes. Banri muttered some half-hearted apology as he collected himself, wondering if he’d even heard you right. But the earnest look on your face told him that he really didn’t just hallucinate that. How the hell did you single him out anyway?

“What’s it to you?” he parried defensively, hyper aware of what little distance sat between the both of you.

You weren’t facing him yet Banri could make out the beginnings of a smile on your side profile. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to strike a deal.”

“W-What could you possibly want?”

Out of all the things he’d expected for the student council president to do, the last thing on his list would be this: you turning to him with an unreadable look, shifting from where you sat as you gently trailed your fingers on the side of his face. Your skin was burning despite the tenacity of your actions, but Banri couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

Your eyes fluttered underneath thick lashes, lips lightly swelled into a pout.

“Settsu-kun...do you want to practice kissing with me?”

As a high schooler, Banri had a lot of firsts that he was yet to conquer. It was normal, and it wasn’t like he was in a rush to tick all the checkboxes for the sake of bragging rights. But his first kiss and the first girl whose house he would be intruding on came barreling into his life far sooner than he’d anticipated.

Your mattress was much softer than the one he had in the Mankai dorms, accommodating his body almost snugly. The soft glow of the twilight outside snuck into the room through the cracks in the curtains, but the ambience was the last thing on his mind right now.

“Is...is this okay?”

Banri couldn’t help the smirk that hooked across his lips, relishing in the embarrassment that painted itself on your face. Although he was just as flustered with the knowledge that a girl was straddling him on her bed, he was better at hiding his discomposure than most.

“I think so,” he offered, testing the waters by placing both of his hands on your hips. “Are you okay?”

“W-Why wouldn’t I be?” you muttered, unsure of where you should place your hands so you flop them over your chest instead.

He laughed softly, remembering all the bad porn movies he may or may not have come across at some points in his life (except he’ll cap this escapade at the kissing). This was the part where he should encourage you a little, right? With some newfound eagerness, he hiked his hands up your back, tugging you down without warning. You yelped in surprise, hands floundering around until they’re splayed on either side of his face. Banri’s mouth twitched into a sordid smile when he felt each bated breath you made fan across his skin.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you make a face like that.”

You sputtered, the redness on your cheeks worsening. “Stop saying embarrassing things, Settsu-kun!”

“You’re pretty cute, aren’t you?” Banri chuckled, trailing his hand on the back of your head as he twined your hair in his fingers. “We’ve come this far and you’re still embarrassed?”

Just before you could make the motions to hop off of him altogether, Banri’s grip on your head turned rigid, forcing you to meet his smoldering gaze. You let out a surprised squeak—a sound he found adorable, but was too occupied to comment on.

“Do you really want this?”

His voice was decibels softer than usual, an earnest look creasing on his brow. Though he came off strongly at times, Banri had seen Masumi fawn over the director enough to get a proper grasp on the concept of consent. Even if you were a perpetual thorn on his side, he’d never want to make you do anything your mind wasn’t a hundred percent sure of. The fact that you were the one to propose this whole arrangement didn’t change that.

Hesitation crossed your meek features, eyes inching away from his despite his firm hold on you. Banri breathed out a long breath, surrendering his tight grip as a last-minute apology rested on his tongue.

“I do.”

Before he could even form a proper response, you’d already screwed your eyes shut, dipping your face down to mold your lips on top of his.

Banri’s brain blanked out for a few moments, nothing but static feedback ringing in his ears. But he was quick to kickstart his senses back to life. One second, the featherlight weight of your kiss incapacitated him from coherence, and in the next, he suddenly knew how to put his hands to good use. He used his right to cradle your cheek, and his left to tug your head impossibly close. At this point Banri was probably grappling at the vague stories about a romance game Itaru once told him of in passing. Wait, why the hell was he thinking of Itaru when he was literally kissing—

When you pulled away, he hadn’t noticed the way your fingers curled around the front of his shirt, but he did notice the forlorn look that befell your face.

The laugh that escaped you was hollow. “I’m that bad, huh?”

“What are you talking about?” Banri’s voice was far more guttural than he’d intended it to sound. “I don’t think I’m any good at this shit either, if that makes you feel better.”

You began to peel yourself away, and this time Banri opted not to stop you when you sat on the edge of your bed. He barely registered the sigh that you let out over the sound of his chest pounding into his ears. Despite you claiming it was a bad kiss, the prickling sensation that bristled on his lips begged to differ.

He...kind of liked it.

“Settsu-kun, it’s getting kind of late,” you pointed out, and Banri didn’t miss the way your voice trembled. “You should probably head—”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Slowly, you turned your head to face him, eyes blown with surprise. “What?”

Banri shifted on your bed, crawling closer to you as he imitated the same thing he did in the heat of the moment, cradling your face once again with a gentle hand. His eyes shot back to the curve of your lips, much pinker after that little kiss.

Boldly, he repeated, “Can I kiss you again?”

He liked to think that it was relief that glazed over your eyes in the few seconds that passed before you careened into his touch, pressing your mouth back to his. Banri had a bit more initiative the second time around, languidly moving his lips against yours in a rhythm that he hoped could translate into his actions. But the two of you were still woefully out of sync—teeth clacking awkwardly, not knowing where to place your hands; the list went on.

But apart from the half-second breaks as the two of you drew shaky breaths, neither of you pulled away from the other.

Sometime in between those hasty kisses, he’d finally timed himself with your own pace. When he snaked a strong arm around your waist, it seemed to catch you off guard and Banri took advantage of the gasp you breathed against his mouth by kissing you even deeper. The press of your tongue against his coaxed a soft mewl rumbling in your chest—one that sent dangerous shivers skidding down the length of his spine.

Banri wasn’t sure how long he’d been making out with you on your bed, but by the time he made himself aware of his surroundings, the room had already darkened several shades and you somehow ended up lying back on the mattress with both legs dangling over the edge. This time he was the one peering at you from above, palms planted on either side of your head as he completely took in your disheveled appearance.

The collar of your uniform was rumpled, lips swollen and parted as you heaved one deep breath after another. He could tell your eyes were unfocused—or rather, so hyper-fixated on one thing that you couldn’t bring yourself to pay attention to anything else.

He could feel his own lips twitch with anticipation.

But despite the heat that coiled in his gut, fueled by the desire to just lose himself to the feel of your inexperienced yet mind-shattering kisses, he shakily got back on his feet.

Banri wanted nothing but to wipe off the disappointment that eclipsed your vehemence in the next second, but he told himself that if he indulged you even more, he might just lose control. Turning away, the actor patted down his clothes, carding his fingers through his sweat-stricken hair as he forcibly leashed his heart back into repose. Calm down, you little—

“Will you ever come over again?”

The question came with such an innocent tone that Banri suddenly felt all kinds of obscene. He hesitated, casting you a sidelong glance. You were seated upright now, but your hair was still mussed from all the tugging and pulling he’d done. The way your face was still flushed from your little session didn’t help in anchoring his sanity, either.

Somehow, he managed to mask all the emotions that clashed behind his eyes with an easygoing smile.

Banri leaned back down, breathing in the sweet and heady scent of your shampoo—his next words ringing like a promise.

“I will.”

He wasn’t sure what made him think that things would be any different when you both saw each other again at school the next morning. Omi definitely noticed the spike in Banri’s disposition when he slid a plate of fresh toast and eggs over to him on the dining table—asking if everything was alright at school. Taichi wondered the same thing, while Juza opted not to comment on it. Although Banri could feel the bizarre look his rival cast his way, he strangely decided not to antagonize him for it. Even Sakyo was freaked out when he greeted the older man with a chipper, “Mornin’, Sakyo-san.”

But Banri’s pleasant mood ultimately depleted when he ran into you in the hallway.

“Hey, prez,” he spoke with a flirtatious drawl that he hadn’t intended to make. “How are you on this fine morning?”

Instead of the blushing mess he’d reduced you into the previous day, you assumed the mask of pensiveness you’d worn on literally every day since you assumed your position.

“Settsu-kun, how many times do I have to tell you to abide by the school’s dress code? The rules are there for a reason, you know.”

Even your voice was stone cold. Banri frowned, pouting a little as he slung his bag over his shoulder. If you were going to revert back to your usual dynamic, so be it.

“Never gave a damn about ‘em,” he muttered, brushing past you without another thought.

You practically ignored each other for the rest of the week.

Banri knew that segregating work from play was an essential ability that an adult needed to have up his sleeve. But, given that he was months away from turning legal, he let himself wallow in his own pettiness for the meantime.

He was overreacting. He knew he was, but who could tell? It wasn’t like he wasn’t already skipping classes in the past. The only difference was this time, he was actively avoiding someone (read: you). But instead of hanging around on the rooftop, where he knew you could find him, Banri just decided not to go to school altogether.

Being the voice of reason among the Hana High boys, Sakuya reprimanded him for it every single time, but Banri waved away his concern—insisting he’d still be at the top of his class despite being a truant. But of course, slipping away from Sakuya’s wellspring of concern wasn’t as easy as it seemed.

“Banri-kun.”

He was just about to shut the front door when Izumi’s I-know-you-did-something-so-you-better-fess-up voice greeted him. Banri felt a chill run across his skin, the director harboring an uncharacteristically pissed off look on her face.

“Hey, director-chan,” he managed, trying his best to skirt away from you. “Um, I gotta—uh, take a quick dump. Is someone using the—”

“What is this I hear about you playing hooky?” She narrowed her eyes, folding her arms across her chest. “I thought we agreed that you’d cut that out already.”

That damn Sakuya.

Banri fell silent for a couple of moments, standing his ground against the almost-glare that Izumi was sending his way. But after a few moments, he felt her stringent gaze ease up.

“Is something the matter?”

He sighed. How the hell was he supposed to lie through his teeth when Izumi used her mother hen voice?

“It’s nothing,” he insisted. “I just...I don’t—ugh. Someone’s been avoiding me and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

Izumi blinked, not expecting for him to cave so easily. Nonetheless, she offered up a reassuring smile, patting the younger boy’s shoulder soothingly. “Well, I don’t know what’s going on but I’m pretty sure you won’t solve any of your problems by avoiding them, too. Have you tried talking to them?”

“Talking…?”

“Yes, talking. You know, the thing you do when you want a certain point to come across to another person?”

That incited a soft laugh from him, shaking his head. “Who knew you could be a funny guy, director-chan? The Summer Troupe might just recruit you.”

Mustering up a laugh of her own, Izumi rolled her eyes. “I’ve dealt with men like you in the past, you know. Based on experience, you wouldn’t have half the problems you have now if you just talked it out with the person concerned.”

“You’re not talking about the old man, are you?” Banri teased with one eyebrow raised.

Her reaction had no delay. “S-Sakyo-san has nothing to do with this!”

As Izumi flung the front door open in her haste, closing it behind her without a glance his way, Banri shook his head with amusement. He didn’t even drop any names. Nonetheless, the director’s piece of advice echoed in the back of his head even when he was already lying in the comfort of his own room.

Blue eyes peeked from behind the curtains draped across his window as he watched the sun slowly dip into the horizon. Banri briefly wondered if you were witnessing the same thing.

“Talking, huh…”

“Settsu! There you are, you little fiend.”

His first day back (again), and the first person that met him at the gates was the guidance counselor, Azumi. Banri waved a quick farewell to Sakuya and Masumi before begrudgingly dragging himself to his teacher’s side.

“Did you miss me, sensei?” he joked, hoping to lighten up the mood. “I bet it’s gotten quiet since I—”

“You’re on marshal duty with the student council. They want a tough guy like you to round all the troublemakers up.” Azumi didn’t even bother scolding him anymore, merely handing him a red bandana with the word MARSHAL hastily scribbled with a black marker. “You can meet (Surname) at the council room so she can give you the breakdown of duties. Go on, now. Everyone’s doing their share for the school festival.”

Now that he’d mentioned it, Banri just noticed all the students milling around the courtyard. Some were carrying props to a makeshift stage in the quadrangle, and others strung decorations on the entrances to the school buildings. He’d been so caught up in his own sulking that he forgot about the school festival.

“Sure thing,” he responded with some semblance of enthusiasm as he pocketed the bandana.

Banri made the trip to the council room at a leisurely pace. He wasn’t at all in a rush, given that, despite the time he’d spent away, he still had no idea what to say once he saw you again. A bitter part of himself insisted that he didn’t have to go through all the trouble, since he didn’t seem to mean anything to you in the first place.

When he twisted the knob, muttering a quick greeting to whoever was present inside, he was surprised to see that you were the only one occupying the council room right this second.

You were nose deep into some paperwork when you spoke to him without looking up. “Oh, Kasumi, when you get back to the stage—”

“I’m afraid I go by Settsu, prez.”

The startled look that painted itself on your face was so comical, Banri had to resist the urge to pull out his phone to snap a picture. For a few moments, the room was plunged into thick silence as you gawked at him like he’d just grown two heads. Had you stared any longer, Banri would have used it as an opportunity to slip in some sly remark, but instead, you shot up from your seat—pacing the short distance that separated you before engulfing him in the warmth of your arms.

Banri let out a startled noise, internally panicking. What the fuck? Why the hell were you hugging him? But he couldn’t resist the urge to reciprocate your affections, shakily returning your embrace in spite of his embarrassment.

“Weren’t you avoiding me?” he muttered.

You flinched away from him, and he noticed the moisture that gathered on the lines of your lashes. A brief shot of guilt lanced through his chest. Did...did he do that?

“You’re the one who suddenly just disappeared after... that,” you sniffled, wiping your tears away with the back of your hand.

Banri breathed in sharply, reaching one hand up to brush your face with delicate fingers. “You were so cold to me the day after. Here I thought I was just a one-time thing for you.”

“Shut up. I just...didn’t know how to react.” You untangled your arms from his lean frame, curling your fists over his chest instead. “I even asked if you were coming over again, didn’t I?”

He found himself smiling fondly at the petulant look you sent his way. No one was as adorable when you made that face. With a familiar flare of courage surging in his veins, he leaned down to ghost his breath against your jaw—delighting at the shiver that racked your body.

“Do you want me to make it up to you?”

Your breath hitched somewhere in your chest, but the slightest tug you made on his clothes was all the confirmation he needed. Without warning, Banri switched your positions—nearly slamming you against the door to the council room as he braced his palms against the vertical surface. You winced at his urgency, seeming like you were about to tell him off, but he claimed your lips in his before you could utter out a single word.

The helpless whimper that you muffled against his mouth shot straight to his core, making him groan in approval when you tangled your fingers in his silky hair. Banri unknowingly pressed his knee in between your legs, forcing them apart as he continued licking into your mouth. The breathless calls for his name made this little escapade all the more dizzying; making him yearn for more.

Banri didn’t even count how many kisses it took to satisfy you—the only things filling his frazzled brain being the addicting plumpness of your lips and the sweet scent of your hair. (He wasn’t kidding about the last part. He’d have to ask you about your shampoo some other time.) And he would have continued ravishing you against the council room’s door had it not been for the three subtle knocks that reverberated from the other side.

“(Surname)-senpai, the vice prez is asking for the complete class lists for the second year students,” a gentle, feminine voice called out.

Your eyes widened in a panic, and Banri could only let out some muted chuckles as he lazily latched his lips on the column of your throat—nipping at your skin with a smirk.

“I-I left the folder with Secretary Ame. Could you look for him for me, Kasumi—hah!”

Oops. He didn’t mean to bite down that hard.

“Senpai, are you okay?”

“Y-Yes! Please don’t come in I’m—um, changing!” Banri had to admit that you sounded quite convincing there. “I’ll join you guys in the courtyard a little later.”

“Hm? Alright, if you say so.”

As he practically felt the relief wash over you, Banri breathed an airy laugh against your skin before wrapping his arms around your waist—tugging you closer. “Nice save, prez. You were almost subjected to the scandal of a lifetime: Hana High’s goody-two-shoes student council president caught in the act with the local delinquent. Now that’s a headliner.”

Chuckling at his whimsical words, you leaned up on the tips of your toes to plant a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips. Banri immediately felt his face flare up with heat.

“If it’s you I wouldn’t mind.”

Banri knew that people say things they don’t mean all the time. Even he did that to others. But even when the two of you had become engrossed with keeping everything in line for the school festival, those last few words you shared with him in the council room haunted him for the rest of the day.

Omitting the part that he was doing it with you, the person who was only second to Azumi-sensei in setting him straight, this whole thing was a pretty sweet deal. He’d come over to your place every now and again to “practice” kissing, and that was one more addition to Banri “Easy Mode” Settsu’s ridiculous repertoire.

Although, he’d failed to factor in one thing before agreeing to your proposal.

You almost always had your house to yourself—the reason behind it being your parents often working late into the night. Banri didn’t mind, since the last thing he wanted was to be chased out of the house by an angry father wielding a kitchen knife. But there were times, much like this one, where he wished someone would barge into the door to personally kick him out. To yell some sense into his thick skull, because when you fell asleep on his shoulder while both of you lounged in the living room, he couldn’t help but stare.

He’d gotten so accustomed both the tough demeanor you showed him in public and the needy look in your eyes in private, that Banri didn’t think that he would still be surprised by new sides of you he was yet to discover. That realization only set once he observed how vulnerable you looked—trusting him enough to fall asleep in his company. Not that you had a reason not to. He was just a little... touched was all.

It’s been a good few weeks since you’d agreed to be ‘practice partners’, and Banri was beginning to think of the crunching days left before graduation. He used to be so ready to just get high school over with since it was boringly easy. But that was before he’d joined Mankai Company; before he let the student council president ruffle his feathers like this.

And with each shallow breath you drew, Banri counted all the times he began to think he was falling in love with you.

It was natural, wasn’t it? To catch feelings for someone he’d invited so close into his personal space? Sure, the two of you kind of did everything backwards, but you at least liked him enough to keep him around. It wasn’t too outlandish to maybe ask you to take...whatever your current relationship was to the next level, right?

Banri’s thoughts were thwarted when you stirred from your nap, gazing around the room with drowsy eyes as you asked him what time it was. He told you it was nearly time for him to leave, since the guys from the dorm might start looking for him, but with a hesitant whine, you snaked your arms around his torso.

“Can you stay a little longer?” you asked, and Banri had to physically look away from your pleading eyes. Goddamn it. You were pretty even after you’d just woken up.

Relenting, he let out a long sigh, praying Sakyo wouldn’t gut him for going home so late again. Banri tilted his face to plant a chaste kiss on the crown of your head, inhaling the familiar scent of sweet flowers in your hair.

“Just five more minutes, okay?”

“Please, I...I need you.”

With his mind suddenly zipping back into the present, Banri feels the way his heart thunders in his rib cage. He must have made a face because the arousal in your eyes tethers back into reason, a question hovering above them.

“I…” Banri runs out of words before he can even fathom any. Because how the hell can he just say, I need you, too but I’m bound by my own moral principles not to do this until I’ve told you I’m in love with you without scaring you off?

He wants to pretend that he only sees you as a practice partner and nothing else. That he definitely doesn’t look at you with a yearning that he shouldn’t even harbor.

But even if he’s an actor, there are just some things he can’t fake.

Then again...you’re (Surname) (Name). The adorable girl he’s been fooling around with for the past few months. The student council president who climbed up his little private space on the rooftop with the strangest proposal that fell on his ears.

(The same person who weaseled her way into his heart.)

He’s almost too sure he knows you well enough to expect you not to run away from him.

“(Name)...” The syllables tumble from his mouth so naturally, he feels like he never called you anything else before. You blink up at him, the blueprint of pure innocence that you are. He falters for a moment, questioning his own gamble, but when you say his name once more, Banri recovers his resolve.

“There’s something that you need to know.”

“Banri-kun, we’ll be late for the ceremony!” He can hear Izumi calling out to him from the gates, the urgency in her tone telling Banri to hurry it up. But he’s a little preoccupied in the garden at the moment.

“One sec, director-chan!” he yelled over his shoulder before turning back to Tsumugi. “These are good enough, right?”

His fellow troupe leader nods at him, sporting the kindest of smiles. “Yup. Honeysuckle flowers complement cosmos really well. I didn’t know you had an eye for flower arrangement, Banri-kun.”

“Not really,” he laughs, bringing the hastily put-together bouquet to his nose. Banri inhales the sweet scent he’s caught on your hair several times in the past. It took a little convincing, but you eventually told him what shampoo you used.

“Honeysuckle,” you said, going red in the face. “What are you even going to do with that information?”

Banri scrambles back onto his feet, adjusting the ribbon pinned to his blazer while he cradles the flowers in his arms. He does a few weird poses in front of Tsumugi before asking, “How do I look?”

“Strange. Why are you wearing the proper uniform, necktie and all?”

He nearly yelps in surprise when you emerge into the garden, arms crossed over your chest where you stand right next to Sakuya. Banri sputters a little, making a pathetic attempt at hiding the bouquet from your view as he asks Sakuya what the hell you were doing here.

“No one expected the prez to come over, Banri-kun,” Sakuya swears, stifling a few laughs. “She came on her own accord.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow at Banri, peering behind his back. “Is that for me, Settsu-kun?”

The way you still address him makes his shoulders sag, and Banri grumbles as he hands you the flowers. “Is it so difficult to call your boyfriend by his first name?”

As expected, your face immediately colors itself scarlet at the mention of him being your boyfriend. He doesn’t blame you. He has to tell that to himself over and over so he wouldn’t think he was still dreaming, too.

“F-Fine,” you huff, caressing the vibrant blooms with a gentle finger. “This is really thoughtful of you, Banri-kun. I love them.”

“Anyone else you love?”

You pout, and both Sakuya and Tsumugi let out their own bouts of laughter. Before Banri can gloat about your flustered reaction, your little moment is interrupted by the sound of someone angrily pounding on a car horn. From where he stands, Banri can see Sakyo fuming in the driver’s seat of his car as Izumi placates him outside. Sighing, Banri spares Tsumugi a minute nod before seizing your free hand. You squeak in surprise, but you don’t jerk your hand away either.

“I’m waiting for an answer, prez,” he teases.

Rolling your eyes, you crane your neck up to place a swift kiss on his cheek.

“I love you, Banri-kun. Happy?”

Elated, he thinks to himself, but instead presses his lips to your forehead.

“I love you, too.”

#a3 #a3!#act addict actors #act! addict! actors!#settsu banri #banri settsu #a3 fanfiction #a3 headcanons #a3 x reader #banri x reader #welp i just did this #i blame the wonderful prompt generator my friends gave 2 me #((smooches banri #i lovw him

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navigatrixnarrations · 3 years

Text

Sometimes Always, Part 5: Thief In the Night

Catch up here

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, language

Word Count: 2841

The night is moonless and the road is blocked by branches and debris. From out of the gloom, a rasping voice rumbles “Stand and deliver! Your money or your life!” The coachman’s lamp reveals a broad-shouldered man standing beside the makeshift barricade before the stopped carriage, completely swathed in dark clothing, face hidden, a cutlass at his waist, aiming a pistol.

The adrenaline sings in Charles Vane’s blood; he’s missed the thrill of the plunder. This promises to be a rich prize, one that will assist in repairing the Adventure. One that may make Margaret see him as a partner rather than a burden, an obligation, or worst of all, an object of pity.

The coachman is older, with a soldier’s bearing, but seems disinclined to put up any resistance. In the coach, a man made rich off the blood and toil of those he claimed to own. His shaking hands are trying to load a pistol, which Vane snatches from his hand. To think this sniveling, scared weakling who would call him a scoundrel had the confidence to travel unguarded with this amount of coin — there’s the difference between those who dwell on land and those whose home is the sea, he supposes. The ocean is unforgiving and even wealthy men cannot stay sheltered in its domain.

Vane hoists the sack of coin over his shoulder. A pistol shot rings out, but misses, and despite the snow on the ground, he’s into the trees and out of sight before the coachman or the mark could reload. By the time he pushes his skiff from the riverbank, he almost feels like a proper pirate again.

The night is bone-achingly cold, even more so on the water. If he hadn’t botched things so terribly, he’d be warm in the West Indies. He’d be known and feared, not a thief in the night with his face and name hidden. He’d have a crew, and he’d be sailing under the black with Margaret at his side...

Can he pinpoint it, the moment he started to trust her? Perhaps it was when he awoke aboard the Revenge and she told him he was free.

“What kind of weapon made that?” She pointed at the brand on his chest.

“Hot iron.”

“Why?”

“So the person who owned me” -- he felt his face twist as he said it -- “could tell I was his slave. Find me and take me back there.”

“I won’t let him,” she said with a ferocious scowl, her voice surprisingly dark for one so young. “I won’t let anyone.” And he believed her. He was right to believe her.

He shakes himself from his reverie. He’s got to focus on the task at hand. There’s little traffic in the harbor tonight, but still enough for him to blend in as he sails around the horn of the Battery and makes his way back to the garret. With his hair tied back, a woolen cap pulled low and his laborer’s clothes, with the sack of coin slung over his shoulder he looks like any other longshoreman coming home from a long shift of loading and unloading cargo.

He imagines the look on Margaret’s face when he shows her what he’s robbed, and smiles as he climbs the stairs.

His smile fades as the door handle is jerked right out of his hand by her, her expression one of worry and anger. “Thought you’d have been back hours ago. Was out looking for you.”

“I told you I’d be back.”

“I was afraid someone recognized you! I was afraid you’d been captured or killed!” Her chest heaves under her coat, and he feels his body warm more than the small fire in the hearth should have allowed.

“Well, I wasn’t. And look what I’ve brought us.” She was worried? About him? He drops the sack on the table and opens it. “Coin, Magpie, more than enough to complete the repairs to the Adventure.” When she doesn’t respond, he repeats “It’s coin. We won’t even need to fence it.”

Margaret sits down heavily and wrestles her temper. “Where the fuck did you get all this?”

“A bit of highway robbery.”

“Charles. Next time, if there is a next time, take me with you.”

“Didn’t want to put you in danger.”

She narrows her eyes and her lower lip juts out stubbornly. “Says the man whose life I’ve saved how many times now?”

They stare at each other, neither willing to back down.

“I’ve got things to do besides make sure you don’t get yourself killed,” she informs him. And then, more quietly, so quiet as to be nigh inaudible, “I lost Sully. I can’t lose you too, not again.”

“You won’t.”

The table is between them, and he’s about to upend it, coins and all, just to get it out of the way, when Margaret gets up to stoke the fire. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, Charles. But you’ve a recent history of getting yourself nearly killed to help friends.” She pauses. “They’d never say so, but Anne and Jack are beside themselves with guilt about what happened.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

“Idelle told me.” Margaret fixes Vane with a fierce stare as she returns to her seat across the table. “She loves you dearly, you know.”

“Idelle is a good woman.” He’d sensed sometimes that she did, and not only because she didn’t always charge him in full for her services, though at the time he’d mostly put that down to being one of the few who took care to make sure she enjoyed herself as well. And he respected her directness and sharp mind -- traits she shared with Margaret. Yes, there was the rub.

“She almost broke when you shook your head no from the gallows.”

Vane doesn’t reply.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d be one to give up, regardless of your pretty speech about fearing death being a choice.” He can almost hear in her accusatory tone the words Margaret once cried out: I thought I knew you, Charles! More fool me.

“Didn’t want to risk more of us getting killed trying to save me. Thought my death would drive a rebellion.”

“It wasn’t at all because some part of you no longer wanted to live?”

Sometimes he swears the blasted woman has the ability to see into his mind. Though if that was the case, perhaps things between them would have taken a different path. “I was worth more dead than alive. Had to leave Nassau. Fucked over your father a second time to help Flint fight England. And…” he trails off and stares into the middle distance.

“And?”

“The woman I was in love with loved another.” Vane’s voice is low, confessional, but there’s an edge of challenge in it.

“The woman you were in love with loved only power. Control. Wrapping her soft, weak little hands around whatever bits of influence she could grasp,” Margaret says waspishly.

Vane’s thin lips curl back, baring his teeth. “I’m not talking about Eleanor.”

“No?”

“No!” Vane slams the palm of his hand into the table for emphasis. Fucking hell, why can’t she understand what he’s telling her? He’d stopped loving Eleanor well before her final betrayal, well before she battered his face in his cell as he awaited hanging, well before he saw the sickening, smug look on her face as he stood at the gallows, though that certainly drove the point home.

His arm tremors, and from the slight furrowing of Margaret’s brow, she noticed. He wonders if she takes any satisfaction in seeing him like this, broken and brought low. He can’t say he would blame her if she did. But her lips part in concern, and her eyes are worried. She wraps a hand, callused and graceful, around his forearm.

“I need you to know that I took the shot the moment I was able; I didn’t delay or let you hang any longer than necessary.”

“I never doubted that, Magpie.” And he didn’t. Margaret never struck him in anger, never lied or broke her word to him. The scar on his brow is his own fault for startling her when she was holding a marlinspike; as for the scars on his heart, well, perhaps those are his own fault too.

It was barely dawn when Sully staggered shirtless out of Margaret’s tent, reeking of drink. Vane, up all night on watch duty in the Revenge camp, wanted to gut him. How dare he go to her drunk like that? Vane felt sick to his stomach, as though he’d been sucker-punched while nauseous. Hearing him approach, Sully turned to him with a grin. “Morning Charles…” His smile turned to a look of surprise when Vane shoved him, knocking him over backward into the sand, his long plait flying over his shoulder as he fell.

“Charles!” Margaret yanked on his arm, spinning him around to face her. She was fully clothed, though she looked like she just woke up, and she was livid. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

“You’ve a right to fuck any man you wish to, Magpie, but you at least deserve one who isn’t stumbling drunk.”

“Charles.” Margaret’s voice was patient, as though speaking to an idiot or a recalcitrant child, “I didn’t fuck Sully. I’ve never fucked anyone, of any state of sobriety. I’m likely the only virgin in Nassau.”

He didn’t smell sex on either of them, it was true, and Margaret didn’t even smell of rum. But even so. “What was I to think, when he stayed the night in your tent?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but he decided to drink on an empty stomach, and I dragged him in there to sleep it off.”

Sully hauled himself to his feet. “I was a perfect gent to our Maggie-Pie, I was,” he announced. “And I’ll knife anyone who isn’t.”

Margaret whirled on him. “If you call me Maggie-Pie, I’m going to call you Mick.”

“I hate it when you do that,” Sully said cheerily. “Look sharp, here comes Hands.” The three of them straightened their postures; it was important to present a united front before that bastard.

******

The first year after Sully was killed passed in a haze of agony. The second year, Margaret was mostly numb. By the third year, the grief had become sneakier, creeping up to knife her when she least expected it. She could go days feeling what now passed for fine, and then something -- the scent of the tobacco he’d favored, a snippet of a song he’d liked -- would rip open the wound.

What a fool I am, thinking Charles might care for me, Margaret berates herself. Her flirtations the night of the skiff race went uncommented-on, unacted-on. Of course she should have expected that: the moment there was a girl fawning over him whose body was unscarred by blades and musket balls, whose hands weren’t roughened by rope and salt, whose face wasn’t bronzed by the sun, he’d stopped paying her any attention, hadn’t he.

He’s finally asleep, and she can weep. Quietly. She forces herself to stay silent despite the sobs wracking her body. Then a hand, Vane’s hand, reaches for her in the dark, finds her own, and holds it. She glances at him, crouched beside her bed so as not to loom over her. She hadn’t even heard him come into her room.

“Turnabout is fair play,” he says. She sits up, and he sits beside her, using his free hand to wipe her tears. Margaret tries to affect a steely dignity, but his voice, honey over gravel, cuts through. “You held my hand in the dark. I was a fool to have let myself ignore that. A man should never forget who held his hand in the dark.” She lets him gather her in his arms; it’s been so long since the last time she’d been held. She feels the stubble of his cheek pressed to the top of her head, his long hair hanging over her arm, the deep inhale he takes. She allows herself to lean into him, to nestle her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder and inhale the smoky scent of him. “Now,” he continues, “do you want to tell me what this is about?”

“Of course I fucking don’t.”

One of Vane’s hands is stroking her hair while the other rests between her shoulder blades, heavy and warm and anchoring. “I recall,” he says, his voice a purr reverberating through her torso, “a smart girl once telling me that there is nothing wrong with accepting help from people who care for me. That I’m not alone in the world.”

Margaret raises her head and looks at him sharply. Did he just say he cares for her? She had been telling herself that she’d laugh in Vane’s face if he showed any signs of being sweet on her. But here, in this moment, in his arms, she can’t bring herself to be cruel to him on purpose, not when his gaze is so gentle, so uncharacteristically unguarded. God knows they’d caused each other enough pain already, however inadvertently. “And turnabout is fair play, Charles?”

The strong shoulder that her cheek was just resting upon lifts in a shrug. “You ought to take your own advice.”

She leads him into the main room, where it’s warmer. Brings out the rum bottle. Vane is leaning toward her, letting her have her silence, but his own silence has a questioning quality to it.

“I’m thinking of the nature of promises. How to keep them. What it means to keep them.” Vane is simply watching her, waiting for her to continue. She takes a swig of rum; she wants liquid courage for what she’s about to tell him. “When Sully got killed, I threw everything he owned overboard. Any reminder of him was too much to bear.” She’d been certain she’d lose her mind with grief if she saw a shirt of his on someone else. She sees Vane trying to connect what she’s saying. “He once made me promise if he should die first, that I wouldn’t spend my life in mourning. That I’d find a way to be happy again.” And someone to be happy with, Sully had emphasized, though she’s not ready to tell Vane that part. “But I can’t see a way forward.”

“You were happy, though. With him.” He isn’t asking a question.

“Yes.”

Vane nods to himself and stares down at the coin he’s rolling back and forth between his fingers. “That’s all I ever wanted for you, Magpie. For you to be happy.”

For a moment, Margaret is afraid she’s going to burst into tears again, and she forces her expression into one of stoicism. “Were you happy? With her?”

The coin ceases its glittering dance across Vane’s knuckles. “I thought I was, for a time.”

“Do tell.”

He raises his face with a scowl to meet Margaret’s eyes, but his expression softens when he sees the real curiosity there. “In the beginning, she pursued me hard, lavished me with what I thought was love. Then she’d withdraw her affection, and I’d try to regain it. I see now that was her strategy.”

“To hear Idelle and some of the others tell it, Eleanor had you dancing like a puppet on a string.” Vane recoils as though she’d slapped him, and Margaret wonders if she pushed him too far, twisted a knife in him that she hadn't meant to insert, truly she hadn’t. “Charles, I…”

He cuts her off. “I assure you that I’ve got long-overdue clarity about the manner of woman she is.” He closes his eyes for a moment and sags slightly in his chair. He huffs out a short, mirthless laugh. “She’s a shit and everything you told me was correct.”

Margaret stands with an unstifled yawn. Damnation, but she’s exhausted. She considers telling him it took him long enough to figure out what she and Sully saw from the start, but what purpose would that serve? “I’ve got to be up early. Tide’s coming in about five, and the Adventure should be coming out of drydock with it. Got to move her to a proper slip.” Vane rises as well and they stand for a moment, looking at each other with uncertainty. He looks like he’s about to step towards her, so she simply says “Good night, Charles.” In response, he reaches out to squeeze her hand, ever so briefly.

As she settles herself back into bed, she smells him brewing coffee; he’s gotten in the habit of fixing a pot of it so that it would be ready when they woke, something she appreciates. If she could see through the door, she’d note him sitting before the fire, elbow on his knee and chin in his hand, staring into the flames, a man lost in thought.

Tag List: @whenimaunicorn @n3rdybird

#sometimes always fic #charles vane x margaret teach #charles vane x ofc #charles vane x oc #charles vane fic #charles vane #black sails fic

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sorrelchestnut · 3 years

Text

EVERYBODY’S PICKIN’ UP ON THAT FELINE BEAT, PART 37

holy shit I finished a scene. We’re really close to the end now, y’all. That being said: this definitely ends on a cliffhanger. Fair warning.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Part 11. Part 12. Part 13. Part 14. Part 15. Part 16. Part 17. Part 18. Part 19. Part 20. Part 21. Part 22. Part 23. Part 24. Part 25. Part 26. Part 27. Part 28. Part 29. Part 30. Part 31. Part 32. Part 33. Part 34. Part 35. Part 36.

Title: everybody’s picking up on that feline beat Author: Sorrel Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: None Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor Series: Part 3 of everybody wants to be a cat

Coffee helps; fresh air and sunshine helps more. For someone who spends a significant majority of her life inside, underground, nocturnal, and/or just generally skulking around in the shadows, Whisper can be surprisingly solar-powered at times. By the time they're over the river she's in almost obnoxiously high spirits, singing "Anything Goes" in a squeaky falsetto that makes him think longingly of the roll of duct tape in his pack.

"The world has gone mad today, and good's bad today, and black's white today, and day's night today-"

"Whisper, I swear to God-"

"And that gent today you gave a cent today once had sev-er-al chateaus!"

"Alright, Cole Porter, that's enough." She grins wider and opens her mouth, and he hastily slaps a hand over it before she can start the next verse. "No."

Her lips tickle against his palm as she grumbles, "You're no fun."

"What, because I like living? You're going to bring down every raider in the greater Boston area, the way you're caterwaul- ow! Fuck!"

She tucks her thumbs in the straps of her pack and gives him a cheerful, empty-headed smile, showing off the pearly white teeth she just sunk into the base of his thumb. "Talk shit, get hit."

"Jesus, you're aggressive." He studies his hand but doesn't find any sign of bleeding, just a neat row of stark white tooth marks rapidly flushing back pink. "Whatever happened to licking my hand to gross me out?"

"Sometimes I can really tell you were an only child," she informs him, shaking her head faux-mournfully. "You gotta go big or go home, that's my motto."

"Good thing we're going home, isn't it?" When she squints at him, he smiles sunnily and holds his injured hand a couple inches above her head. "I mean, 'big' isn't exactly your strong suit, so..."

She launches herself at him with a war cry.

Bickering aside, they straighten up when they come into sight of Diamond City, falling into character as a pair of road-weary mercenaries coming off an all-night hike and desperate for a shower and some sleep. (Which, to be fair, isn't that far off from the truth, all things considered.) They're both in costume already, not that that took long. All Whisper had to do was slick back her hair and throw on a pair of sunglasses and hey presto: Olivia Bailey, ruins-rover extraordinaire. Next to her all Deacon has to do is look suitably grizzled and road-weary, so he pretty much just tossed the least-disgusting raider's jacket on over his travel clothes and smeared some dust artistically through his stubble and called it a goddamn day.

It certainly works well enough on the second-shift gate guard, a pockmarked woman with nicotine stains on her fingers. She waves them through with a disinterested nod, already going back to her book before they even clear the gate. Deacon squashes down the contrary impulse to make some kind of scene and just nods back, professional and cool, as he wraps an arm around Whisper's shoulder. She gives him a little sideways look that says I know what you're doing but doesn't bother to pull away until they're in the tunnel.

Deacon looks around and then back to her, pointedly. Whisper huffs a laugh.

"What now?"

"Nothing," he says, and waggles his eyebrows. "It's just… here we are again. Where it all started. Back to the site of our fateful first meeting."

Her eyes narrow. "Weren't you the one who said-"

"Mm, yeah, but I've had time to think about it, and I think you made a compelling point. First contact is definitely the first one that counts."

"You just don't want to 'fess up on just how long you were following me around."

"Why, partner, I'm hurt that you would think of such a thing," he says, and moves swiftly on before she can call him on the obvious evasion. "You know, you keep bringing me back here, I'm going to start thinking you've got a secret romantic streak." She gives him a look. "Very secret."

"That's me, all hearts and flowers," says quite the most ruthlessly practical woman Deacon's ever met. "Besides, if I was going to start up with romantical remembrances at this late date, that wouldn't be the one I'd pick. I was so sleep-deprived I'm lucky I remembered my own name."

"Couldn't tell to look at you," Deacon says, in massive understatement. She was all easy swagger and magazine-cover grin, on her way to bigger and better things. She sure as shit didn't look like she was running on the ragged edge of her endurance - but then, he knows better than most just how well she can lie with a smile.

She glances over at him as they break out of the tunnel, her gaze shrewd over the rim of her shades. "You remember it pretty well, huh?"

Nope, nuh-uh, not going there. "Your hair was longer," Deacon says, tweaking the end of one of her curls in a transparent bid for distraction. "I remember that for sure."

"Well, yeah," she says, ducking neatly around a kid that seems really intent on wherever she's running. "You told me to cut it."

"I did?" He definitely doesn't remember that. "When?"

"When we were prepping for the Covenant op. You said blonde, I said I had to grab some bleach, and you gave me that 'oh honey' look you do when people are being particularly stupid and told me to just cut it off, you had a spare wig lying around someplace."

That does sound like him. "And you just did it?" he says, because Whisper is a lot of things, but 'obedient' sure as shit isn't one of them.

"You were brandishing a knife when you said it," she admits. "It seemed easier to give in than argue."

Yeah, that definitely sounds like him. Especially then: that must've been, what, their first week together? Back then everything was one long haze of exhaustion, staggering from one crisis to the next with barely enough time to take a shit. Hauling her into the Covenant op was a desperation play, pure and simple: he needed backup, and anyone had to be better than Glory. He hadn't known, then, what she could do with nothing more than a smile and a little room to work.

Though he figured it out pretty damn quick.

"I'd say it worked out," he says, and tweaks her dark hair again. "You do make a fetching blonde."

She gives him a look over the tops of her shades, knowing and a bit amused. "They do have more fun."

Aaaand now he's thinking about their first time, that silver dress pushed up around her thighs, blonde wig spilling across the mattress above her and blue eyes begging him in the dark. He clears his throat. "You want to go talk to Valentine?"

"In a bit," she says, and wraps her arm around his waist. He automatically puts his arm around her in turn, and she leans her head on his shoulder, a picture-perfect image of a lovesick spouse. "Need to make the rounds, hit up a few of the merchants first. It'd be weird if I didn't."

"God forbid we look weird," he agrees, and laughs at her elbow in his stomach.

~*~

She does break off eventually, slips away to discuss things with Valentine and leaves him with a key and strict instructions to take care of dinner. Deacon makes a quick loop of his own, touching base with the runners they placed last time and offloading some of their scav while he's at it. Myrna's girl has been promoted to working the afternoon shift solo, and is more than happy to take a few extra minutes dickering in order to fill him in on the local gossip. He rounds it off with a visit to the Dugout where the cocky one is still serving drinks - Deacon makes a note to collect the ten caps from Whisper later - and picks up some dinner to go on his way out. Never let it be said he can't follow orders when it suits him.

He's setting out the plates when Whisper follows him in just a few minutes later with a slammed door and a cheerful, "Hallo the house!" from the far end of her little warehouse.

"Kitchen!" he calls back, and a moment later she appears, weaving her way through the stacked boxes and dropping a noticeably emptier pack on the floor by the stove.

"Need a hand?"

The food's pretty much done, so he tilts his head to the table with a hopeful, "Something to drink?"

"I've got just the thing," and she grabs her pack again, fishing around inside until she comes up with a couple bottles of Bobrov's homebrew. "I tried to catch you at the Dugout but Vadim said you just left. Good enough?"

"We-ell, everyone knows a dry white pairs best with seafood, but for day-old mirelurk I suppose it will just have to do."

"You're trying to ruin my appetite but it's not working," she informs him, nose in the air. "I'm so hungry I'd eat a mirelurk raw."

He laughs and nudges in behind her as she turns to grab a bottle opener. "C'mon, darlin', don't be like that. You know it's only the best for my girl."

"Flatterer," she says, nothing in her voice now but laughter. "You talk any sweeter, I'm gonna be forced to check those lips for honey."

"Aw, babe. You say the - ha ha - sweetest things." He buries his nose in the back of her neck and inhales. "I get the cigarettes, but why do you smell like one of Tom's experiments? Hot metal and burnt wiring," he clarifies, when she gives him a truly weird look.

"Oh, I stopped by Piper's after I talked to Nick," she says, all offhand as if she's not talking about the biggest gossip in the Commonwealth.

Deacon unpeels himself from her back and takes her by the shoulders. "Whisper," he says, seriously. "Do we need to have a conversation about operational security? Because I feel like you may have been out that day."

"Oh, so you want her to come by and harangue me in person? Because that is one hundred percent what she'd do if she heard I was in town and didn't go see her first."

Okay, so maybe she has a point. The thought of Piper fucking Wright showing up at his door - well, Whisper's door, whatever - demanding to know his intentions toward her friend… Yeah, no. That's gonna be a haaaard pass.

Whisper grins at him, the devil in her eyes. He knows that look. "Whisper-"

"Ohhhh, I see what this is about."

"Fear," he assures her, trying to head whatever this is off at the pass, "this is a very healthy and reasonable level of fear," but she's on her way to a punchline and won't be deterred.

"You're a fan!" she declares, over his groan of protest. "Aww, sweetheart, why didn't you say something earlier? I could totally arrange an introduction for you."

"Ahhh, no thanks," Deacon manages, through the bolt of terror that thought inspires. "Little-known fact, spies are in fact allergic to reporters? Like, clinically. The hives are brutal."

She takes pity on him and gives way with a laugh, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Don't worry, babe, I'll protect you."

"You're the best."

"And don't you forget it." She pops open one of the bottles one-handed, handing it off to him with a cheery flourish. "Besides, you don't wanna bitch too much about my girl Piper. Her caps bought you this booze."

"I take it back, she's my new favorite person. After your radiant self, of course." He takes a swig and passes it back, enjoying the flush of boozy heat down through his chest as he turns back to the stove. After a moment's consideration, he adds a couple extra tatos to the pan. If they're drinking Bobrov's then he definitely wants to lay down a hearty base. "Something interesting afoot?"

"Mhm?"

"Your payout from Wright. Anything I should know about?"

She wobbles her flat hand side-to-side, a wordless eh. "Not really. Just a side project I've been working on."

Interesting. It's not as if they tell each other everything they get up to - he certainly has any number of moving parts at any given moment she's not read in on, and this business with Hancock gave him a good idea about how much he doesn't know about her adventures - but the fun stuff, yeah, that's usually share and share alike. Then again, maybe it's a leftover from her little enforced vacation back in August. He's mostly kept his nose out of whatever she was up to those weeks in hopes she'll do him the same courtesy, so there's a gap in his intel.

"Very mysterious," he teases, nudging a little. "C'mon, not even a hint for your faithful partner?"

She refuses to be nudged, only smiles faintly and hunches one shoulder into a lopsided shrug. "You can read it in the paper tomorrow like everyone else."

"Way harsh."

"That's me, cruel and unusual." She passes him back a plate with an absent kiss to his scruffy cheek. "C'mon, quit fondling that pot holder and get me some supper. I'm starving."

~*~

It's a good night, maybe the best he's had in a while. Deacon sort of figured she'd be distracted, mind on her mission tomorrow, but instead it's the opposite: for the first time in what seems like weeks, he has her full and undivided attention, and he basks in it like winter sunshine. They trade stories and quips, mostly things they've told each other a dozen times over but still fresh, still funny, still so much fun to watch her trying out a new spin, a new angle. She's so fucking good at that, always has been. Yet another thing Deacon never needed to teach her, but damn does he never get tired of watching her reinvent herself on the fly.

Deacon, for his part, finds himself mugging shamelessly for her attention, chasing her approval as fervently as any junkie he's ever pretended to be. And unlike a junkie Deacon gets what he's craving in spades, because she's as generous with her smiles as she is with her stories, lounging back in her chair with her glass in her hand, thighs sprawled wide and her voice gone syrup-slow with that insinuating smirk that only ever spurs him on.

Later, he doesn't entirely remember how they end up in bed. The booze turns everything smeary and soft-focus, like light coming in through a stained-glass window, and his memory preserves only a series of snapshots: pulling Whisper into his lap, her startled yelp of laughter muffled with his mouth. Making out on the landing, one foot braced a step down to put him closer to her height, his fingers busy on her shirt buttons and hers on his belt buckle. Tumbling into bed in a snarl of limbs, laughingly disentangling them until Whisper tugs him up over her in the dark. Burying his face in the sweat-slicked curve of her neck as he works his cock inside of her, her blunt nails scoring lines down the length of his back and her heels digging into the backs of his thighs to urge him on. The flicker of the candlelight playing across her lush mouth and her dark, shadowed eyes, her damp hair clinging to her forehead as she tosses her head back against the pillows. The low breathy rasp of her voice, "Deacon," murmured against his ear, "Deacon, Deacon, please-"

And then when he wakes up, he's alone.

The radio downstairs is playing “The Wanderer,” and Deacon lies there for a moment, listening to the clatter of the rain against the windows, experiencing an overwhelming surge of deja vu.

Then he hauls himself out of bed, picks up his boots, and goes in search of his wayward accomplice.

Unlike last time, there's no pint-sized partner clattering around in the kitchen, cooking breakfast and dancing around like temptation on two legs. The room is cool and dim, only the faint mid-morning sunshine straggling in through an upper window to light the way, and the only sign of habitation is the soft strains of the radio. Deacon does a quick check in the warehouse section just in case - have the boxes been breeding back there? - but the only sign of life in here is him. Most damningly of all, Whisper's pack is gone from the hook beside the door, leaving his looking lopsided next to the empty space where its partner used to be.

Do not project onto an inanimate object, Deacon my lad, he tells himself, and checks the counter next to the radio, where he previously saw a pad and a pencil half-buried under a precarious stack of ammo boxes. Sure enough, there's a note there, torn loose from the pad and folded into thirds with John scrawled across the front in unfamiliar handwriting that must belong to Liv.

She's just keeping cover, not stupid enough to write anything else out here in the open where anyone could walk in and see it, but Deacon still stares at it for a long moment, that single syllable knocking around somewhere at the bottom of his ribs. Then he shakes his head at himself, reaches out, and unfolds the note.

hey handsome, you looked so peaceful i couldn't bring myself to wake you. at least one of us should get to sleep in, and nick had me up with the sun. (you know what he's like when he's on a case!) shouldn't take long though, just a quick run down to goodneighbor and fingers crossed we'll be back by supper. take care of my best guy while i'm gone. xoxo, liv

The radio changes to “One More Tomorrow,” and Deacon glares at it as he folds up the note. Reading between the breezy, heavily fictionalized lines, it's clear enough she decided to handle this Kellogg business solo. Which is… fair enough, he supposes, but something about it doesn't sit square. Did she think he would have told her no, if she asked him to stay put? He thought he made it pretty clear the whole thing was hers to handle or not as she saw fit. Or maybe she just thought it'd be too awkward, having him up in her business like that? Maybe after their last op, she's about had her fill of personal. He couldn't blame her if that's the case, but he hopes she knows the last thing he'd ever want to do is make things harder for her.

Well, there's not much he can do about it either way, not with her at least a few hours ahead of him, judging by the sun, and definitely not with her clear instruction to sit tight. Waiting isn't much his favorite part and he didn't really plan to be hanging out in Diamond City all day, but Deacon's an adaptable fellow; he'll find a way to keep himself occupied.

The market is bustling at this hour of the morning, and Deacon lets the crowd carry him along, thinking vaguely about picking up some noodles for breakfast and then maybe having a wander around. It's not great for his cover to spend so much time out and about on his own, but with the right sidelong look most people will probably assume she's sleeping off a wild night, which would be great for his ego, at least. Besides, there's really no substitute for market gossip when it comes to keeping a pulse on the goings-on in the Commonwealth, which is what he plans to tell Dez if she gives him shit for the wasted day. Not that she will, because if Deacon has his way she'll never hear about any of this, but he likes having a contingency plan in place. Makes him feel all nice and comfy.

It's when he's looping around the counter in search of an open stool that he catches the familiar sound of Piper Junior hawking her wares at full volume. Which is funny, 'cause by his calculation they're not due for another issue for at least a week. Normally Piper's pretty regular with the print, except-

Deacon gets a sinking sensation in his chest.

-except when she has something too juicy to wait and damn it, Whisper, what the hell are you up to?

Normally the last place he wants to be is anywhere near someone named Wright, but since his partner has been up to shenanigans without bothering to inform him first, he figures that in this case 'better safe than sorry' means getting out ahead of whatever nonsense Whisper's been cooking up rather than running the other way. He makes sure to pull his cap low over his eyes, hitches his pack higher on his shoulders, and sidles over towards the Public Occurrences like he just doesn't have anything better to do.

"Extra, extra, read all about it! Minutemen General has the tell-all of the century!"

Oh, it's Minutemen business. Geez, why didn't she just say so? If she's running some propaganda job for Garvey, the last thing he'd want to do is get in her way. It was obvious they needed something after the trip to the Slog the other week, and throwing Piper at the problem is probably the most efficient way to get the word out. Half the damn Commonwealth reads her paper at some point or another, even if it's just so they can tell themselves how wrong she is.

Still, Whisper did tell him he'd find out today, so she probably expects him to read up on whatever it is. He snatches a paper off the top of the stack and flips it over, scanning for the headline.

Woman out of Time: Savior of the Minutemen Tells All About Life Before the Bomb!

"-not the current General," Little Wright's saying, when Deacon manages to stop staring at the paper and drag his attention back to the real world. "The first one, the one that retook the Cast- hey!"

Deacon finds the paper snatched right from his hands, a pint-sized version of a familiar glare beaming up at him. "You gotta pay before you read," Little Wright informs him. "We're not running a charity here!"

"Uh, right," says Deacon, who still feels like he's hearing everything underwater, slow-motion and echoing strangely. "What's the deal with this General, then?"

"Didn'tcha see the headline? She's from before the War! Vault froze her in cryo, right here in the Commonwealth!"

Vault 111. Oh, fuck. Ohhhh fuck.

"So you gonna buy or just stand there and stare?" Little Wright brandished the paper at him. "Hot off the presses! Only ten caps, and you can be the first to know!"

#fallout 4 #deacon #female sole survivor #deacon/female sole survivor #fic #everybody wants to be a cat

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