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khaleesiofalicante · 3 years

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LIGHTWOOD BANES WEEK - ALEC & MAX

Alec was peering through the report from the Head of the LA Institute, Julian Blackthorn, when there was a tentative knock on the door.

Huh. That was odd.

When Magnus had made Alec an office room – and by made, he meant literally summoned it from nowhere – Alec had been secretly pleased.

Of course there were downsides to this kind of gift – like when Magnus magically made the room vanish, along with Alec’s belongings, when they had a little domestic quarrel.

There was no need to knock before entering Alec’s office because the room didn’t have a door - a gesture from Magnus that Alec appreciated. It was to show that anyone who needed Alec’s help was welcome.

But it wasn’t the door-less knocking that Alec found odd, but it rather who it came from.

He was used to his son barging into the office – or any room rather, much to Magnus’ dismay.

So this was new. And a little odd.

“Max?” Alec took off his reading glasses and glanced at his son.

The blue-eyed boy was standing awkwardly in the threshold of the room – where a door should have been.

Alec realized he was waiting. Odd again.

“Come in,” Alec gestured at the seat in front of him.

Max pulled it back and sat down - properly. Odd. Odd. Odd.

Max would always walk in and share some random fact he found out - all the while sprawled on the chair like a cat, with his feet hanging off the side. The boy never sat down properly.

But now, he was sitting carefully, his feet ready to bolt any minute.

“What is it?” Alec asked, feeling concerned.

He has been the boy’s father for 17 years. One would think Alec had gotten around to figuring out this whole parenting thing. But it was an endless course – with a lot of surprise pop quizzes.

This seemed like one of them.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Max said, staring at his knotted hands.

Alec’s anxiety deepened. Max never hesitated. If there was something he wanted to ask, he would simply ask.

“Okay,” Alec tried to sound calm. “What is it?”

“It’s a bit…You know what?” Max suddenly got up. “I’ll google it.”

“Sit down,” Alec said, the tone of the Consul creeping in. “What’s wrong? Tell me.”

“I don’t know how to ask,” Max said awkwardly.

“Use your words,” Alec said softly. “Is this shadow world business?”

“Oh no no,” Max shook his head immediately. “It’s…It’s, um, It’s about…a boy.”

“Did some boy at the institute say something to you again?” Alec demanded, his fingers itching for his bow. “Because if someone did, I wil-”

“No, it’s not like that,” Max looked frantic. “It’s about a boy…I like.”

Oh.

Alec blinked.

Oh.

“A real boy?” Alec asked. “Not one of the mundanes from your posters?”

“It’s a real boy,” Max’s lips twitched.

“Okay,” Alec smiled, feeling equally giddy and nervous about the prospect of his son dating. “What’s his name?”

“Nuh-huh,” Max shook his head. “Not happening.”

“Is it a shadowhunter?” Alec asked, leaning closer. “What institute is he from?”

It could be a shadowhunter. Max did spend an awful lot of time in the New York institute. Alec had always thought it was because of “Uncle Jace” but maybe there was someone else…

“Dad, stop!” Max groaned. “You know what? This was a mistake. I’ll ju-”

“Sorry. Sorry,” Alec raised his hands in surrender. “Alright. What did you want to ask?”

Max looked away. Alec saw his horns quiver a little – a telltale sign that Max was anxious.

“Max,” Alec called softly. “You can talk to me.”

“You won’t freak out?” Max asked, biting his lip.

“I won’t,” Alec promised. He could do this. He has been a father for more than a decade. He can do this.

“Okay,” Max took a deep breath. “When you’re with a boy…and you’re a boy…and there are like two boys…”

Alec gaped. “There are TWO boys!?!?!”

“No. No. Just one,” Max looked horrified. “I mean there are two, but I’m one of them!”

“Oh okay,” Alec regained his composure.

He was okay with Max dating however many people he wanted of course – as long as they all consented – but he had to admit talking about one itself seemed like a challenge. He will need a little more time to prepare for anything else. He needed to take baby steps!

“When there two boys,” Max started again. “How do you know…like how do, um, how do you know what happens?”

Alec chuckled.

“Well, it works differently for different people,” Alec pointed out. “Sometimes you always know you like boys and sometimes it takes a certain someone to help you realize and other t-”

“I know I like boys,” Max interrupted, and Alec wasn’t surprised to hear that. “That’s not what I meant.”

Alec frowned.

“Then what did you mean?” Alec asked. “You need to be more specific, Max.”

Magnus seemed to be running out of patience. He sighed. “When there are two boys…How do you know which one is which?”

“Which one is what?” Alec asked, genuinely confused.

“You know,” Max prompted. “When you have sex. How do you know which one is which?”

Alec blinked.

And then he blinked again.

And it dawned on him. So much for baby steps.

“YOU’RE HAVING SEX???”

“Shhh!” Max whispered furiously. “You promised you won’t freak out!”

“I’M NOT FREAKING OUT!” Alec whispered loudly – totally freaking out.

“Stop it!” Max warned.

“IS IT A SHADOWHUNTER?” Alec whispered loudly.

“I’m gonna go to my room,” Max got up.

“Sit down. Sit down,” Alec said quickly.

He can do this. He can totally do this.

Alec reached down and grabbed a bottle of water and started chugging. Max eyed him worriedly.

“You okay?”

Alec nodded, chugging more water.

“We haven’t had sex yet,” Max pointed out. “Just hand stu-”

Alec choked and the water spluttered all over the desk.

Max flicked a wrist and the contents of the table dried themselves immediately.

“This was a mistake,” Max said quietly. “I should have talked to Bapa.”

For some reason, Alec felt oddly touched by that.

Max had come to him.

Him.

“Why didn’t you talk to him?” Alec asked curiously.

It was a no brainer that Magnus was the ideal person to talk about this.

“Because I was worried he will do another PowerPoint,” Max rolled his eyes.

Alec chuckled.

Magnua was ideal. But he was also a little too enthusiastic.

When Max and Rafe had come of age, he had sat them down done a presentation on safe sex – with a Q&A session too.

Rafe had thoroughly enjoyed it and put up his hands multiple times.

Alec and Max however had briefly conspired to make a portal and run away to Peru since Magnus wasn’t allowed there.

“I did ask Uncle Jace,” Max smiled a little.

“Uncle Jace?” Alec couldn’t help but feel offended. “Uncle Jace isn’t even…Uncle Jace has never been with….UNCLE JACE HAD SEX IN HELL FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.”

“By the angel, dad!” Max swore - and as always the nephilim phrase on his warlock son’s lips made Alec smile.

“Why would you talk to Jace about this?” Alec asked.

“I dunno,” Max shrugged. “He is always chill about these things. And he can talk to me about sex without choking on water or turning red.”

“I’m not red!” Alec protested.

“Your face looks redder than Aunt Izzy’s broccoli soup,” Max giggled.

“First of all, broccoli soup is not supposed to be red,” Alec pointed out worriedly. “Secondly, I’m not embarrassed. Never of you.”

Max gave him a tiny grin in response.

“Did you ask Uncle Jace because this boy is from his institute?”

Max just glared and Alec conceded.

“What did Uncle Jace say?” Alec inquired.

“Nothing,” Max chuckled. “He got emotional and said ‘they grow up too fast’ or something and I quickly escaped before he started crying.”

“He never told me anything about it!” Alec said, feeling betrayed.

“Well, I kinda told him not to,” Max winced.

“Why not?” Alec asked, feeling a little ashamed. “Do you not want to talk to me about this kind of stuff? Do you…Do you not trust me?”

“Of course, I trust you,” Max said without missing a beat. “I just…I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable."

Alec’s eyes softened – as did his heart.

“Max,” Alec said softly. “When I was your age, I would have never even thought of talking to my father about this kind of thing. I don’t think any of us could. We were…scared. Ashamed of our bodies and our sexualities. Confused and lost. I don’t ever want you feeling like that.”

“But I-”

“And I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t talk to me,” Alec urged. “I’m your father. You can always talk to me about anything.”

“Are you sure?” Max asked, biting his lip.

“Always,” Alec repeated, his eyes steady.

Max still looked unsure.

“This is what I fought for, Max,” Alec said gently. “You’re what I fought for.”

Max smiled at that. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Alec smiled back. “But are you sure? I don’t want you to do things because you feel like you have to do them.”

“I want to do it,” Max whispered. “I just…I don’t know how or who should…”

Alec took a deep breath. Okay he can do this.

He did want this son to talk to him about anything, but Alec had to be careful with his words. He wasn’t the most eloquent person, and he wasn’t suave like Magnus.

He felt nervous about messing this up or telling Max the wrong thing.

Whenever Alec felt anxious, he immediately thought of Magnus.

A different memory every time. But each one always managed to pull him back. Each one always powerful enough to give him the strength he needed.

An image of Magnus gliding him across the ballroom in Venice swirled into his mind. He remembered looking at his own reflection and realizing he had never been happier.

An idea struck him.

“Think of it like dancing,” Alec told his son now.

Max blinked, his blue eyelashes fluttering. “Dancing?”

“Yeah. Waltzing for example. There is someone who leads and someone who follows,” Alec pointed out. “Some people feel more comfortable with leading, and others feel more comfortable following. It changes from person to person.”

Max’s brows knit in concentration. “Okay. I see where you are going. Go ahead.”

Alec grinned and gave himself a tiny self-five under the table.

“But just because you like leading, it doesn’t mean that you always have to lead. It’s the same for following too. Sometimes you want to lead and then other times you might want to follow.”

Max considered that. “So, you’re saying whether I want to lead or follow changes with everyone I date?”

“It could, nothing wrong with that,” Alec pointed out quickly. “It could also be with the same person too. Sometimes you want them to lead or follow for a change.”

“And that’s okay too?”

“Of course,” Alec nodded. “But you need to make sure they want to do it. Just because you want them to follow or lead, doesn’t mean they should. Same goes for you.”

Max nodded, looking way too serious for a 17-year-old boy.

“Sometimes you don’t want to change how you dance and that’s okay too,” Alec pointed out. “If you think you only want to lead, then that’s it. Just like with following. If you are more comfortable with following, then stick to it.”

“Okay,” Max said slowly. “But how do I figure out if I want to lead or follow?”

Alec thought about it for a moment.

“Well, sometimes you instinctually know,” he said carefully. “Your body knows what it wants and what it feels comfortable with.”

Max hummed.

“Think about other stuff,” Alec said, trying not to sound awkward. “Like kissing. You should know where you like to be kissed and where you don’t. It’s just like that. You need to listen to your body. Trust it. Trust your instincts.”

Max nodded again. “Okay. What if I…What if I lead and then I don’t like it?”

“Then you try following,” Alec replied. “Sometimes you might not like that either. If you like neither, that’s okay too. Just because everyone is dancing, it doesn’t mean you have to do it too.”

“Oh,” Max said now. “Oh okay.”

“It depends on a lot of things,” Alec said. “The music. The space. These can all affect whether you want to lead or follow or do neither. But the most important thing is your dancing partner. You can’t dance by yourself.”

“Well, technically you can,” Max grinned, and Alec saw a shade of Magnus’ cheekiness reflect in his blue eyes.

“Max!” he chastised.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Max put up his hands. “So, about the dancing partner?”

“You need to trust them and they need to trust you,” Alec said, a little more seriously now. “Dancing can be a little intimidating sometimes. Especially if you haven’t done it before. It’s easier when do it with someone who you trust. Someone who will catch you if you trip and won’t judge you for being clumsy.”

“This analogy is getting out of hand,” Max muttered.

“But you do get my point, right?” Alec asked, still serious. “It’s alright to want to have sex. But remember that it’s not always about who does what. These roles...They don’t define you. Sometimes…Sometimes people will say things.”

“Things?” Max bit his lip worriedly.

“Sometimes,” Alec said, because he didn’t want his son to worry. “For example, if this boy is a shadowhunter, then people might expect him to lead. Because they think shadowhunter men shouldn’t follow.”

“He is not a shadowhunter, dad!” Max grumbled.

“Regardless…The point still stands. They will say people who lead the dance are better or that people who follow are inferior. They will try to tell you whether you should lead the dance or follow. Don’t listen to them.”

Max nodded again, as if he knew. It pained Alec to think that Max was already exposed to this kind of toxic stereotypes.

“Whether you are leading or following, what matters is that you enjoy the dance,” Alec told his son. “Don’t let anyone tell you what to do with your body. Only you get to decide that.”

“Okay,” Max said, he was smiling now. “Okay, dad.”

“Are we good?” Alec asked. “Do you have any questions?”

“It’s just like dancing, right?” Max asked.

“Just like dancing,” Alec winked. “You’ll figure it out.”

Max thought for a minute. “Okay I think I’m good.”

Alec let out a quiet breath. Somehow it felt like he had passed an important exam.

“Good,” Alec smiled back. “That’s good.”

“This didn’t go as awkwardly as I thought it would,” Max chuckled.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Alec rolled his eyes fondly. “Now. About this boy….”

“I’m not telling you anything!” Max shook his head.

“Just tell me his last name!”

“It’s not a shadowhunter, dad!” Max rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Alec asked.

“Well, now that you ask,” Max said, with a grin that suited the devil. “I do remember a strength rune on his abdomen the last time I li-”

Alec’s hands flew to his ears. “I CAN’T HEAR YOU. BLAH BLAH BLAH. I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”

Max moved closer to him and removed Alec’s hands and ruffled his hair affectionately. Alec, not for the first time, realized that Max was an inch taller than he was.

Suddenly it didn’t feel weird that Jace had almost cried. They did grow up too fast.

“Thanks for the talk,” Max winked. “I love you, dad.”

“I love you too, buddy,” Alec said.

“Okay then. I’m gonna go hang out with Rafe,” Max said trying to sound nonchalant.

“Are you going to the institute?” Alec raised an eyebrow.

“Think what you want,” Max grinned but then paused. “You won’t tell bapa I’m seeing someone, right? I don’t want him stalking this boy on Instagram.”

“Is that some kind of warlock hang out spot?” Alec asked.

Max barked out a laugh. “Sure. I have seen plenty of warlocks on insta. But just don’t tell him. Not yet. Can you make a promise?”

“Of course!” Alec said in an offended tone as he followed Max to the door. “You think I can’t keep a secret?”

“I think you can’t keep a secret from your beloved husband,” Max replied as he picked up his backpack.

Alec rolled his eyes. “Your bapa is not the boss of me.”

“Huh huh,” Max grinned as he ran down the stairs. “Yeah, I’ve heard the two of you dancing.”

“MAX MICHAEL!!” Alec yelled after him.

“Just don’t tell Bapa,” Max warned with a blue finger.

“Don’t tell Bapa what?” Magnus emerged from the bedroom, wearing a purple robe, looking extremely curious and cheeky.

Max and Alec stared at each other.

“Nothing!” they both said at the same time.

“If this is about the boyfriend, I already know,” Magnus rolled his eyes. “Max, I'm rather hurt you’d think I wouldn’t figure it out. I’ve been following the boy on instagram for months now.”

Instagram! Alec had to find this place. Maybe he could ask Jace to help him find this warlock hideout.

“You’re Great Poison on Insta!” Max gasped in shock. “I should have known! Only you could come up with something lame like that!”

“Hey!” Magnus protested.

“You knew?” Alec demanded from Magnus. “And you didn’t tell me! Who is this boy? Is he a shadowhunter?”

Magnus blinked. “Oh. You don’t know. Oh my god, Alexander. You really don’t know? This is going to be so much fun!”

“Magnus, tell me now!”

“Nope,” Magnus grinned and Alec knew he wasn’t going to give it up anytime soon.

Alec put his hands on his hips. “No more dancing for you!”

Max giggled and covered his mouth.

Magnus looked confused. “Meh. You aren’t that good of a dancer anyway,” he shrugged and walked away.

Max doubled down laughing. Alec didn’t think it was funny one bit.

“Is there anything else I don’t know?” Alec demanded. “Is Rafael secretly married?”

“You never know,” Max winked and he ran down the stairs.

“MAX, GET BACK HERE!” Alec yelled but Max was long gone.

Alec went back to his office room, grinning to himself.

He felt absurdly proud of himself. He didn’t think it was possible for a shadowhunter to talk about something like this. Let alone for a shadowhunter to talk to his own son about something like this.

But here he was. Once again, redefining possibilities for his people.

For his family.

“You want to come stalk this boy on instagram?” Magnus asked from the threshold of the office.

“No, thank you,” Alec rolled his eyes. “I’d like to respect my son’s privacy.”

“Very well,” Magnus shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He focused on Julian’s report again for five minutes before his resolve broke and Alec barged into the bedroom.

“IS HE A SHADOWHUNTER OR NOT!?!?!”

#I've always wanted to write about this I guess this was my chance ;)#I wish someone had talked to Alec about these things too :(#but im glad he gets to talk to his kids freely :))))#alec lightwood #max lightwood bane #lightwood bane family #lightwood banes week #dani writes stuff

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thebadchoicemachine · 3 years

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Petting Party (pt 1)

Rundown of dimensions AU: Quackity’s from 1920s dimension called Prowa, Schlatt and Charlie are his business partners *cough found family cough* and they run a casino/speakeasy. Sapnap is a knight from a fantasy dimension called Quarry. Karl is like Dr.Who.

tw - Mentions of guns and alcohol (1920s mobster dimension)

This is really just the fluffiest full I have ever written.

•••

@thecatchat

•••

Quackity walked through his rooms, digging around drawers for his keys. He squawked a little in frustration as he rummaged. He felt so paranoid, like he was already short on time even though he was about half an hour early and it’s not like Sapnap or Karl would mind waiting. He just wanted this to go perfectly. They’d had dates in his world before, they’d even had proper ones where they weren’t running from cops or mobsters or some other guns/knife/bat-wielding foes. Heh, foes. He was starting to think like Sapnap… and he was starting to feel like Karl— where was his damn key? Karl had literal worlds full of stuff to keep track of, it only made sense he got turned around and mixed up, what was Quackity’s excuse?

Finally, a glint caught his eye and he snatched up the silver piece of metal, stuffing it into his sleeve and practically skipping to the front. Their home was really just the back half of the casino so he just walked through into the back room. Schlatt and Charlie were sitting at a table, various game pieces scattered across the top, counting cards, chips, and cash. Charlie seemed to be in the middle of a failed game of solitaire and was stacking up a house of cards while Schlatt was just old-fashioned sorting, looking rather bored. It was a quiet night for them. Probably a few drinks and catching up till bed after they double-check the games for cheating. Quackity would usually join them but it wasn’t strange for him not to show. He gave them a wave as he walked past, motion enough for them to look up and acknowledge him.

Schlatt only glanced up before returning to his work. “What’s with the getup?”

“I told youse, I’m going out tonight.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m going out to meet my partners.” Quackity struck a joking pose. “No harm in good impressions.”

“Hey,” Charlie frowned childishly, “aren’t we your partners?”

Quackity chuckled, rolling his eyes, “Of course. My new partners, then. Actually, lemme see a cut of that doe, I wanna butter ‘em up tonight.” He snatched a few bills from the table and turned to make his exit.

“Wait,” Schlatt commanded, still barely looking up from his work. “Partners like you’re out for coffee to discuss getting new tables?” He took a sharp bite of his apple, eyes lazily growing dark. “Or do youse mean partners like I outta trail behind... y’know, keep you from gettin’ lead poisoning.”

“Uh...” Quackity blinked. “Partners like I’m off to a petting party.”

Schlatt choked. Charlie laughed while he coughed, moving to pat his back and smiled at Quackity. “Well, good luck.”

Quackity narrowed his eyes as he was almost certain he caught a ‘all knows you need it’ under Charlie’s breath. He played it cool and simply snapped, “Hey, I don’t need no luck. Certainly not from you.”

“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to offend.” Charlie held his hands up, grin still plastering his face. “Was just wishing you the best.”

“Yeah... yeah,” Schlatt nodded, coming out of his state but still red-faced. Whether it was from embarrassment or lack of air Quackity couldn’t tell. He rolled his eyes again, smiling but waving goodbye without giving them a chance to drag him onto another conversation.

He stepped into the front, waiting patiently by the front of the door. Karl had said they’d meet him at the Vidrio, but should he wait inside or out? He paced, routinely adjusting his feathered headband and combing the actual feathers on his wings. He still worried he was overdressing a little but when he tried to lessen his look he panicked about underdressing. He wanted to look good for his boyfriends, a bit of makeup wouldn’t hurt that... would it? In the end, he’d settled on a simple pale blue dress, eyeliner, and a small headband. Nothing too gaudy but he still looked good. He looked good in everything, of course, he had absolutely nothing to worry about. So why was he all jittery? What, was he suddenly a dud? It didn’t matter. It was probably just because of the surprise factor.

He’d assumed they would come and get outfits at his place (no offense to them, they just really couldn’t go the way they usually dressed) but Karl had insisted they pick him up like a “proper date.” He didn’t know what Karl knew about proper dates or when he’d started to care about them, most of their dates involved some form of running for their lives. Quackity wasn’t complaining but he’d be lying if he said the idea of just being a snuggle pup for a change wasn’t wildly appealing, especially if it meant getting to have Sapnap and Karl got to hang out in his world and not just flee and sneak. There were some nice things here he felt he never got to show them.

He sunk into himself, suddenly feeling ashamed. It was bad manners, it was. Combining his work and love life to the point he may as well have made chumps out of his own boyfriends. He knew they didn’t mind, it was all new and fun for them and he was pretty sure Sapnap did the same thing. (He wasn’t entirely sure what his job was, like a knight sure but where was the line between work and just regular old Quarrian life?) Still. He should take them dancing more or something. Technically, that’s what he was doing here but he’d like to make a better habit of it, it really sounded like the bees-

A bright, impossible, but familiar, swirl interrupted his thoughts. He straightened himself, quickly fixing his headband one last time. His heart was pounding out of his chest— but not because he was nervous, because he was excited. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling like a giddy sap as out from the portal stepped Karl and Sapnap. His breath was caught in his throat as he got a good look at them. He wasn’t sure what he expected, nothing bad, but he mentally made a note to give them an apology for being SO wrong. Whatever he’d imagined, they looked a million times better.

Sapnap was in a white dress shirt. He had on a maroon vest and black tie he clearly didn’t know how to wear but wore well nonetheless. He had his hair slicked back, completely showing his pretty silvery, misty, eyes. Quackity noted the headband he usually wore in his hair was tied in a ribbon around his neck. Sapnap just couldn’t be without it, he warmly mused.

Karl had on something with colors in patterns like Quackity had never seen before, not in his world at least, which— of course, it was Karl. Beautiful, strange, mysterious, adorable Karl. The top of the pantsuit was made of several pale shades of green. They washed over it like waves of seafoam, a strip of pale purple lace swirled around it, almost mimicking a deconstructed form of his usual crazy attire. A herringbone cap was pulled over his head, shaping brown curls.

Quackity stared, absolutely gobsmacked, until his brain caught up to his eyes. Sapnap was saying something and waving his hand a little. Quackity blinked, shaking himself out of it. Egad, he was goofy for them. Luckily, Karl and Sapnap didn’t seem to mind his zoning out. In fact, Karl seemed to find it tickling, he clearly held in a giggle as Quackity snapped to. Quackity guessed this wasn’t the first time he’d found himself stunned. It certainly wouldn’t be the last either.

“Hey, jackpot,” Sapnap gently flicked his forehead. “I asked how you think we look.”

“You... good. You look good. Mmhmm,” he managed to squeak out, finally remembering to close his mouth. Slick. He was slick.

“I’m glad you like it,” Karl chuckled. “I know you don’t really trust me to dress myself for nice places in Prowa.”

“Hey, I never said I didn’t trust you!”

“You never said it, no.”

Quackity gave Karl a small punch in the shoulder. He flinched way more than was warranted, stumbling dramatically, but a broad smile settled on both their faces.

“Aw, sugar! Did I hurt you?”

“Yes!”

“Hey, hey! Sir,” Sapnap stepped between them, also joking. “What is wrong with you, daring to assault my beloved in front of me?” He threateningly toward over Quackity, grabbing his shoulders and backing him up against the wall. His eyes flickered with playful malice. He leaned in close, expression caught between a smirk and a snarl, completely aware of the growing blush on Quackity’s face. “I’ve half a mind to challenge you, and another half to crush you right here for your audacity.”

“Aw, my knight in shining armor,” Karl sarcastically patted Sapnap’s shoulder, thoroughly less impressed by the display than Quackity. “Whatever would I do without you here to defend me from this sweet, cuddly, small, duckling?”

“Hey!” Quackity snapped defensively. “I could fuck you up if I-“

“Ey, Q! Have you seen-“ Schlatt stopped upon seeing the scene, turning on his heel and walking right back into the back. “Nevermind. Not my business. None of my business. Absolutely not my business…”

“I-“ Sapnap dropped his boyfriend (who crumpled onto the floor in laughter), instantly turning a shade twelve times redder than Quackity had been. “I am so sorry.”

“Ah- Schlatt?” Karl called over Quackity’s wheezing. “Schlatt, it’s fine-“

“NONE OF MY BUSINESS!” A shout came from the backroom.

Quackity dropped his face into his hands, his chortling turned to full hysterics as he sat curled up against the wall. His dress, which he had been so unreasonable nervous about moments before, creased and probably picked up some grime from the floor. He didn’t care at all. Now that his boyfriends were actually beside him he could care less if he was painted green and orange. He had no one to impress, at least no one who would let anything bad happen over a stupid look. “Oh,” he snickered, the burst dying down. “Oh wow.” He wiped his eyes as jubilant tears stung, apathetic as he’d become he hoped his makeup didn’t run. It wasn’t necessary but he’d still like to look nice for the occasion. He pulled himself to his feet, brushing off his outfit and sighing. “Ah. He’s got a point though, really should be saving that for the party.”

“Speaking of which—“ Karl snapped his fingers in a jazzy rhythm. “Are we ready to go?”

“Yes, let’s!” Sapnap turned with Karl as all three of them began to speed out the door.

Quackity made sure to bump in front of them before they made it out, he was not letting Karl anywhere near the wheel.

The car ride was bright and lively although quiet. Quackity couldn’t help but grin just being next to these goons, one could practically feel Karl vibrating with excitement in the back, even Sapnap seemed to be enjoying the drive (he’d never quite gotten over the time Karl had offered to drive... Quackity could barely blame him for remaining he cautious and paranoid around automobiles). The blanched twilight hummed overhead as they made their way through the streets. It was relatively empty this time of night, too late for errands but just before everything started to swing. They pulled into the end of the road and all stepped out.

“It’s a bit of a walk the rest of the way,” Quackity explained. “Especially cause ‘s considered… ‘impolite’ to pull attention.”

“Hmm…” Sapnap nodded, glancing behind them.

“What’s up?” Karl put a hand on his shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“You sure?”

“It’s fine, I just-“

“Just what?”

“Uh, maybewecouldgoseeSchlattandCharlie?”

“Huh?” Karl blinked.

“Is… Schlatt and Charlie coming? Could we go get them?”

“N-no?” Quackity stammered, surprised to say the least. “This— uh- ain’t exactly the kind of party you bring your family to. Not ‘less they got dates of their own... and you know Charlie ain’t keen on that stuff.”

“Okay, well, maybe we could spend some time with them for a while at the casino? Before we commit here. The night is young!”

“I means, I’m pumped for your sudden urge to hang out with them and all, but I kind of wanted to spend time with the two of you.”

“Ah-“ Sapnap shrunk into himself. “Of course, I- me as well, I’m so sorry to imply otherwise. I was just thinking Charlie may like to hear about the slimes...” He trailed off, fiddling with the headband around his neck, just the slightest hint of panic on his face. He was very good at hiding it but Quackity and Karl knew him better than that. They shared a glance, this had nothing to do with Charlie.

“Spice, are youse nervous?”

“N-no!”

“You sure? We don’t gots to do nothing you don’t wanna.”

“Yeah, it’s just-“

“Chivalry and all that?” Karl chimed in, sympathetic. “I know our courting isn’t exactly conventional.”

“No. Well, not exactly. Ah... think I’m merely... flustered?”

“Flustered?” They spoke at once.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just… romance in my world is so different. Much more complicated. It involves a lot of the other’s family and specific sets or roles for meetings, it changes depending on how long you’ve been together and what kingdoms you hail from, so such and so forth. I’ve never been a martinet for the rules but, the way you describe these kinds of parties, I- I- find myself… lost.”

Karl blinked. “So, you’re used to having a bunch of guidelines and, while you don’t miss them, are floundering without the stencil?” Sapnap nodded at the ground. He took a breath and shook his head, clearing his mind before bowing slightly. He held his left arm over his chest, middle knuckle up with his pinky and thumb slightly out, keeping the rest of his hand balled in a fist. Quackity recognized the symbol by now as something like a salute of the Nether kingdom. It was used to show respect while speaking. He stopped himself from rolling his eyes, remembering the formality was only habit.

“I apologize for my trepidation,” Sapnap held a bashful tone. “I am just not used to courti-“ he paused, searching for the word, “dates being so… open. I don’t mean that as an insult to your world! I only-.”

“Okay, buddy,” Quackity pushed Sapnap upright by his shoulders. He seemed confused but obliged. “I get it’s polite and nice for you but, if you really love me, please never do this again.”

“Do... what?”

“You have a habit of getting all formal when you’re worried you’re messing up with us.” Karl shrugged.

“I do?”

“I don’t know.” Quackity tapped his chin. “Let’s see.” Without warning, he grabbed Sapnap by the shoulders and takes him downward, planting a firm kiss right on his lips. He tensed a little as he felt a sudden wave of hotness wash over him (that was to be expected from surprising a demon) but stayed in the moment. As he pulled away, Sapnap blinked a few times, stunned although the faintest hint of a smile shone through. His gelled hair fell just a little messy.

“What the fuck, Quackity?”

“There we go! Back to normal! You see the difference?”

“I- I guess so!” He nodded, a look of mild surprise mixing his comprehension as if he’d just realized what color his own eyes were.

“Now, did youse like that?”

“Yes?”

“You want more?”

“Yes...”

“You wanna go inside?”

“Yeah.” Sapnap energetically nodded, slamming the car door shut, slicking back his hair again, and holding out his arms. “Yes, I do.”

Karl jumped between them, linking arms on his side before Quackity had the chance, and holding out his own instead. Quackity shot him a look but took it, joined by Sapnap in confusion at the sudden demand to be in the middle. Karl only smiled as they made their way down the street, nearly skipping at the attention until he lowly murmured, “So… do I get a kiss?” Quackity opened his mouth, smiling, but was cut off by Sapnap swiftly swooping in and planting one on Karl’s cheek.

“Oh- you-!” Quackity squawked, envy and agitation peaking his tone. “I was gonna-!”

“Well, I did.”

“Boys, boys, I do have two hands… and two cheeks,” Karl half-sang, leaning over to Quackity awaiting his kiss.

“Oh, no. Fuck you. You’re gonna have to wait for it now,” Quackity pouted. Sapnap let out a taunting laugh as Karl gasped in mock offense. Well, probably mock. Regardless, Quackity only smirked and turned to face a door in the wall next to them. “Besides, we’re here!” He unlinked his arm, rattling out a little pattern into the door. It opened slowly, revealing a dapperly dressed serpentine blocking the view inside. He smiled wildly as the warm smells and colors hit him regardless, it had been a while since he’d been to one of these, long before he ever met them and certainly not while they were dating, but he missed them.

He couldn’t wait to share this.

#karlnapity dimensions #ksq dimensions content #karlnapity fluff #woah those are words I wrote

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kcatta-wodahs · 4 years

Text

Trans, Enby, or anything not Cis MC + OM Demon Bros!

TLDR; they all fuckin love you okay you’re wonderful

Lucifer

It happens right away honestly, as he is your introduction to Devildom

You arrive suddenly in the student council, with no fucking warning, and with a bunch of people who are saying they’re demons. And like yeah okay sorcery obviously exists in your world so we can work with this but

He looks at a file, and states your deadname, and in a fit of bravery or just “i guess im here now” you correct him.

The silence after that is palpable and every negative emotion you’re feeling as you wait shows up on your face.

Lucifer only has a slight frown, looking at the paper, and at you, before it clears.

“Oh. Humans. I understand.” He marks something on the paper, and repeats your name. Your real name.

“Should I assume that the pronouns listed are incorrect as well?”

He calls for a RAD uniform that you’re most comfortable with, while Diavolo gushes over “HUMAN!!!”

Okay, cool, you’re hanging with demons now but at least they respect your pronouns? Guess this is your life. Your next question is whether you’re dead lol

So he knows the whole time, but it doesn’t change a thing! He loves you the same.

When you’re closer, he is very to-the-point about caring for you when you’re feeling dysphoric.

He offers you tips, makes sure you maintain your voice training even if you’re embarrassed about it, and always pushes you to express yourself how you want.

Hell maybe they use that princely riches to get you whatever surgeries you might want!

And he will *very clearly* show you how much he likes your body, however it is.

After all, by the end of the game you belong to him, don’t you?

Mammon

When he's first assigned to be your guardian or whatever in Devildom, he didn't get the memo.

Didn't read the paperwork, cause he's just like me and puts off homework for way too long.

So he doesn't know these pronouns of yours that Lucifer has fixed in the documentation.

Which means, unfortunately, you have to correct him when he first speaks to Levi about you.

What's funny about it is that he'll complain about LITERALLY EVERYTHING having to do with you and you being a human and UGH he has to take care of a FRAGILE HUMAN

But when you correct the pronouns he doesn't even fucking blink.

You don't even explain.

You just say the correct pronoun after he messes up, and then he repeats you and *continues complaining about you* but this time in the correct pronouns.

This is the first moment out of a million of "hidden endearing things about Mammon" that you will come to learn.

Later, when you're closer, he will always be there to stand up for you and put up a fight if anyone wants to give you shit.

He will defend you to the end of time.

And he adores you. If he -- The Great Mammon -- adores you, then you must be perfect. So you can tell your stupid human brain to stuff it with the negative talk.

Leviathan

This one is written as AFAB

When you deny wearing the Ruri-chan dress for him, he's sad.

He KNEW you thought he was weird… and his thing for Ruri-chan was weird… and weirddmmm

So, you hesitantly tell him that… no, truly its not because of Ruri-chan

You just.. feel so sick when wearing dresses.

Something in you physically hurts, and you feel so *wrong* when in a situation where you're supposed to act "girly".

And you tell him that you don't really identify as female. You try to avoid that image whenever you can.

Levi is so touched that you would tell him and be honest with him.

He hugs you tightly and then turns beet red.

"D-Does that mean that you m-might.. kabedon… as Henry….?"

Cause he has that costume too and has never told anyone that he def would be seduced by his TSL hero.

You can get behind that one, and seeing how flustered he gets around you being yourself (through Henry?) has your confidence skyrocketing

This makes way to you flirting with ya boi 100% more often to see his adorable face.

Beelzebub

You go with him to work out, which is nothing really new, but this time he's looking at doing endurance training

...by swimming.

You have no idea what to do.

He didn't think twice about it, either. He didn't assume there would be any problem at all.

But for some reason your brain decided that his helpful and loving attitude wouldn't extend to this? Brains are silly when scared.

You try not to tear up when he questions why you've frozen in the doorway when he told you his plan.

You have no reason to be ashamed, or fearful, but the suddenness of the moment overwhelms you.

"I can't wear a swimsuit," is what comes out.

He pauses and then just looked vastly confused. He thought humans could swim..? Anyone could wear a swimsuit. You were wearing clothes right? What's the difference?

You wrap your arms around yourself, tryiing to soothe your nerves. "It's.. It shows too much.."

Then he looks you over, causing you to blush further, and he tips his head. "But you look nice."

Well if you weren't blushing before, now you definitely were. But it's not that. You hold your breath.

You try to explain without actually saying it, almost as if the word transgender has been blocked from your internal vocabulary.

But this babe just insists that you look great no matter what. Is it scars? Like everyone here has scars, it's okay. Weird toes? You should see Belphie's. There's a reason he wears socks all the time.

That almost makes you giggle, and you use that courage to say that you're trans.

He pauses for just a seond to blink. "Oh... nobody cares about that here."

He pulls you into a hug while you struggle for words. He tells you that you don't have to go swimming if you don't want to.

But he makes sure you know that he thinks you're wonderful. You're strong and brave and amazing. He will fight anyone who makes you feel differently.

Asmodeus

This one is AMAB

It’s seeing Asmo be unequivocally himself that gives you the courage to do it.

You haven’t even told your human friends yet. Your human family.

You’ve known for ages, but..

Seeing Asmo flounce over to you wearing the most STUNNING evening dress has you weak at the knees, for reasons other than he assumes.

He assumes that you’re wildly in love as you duck your head and try to mumble something through your shaking breaths, and of course, who wouldn’t be?

But when he coaxes you to speak up for him, delight of a whole different kind lights up in his expression.

“Could you… make me as pretty as you?”

Oh, darling, he wouldn’t even need to try.

He dolls you up, hosting a lovely makeover session in his room. What he doesn’t expect is for you to start crying when you look at yourself in the mirror.

Asmo’s unshakeable confidence is shaken. He rushes over to you, trying to brush away tears and learning what’s wrong.

That’s when you tell him what you’d been hiding for so long.

The adoration in his eyes catches you off guard, and he takes your hands lovingly. “Oh, honey..” he mumbles, affectionate and sweet instead of seductive. “What’s your name?”

He takes you out shopping the next day, and is always ready to help you be yourself.

He makes the switch almost instantly, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen even when you’re just waking up in the morning and kind of feel like a toad.

(You blame him for those mornings, though, since he’s the one working so hard to *thoroughly* exhaust you the night before.)

Satan

This one is AFAB

You and Satan have begun meeting rather often for tea.

It’s even gotten to the point where you’re both perfectly happy to sit in silence around each other. You’ve never been more comfortable.

But today, chaos reigns, and it has decided to make you clumsy today. Not even like, oh “that’s reasonable” clumsy.

No, you were enthralled in your fucking book, and you MISSED.

Tea, all down your chin and neck, and you hear a snort of derision.

Satan is looking at you, very clearly amused. “Very graceful.”

You huff and puff out your cheeks at him to prevent from blushing. “Shut up. Do you have a towel?”

Looking no less amused, he just pulls a new shirt from the dresser behind him and offers it to you.

You guys are chill. Good friends. Like. You don’t want to get up to go find a bathroom to change in. Your book is good and like Satan’s not about to be a creep, so you ask if it’s cool if you just change there, and he shrugs in response.

So, you swap shirts quickly, but when you’re dry he’s looking at you curiously.

“You have battle scars.”

You realize that you’d never told him. About your past, or your surgery, and you suddenly feel very self-conscious.

“It’s- .. Not exactly,” you fumble out, realizing that now, instead of finishing your amazing book, you have to deal with *coming out?* Ughhhhhh. “They’re from a surgery.”

Satan’s eyes don’t leave you. “I’ve read enough about the human world to know what they are,” he said, then he nods to himself. “I didn’t know you’d had such a fight.”

You are either very, very impressed or very, very confused and you really don’t know which to lean towards just yet.

“I’ve never been in a battle, Satan.”

“You fought to become yourself,” he answered, a small smile tracing his lips. “You never cease to impress me.”

Belphegor

The best part about becoming best friends with Belphie is the snuggle naps. It's the sweetest, calmest thing.

He is a little confused about why you insist on hugging a pillow when you nap with him, though.

He admits, its adorable. When he's big spoon he loves looking at you as you snuggle the big fluffy pillow.

When he wants to face you, though, he wants to be closer, he doesn't really understand it. He doesn't want to make you uncomfortable but also.. why?

Eventually, he tries to get answers out of you by teasing you about getting closer *intimately*.

He does expect the blush.

He doesn't expect the look of despair that you hide from him.

He's stunned for a moment before demanding to know why the hell you would look so sad about that.

You try to shake it off, but Belphie's nothing if not persistent and annoying when he wants to be.

He learns that you have been trying really hard for months now to hide your body from him. To keep your personal info private, even while snuggling.

You didn't know how he would take it, after all.

What if he got something he wasn't expecting?

Honestly, Belphie sulks after hearing this. He flicks your forehead and glares at you for doubting him.

But he looks you dead in the eyes and reminds you that you could never convince him you were anything less than perfect.

If you expected him to be disappointed by whatever you hid during snuggles, he would never be. You would never be a disappointment to him.

Your next nap together doesn't feature the pillow between you, which makes your heart feel fit to burst while he snuggles you closer.

#hhhhh i posted this to the wrong blog at firsttttt #it took me fucking forever to finish this agh #it was so hard to come up with prompts that were unique and fun while not embarassing in any way #or well #not like bad bad embarassing?#i headcanon that all of them are some form of gender fluid or nonbinary anyway so like the demon bros just love you okay #bast babbles #my writing #obey me headcanons #obey me #obey me!#obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me beelzebub #obey me asmodeus #obey me satan #obey me belphegor

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everybodyscupoftea · 4 years

Text

under the mistletoe

ole miss rafe x reader

the beginning of your relationship with some misunderstandings along the way (ft. the first kiss)

yes i will continue to use the same gif of this man :)

(warnings: cursing, drinking, light editing)

Rafe texted you for the first time about a date the weekend after the Egg Bowl. You weren’t overly enthused at the prospect, he’d been a huge dick, but you couldn’t help but be intrigued by him.

Dinner and a movie.

It wasn’t even a question. It was a demand, like he knew you’d say yes so there was no point in actually asking. To be fair you did plan on saying yes, but he didn’t need to know that. So, after 30 minutes, you had to make him sweat it out, you responded.

First of all, you should ask. Demanding is not the way to get a date. Second of all, if you think I’m voluntarily stepping foot in Oxford for a boy, you’re sorely mistaken.

Rafe responded almost immediately which made you feel a bit vindicated.

You’re right. I’m sorry. Meet in Jackson?

Which you could absolutely do. The two of you made plans for the following weekend to meet at the Cultivation Food Hall, and then you wanted to check out a science museum they had there. It was the inner vet major in you. And shockingly, Rafe agreed without much of a fight.

Of course it was almost too much to ask. What more could you expect from an Oxford frat douche bag, really there was no one to blame but yourself. The science museum was maybe a little bit childish, but you thoroughly enjoyed it while Rafe made it very clear he was bored.

You weren’t entirely sure what his major was, but clearly it wasn’t very sciency. There were easy hikes which cheered him up a bit, so you were glad for that, but when the two of you got in your cars to go your separate ways, you expected that to be the end.

It wasn’t, and he texted you again.

Did you make it back okay?

And when you didn’t answer, ready to leave him on read despite the warm feeling in your chest, he texted again.

I hope you had fun, I did. Can I see you again?

You walked over to your roommate’s room and dropped onto her bed with a loud, dramatic groan. She looked up from her desk where she was reading for one of her classes with an amused look, “Something wrong?”

“Rafe texted me,” you told her. She’d heard all about the date, you called her on the drive home so she had Thai takeout waiting for you when you got there, so she understood for the most part.

“And? Leave him on read if he made you that miserable today that you had to eat your weight in Thai food.”

“But, part of me wants to text him back. Like a big part of me. I don’t- explain to me.”

She snorted, “You’ve always liked toxic men.”

Your jaw dropped, but you couldn’t really argue with her there. There was nothing but the truth in her words, “Um, you didn’t have to come for me like that.”

“You needed honesty. I know you’re going to text him back, so what do you plan on saying?”

“What should I say?”

“I don’t know. I barely met him. Have your texts been super flirty?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want them to be?”

And that you had to think about. Did you really want to pursue things with this guy when you were both about to graduate in a semester.

“Maybe, I don’t know. I mean it might not go anywhere or get, like, super serious.”

She made a face, “But is that the guy you really want to pass the time with? Like you could definitely meet a nice boy here.”

You scoffed, “I’ve been here for three and a half years and haven’t managed that. May as well go for a hotty toddy.”

She sighed and gave you an amused look, “I’m a little embarrassed for you. This should be against everything you stand for.”

“It is,” you told her, slightly ashamed, “but he’s also cute.”

“Like I said, toxic men as long as they come in a pretty package.”

So, after a few hours you texted him back.

Yeah I made it, thanks. I’d like that. Maybe we can catch that movie. But no way in hell I’m going to Oxford.

His response was a little delayed, which you didn’t expect one back that night anyway, you sent it late. But just as you were almost asleep, your phone buzzed.

Fair enough. But don’t expect me to show up in Starkville anyway

Some people in your major were throwing a Christmas party a week before Christmas, and you really were debating going. Most of them had significant others and you knew it would be pretty painful being one of the only singles drinking alone.

“So bring Rafe,” your roommate suggested when you were yet again laying on her bed to complain.

You sat up fast, head spinning a bit, “I can’t just ask him. We haven’t even been seeing each other that long. Like he hasn’t even kissed me or anything. No relationship definition at all.”

She joined you on the bed and wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “Okay, feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but you actually really like this guy, right?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, “I’m such a hypocrite, but I really do.”

“Then ask him. You said the dates were getting better with each one. You’ve seen him every weekend for a month and some weeknights since you don’t have Friday classes.”

“What if he says no,” you whispered, “I think that’s why I’m most worried. It’ll really really hurt if he says no.”

She bit her lip, thinking, “Okay, if he asked you to be his date at some event in Oxford, would you go?”

You answered without hesitation, “I would.”

“Then ask. If he says no, I’ll go as your date and we’ll drink and have fun. But all you can assume is that he likes you as much as you like him, and he’ll say yes.”

“You’re right,” you admitted, standing from her bed, resolved, “I’m going to ask him.”

Hey Cameron, got a minute?

He answered quickly.

Sure, what’s up?

So you called him, and he answered on the second ring. Deep down you were very pleased about that.

“Hey,” he answered, “something wrong?”

“Not really, I just had a question for you.”

In hindsight, maybe you should’ve done it over text so if he did reject you, it wouldn’t be where he could actually hear your response. But the reasoning you called is so that if you got a no it wouldn’t be in a text where you could reread and over analyze that night.

“Fire away,” he cut off your spiral.

You sighed, “Okay so a few people in my major that I’ve done group projects with before are throwing a Christmas party. We all get plus ones, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with me.”

He hummed, “What’s the date?”

“Um, I think December 18th. If you’re going home before then, that’s totally fine. I just wanted to ask.”

“You’re willing to bring a hotty toddy to a bulldog Christmas party,” he teased, “I’m honored.”

You snorted, “Unfortunately, I am. If you want to at least, please don’t feel pressured.”

“I don’t. And I’m not going home for Christmas. I haven’t since freshman year. The reason I asked was because some of the guys in my pledge class are having a get together of our own. We did Secret Santa and it’s on the 21st so I didn’t want to miss it.”

“Oh,” you paused, “so you’ll come with me?”

“Of course,” his voice was soft, “you sound surprised.”

Your cheeks heated up, “I mean, I was kind of expecting you to say no.”

Rafe went silent, you could almost hear the gears in his head spinning as he tried to come up with a response. You were about to ask if he was okay before he responded, “You know that I like spending time with you, right?”

You tried to play your anxiety off, “I mean, I’d hope so the amount of weekends we’ve spent together so far.”

“Good. So then why do you think I’d say no?”

“I don’t know,” you chewed on your lip, “I guess we just haven’t really talked about what this is and I wasn’t sure where you are or how you feel.”

He hummed, “Okay, I understand. I’m sorry for not communicating better.”

“It’s okay, I should’ve done better too.”

“Well, now that we’re on the same page. Tell me exactly when the party is and I’ll be there.”

You hesitated, “Do you want to come the night before and stay?”

His voice was warm, when he answered, “Absolutely.”

“Thank god,” your roommate had said when you told her, “now I can go home early.”

Her partner was from her hometown, and they didn’t get to see each other often. She’d come to visit a few times since you and your roommate had lived together, so you had at least met her before.

“Tell her I said hey. Do you need a ride to the airport?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I need to pick up dessert for the party anyway, so I’ll drive you to Jackson and go to Target there.”

The two of you woke up at 3 a.m. to get her to the airport by 5:30. She talked a little about her Christmas plans and then the two of you rode mostly in silence. It was kind of calming, despite being super tired.

Before she got out of the car, your roommate pulled something out of her backpack and held it out to you. You took it, frown on your face, “Is this mistletoe?”

“It is. You said Rafe hadn’t kissed you yet, put this to use.”

You shook your head, huffing out a laugh, “I don’t know about that one.”

“He’ll be at the apartment all weekend, just hang it up in the kitchen or like in the hallway leading to your room.”

“It seems cheesy.”

“It is, but that’s what makes it fun,” she insisted.

Taking the mistletoe, you set it in the cupholder, “Fine. I’ll think about it.”

She nodded, pleased enough, “Thank you.”

You didn’t hang the mistletoe up, but to be fair you got totally distracted by stress cleaning and baking the desserts for the party you decided to make from scratch instead of buying store bought.

Rafe wasn’t supposed to show up until that night, but there was a knock at your apartment door at 2:30, startling you. He was smiling sheepishly on the other side, “I know I’m early, but I didn’t see any point in waiting longer.”

Grinning, you stepped aside to let him in. He looked around, taking in the decorations you and your roommate set up the day after Thanksgiving. You pointed toward the hallway your room was down, “If you want to set your stuff down, my room is at the end of that hall.”

“Thanks,” he answered, bending down to kiss you on the cheeks, something he’d been doing since date three.

Walking back to the kitchen you immediately picked the stress baking back up where you’d left it to answer the door. Rafe was gone for a while, using the bathroom you assumed, and when he came back, he was changed, and you couldn’t help but stare.

“What?” he asked, a weird look on his face.

“Nothing, I’ve just never seen you out of like jeans or slacks.”

He glanced down at himself, sweatshirt with his frat letters on them and grey sweatpants, before looking up at you, “I figured since we were staying in I could get comfy.”

“Yeah definitely,” you reassured, “I like it, just was surprised, that’s all.”

“You like it, huh?” he teased and stepped fully into the kitchen, wrapping one arm around your shoulders, “That’s noted.”

Rafe did dress back up for the party, which you were expecting. Jeans and a nice sweater. You smiled at him and tugged gently at the sweater, “This is cute.”

“Bought it just for the party. It’s even maroon, see?”

“I do see. Didn’t know if it was a coincidence or not.”

“Nope, fully intentional.”

It felt like a good time to kiss him, mistletoe or not, but before you got up the courage, he was stepping away to grab one of the desserts off the counter. You sighed internally and grabbed the other with the hand not holding your keys.

“Alright, I’m parked in the back lot, opposite direction of visitor parking.”

“Cool, after you.”

Sitting in the car, you plugged your phone into the aux. Rafe buckled up and got comfy in the passenger’s seat. You smiled at him, it felt natural for him to be invading your space the way he was. But he was giving you a bit of a complex with the whole not interested in kissing thing.

He glanced down at the cupholder and did a double take. You cursed yourself for forgetting to take the mistletoe out of your car when he asked, “Is that mistletoe.”

“Um, yep.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I meant to give it to my roommate when she flew out, but it was so early it totally slipped my mind,” you lied smoothly.

Rafe nodded, totally believing it, and you sighed. Maybe you should bring it in, hang it up when he’s in the shower or something. But deep down you knew you wouldn’t. You didn’t want Rafe to kiss you out of obligation for some stupid tradition. You wanted him to mean it.

The drive went by quickly, the boy hosting lived at an apartment complex just up the road, and you found parking easily, recognizing a few cars in the visitors' spaces meaning you weren’t the first ones to show up.

Rafe got out and took in all the MSU merch hanging from balconies and on cars with a grimace, “Y’all have almost too much spirit.”

“We aren’t snobby enough to think it’s tacky and above us,” you responded, taking a clear shot at Ole Miss.

“Fair enough. It’s just a lot of talk for a school who’s so bad at sports.”

Your jaw dropped, “I know an Ole Miss football fan isn’t speaking right now. Are you aboard the Lane Train?” you asked, mockingly.

Rafe rolled his eyes and shook his head, reaching down to ruffle your hair playfully, “With that record? Absolutely not.”

“And not because he’s a piece of shit?”

“Well, that too.”

He grabbed both containers in one hand and your hand in the other, lacing your fingers together as you led the two of you to the right building. His palms were sweating a little, and you squeezed gently, “All good?”

“A bit nervous, just don’t want to look stupid in front of your friends.”

“Why would you,” you were confused, unsure how he’d reached that conclusion.

“I mean, you’re all like STEM majors, right?”

“Yeah?”

“And I am not.”

There was so much to unpack there, so you tried to go for a joke, “I mean we aren’t going to just talk about like anatomy and biology all night, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He snorted, “Maybe a little. I just feel out of my depth.”

“I promise, it’s going to be okay. You’re really smart too, just in a different way. But we aren’t really here to show off our intelligence. It’s more to drink and eat and bitch about our professors.”

“See, that’s super specific,” he complained.

“Well, yeah, I guess. But most of us are dating out of our majors, just hop on the bandwagon like they do and you’ll win ‘em over in no time.”

By the time you’d finished reassuring him, the two of you had arrived at his door. You squeezed one last time and he smiled, seeming more at ease. Reaching up to knock, it swung open before you could, a guy named Justin grinning widely, “Welcome welcome to the annual Bitchmas Party.”

Rafe snorted and let you step in first. Justin set his drink down on the table by the door and held his hands out, I’ll take your coats and your keys please.”

Handing them over, he escorted you through the entranceway to the living room, stopping you right as the tile changed to carpet. You squinted at him, “What?”

Wordlessly, he pointed up and you saw mistletoe, your blood running cold. Rafe made a noise and bent down to kiss your cheek, close to the corner of your mouth but not quite.

“Boo,” Justin jeered, “but close enough, come on through.”

Your stomach sank. Again. And Rafe leaned down, “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I mean, you could’ve kissed me.” Your words came out a lot sharper than you intended, but before Rafe could question you, Ashton was stepping in to ask the two of you about drinks. Rafe asked for a soda and you got spiked eggnog. May as well to sort through the mess of feelings in your stomach.

Someone spread out the food and everyone lined up to get plates before settling in the assortment of chairs all over the room. You sat on the couch and Rafe sat on the floor, leaned back next to your legs. Justin gave him a weird look and offered a chair, but Rafe declined, saying he was fine.

At some point, he wrapped an arm around your closest leg and leaned his head on your thigh, nodding along to the conversation. You brushed your hand through his hair that you’d convinced him to leave ungelled, and complained about your animal sciences professor who’d made the tests way harder than necessary and not offered bonus opportunities.

Rafe actually interrupted, “Okay wait, she put questions on information not taught in class and not readily available in your textbook?”

“Correct.”

“So how were you supposed to know you were going to be tested on it.”

“You weren’t,” Justin answered him, drily, “That was her whole point. Be prepared for anything.”

“She should’ve just given us papers on those topics.”

“Agreed,” a girl named Emily chipped in, “I would’ve so much preferred that than literally guessing on a test.”

Rafe made a face, “I mean, for my history courses we were expected to do the readings and then like additional research, but she told us the topics beforehand so we’d know what to research.”

Ashton’s girlfriend leaned forward at his words, “You’re a history major?”

“Yeah,” Rafe answered, his grip on your leg tightening.

“Me too,” she looked excited, “what do you want to do?”

He leaned forward eagerly, “I want to teach, European if possible. I haven’t decided if I want to do like Advanced Placement courses in high school or just go get a masters and be a professor. What do you want to do?”

“I want to do research so I’ll definitely be going after a PhD. But I figure at least that way, I’ll be doing something while Ash is in vet school.”

Rafe looked around, “Is everyone here going to vet school?”

Mostly everyone in your group was, so they all nodded, including you. Justin spoke up, “Buncha nerds in this bunch. We all grouped together pretty much since day one since we all had the same plans. We’ve lost a few along the way.”

“Rest in peace Jasmine and Brady,” you added, solemnly.

“Do you all want to stay here?” Rafe asked, clearly curious about everyone’s plans.

A few people around the group nodded, but some shook their heads. Rafe hummed, taking in the information before looking over his shoulder at you. You nodded, “Yeah, I like MSU’s vet school, I want to stay.”

He nodded thoughtfully, “Good to know.”

Justin gave you a weird look and you shrugged, just as confused.

Four cups of eggnog later, the party was winding down, and you were happily tipsy. Rafe, still sober, had an arm around your waist to keep you steady. He led you toward the door, passing under the mistletoe again without stopping and you sighed.

Glancing down at you, he made a face, “Clearly something is on your mind.”

“Clearly,” you muttered back sarcastically. He opened the passenger door for you to climb in and you asked, “You know how to get back?”

“It’s just up the road, I don’t think it’s that hard.”

You rolled your eyes, “Just a question, no need to get so offended.”

The ride back was in uncomfortable silence, so unlike the drive there that you were squirming in the passenger seat. Rafe glanced over at a red light, “Are you about to puke?”

Offended, you answered, “No, I can handle my fucking alcohol.”

“Okay,” he muttered, “no need to get defensive.”

You hated how weird it felt between the two of you, but you weren’t sure how to fix it. Unless he just magically decided you were kissable, but you didn’t foresee that happening in the near future, so instead, you pouted.

Rafe parked and turned the car off but stayed seated, so you did too, feeling uneasy. He looked over at you, “What’s up. Why have you been so weird tonight?”

“I haven’t.”

“You have. And I think it actually started yesterday when I got here. Is it just me being in your space? Like am I invading it or something? I can go home tonight if I need to.”

Maybe you weren’t in the ideal state to have this conversation, but you also figured this was probably the state you were most likely to let the honest truth slip.

“No. The problem is you aren’t taking up enough space.”

Which in hindsight didn’t make much sense, you couldn’t blame him for the confused, “What does that mean?”

“It means that you won’t kiss me and I’m not sure why.”

“I-” and for once, for once in your whole goddamn relationship (or whatever you were calling it) Rafe was speechless, “I thought you didn’t want me to.”

Then it was your turn to be shocked, “What? When did I say that?”

“On our first date, you talked about only kissing when it got serious.”

“Yes.”

“And when I brought up the Christmas party in Oxford, you didn’t ask about a plus one. Hell, you still won’t come to Oxford at all.”

“How was I supposed to know I’m supposed to invite myself to a Christmas party with the boys? And sure, I was opposed to Oxford at first, but I think we’ve been seeing each other long enough for me to actually make that trip,” you answered incredulously, startled at all the assumptions he’d jumped to.

He squinted, “You never said.”

“You never said,” you fired back, “I invited you to a party with my friends, I thought that would be hint enough that I think this is serious.”

“I need it outright said,” he mumbled.

“Clearly.”

“Hey,” he protested, “it’s not just me. In fact, you never brought it up either.”

“Okay, Cameron, to be fair, you never brought up anything about that party other than that it was Secret Santa for some guys in your pledge class. Not only do I not want to be the only girl there, I especially don’t want to be an MSU girl there with a bunch of drunk Ole Miss frat boys.”

Rafe snorted, “Fair, that’s totally fair. So, I guess I should ask, do you want to come? There will be girlfriends and boyfriends. Secret Santa is just a small part.”

“Sure, I need to come see your apartment anyway, I should know what I’m getting into.”

He laughed loudly, “I’m not sure if I’m okay with that.”

You poked him teasingly, “Hey, you can’t take it back now, buddy.”

“I’d never.”

And with that, he got out of the car. You felt significantly better as he jogged around to grab the door for you. His arm went around your shoulders immediately, and you weren’t sure if it was an attempt to keep you standing straight or not.

“I’m not that drunk,” you told him.

He raised his eyebrows, “Okay four cups. I could smell the booze in that eggnog, it was strong.”

“Well you hurt my feelings, what else was I supposed to do besides drink?”

Rafe snorted, “Talk to me.”

“In front of everyone? At a party?”

“Bathroom.”

“So Justin could think we were hooking up in his bathroom.”

He squinted at you a few seconds, “Okay so it wasn’t the most conducive situation for a serious talk.”

“Mhmm.”

The two of you climbed the stairs to your third floor apartment. Rafe behind you so you wouldn’t fall and hurt yourself. He was a little offended when you muttered that you’d just take him down with you, “I could definitely catch you.”

“Okay buddy,” you patted his shoulder.

He made you drink four glasses of water in the kitchen and by the time the two of you were walking to the bathroom to get ready for bed, you were significantly sobered up. You tried to get to the sink first and Rafe playfully hip checked you out of the way to get his toothbrush.

“Nooo,” you complained, “my skincare routine is so much longer than yours, you can wait.”

“Guests first,” he argued, successfully keeping you away from the sink.

You gave up pushing against him to pout, “At least pass me my makeup remover.”

“Fine,” he grabbed the bottle from the sink and passed it over, “I guess you can at least start.”

“Oh thanks for your permission,” you responded sarcastically.

The next five minutes of him washing his face and getting ready, you kept trying to nudge him out of the way, but he wasn’t budging. Finally, you dug your fingers into his side and he yelped, twisting away enough for you to get some space in front of the mirror.

Your eyes lit up, “Are you ticklish?”

“No,” he denied, just a little too fast.

“Liar.”

You reached out to him again and he grabbed your hand pulling you into his chest. So caught off guard, you didn’t register him tilting your chin up or lowering his head to kiss you. And then his lips were on yours for the first time, and you made a noise, leaning into it.

He smiled and you could feel his heart racing where your hand was pressed against his chest. In the proximity, you couldn’t help but dig your fingers into his side again. He jerked away, joking glare on his face, “Watch it, mamas. I’ll make you pay for it.”

“Promise?” you teased, finally catching him off guard enough to get mirror space.

Rafe stepped over to sit on the closed toilet lid to wait his turn again and laughed. You turned to look at him, mid-washing your face, and gave him a questioning look.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the squashed mistletoe, “Guess I don’t need this.”

“You were going to use the mistletoe to kiss me?”

“I figured if your roommate wasn’t going to use it, we could.”

“Oh I lied,” you admitted, turning back to rinse your face.

“What?” he asked while you were drying.

You nodded, “She gave it to me to get you to kiss me.”

“Oh,” he perked up, “well I guess it kinda worked. Make sure to thank her for me.”

“No, absolutely not,” you insisted, “she does not need that ego boost.”

He laughed, holding his hands up, “Fine, we’ll do it your way.”

“As we should always.”

He laughed again and hip checked you over toward the wall so he could get back closer to the sink. You couldn’t help but think to yourself that you could get used to this.

day 3 of @obxmermaid‘s holiday challenge: mistletoe

#college rafe #ole miss rafe #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #outer banks fic #obxmermaidholiday

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secretbondsandloveconfessions · 4 years

Text

All Bastards Are Brothers

Just a series of kinda fluffy, kinda angsty one-shots about the brotherly bond between Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel. Stories are not connected.

Ao3:

Part 1: Knowin’ My Fate Is To Be With You

Azriel shows up to dinner one night with a hickey, leaving the Inner Circle full of questions. Rhys and Azriel have a heart to heart.

“Az, what's that?"

Mor asked. He traced her glance back to the crook of his neck where, after a moment of thought, he remembered the dark purple bruise given to him only a few hours before. He quickly covered it up with a wisp of shadow and feigned innocence.

"What's what?"

"On your neck there." She pointed at the shadow. "Was that a bruise?"

"There's nothing there."

"Bullshit, move your shadows."

"I don't think I need to, there's nothing there."

"What's going on down here?" Cassian turned to face them. This could only go downhill from here.

"Azriel has a hickey," Mor said, her voice chipper and mocking.

"I do not."

"Then why won't you show me your neck?"

"Why won't you believe me?" He shot back. He was always ready to accept a challenge, and as Mor stuck her tongue out at him, he did the same.

Cassian watched the two curiously before clearing his throat. "You know, Az, before you go all defensive, you should know you're blushing." Shit. That wasn't good. He could feel his face heat up faster than he anticipated. He didn't dare look at Elain, but he felt her heavy gaze. Her very own blush was likely brushing down her pale skin as she watched him get berated for the mark that she left.

"Fine." Azriel removed his shadows and hissed. "It's a hickey."

"I knew it!" Mor cheered loudly, gaining the rest of the attention of the table. He faced Cassian again, who had a feline smirk. "Who?"

He kept his mouth shut. Any name would be a lie—one that Mor would be able to sense—and he wasn't about to bring Elain down with him.

"Second one this week," Cassian said. "I think Azriel has a side piece."

"Second one?" Mor raised an eyebrow at him, and Azriel wanted to cringe at the memory of the training earlier this week. His face felt hot. If he had blushing before, he had to be scarlet by now, especially after Cassian walked over and pointed to the place between Azriel's wings, causing Mor to squeal with delight.

Azriel had chugged the rest of his wine by the time Cassian sat down again and cursed the Mother for his luck.

"Neck and the wings? I didn't know you had it in you, Azzie," Cassian teased. Azriel weaved the shadows around him further, wondering if he should just winnow away at this point.

"How long has this been going on? Do we know her?" Mor asked. "OH! Is it the female who hit on you at Rita's?"

Azriel kept silent, refusing to answer either of his friends' remarks. Though that only seemed to spur them on more.

"Azzie, she was a hot one, no wonder you kept her for yourself," Cassian followed, and Azriel braced himself as the blonde opened her mouth again, but it never came.

"Alright, leave him alone," Rhys intervened. "He's one snigger away from disappearing into the shadows forever."

Cassian and Mor protested, but he only raised another hand.

"You never stop them from mocking me," Cassian mumbled. "That's all I'm saying."

"You make yourself a target, boy." Amren chimed in.

Mor laughed loudly at that, before pouring both of them another glass. Azriel was thankful for the subconscious reaction and the change of subject.

However, he only got a few moments of peace before he felt Rhys's warm presence ask to enter his mind, and despite his better judgment, Azriel let him in.

I'm impressed. Rhys purred into his brain from the other side of the table.

Fuck you.

More like fuck you if we're going with the evidence.

What do you want?

Let's chat tonight. Rhys vacated his mind, though not without leaving in his mind a picture of Azriel's own face, thoroughly red and sheepish, and a mocking laugh. He knew Rhys wouldn't be his savior tonight.

———

Azriel would be lying if he said he wasn't nervous, so as he knocked on the open door of the study, he pressed his lips together and grimaced.

"You wanted to talk?" Azriel asked.

Rhys nodded, leaning against his desk. "I did, and I do."

Feyre sat next to him, absorbed in a pile of paperwork, and if Azriel was about to have the conversation he thought he was going to have, then he definitely didn't want her there. He sent a pleading look to Rhysand, who, much to his credit, understood. "We'll go out to the balcony."

With a kiss to Feyre's head, his High Lord led him out to the private deck, and the anxiety in Azriel's stomach soared, his shadows swirling around him.

"I'm assuming this is about earlier."

"You're seeing someone," He stated, watching as Azriel nodded. "And I had no idea. You didn't tell any of us, which makes me think that Amren's assessment was true."

"What did Amren say?"

"She muttered something to me about you being the only male she can stand because you hide every aspect of your romances. She was wrong, Az. You've kept them out of the spotlight, but you've never lied about being with them, not like you did tonight. It made me wonder, what makes this one different?" Azriel remained silent, unwilling to answer his brother's question. Luckily, Rhys answered it for him. "I can only think of three reasons why you'd keep the identity of your lover secret."

"I see you've put a lot of thought into this."

"It's not often that you take extra measures with a lover." A valid point. "I want you to be happy, brother, truly, so please don't hide yourself from me—you have a record of doing that, you know. Will you promise me that you won't lie about anything?"

"Will you promise not to tell the others?" Azriel asked him, quietly. "You can tell Feyre, I wouldn't ask you to keep something like this from your mate."

"I swear it on the graves of my mother and sister."

"I won't lie to you then." A fond smile crossed Rhys's face.

"Good, well, I want to make sure this person is worth it, so I'll start by asking, is this secret lover worth putting the strain forward?"

"Yes," was all he could think to say. He didn't trust himself to say anymore. Rhysand's smile got bigger, spilling over into his violet eyes, and Azriel felt himself blush a little once more. Rhys was always the most sentimental out of the three.

"Good. I'm glad they're worth it. Now, I have questions. Number one, you're ashamed of this person."

Azriel looked up in alarm. "Why would I be ashamed?" Cauldron, he would scream it to the entire Night Court that he loved Elain Archeron. The entirety of Prythian if he had to.

"I thought that maybe you had gotten tangled up with someone you shouldn't, like a Spring Court Lady, or a human, or I thought for a long moment, that maybe she wasn't a she after all..." Azriel raised his eyebrow at the last one.

"What?"

"Well, it occurred to me that I didn't know if you took males in bed, and then I started thinking, that if you really hadn't wanted us to know, you could and would hide it very well. I'm not here to judge, but if you say yes, then I feel like this chat will get a little more heartfelt than intended." Rhys rambled on, scratching the back of his neck. Azriel almost pitied him.

"I've never taken a man to bed, Rhys, and I do not plan too."

"Okay, good because I was lousy at talking to Mor about that."

"...and she's not lesser fae either."

"All right then, number two: is this a protective 'She's my mate' scenario?"

"No, I don't think we're mates."

"Are you sure?"

"Most people don't find their mates, Rhys," Azriel reminded him, masking the annoyance in his voice. Just because both he and Cassian found their mates didn't mean they all would.

"True. Number three: she's someone we know. In that case, my only question is how sweet, flower growing Elain is able to bruise an Illyrian."

Azriel gaped at him, demanding. "How?"

"The only person redder than you at dinner, which, by the way, was the highlight of this decade, was dear sweet Elain. Feyre told me that she thought Elain too innocent to hear it. I didn't quite think so."

"Are you going to have this little chat with her also?"

"Oh, I think she'll suffer enough from her own embarrassment than to have me do it again. Besides, you're more fun to torture."

"Can't you go tease Cassian?"

"We both know why I can't do that..." Rhys said candidly, and Azriel didn't dare to be hopeful that Rhys would drop the subject. Rhys's small frown turned into another smile soon after, and Azriel swallowed. "You hardly ever have anything for me to talk about anyway. I need to utilize this situation to its full potential. In fact, after you inform my mate of my win, I'm going to ask her to paint your lovely face...you remember the one?"

Rhys sent the same picture of Azriel's blushed face. Azriel rolled his eyes and spoke. "Shut it, Rhys."

To his surprise, Rhys did, choosing instead to turn towards the railing and look over the glittering lights of Velaris. Azriel did the same and took another sip of his wine.

"When do you think you'll tell everyone else?" Rhys said after a moment.

"Oh, I don't know, I'd rather have tonight fade from their minds before I say anything, though I suppose that's rather optimistic of me."

"I don't think Cassian and Mor will let that go, brother, but you can deal with them."

"Well, then there's always Nesta...And I'd rather not have my cock ripped off of my body."

Rhys cringed. "She's going to be a hard one to convince, my sympathies lie with you."

"My only hope is that she and Cassian can distract each other."

"Again, optimistic."

"True," he said cordially before quickly adding, "But I suppose it's up to Elain, really. She's much more conservative in these matters."

Rhys scoffed, "The irony in that statement. You two are made for each other."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't bullshit me. You do the same exact thing."

"I do not," Azriel insisted, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

"Az, when's the last time you had a quick fuck?"

"Wh—?" Azriel sputtered. "That's none of your concern."

Rhysand gave him a long look before he turned it into a sickening grin. Azriel wanted to slap it off his face. "You were saying?"

"Go fuck yourself," he laughed.

#a court of thorns and roses #fanfiction #rhysand #elriel fanfiction #humor #azriel #elain archeron #bat bros #elriel #feysand #rhys #acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #elriel fic

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isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

Text

The Piano Lesson

Summary: “Personally, I’ve always favoured the carrot and stick approach to education.” When Missy agreed to teach you to play piano, this wasn’t quite what you had in mind.

Warnings: NSFW. Little bit of sadomasochism but nothing heavy. Possibly dub!con or under-negotiated kink if you squint. On the whole, it’s basically fluff with Missy being a soft!domme.

Word Count: 2390

NB: A long time ago @softlilith said something about a piano and a riding crop and this idea was born. It’s set somewhere between Vault Night and Handmaiden and has been sitting, unfinished, in my Google Docs for weeks. I threw in some praise kink for this anon, too! What was supposed to be porn turned into a bizarre ode to trust, vulnerability and things left unsaid. (Why am I like this?)

“No, dearest. Not like that.”

Missy’s hands flutter about your own, lifting your wrists, adjusting your fingers on the keys with tender precision. A strand of her hair tickles your cheek. She’s leaning over you where you sit at the piano bench, pressed close enough to your back to make your pulse quicken.

“There.” She taps the index finger of your right hand. “This note first.”

“Got it.” You drag your bottom lip between your teeth, flexing your hand, rehearsing the movements. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Her fingers ghost over your arms as she withdraws, giving you room to play. “Try it again. From the top.”

You take it slowly, managing the familiar first few bars of Für Elise at half tempo, fighting to ignore the slow click of her heels while she circles the piano. Her keen eyes don’t leave you for an instant.

The sound of a flat note breaking the melody makes you flinch. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. These things take time.” This unruffled patience is an odd change of pace for her. While you’re getting more frustrated by the second, infuriated by the way your clumsy fingers miss their mark and your mind stutters over the sheet music, she seems to be thoroughly enjoying her role as tutor. Even the most hideous-sounding mistakes don’t make her twitch. “Do you know where you went wrong?”

“I think so.” She raises an eyebrow and gestures for you to continue. “I, um, misread the music. That should have been a G sharp.”

“Very good.” Her tone makes you shiver. “You’re learning. Once more, from that bar.”

It takes your hands a moment to catch up with your eyes, finding the right keys to correct your mistake. She counts you in with three raps of her knuckles against the piano’s closed lid.

Slower, this time, you repeat the bar, managing to progress a bit further before another slip of your treacherous fingers interrupts you. “Fuck,” you snap, dropping your hands from the keys.

“Language, poppet,” she reminds you, coming to stand at your side. “You’re doing very well. You’ll get there.”

“I can’t do it, Missy.” Your voice is petulant, embarrassing you almost as much as your amateur playing. “I might as well give up for the day.”

“Oh, now, don’t be so defeatist,” she chastises gently, slipping her fingers under your chin to tilt your head towards her. There’s an encouraging quirk to her painted lips. “Faint heart never won fair maid.”

“I’m making a fool out of myself.”

“You are not.” She presses a soft kiss to your forehead, tickling at the sensitive skin under your jaw until you squeak and duck your head. “I’m very proud of you, dear.”

“But I keep getting it wrong.”

“You do,” she agrees, meeting your eyes again. Ashamed, you try to avert your gaze, but she follows. “But that’s how we learn.”

“Can we start with something easier?” You smile weakly. “Frère Jacques, or something? I feel like I’ve been thrown in at the deep end a bit, here.”

“Did you expect anything less from me?”

In fact, you hadn’t expected her to agree to teach you at all. The way her eyes lit up when you asked had taken you entirely by surprise. She tuts sympathetically, giving you a wide smile that shows her teeth.

“We can always try another way.”

Your brow furrows. “Like what?”

“Well,” she tucks a stray hair behind your ear and you shiver. “I can give you some more firm guidance.”

“Firm?” It’s breathless, more pleading than questioning.

“Of course.” Missy leans closer, her nose brushing yours. “Would you like that?”

The question is loaded in a way that you can’t quite grasp. It makes your neck prickle with goosebumps. “I think so.”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “My very good girl.”

She kisses you, gentle but fervent, trailing her fingertips along the nape of your neck. A tremor runs the length of your body, twitching through you from fingers to toes. She chuckles as she pulls away.

“Personally,” she moves to stand behind you, placing her hands on your shoulders, “I’ve always favoured the carrot and stick approach to education.” You swallow hard, mouth suddenly dry. “I think you’ll respond quite well to that.”

“What do I do?”

She strokes down both arms, carefully repositioning your hands. You can feel her pressed against your back. “Play it again. All the way through.”

“But I- I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” she reassures. “If you make a mistake, just carry on. Otherwise you get very good at the beginning,” a soft kiss to the side of your head and a conspiratorial whisper, “and not so good at the rest.”

You wait a moment for her to step away but she doesn’t, keeping her palms resting over your shoulders and her abdomen tight against your back. Heart in your throat, you start to play.

The first mistake makes you falter. Missy taps your shoulder with one finger. “Carry on,” she reminds you, not unkindly, and you do.

It’s slow going but you make it to the end of the piece. Each false note has you wincing but, on the whole, you do feel more accomplished having completed it. You tilt your head to see her and she grins down at you.

“Well done, poppet,” she coos, chucking you under the chin, igniting you with pleasure at her praise. “Now, up you get.”

It surprises you. “I can do it again.” She smooths the confused frown from your lips with her thumb.

“You will, in a moment. First,” taking your hand in hers, she pulls you gently to your feet. “Let me give you some help. Take off your clothes.”

“I- um,” it’s a flustered squeak. “How will that help?”

She speaks as if it’s the most natural request in the world. “Well, they’ll get in the way otherwise.”

“Of... playing the piano?”

“Of the stick.”

You eye her suspiciously for a moment and she raises an expectant brow. “Fine,” you concede, beginning to disrobe.

Once you’re down to your underwear, you fold your clothes tidily and pile them underneath the piano. Mess has its place in the vault - a small act of rebellion - but you get the impression that she isn’t looking for that just now.

“Keep going.”

With a theatrical sigh, you reach for the clasp of your bra. “And just to be clear, you’re very sure that this is still about learning the piano?”

She grins wolfishly. “Cross my hearts, I have only the most chaste of intentions.” The way she drags a finger across her chest, marking two looping X shapes, makes your heart flutter. “Chop chop, now, there’s a good girl.”

It’s cool enough to make you shiver, crossing your arms awkwardly over your naked body. Missy’s eyes flitting over you from head to toe don’t help. “What now?” You’re aiming for accusatory but it comes out timid.

“Now,” she eases your arms down to your sides and guides you forwards with a hand in the small of your back until your stomach brushes the edge of the piano. The glossy surface of it feels cold. “Put your hands like this.”

Close at your back, she positions your hands on the lid, shoulder-width apart. Her hips cradle yours. You’re glad to be facing away from her as heat rises in your cheeks.

“Very good.” You can’t supress a sigh when her lips brush your bare shoulder. “Now bend over.”

Your pulse seems to skip. “Missy...”

“Do you want to learn?” She kisses your earlobe.

“Well, yes, but-”

“Then let me teach you.” Gentle hands land on your hips. “Bend over the piano.”

Beneath your breasts and stomach the piano lid is chilly. The shock, combined with the way your arse is pushed out against the warmth of her thighs through the wool skirt, makes you inhale sharply. She swipes her palm tenderly across your back.

“That’s my girl. Feet a bit wider apart, now.”

You wince as you widen your stance, acutely aware of the way it exposes you, the brush of cool air and coarse wool against your labia.

“Perfect.”

She steps away and you hear her boots clicking down the steps from the platform. You twist awkwardly to look over your shoulder.

“Eyes forward,” she says firmly, and you reluctantly obey.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Do you?” She’s somewhere off to your right, opening a wooden chest with a creak. “Because you look delightful.”

You roll your eyes. “I really don’t understand how this is supposed to-”

“How many mistakes did you make?”

“I’m beginning to think that this was one.”

“In the piece.” She approaches unhurriedly, ignoring your sarcasm. “How many, do you think?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t count. A lot, I suppose.”

“Eleven.” Something brushes against the back of your thigh. It’s cool, smooth leather. Your breath hitches. “Perfectly reasonable, I would say.”

“Okay, then. Eleven.”

“Count them off for me.”

Before you can ask what she means, something snaps against the undercurve at the top of your right thigh.

“Ow!” Rocking up onto the balls of your feet, you reach back to rub at the stinging mark. You turn an accusatory look at her over your shoulder. “Missy, that hurt!”

“Well it wasn’t supposed to tickle, dear.” She taps the riding crop on the left side of your arse. “What number was that?”

“Well, one, but I don’t-”

“What’s the matter, poppet? Don’t you trust me?” There’s a teasing lilt to her voice but somehow the question feels heavy. You bite back a scathing remark that you don’t really mean - not right now I don’t - and turn back to the piano, dropping your hand.

“One,” you repeat.

"Good girl. Ten more, then.”

“Fine, but not so hard this time.”

“Hmm. We’ll see.”

Another snap of the crop makes you twitch and yelp. “Ow! Two!”

She alternates sides, sometimes going higher towards the fullest swell of your arse, other times landing the crop on the sensitive undercurve where your thighs meet. By the time you count out eleven, your voice is unsteady and your breathing harsh. A dull haze of stinging pain like insect bites lingers over your skin.

It’s impossible to ignore the slickness creeping down the insides of your thighs.

Mercifully, she doesn’t point it out. “There we are. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

You scoff and admit sulkily, “no, I s’pose not.” Wincing at the sting, you straighten up and reach back to soothe yourself.

“No, none of that,” she tuts, slapping the crop against your wrist. It doesn’t hurt but shocks you enough to make you snatch your hand away. “Now play it again.”

It takes you by surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Sit down, and play it through again.” Missy comes to stand at your side, propping her elbow up on the piano lid. “Just like before. I’ll correct any mistakes after the fact.” She pointedly sets the crop down on top of the piano.

Spotting the way that your eyes flit down to the folded clothes on the floor, she chuckles. “Oh, no, you won’t be needing those.” She slides them further under the piano with her boot. “Well, go on.” A sharp pinch to your arse makes you squeak. “Or do I need to repeat myself?”

“Nope!” You pull away swiftly. “Point made. I’ll try it again.”

The cool leather cushion of the piano bench presses mercilessly against your stinging flesh. The pain is already fading, but it’s turning into a prickling, pins-and-needles heat that you can’t ignore. You shift uncomfortably. The brush of leather against your arousal makes you gasp.

“Comfy?” She leans against the piano, smirking at your plight.

“Yes, thank you.” You clear your throat and find the keys. “Just like before?”

“Just like before. I’ll count you in.”

It’s difficult to focus when you can see the crop lying across the piano out of the corner of your eye.

Still, you do your best. Slow and hesitant, you work through the bars, doubling back over the mistakes to correct them with the right notes. Now, when your fingers slip, you wince not only at the sound it makes but at the thought of what will come when you’ve finished.

If your thighs twitch with each one, that can only be out of nerves.

“I think that was better this time.” Your voice comes out shaky.

“Much better,” she agrees. “A very good effort, my dear. How many mistakes this time, do you think?”

You can’t help squirming in your seat. “Seven. I think.”

“Is that so?” She quirks an eyebrow. “I only counted five.”

“Oh. I wasn’t really-”

“No, no,” she holds out her hand and you take it, rising from the bench. “Far be it from me to contradict you. I’ll leave it to your discretion.” Guiding you closer with a gentle tug, she touches your chin. Her fingers brush light and ticklish there. “What’s it to be? Five, or seven?” She looks at you with such tenderness that your chest tightens.

Suddenly it stops being about the piano.

You squeeze her hand and meet her eyes with some effort. She holds you there with her fingers beneath your chin. “Seven,” you whisper, in a voice that sounds like I trust you.

Something melts behind her eyes. She smiles, fond and benevolent. “Seven it is.” Inclining her head towards the side of the piano, she leads you by the hand as if she were asking you to dance.

You follow.

It feels different, this time. Despite the position, you’re not embarrassed; despite the pain, you’re not afraid. Somehow, naked and splayed out for her, you don’t feel vulnerable at all.

You feel held.

“Count for me,” she says again, and now it sounds like a thank you. The first brush of the crop against the inside of your thigh makes you gasp.

For her?

A snap of leather, bringing with it biting pain. Your hips jolt. Your back arches. Inside, deep inside, something comes untied that you never knew was in a knot.

“One!” Breathless, a giddy sort of laugh bubbles up from your chest.

She makes a quiet sound of approval. “Good girl. Back straight, now. Stay still for me.”

You flatten yourself against the cold piano lid. “Yes, Missy.”

For her?

Anything.

#mine #request #missy x reader #the master x reader #doctor who reader insert #nsfwork

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miraculouscontent · 4 years

Text

Fu talking to Marinette about bringing in new heroes:

Marinette guessed that Master Fu noticed her smile as he asked, "So, is LadyBugOut going well?"

She smiled wider, almost to the point where her cheeks hurt. She took a big sip of her tea, then let out a satisfied breath before setting the cup down. "It's going amazing, Master Fu. I'm starting to really like being Ladybug—I mean, not that I didn't before, it was fine—"

"I understand," Fu cut in with a calm smile.

"Right," she said, slightly embarrassed. "Anyway, it feels like I have real power now. Before, I just saved Paris from akuma, and of course that was enough for my job, but now it really feels like I have control and..." She placed a hand to her chest, eyes closed and clearly reminiscing. "I'm making a difference."

"You are!" Wayzz chimed in. "Most heroes have become more careful as time goes on because of the advancement of technology, but you've used it to your advantage."

Marinette could only grin, becoming sheepish at the praise. Part of her wanted to downplay it, but she was doing good work and knew that she'd only be praised more if she denied it.

"And Chat Noir?" Fu prodded. "How's your partnership?"

With that question alone, Marinette's smile faltered. She avoided making eye contact with Fu, pretending that it was of the utmost importance to pick up her tea and take a drink before responding.

It wasn't that she hated Chat. Things were just... complicated. Moving on from Adrien was a priority of hers, but she had no interest in Chat Noir despite his obvious advances on her. Even if he could be a good partner in battle, he made her uncomfortable in a romantic sense.

She couldn't tell Fu that though.

"Ah, me and Chat?" she asked, acting as though she were thinking about it. "It's good! It's great! I mean, I'm Ladybug, so making connections, having everyone get along... it's kind of my thing, you know?"

Neither Fu nor Wayzz responded immediately. Pursing her lips nervously, she dared to glance back at Fu, only becoming more nervous at his neutral expression. She couldn't read it at all.

Finally, after an agonizing few seconds, Fu set his cup of tea down. "Marinette, there's something I've been meaning to speak with you about."

"Ah." She looked down at her lap, ashamed. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I swear I'll—"

"You're not in trouble, Marinette. You haven't done anything wrong," Fu assured. He paused, then looked off at the window, brows furrowed. "It is I who has done something wrong."

Marinette jerked up, thoroughly confused. "I—you, Master?"

Wayzz nodded. "Do you remember Scarlet Moth?"

"Of course?" She raised a brow at Fu. "What does that have to do with it?"

Fu sighed. "When you came in on Heroes' Day to retrieve the miraculouses, I told you that I knew that Hawk Moth would one day realize what kind of power the butterfly miraculous truly gave him." He lowered his head, almost as if to bow for forgiveness. "It is, in full, my fault that you weren't prepared. Had it not been for your allies, Hawk Moth would have taken your miraculouses."

"Master..." She hesitated. "I, those allies—"

Fu raised a hand. "You don't have to say a word, Marinette, and I don't want to hear you take blame for your actions. You, as Ladybug, won against Hawk Moth, and while your allies did come through for you on Heroes' Day, they ultimately succumbed to Hawk Moth's influence for their own reasons."

He stood with a resolute gaze, turning to head to the gramophone. "It goes without saying that you'll need new allies. Permanent allies."

She gaped, then tilted her head. "But... you told me before that it was dangerous to have more miraculouses released?"

"I did," he admitted. He unlocked the gramophone accordingly, then took the Miracle Box and turned around. Approaching Marinette, he knelt down to the floor and set the box down. "But with the efficiency that akuma are being dealt with, I don't doubt that Hawk Moth may lose patience. He may pull another stunt as he did during Heroes' Day."

He opened the Miracle Box to present the miraculouses. "And if he does, I want you to have allies you'll be familiar with by the time it happens; allies who have experience and who are prepared for the job. It's riskier to have you constantly running to me than to have a few heroes nearby who will be ready to act sooner than you could get the miraculouses from me."

Marinette hummed in thought as she stared down at all of the miraculouses. What Fu said made sense; having to come up with matches for miraculouses on the fly was difficult, like Lucky Charm without any guarentee that there was a right path. She'd been lucky that all of her choices had worked out, but even then, hadn't it been her own instruction and planning that resolved things in the first place?

"...Wait." She looked back up. "But won't I know their identities? I've always picked new heroes."

"And you still will," Fu replied, "but only in a way."

Marinette was certain that her confusion was blatantly showing on her face.

"No matter how your choices turned out, Marinette, you still made good ones in the moment. You were able to take what little time you had and turn it into a victory. I'll still use my own instincts to decide who your allies will be, but I want your input as well."

"So, like a list?" she asked. "A list of possible choices and what's good or bad about them?"

Fu nodded.

Marinette frowned and scratched her cheek. It wasn't that she didn't trust Master Fu, but... "Aren't you worried I'll figure out someone's identity?"

He shook his head. "You have no way of knowing whether or not I'll pick from your list, and you've been very diligent as Ladybug. You stuck firmly to the rule of not revealing your identity to Chat Noir and you've so rarely wondered about who he is. I trust you not to pry into the lives of your fellow teammates, and if you did manage to figure one out, I trust that you'd report it back to me."

"That...That's true." She nodded to herself. Looking down at her teacup, she raised it to her lips and chugged down the rest of the tea. It was still warm, which she was thankful for. "I won't let you down, Master."

He held his hand out and she handed the cup over. "I'm sure you won't."

Standing with new resolve in her chest, Marinette bid the two farewell and headed out the door.

Wayzz waited until she was completely gone to turn to Fu, a knowing smile on his face. "Master, you plan to pick out every single hero from her list, don't you?"

Fu simply smiled in response, finishing off his own tea before replying, "A respectable guardian knows how to pick their allies, and she has far better instincts than I did at her age."

#MC's Collabs #collab: LadyBugOut AU #MC's Writing #writing: story #category: long post #word count: over 1000

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pastpatientlywaitingforimagines · 4 years

Text

Andromeda | Spencer Reid x Reader

WC: 1865

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR 03x05 AND THE SECOND HALF OF SEASON 12, prison Reid, mentions of trauma/anxiety/therapy.

A/N: Remember this post? I was talking about this fic. Anyways, the concept of both Spencer and Reader being groomed for the BAU was one that intrigued me so I wrote this. One day I’ll get tired of writing for this universe but today is not that day. Enjoy!

GALAXY MASTERLIST (not needed to understand the plot but there’s similar content here if you liked this fic!)

You had seen a lot of bad things in your life, but hands down the worst thing you had ever seen was Spencer Reid sitting on the other side of the partition in the prison visiting room. As always your proximity to the doctor cleared your head and relaxed you in a way you hadn’t felt in weeks, but due to the circumstances you knew it was only because he was alive.

“I don’t like this,” you wasted no time making your feelings known.

“I know, me neither,” even though he was alive, you could tell your friend was in rough shape, “how are you doing?”

You breathed a laugh, “I should be asking you that.”

“I’m the same as I was when Garcia visited last week, and we both know she called you as soon as she left here.”

He was right, Penelope had filled you in on everything he had said when she had gone for her visit the week prior.

“Have you gone back to work yet?”

“Yeah, but I’m still not allowed in the field. My therapist keeps telling Emily I’m compromised,” you rolled your eyes, “I think being back in the field would help me compartmentalize better than doing paperwork in Penelope’s office.”

“What have you been doing outside of work?”

“Has my therapist talked to you too? Yeesh,” you rolled your eyes again, causing Spencer to crack a smile, “I’ve been spending a lot of time with Luke, he reminds me of some of the guys from my Platoon. He lets me watch Roxy when the team is traveling, and we go to a veteran’s support group every Tuesday. I don’t think he actually needs the support but he definitely knows I don’t go if he’s not there.”

Spencer sighed, “support groups are good, is it helping?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, “I already did the work to cope with my time in the military years ago. The problem isn’t my military trauma, the problem is that my best friend is in prison and the constant anxiety is dredging up old wounds.”

Your eyes narrowed, aware that he was definitely doing a light psych eval of you in that brain of his. You half expected him to start spouting exactly what was happening in your brain that was causing the increased frequency of your episodes, but it never came.

“Will you keep going, for me?”

“Sure, but only because you asked. And if Luke says anything about it you can’t tell him I don’t think it’s working.”

“Deal,” the light banter was the most normal thing that had happened to you since bringing Spencer home from Mexico.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“I know you’re a super genius and everything, but do you ever feel like you weren’t cut out for the BAU even though you were groomed for it?”

“Yeah, I had to get waived on every physical part of training and failed my gun certification an embarrassing number of times even after I was hired. I wouldn’t have gotten the job if Gideon didn’t do some serious vouching for me. Do you… do you feel like that?” You thought it was ironic that Spencer was concerned for you when he was the one in jail.

“Out of everyone in my class at the Academy, Rossi and Hotch picked me. There were at least four other agents that were better at profiling than I was, I was not the obvious choice. My entire career has been defined by joining the BAU and yet I still get hit with some serious imposter syndrome, especially since you’ve been gone. Sometimes I wonder where I would have ended up if I hadn’t been picked, what kind of agent I’d be.”

“You would have ended up with the Hostage Rescue Team,” you knew Spencer was a know-it-all, but you were surprised at his confidence and quick response.

“How do you figure?” you questioned, watching the tips of his ears turn red as he blushed.

“Garcia and I overheard Hotch and Rossi talking about you when they came back from recruiting. We did some… ‘spelunking’ and found your file.”

“Anything juicy in there?” you teased, thoroughly amused at the image of Spencer and Penelope huddled around her desk investigating you.

“No. It said you were ex-military and had been psychologically discharged. We didn’t dig deeper into that, but I could see signs of anxiety the first time I met you so it wasn’t really going to be a secret anyways.”

“Fair, so how did you know about Hostage Rescue?”

“There was a note from their unit chief that they wanted you. It makes sense, you passed the field tests in the Academy with flying colors and you’re exceptional in the field. You would do really well on a tactical team.”

“In theory, until I have a panic attack and get thirty people killed,” you joked, “they probably asked Hotch to take me because I’d have the smallest chance of being a liability in the BAU.”

“Actually, Hotch said he liked how you had approached the exercise they had given you.”

You remembered that day like it was yesterday, Hotch and Rossi had come into your class with the bare bones of a case: an abducted child in a mall a week following a prior abduction of a similar nature. As a collective you had to solve the case, asking the right questions to get the information you needed from the two Supervisory Special Agents.

Your previously mentioned classmates that had a knack for profiling were quick to build a few theories and get a bit more information, including a glimpse of the girl on a security camera, but there were still a lot of missing pieces. Something about the whole thing felt off to you, so you finally spoke up.

“What if it was someone in her family?” Your classmates looked at you in confusion, a few of them jumping up to reiterate the evidence against your suggestion. “I see your point, and I’ll support the group if you still think I’m wrong, but hear me out. There’s evidence of the abduction being personal. I don’t think it’s related to the prior case at all.”

“The family has been with us the whole time,” one of your classmates argued.

“The father?” someone else suggested.

“No, not him,” your brain was working hard, “I think it was the aunt, Susan.”

“Well done, Agent,” you heard Agent Hotchner over the clamor of the room at your suggestion.

“Do you want to back up your theory?” Rossi asked once your classmates had settled down.

“Her husband shows signs of grooming Katie: he knows more about his niece than he does his own kid. If his wife noticed, she might be trying to protect her family. She was probably ashamed that her husband was a pedophile, her son had a record, and her marriage was falling apart. Susan already said she worked retail in a mall, even if she didn’t work at this mall she’d at least have knowledge of how malls work and where she could hide a body. The abduction from the previous week would have given her something to pin Katie’s disappearance on, and Katie would have trusted her enough to go somewhere without an obvious struggle.”

“Bingo, Agent…?” Rossi looked at you for your name.

“(y/l/n),” you offered.

“Susan took her own pain out on Katie. Our agents were able to recover Katie’s body and resuscitate her, and both Susan and her husband were brought into custody.”

Later, as class was dismissed, you were approached by the two men.

“What was it that made you look deeper into the family as suspects?” Hotch had asked.

“I just had a feeling, sir,” you told him honestly.

“What kind of feeling?” Rossi seemed genuinely interested in what you were saying.

“A gut feeling. I know we’re supposed to use the facts, and all the facts were presenting themselves as becoming a serial abduction, but it just didn’t feel right to me. When I started exploring other possibilities the relevant evidence jumped right out.”

“Sometimes we get cases with barely enough information to make decisions from. Following instincts can lead to breakthroughs that solve the whole case. Keep up the good work,” Hotch shook your hand before walking away with Rossi right behind him.

“Yeah, I went out on a limb with that one. I’ll tell you about it later,” you shook your head, knowing you didn’t have enough time to tell Spencer the whole story. He was quiet for a minute, glancing around the room before he spoke again.

“If I can’t get out of here, I think you should look into transferring to Hostage Rescue.”

“You’re not serious, are you? You’re getting out of here. I’m seeing to it personally,” you said it like it was a fact. His face told you he wasn’t kidding.

“Let me ask you this- if I’m found guilty at my trial, how are you going to take it?”

You wanted to tell him you would be fine and continue to fight for his freedom, but you both knew there was a reason your therapist wasn’t clearing you for field work that would only get worse if your best friend had to serve upwards of 25 years in jail.

The BAU without Spencer Reid just wouldn’t be the same BAU you fell in love with when Hotch and Rossi had hired you all those years ago.

“Do you really think the brass would approve a transfer to an anti-terrorism tactical unit when I can’t even get cleared for field work now?” you countered.

“I do. Your coping mechanisms are well developed. If you separate yourself from the BAU… and me… I think you could pass their psych eval just fine. And everyone knows your tactical skills are off the charts, even after you’ve taken time off.”

“You’re not a very good genius if you think you can get rid of me that easily,” you were quick to point out, “even if I did transfer, I’d still be here as much as possible. Penelope wouldn’t let me cut myself off that easily from the rest of the team either.”

“Just think about it, please.”

You sighed, “I’ll think about it, but I’m still holding out that we’re proving your innocence and you and I will be back to our shenanigans in no time.”

“I’m looking forward to it. How’s my mom doing?”

“She’s been ok, I visit every day and JJ usually comes with me. Cassie’s been really great for her,” you told him.

“Good, will you tell her I-“

“Prisoners line up!” a guard yelled.

“Will you tell her I love her?” Spencer said quickly as he stood. You nodded, watching as he lined up with the other inmates and walked away.

As you left the prison you told yourself you were never getting used to this, and you were going to start working double time on proving Spencer’s innocence. There was no family like your BAU family, and whoever had framed Spencer was not going to destroy that so easily.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #platonic soulmates #platonic imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic

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tsuyoiqueen · 4 years

Text

shout it from the rooftops (tell them all I know) — teen!wangxian

Okay, so first of all, happy new year! I don't know if it's already January 1st where you are but as I'm posting this it's 10 P.M. so let it be said that I finished it before 2021 and will be calling this my last fic of 2020!

This is also the second fic I write for this fandom, so if you're coming from Be My Husband, thank you so much for your support! It means a lot and I hope you like this one as well!

At first, it's not a big deal. Lan Wangji couldn't describe the situation as anything but boring.

He wasn't naive. He knew wandering through Cloud Recesses past curfew and bringing alcohol were not the only rules Wei Wuxian would break. He could tell by the look in his eyes back when they first met. Though, Lan Wangji did give him the benefit of the doubt and assumed he'd wait at least a week to resume his shenanigans.

He was proven wrong and realized there was no limit to that thick faced guy when he caught him drinking with his brother and his friend. He had to keep an eye on him, or the next months would result in more headaches. It was bad enough he had to punish himself after letting his guard down around Wei Wuxian, the first cultivator who seemed to be on his level.

(He would never admit it out loud, but it's true, and maybe part of the reason why he remained tolerant)

—

That night, Lan Wangji left his house an hour before curfew. He ducked behind one of the trees close to the guest disciples' quarters and guarded the place. If getting lectured by the grandmaster didn't stop Wei Wuxian, facing punishment would have even less effect.

An hour goes past and then two, and he wonders if he's exaggerating, the shame in breaking a rule to prevent the dishonor of his clan's motto finally starts taking a toll. Confused, he slowly steps out from his hiding spot, but as soon as he starts walking towards the jingshi, he's startled into action by a noise coming from his left.

It's faint and not enough to put anyone on alert, but Lan Wangji is no ordinary cultivator. He's sharp and wouldn't miss the slightest disruption, so he retreats and heightens his senses, even though it isn't necessary.

A tall figure emerges from one of the guest rooms, sneaking towards the main hall. As the stranger walks, dark hair flutters in the wind, his clothes ripple. When he comes closer, Lan Wangji recognizes the white robe meant for the guest disciples. The person smiles as if he's just hit the jackpot, and though he's still far, Lan Wangji can identify the bottle in one of his hands while the other carries a sword.

He narrows his eyes, gripping Bichen even harder. Wei Wuxian!

Although he's already found the troublemaker, Lan Wangji stands still and waits. Wei Wuxian looks from side to side to make sure he's alone and leaps the rooftop.

The same one from the first night, Lan Wangji notices and feels slightly intrigued about it.

Why would Wei Wuxian come back to the place where he's been caught if he could do it far from Gusulan's scrutiny and in the safety of his quarters? It's not like he knew Lan Wangji was planning to watch him closely. As dedicated as second master Lan was, he would never barge into his room in the middle of the night. The last thing he needed was Wei Wuxian thinking he's been stalking him.

He is not!

He ends up spacing out and barely realizes Wei Wuxian's already comfortably sat on the roof, savoring what he knew to be a drink called Emperor's Smile. Wei Wuxian loves it.

He seems so carefree, Lan Wangji can only furrow his eyebrows, wondering what would be the best way to approach him.

He shakes his head and dismisses that thought immediately. Why should he worry about that? He's there to bring Wei Wuxian to his uncle and make him confess he's breaking the rules, not chat him up!

Drinking and leaving your quarters past curfew are violations of Lan clan principles. Come with me and face punishment. He mentally rehearses, regardless of his previous thoughts.

He heads for the roof, floating calmly, and stares coldly at Wei Wuxian after landing. "Drinking and leaving your quarters past curfew are violations of Lan clan principles. Come with me and face punishment."

Wei Wuxian's so shocked he almost drops the bottle, frowning while he balances his drink in one hand and uses the other to pat his chest, like he's soothing his heart, "Aiya, Lan Zhan! You surprised me! That was good! You almost made me drop my drink again! Though we wouldn't want that, right? After all, you still haven't paid for that first one."

Lan Wangji had been straightforward and clear, but Wei Wuxian hasn't shown any signs of guilt. Perhaps, he should try again, "You are breaking two rules right now. I ask you to follow me."

For some reason, Wei Wuxian laughs, "Have mercy! Don't you think I've been punished enough after all those lashes?" He pouts. Lan Wangji can't avert his eyes for a moment.

Wei Wuxian takes his reaction as pity and rubs his back to remind him of the pain he felt. Lan Wangji isn't the kind to forget easily, but the gesture reminds him of the time spent with the other male at the Cold Pond. A shirtless Wei Wuxian asking Lan Wangji to be his friend flashes through his eyes, and he swallows.

Wei Wuxian doesn't hide how knowing Lan Wangji isn't a complete fuddy-duddy brings him joy, grinning mischievously. He decides to press on, "Lan Zhan, how about this, why don't you drink with me tonight? If you don't want to, you can just keep me company. We're both already breaking curfew."

Lan Wangji realizes his mistake, and his aloof demeanor falters. How can he lecture Wei Wuxian if he's also in the wrong? His ancestors would be ashamed! People who think they can do as they please and expect others to follow their rules are not qualified for the title of Gusulan disciple!

Wordless, he grips Bichen tighter and spins in his heels to go back to his room and sleep immediately. In the morning, he will confess, be punished, and stop minding Wei Wuxian's antics. If being improper is the price to rectify him, he would rather not get involved at all.

He almost leaps away from the roof when an unknown warmth spreads throughout his hand. Dumbfounded, he looks down at his arm, looking for the source of the heat, and he sees it.

He sees Wei Wuxian's hand wrapped around his own, his long fingers clutching Lan Wangji's palm. It'd be easy to free himself or unsheath Bichen and fly back to the ground, but he's unable to move then.

It's embarrassing if said out loud, but it's the first time someone other than his older brother ever holds his hand.

As the meaning of Lan Wangji's own sword's name says, he avoids worldly matters. He doesn't worry about trivialities, such as social interactions or physical contact. Polite as he is, he chooses to greet others with a graceful nod that they always return in kind. No one had ever dared to touch him without permission.

But Wei Wuxian had already proven himself as unordinary, so it was a given that the rumors about how second master Lan was reserved and cold wouldn't affect him as much.

Wei Wuxian whispers, "Lan Zhan."

Lan Wangji lifts his head, analyzing the features of his companion thoroughly. Wei Wuxian tugs on his hand, and he assumes he wouldn't let go until he agrees to stay.

It's rash, wrong, and his uncle would come close to qi-deviate if he could see him right now, but Lan Wangji delicately lowers himself and sits cross-legged on the roof.

"..." Wei Wuxian gapes at him, and something inside Lan Wangji melts as he realizes he's astonished. Wei Wuxian's so caught off guard only then he realizes he's still holding his hand, slowly letting go. "Oh, sorry about that, Lan Zhan."

"Mn." Lan Wangji replies, nodding. It's odd how sometimes he shows no signs of concern in bothering Lan Wangji and even so apologizes for meaningless stuff that wouldn't disturb others.

Wei Wuxian's eyes brighten. It's the first time Lan Wangji talked to him without disapproval in his voice.

Wei Wuxian giggles, "I knew you weren't that mean, Lan Zhan! Reconsidering my friendship proposal, huh? Nothing strengthens a relationship like sharing a drink!"

Lan Wangji doesn't say anything, but Wei Wuxian doesn't feel discouraged, "That day when you got punished with me, your uncle looked pissed off. It's hard to read your expression because you always seem bored or annoyed, but that's just your face, right? You must've been sad after being scolded, should've just listened to me and let that night be our secret. No one would get punished."

Lan Wangji wasn't expecting that topic, so he takes a moment to gather his thoughts, expression unfazed, "It is my duty."

Wei Wuxian takes a long sip of his drink and scoffs, "And couldn't you take a day off or something? I didn't know you were Gusulan rules supervisor." He shakes his head, letting out a sound that Lan Wangji understands as disapproval.

A minute passes where none of them say anything but Wei Wuxian doesn't seem to take more than that, "That's why I invited you. You were around past curfew because you thought I'd cause trouble, right?" He doesn't need to answer. "I knew as soon as you realized you're breaking a rule, you'd drag me with you and ask for punishment, but wouldn't that make your uncle angrier? Would you be okay, Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji was not expecting that, "..."

Wei Wuxian rambles on, "Back at Lotus Pier, I'm always getting punished." He takes another sip, staring intently at the bottle. "Madam Yu doesn't like me, so she finds any reason to make me kneel in the ancestral hall. It's not like I enjoy getting scolded or driving her nuts, but I'm not the kind of person who can follow the rules all the time. That's just who I am, you know?"

Lan Wangji doesn't know. Wei Wuxian is his opposite in almost every way. Even so, he seems to be waiting for some kind of confirmation, so he nods, "Mn."

Wei Wuxian smiles, the hairs escaping from his red ribbon flow around his face basked in moonlight. Lan Wangji stares.

"I mean to say I kinda get it why you act like this. You don't wanna let your uncle down. You want him to be proud of you, right? I also want to be someone uncle Jiang can take pride in, but I can't change my whole personality for that. He never showed any signs of wanting me to do so either, only asked me to follow the clan's motto: attempt the impossible!"

Lan Wangji likes YunmengJiang's free spirit, and he's glad Wei Wuxian understands somehow.

"Lan Zhan, what's the Lan clan motto?"

Lan Wangji feels his gaze, "Be righteous."

The laugh that comes out of Wei Wuxian could wake up half of the guest disciples if they weren't so far from their quarters. Lan Wangji frowns while Wei Wuxian keeps laughing until he has to wipe tears from his eyes when he's out of breath.

He leaves the empty bottle aside, lifts one of his legs, and lays his head on his knee, staring directly at Lan Wangji, a smile playing on his lips, "It suits you."

Lan Wangji can feel his ears burning, "Mn."

[Read the rest on AO3]

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sincerelyreidburke · 4 years

Note

Now that the door of angst has been opened I'm curious, how (if at all) does the toxicity of Nando's past relationship with N*te affect how he acts in his relationship with Quinn?

Thank you for this question, anon! There’s a lot to unpack with regard to the impact of Nando’s relationship experience on not only the way he does his relationship with Quinn but just generally on his life.

In this post, I told you that N*te was a shitty boyfriend, and that their relationship was actually pretty toxic. Now, in response to this ask, I want to take a deeper dive on that, in terms of telling you how it affects Nando and also what that means for him and Quinn.

So: here we go! This got really long, so I’m sorry in advance.

TW: body shaming, general emotional manipulation.

(Ask me anything about the crickets!)

- My favorite way to describe Nando is “a big boy with big emotions”, because that’s exactly what he is, and always has been. Feeling and processing emotion honestly and forwardly is part of his personality, and Mama Hernandez— along with, in a twist on traditional toxic masculinity, Papa as well— raised him to always keep in mind that emotions are healthy and there’s no need to beat them down.

- So in relationships, that translates a certain way— when being a boyfriend, Nando is affectionate, doting, sweet, et cetera. He pours a lot of love onto people, not just in romantic relationships but in his family and friend circles. If he loves you (whether romantically, familially, or platonically), he won’t be afraid to show it.

- Or at least that’s how it is in a healthy situation. And as he have discussed, the situation with N*te is not healthy.

- Now, the thing is. Why would two people get themselves into a relationship that’s not enjoyable or healthy? And the answer to that question is because that most relationships, even toxic ones, start out pretty good. N*te is Nando’s first boyfriend, and their earliest stages of dating are like most other early stages. It’s that “we mutually like each other and there’s something starting between us” feeling that tends to make you really soft.

- And Nando... latches onto that feeling. No boy has ever paid attention to him the way N*te does during that early stage, and he jumps at the chance when they actually become official. He’s about 16, and super gay and touch-starved, and he’s never been in a relationship in his life— so he’s eager. He’s excited. He’s very happy.

- For awhile, things are okay. N*te willingly got himself into this because he liked him, and Nando is a good boyfriend; he does nice things for him and goes out of his way to pander to him and just generally tries to please. Getting attention like this is nice for N*te. It’s why they last so long, ultimately.

- But the thing is, it’s not healthy.

- Because the biggest problem is, N*te can be a little bit of an asshole, and he is constantly making Nando feel like he’s too much. I mean too much in several senses— too loving, too loud, too himself, et cetera. Eventually, the honeymoon phase of dating ends, and N*te starts getting annoyed with him really easily. He’ll be moody for no apparent reason, and he’ll pull back when Nando pushes, and it’s just.... not a good time.

- Nando thinks this is his fault, and rather than own up to the fact that he’s being wishy-washy, N*te feeds right into that and lets him think it’s his fault. He’s constantly dropping little comments about how Nando needs to calm down or stop being so obvious. And this isn’t a closet issue, because they’re both out; it’s an issue of N*te getting embarrassed and ashamed of the level on which Nando wants to show how much he cares about him.

- So this goes on. They date for a long time in high school terms, about a year and a half. Why doesn’t Nando leave? Because that’s his first boyfriend, and he is desperate to please him and work it out, and besides, N*te is only moody some of the time, and it’s always when I deserve it ‘cause I’m being annoying, so really, it’s my fault. (That’s the manipulation talking.) Why doesn’t N*te leave? Because here’s a partner who would literally do anything to make him happy. Nando is constantly thinking of him, doing nice things for him, and trying to make his life better. In high school, who can walk away from that?

- The other huge part of this is the body image thing, and I want to talk about that because it’s important in a number of senses. N*te is really, really bad to Nando about the way he looks. Nando is big and sort of chunky, and he never has a problem with that about himself before N*te is in the picture. N*te is constantly making little comments to him, like do you really need to eat that? and are you sure that shirt fits you? and (this while Nando is trying to cuddle or something) stop, you’re too big to do that, get off me.

- Nando internalizes this. He starts to genuinely believe that there’s something wrong with his body, and he feels awful about himself for it. N*te completely witnesses this damage he’s doing to Nando’s self-esteem, and he does nothing about it; he feeds into it, if anything. Why? Because N*te is a body-shaming little fuck.

- In short— and I know this is getting long before I get to Quinn— N*te keeps Nando around because he’s fully aware that Nando would do anything to make him happy, and honestly, it’s convenient to have that in his life. Nando is sure that if there are ever problems in their relationship, they’re his fault, and he needs to just stop being too much to fix them.

- We all know what the fate of that relationship is once Nando gets to Samwell.

- Anyway, I went into that long digression because I wanted to more thoroughly explain the problems with that relationship, and the toll it takes on Nando’s general self esteem and self-perception. N*te makes him feel like shit, and he doesn’t let himself fully understand that until after they’ve finally broken up.

- So N*te is gone. But the lasting effects of having the only relationship he’s known be a super toxic one.... those are still there.

- Along comes Quinn.

- We know the Nando and Quinn courting story. They have a lovely little meet-cute, and then a reconnection after they’re both too gay and stupid to get each other’s numbers the first time around. After that, there are two or so weeks of spending time together before they actually become official.

- The becoming-official fic and the first kiss fic are the same fic. The bulk of it is in Quinn’s POV, and I did that for a reason. Quinn spends most of it trying to figure out why Sebastián hasn’t asked him out yet, and then he ends up being the one to do it, at the very end.

- Let it be known: this is not because Nando doesn’t want to ask him out. It’s because Nando has the lasting belief from his only previous relationship that he is too much, and that he’s too affectionate, too pushy, too forward— so he doesn’t want to become too much for Quinn. By being the one to ask him out, he thinks there’s a chance he might scare him away, or make it all too big too soon.

- He really likes Quinn, and his thought is that he does not want to mess this up by being his annoying self. So he wants to let Quinn do this at his own pace. Nando is also conscious that Quinn has never had a boyfriend before, so there’s that, too.

- Their first kiss is mostly a mutual thing. They’re both thinking it, and they both want it, and it happens.

- The beginning of their relationship is a lot of touch-and-go— Nando constantly asking if it’s okay if he does something (is it okay if I hold your hand? or *in public* can I kiss you here? or *while snuggling* am I crushing you?), and Quinn telling him, of course it’s okay, Sebastián.

- He also apologizes a lot. I’m sorry if I’m being too much. You would tell me, right? If I was? It’s okay if I am. I can be better. Quinn reassures him. He’s patient and caring, and he doesn’t want Sebastián to think for a second that he’s too much for him.

- As a result of Nando’s internalized low self-esteem, a lot of the milestones in the relationship happen at Quinn’s pace. Nando was the first one to say I love you with N*te, so he waits for Quinn to be ready to say it to him— even when he’s been thinking it. When they start to move toward more intimate stuff, he lets Quinn dictate how and when it develops. Quinn is okay with this because they’re still on the same page about everything, but he definitely notices it and understands why.

- So he’s constantly reminding him that it’s okay to be forward if he wants to be, that it’s okay to be really sweet and affectionate— because, as Quinn tells him all the time, he loves those things. The big emphasis on emotion and the super loving side of him is part of what makes Nando himself. And Quinn loves him for himself. He tells him this regularly.

- Basically: Quinn helps him un-learn the repression of his romantic self that he internalized during his relationship with N*te.

- And Quinn is fully aware that Nando second-guesses himself sometimes directly because of N*te. They have the “sharing past relationship experience” talk pretty early on, and Nando tells him the whole N*te story, and Quinn gets mad. Not at Nando, but at N*te for putting him through that. He hates that somebody hurt him like this, and from that point forward Quinn vows that he’ll help him see himself the way he sees him.

- Nando finds it really hard to believe, at first, that Quinn likes and actively wants this unfiltered version of himself. But it gets much easier as it goes along. He lets himself open back up, and he doesn’t feel like too much anymore. He’s enough for Quinn, and that’s all that matters to him. Quinn is extremely patient with the un-learning process, and he encourages him to treat him the way he wants to, without holding back.

- I have been on this for quite a long time, but there’s one more thing I would be remiss to leave out of this psychological dive, and that’s Quinn’s impact on his body image. I’ve said a few times that Quinn loves the way he looks, head to toe, and that is absolutely true always and forever.

- It’s actually probably one of my favorite parts of their relationship. Nando is really hesitant at the start, especially in intimate moments, about his body and whether Quinn even really wants to touch it or see it. Quinn wants to shut that fear down as effectively as he can.

- Because he loves it. He loves his height, and his broad shoulders, and his big strong arms, and especially he loves his stomach. It’s a free pillow, and also just, there’s so much of him for Quinn to love on. Quinn is tiny and he’s so very not tiny, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

- So that means a lot of Quinn vocalizing that while they’re alone together, plenty of you’re so beautiful and let me look at you and I wouldn’t change a thing about you. It’s very soft and very sweet, and Nando sometimes almost cries because of just how much he loves him and loves this and how much better this is than anything he knew before it. With Quinn, for the first time, he’s okay with the way he looks. He learns to love himself, actually.

- For example.

(Kind of early in their relationship, right around the time they’re crossing lines into slightly more intimate behavior, but they haven’t gone far yet at all.)

(They’re in Quinn’s room, making out, and Quinn puts his hand under his shirt. Nando kind of recoils a little.)

Quinn: Oh. Wait. (Sensing he crossed a line Nando isn’t ready for.) I’m sorry.

Nando: No— I’m sorry.

Quinn: What? (He takes his hand away.) Why are you sorry?

Nando: Because I just... I’m not, like, jacked under there, or anything.

Quinn: I... didn’t think you were?

Nando: Then why did you put your hand there?

Quinn: Because I like your stomach?

Nando: (He’s quiet for a second, and then,) You do? (Pause) It... doesn’t gross you out to touch it?

Quinn: My goodness, Sebastián, gross me out? Of course not. It’s just the opposite.

Nando: (In disbelief.) It is?

Quinn: Of course it is. (He inches his hand back under there.) Can I— is this okay?

Nando: It’s okay if you’re okay with it.

Quinn: I’m very okay with it. (He smiles.) C’mere. Let me show you.

(And he does.)

- Anyway. I know I’ve been going on for quite some time. But the biggest thing here is that where he’s second-guessed himself before, Quinn helps Nando learn to love himself.

- And he finally gets to be the loving, doting, overly emotional boyfriend he’s always wanted to be.

- Quinn is a big fan of that.

- I love them so much and I’m emotional. We love Nando actually getting to be in a healthy and loving relationship.

Thank you for the ask!

#oc taddies #crickets #quindo #nandoooooooo

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sohin-ace · 4 years

Text

Doppio - Hair

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Enjoy~

Gender neutral fic, you guys are lucky!

Doppio was sitting on the couch, restless and waiting for yet another call from his boss. The boy's form was hunched over as he buried his face in his hands.

He was too tired to care about anything right now, and his disheveled hair sticking out everywhere was one of them.

"Doppio...?" You called him and you sudden soft voice startled him as he perked up.

"Huh? Oh Y/N it's you..." He uttered and went back to staring mindlessly into the void.

Your expression was soft on your lover as you approached him on the couch. You would have loved to tell him to get some rest or have something to drink or eat, but you knew that he was expected to be ready to bolt out any second as soon as he received the call.

You put your hand on his shoulder and rubbed his back soothingly, an encouraging gesture telling him to stay strong. He smiled and looked at you through stray strands of pink hair covering his freckled face.

Your eyes travelled from him to the coffee table where his hair brush, comb and some hair ties were set messily.

"Doppio, why didn't you do you hair?"

"It was too frustrating, I gave up." He sheepishly said while rubbing the back of his neck.

You chuckled as you could only imagine the scene of him losing his patience after a few tries. Your cute Doppio could be quite feral sometimes, which you couldn't blame him for, the boy was so overworked.

"I'll be right back."

He followed you with his eyes with curiosity as you walked away, only to walk back a few moments later with a bottle of hair serum.

You squirted some product onto your hand and put the bottle onto the table. You then stood in front of him while warming up the serum in your palms. He looked up at you with wide, star-filled eyes.

"Y/N, you're going to do my hair?" He asked in anticipation, his voice hopeful.

"You don't mind?" He shook his head vigorously, giddy and excited. Oh, he loved when you played with his hair. "Okay, tell me if I'm hurting you."

He hummed in response and let you run your fingers through his pink locks, caressing strands after strands and applying the light oil onto his slightly matted hair.

"Ooh that smells so good!" He squealed in delight as the sugary scent filled his nose. Neat! He was going to smell so sweet for this mission.

"Right? I think it's a mix of Argan, Coconut and Shea. Your hair is gonna be so shiny and nourished~"

He gasped in happiness. If you of all people gave him hair advice, he could only listen. Your hair was so pretty and soft, he felt almost privileged to be groomed by you. With these thoughts in mind, he subconsciously started playing with a piece of your own hair, relishing in the texture before letting go.

He slumped his shoulders and relaxed when you started massaging his scalp, his eyes fluttering shut against his will. The rare languorous feeling was absolutely heavenly to him and your delicious skilled fingers playing with his sensitive scalp sent tingles coursing through his entire body.

He let out a heavy sigh and leaned his head against your chest. He could hear the rumble of your voice as you chuckled lightly.

"Don't fall asleep on me Doppio." You teased and gently tilted his head back to work on the baby hairs that covered his forehead.

"Ah- I'm sorry!" His freckled cheeks warmed up with an adorable pink tint, embarrassed by his own actions.

As his head was tilted upwards, he looked up at you with guilty and droopy eyes that you found absolutely cute.

Maybe you didn't like him putting his head on you like this, he thought to himself, feeling a bit self-conscious about your reaction. Poor boy could never be so wrong.

He was always quite shy in terms of displays of affection and he never knew how to proceed, even if you didn't seem to mind his hesitation and lack of initiations. He rathered let you be in charge for these things most of the time, scared to mess up if he tried to touch you himself.

You looked down at him while running smooth fingers through his hairline, tucking back all his hair. You had to fight the burning urge to kiss him and his cute, cute lips. He was so adorable.

You eventually let go to grab the brush and comb on the table behind you, tucking the comb inside your pants pocket like it was some kind of gun.

Handling the brush with ease, you very carefully started by brushing his hair back, detangling it as thoroughly as you could without hurting him and craddling his head every time you hit a particularly difficult knot to prevent any harsh pulling.

"You don't shed a lot, Doppio, have you been eating more properly lately?" You asked, observing the very few pieces of hair collecting into the brush.

"Ah, yes... You noticed?"

You hummed in response before continuing. "Yes. That's good. I'm happy." You softly assured and he smiled.

He felt calm and soothed down as you detangled his hair, section by section, each motion of the brush followed by a gentle sweep from your other hand. Nobody in this world handled him with as much care as you did.

Besides his previous insecurities, you craddling him protectively prompted him to lay his face back against your chest.

Detangling his entire head was the longest part of the makeover anyway, so he might as well rest a bit on his comfortable, delicate partner Y/N that smelled of such a relaxing scent.

He fidgeted with your pants buttons, belt, pockets and other ornaments that were in his current reach mindlessly as he let you do whatever you wanted with him.

When you were done and finally got rid of all the stubborn knots that were troubling him so much earlier, you put the brush aside and ran your fingers through his pink hair, relishing in the softness of it.

You tilted his head up admired his form beneath you. He looked so docile in your hands it was beyond sweet to see. His hair framing his face and cascading down his shoulders looked way longer than what you were used to.

"You're beautiful, Doppio." You breathed, completely enamored with him and his golden gaze met yours. His eyes widened and he blushed vividly at your sincere words.

"Thank you, Y/N... And...Y-you look... You look..."

He wanted to return the compliment, but he was completely stuck with the right word to choose. His eyes shifted everywhere from your face to your neck, down your chest and stomach, then your hips and further down and oh God, what to do?

What should he even call you? Stunning? Hot? Magnificent? Cute? Gorgeous? Sexy? Irresistible? 'Step on me'? You were just so perfect in his eyes, he was at loss for words.

He looked down, sweating and tensing up visibly as he struggled to dig up his brain. He wanted to tell you something that would make you feel the same butterflies he felt in his stomach when you praised him.

"Y-y-your fingers..." His voice shook. "You're so good with- ...your... I mean-..."

"Don't bother, amore, you're making me melt already." You spoke lovingly while tucking some rebellious hair behind his reddening ear.

'Oh my god', Doppio thought to himself, his blood pumping in his ears. If you kept this on, he would pretty much explode. There's only so much love one man can take!

You put your hands over his cheeks gently and guided his face so that he looked straight forward instead of down.

"Don't move."

He could only obey your gentle yet demanding voice as you grabbed the comb and started parting his hair, tracing that zig-zag line that looked so cute on him and that he seemed to like so much.

Why did it feel so good when you did it? When he does it on himself, it just feels bland and even hurt sometimes, when he was too harsh.

But when you did it, the feeling of the comb grazing his scalp felt like magic, like you managed to find all the right nerves to tingle and make him weak. Truly his life would be tasteless without you to spark even the simplest act of parting his hair.

You carefully rearranged his hair into place after parting it and tucked all of it back, leaving only one thick strand at the front to frame his face.

You turned around to grab the ties and got ready to braid his hair. He knew to braid his own hair like an expert, but everytime you did it, he was surprised to find a new type of braid each time he had to undo it at the end of the day.

You'd surprise him with fishtail braids, or french braids, dutch braids, even 4-strands braids which happened to freak someone out somehow. He wondered if you actually learned to make these hairstyles for him, or if you just were naturally this amazing with your hands.

He let himself being lulled by the light movements of your fingers working on his hair, moving downwards slowly.

"Huh, funny how the boss hasn't called yet. I'm almost done, hang in there."

Oh but he didn't want you to be done. It was so nice, why did the best things always had to last so short?

When you were finally done and tied his braid securely, you tapped gently on his shoulder and moved around just enough to put everything down on the table as he straightened himself a bit.

"Alright, all finished. Looking all fresh and handsome~" You chuckled and he smiled genuinely, patting his now soft hair and feeling his flawless braid.

"Thank you so much, Y/N! Let me do something for you in return next time!"

"Sure thing."

As he was about to lean back on the couch, you wrapped your arms protectively around his head, keeping him flush against you. He froze at the sudden unexpected contact.

"Y-Y/N...?"

"...Let's stay like this for a while. Until Diavolo calls." You uttered and squeezed him lovingly close to you.

Doppio's face burned red again and his heart skipped a beat at your bold gesture, but he still embraced you back, snaking his slender arms around your inviting waist and made himself comfortable.

"I thought... You didn't like me leaning on your chest..." Doppio mumbled, a bit ashamed to admit his own thoughts.

"Nonsense, tesoro. I love having you so close to me."

He leaned his cheek over your chest and sighed delightfully, closing his eyes and listening to the music your heart made.

"Your heart is beating fast, Y/N. Why is it beating so fast, huh? I hope it's because of me." You could hear the smile in his voice and you gasped at his attitude.

"Don't tease me, Doppio, or else..."

You glided your fingers down his back and ran your nails right along his spine where you knew he was sensitive and the boy squirmed and jerked in your hold.

"Ah-! Wait- Y/N don't do this, I'm gonna-"

You laughed at his helplessness and how adorable his reaction was. "Sorry bello, but I can't help it, you're just so cute."

He leaned back slightly, just enough to look up at you with a pout, which soon turned into a more relaxed expression and you couldn't help but lean down, drawn by his half-lidded golden gaze.

You felt him clutch at the back of your shirt in anticipation as his freckled cheeks dusted with pink and his breath hitched. You cupped his face tenderly and closed your eyes, ready to capture his lips in yours.

"TURURURURURURURUN!"

He gasped and backed away abruptly. You weren't startled, but you couldn't hide the disappointement on your face.

"Oh god oh god, where is it?!"

Doppio frantically looked around, lifting the couch pillows and looking under them, searching for the 'phone'. You grabbed the hair brush behind you and threw it at him, which he swiflty caught in his hands before staring at you in disbelief.

"How did you kno-"

"Just go, baby. We don't want to make the boss angry. Take care, alright?"

He shot up from his seat and patted his pants pockets, making sure he wasn't forgetting anything. He picked up and raised the brush to his ear as he headed to the door.

"Yes, hello? Boss? Yes, I'm on the way! I'm leaving right now!" Doppio quickly waved at you while opening the door and leaving, fast as the wind.

You sighed as the door closed and you turned around to clean up the mess, putting away the hair products and tools lying around.

Hopefully your lover would come home early tonight.

Give this man some love and vitamins, please. I refuse to lewd the pink boy, I just want to smooch his face and stain him with my lipstick. That's my kink.

Also, in the anime, Doppio has a complex braid, but in the manga, he's wearing some kind of knitted hair pin, which was a pretty popular accessory when I was a young whippersnapper lol.

It's kinda ugly tho lol 2000's fashion amiright.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jjba #jojo #vento aureo #golden wind #doppio #doppio vinegar #x reader #reader insert #writing #doppio x reader #doppio vinegar x reader #jojo part 5 #part 5 #jojo no kimyō na bōken

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sergeanttpoliteness · 5 years

Text

➹one love confession, please➹(peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who’s become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn’t something new; you can’t count with both of your hands the times you’ve heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn’t experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART I)

word count: 12.3k (oof)

warnings: cursing, alcohol, and mentions of sex (let me know if i missed something!)

a/n: it’s five am where i live and this is already awfully long so i’m gonna make it as brief as i can. first, i’m sorry it took eight months, but at last, it’s here, and i’m so happy and proud of it ! thank you a million times for the amazing support this story got, seriously. second, this was also for @connorshero 1.6k followers writing challenge, and i can’t express enough how ashamed i am that it took so long lmao, i’m a clown. it’s here, tho, and i hope i hear your thoughts and that y’all enjoy it (:

taglist: @fanbase-jumper

Never in a million years would you have deemed possible a human could undergo through such a crushing feeling of dread, yet, sadly, you found yourself to be wrong, for there you were, a pressure smothering your lungs and an iciness washing over you. You never would have imagined yourself hiding in the bathroom from a certain Peter B. Parker, either; but then again, contrary to your previous thinking, there you sat on the closed toilet seat, your eyes squeezed shut, breathing heavily as a frostbite in your heart eclipsed any other thoughts in your head.

For the last few days, you had tried to repress a memory which physically pained you as you worked at the bar, almost as if it were nothing more than a bizarre dream you had one night, or a movie you watched as a little kid and couldn’t figure out as a grown-up whether it was real or not. It didn’t take long before in your restless little brain, that date did not exist in the calendar. So… strange, how all of sudden you couldn't remember anything from that night. Yeah, nothing happened. There’s no reason or possible explanation as to why you nearly dropped dead to the ground every time the entrance opened, or why your lower stomach erupted like a geyser refusing to rest whenever you caught a glimpse in the mirror of the bruises on your neck and, just maybe, somewhere in the back of your head, recalled how they came to be in the first place; how the small vessels burst, why they’re there. Your self-induced amnesia surprisingly worked. Yeah, like a charm. Until you looked up for the billionth time and it wasn’t another false alarm. The fortress of protection you constructed collapsed as if it took no effort to build it, because there he was— there stood Peter, just a few feet away from you.

Of course, you panicked; hysterically searched your surroundings for an excuse to leave, but no one wanted to bother you when you most needed it. Terrible luck, indeed. You only had two choices (although, really, you most likely had more): you could be, you know, smart and face your problems, or, Peter, to be more concise, or you could run away to hide and wait it out in the bathroom. So, after analyzing it thoroughly for approximately two seconds, what did you do?

Get the fuck out of there, obviously; you threw your towel, sped out of the bar, and instantly headed to have the meltdown of the century in the bathroom.

You screamed into your hands as you relived everything in your head, stomping your foot on the floor tiles. Remorse didn’t suffice anymore to explain the sharp pain in your stomach. You’d sabotaged yourself— you got a nip that night, a morsel of something greater, a catalyst for ‘what if’s and a total loss of self-control, because once the temporary high didn’t satiate you any longer, you’d seek it again. Regardless of your constant imbecility, you weren’t oblivious: it was nothing more than a distraction for Peter’s troubles and conflicting emotions over a woman he’d married, and it would never mean anything to him. It never would, despite how much it meant to you.

Suddenly, your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out, narrowed eyes reading the recent message while your heart went ballistic.

‘You can’t stay there forever, he’s starting to get suspicious.’

You breathed out, partially relieved. It was your friend. You texted him earlier as you lost it in the bathroom stall, as one does. You were close to getting on your knees and start praying to any superior entity that he was simply imagining stuff like most of the time, attempting to read in between the lines when, in reality, all Peter did was drink his whiskey served over ice, totally unconcerned. Yes, perhaps, you running away didn’t signify ‘subtle’, and the fact that you two hadn’t shared a word or texted ever since you fled his apartment a week prior didn’t brighten the situation at all. Why should it matter if you chose to continue escaping your issues? You could stay there forever, and it was no one’s business. The bar’s urine-scented bathroom could be your new home.

Your phone rang again. ‘Dude, c’mon.’

Goddammit.

Your friend shouldn’t have the power to knock some sense into you with just two messages, but he did anyway. You required an abundance of courage you did not carry to hesitantly walk out of the stall, and then the bathroom. You were sure your heart could hop out of your chest, as gruesome as it may have been, at any moment as Peter’s figure came closer and closer to you with each dreadful step you took. It wasn’t as dramatic in real life, most likely (most definitely). But as if you finally understood your situation, the charisma awakened from its sleep and, in an instant, you let out a disappointed ‘aw!’, replacing your terrified features with an exaggerated pout. “Oh, man! Somebody else already took your order? Unbelievable.”

He reacted as though he overheard the most unbelievable noise— a call from God itself or extraterrestrial life, because he could’ve gotten some whiplash by the way in which his head jerked up.

Peter cleared his throat, unsure of what to do with his hands as he showed you a tight-lipped smile. “Uh, hey! Hey…” He exclaimed and you winked at him. “I thought you weren’t here, or something.”

You thought for a moment. For real this time. You couldn’t say ‘I was just having a breakdown in the bathroom’. “Nah, my boss just needed my help… with stuff,” You waved your hand, aware that your boss had left an hour ago. He hummed and nodded, downing his shot. Wait. Your eyes returned to his glass when you fully took it in. It wasn’t whiskey served over ice.

You pointed at the empty drink in his grasp. “What’s that?”

He glanced down at it, raising a brow. “What, you’ve never seen a shot of vodka?”

“No, no, I mean— yeah, but what the hell happened to your whiskey?”

Peter pressed his lips together, shrugging one shoulder. “I dunno, guess I just… got tired of it?”

The corner of your lips tugged down momentarily. “Ah, I see…” You distracted yourself with a glass, cleaning it despite its already pristine look. You just needed anything to focus on other than Peter. “This is so tragic, your whiskey days have come to an end.” You joked, laughing quietly and disguising the aching in your chest.

He tilted his head, quirking an eyebrow and grinning a confused smile. “What’s wrong with vodka?”

“It’s just… so boring.”

An incredulous grin stretched across his face. “More boring than whiskey?”

Your smile faded, a frown taking its place. “I… I’m guessing I had just grown used to it— I don’t know.”

For the first time in a whole year of weekly meetings and ongoing chatter, an uncomfortable silence sat amongst you two. And for the first time, too, you did not know what to say. “Y/N?” You looked up at him attentively, although you did not want to hear what he had to say at all.

Peter avoided your gaze, instead focusing on his lap, and opened his mouth, closing it when you couldn’t think up any words. “I think, uh… we gotta talk, right? About… y’know.” Your face heated up as red as a field of roses.

You laughed nervously, your hands on the bar as you slanted forward. “...About what?”

“Just, about what happened, and that thing you said the morning after—”

“Did I say anything the morning after?” You cut him off, wishing you’d stuck with your plan of moving into the bathroom.

To your horror, your biggest fear unfolded as Peter let out air through his nose, chuckling without humor.

“Are you gonna try to convince me it was a dream again?” You nearly passed out as Peter cited the words you so vividly remembered uttering. “‘You’re just dreaming?’” It all came back to you, everything— your forced memory loss received a fatal blow as memories bombarded your brain: Peter’s face twisted with puzzlement and sleep after you blurted out your utter nonsense and— how could you forget, oh God, how could you— the cherry on top, your uncomfortably intense five-second staring contest as you headed for the door and dashed out of his apartment.

“‘Wake up?’” He continued and you merely blinked back at him. He didn’t need to fucking quote you and remind you what a joke you were— who does that? But also, who tells the guy you just hooked up with that he’s dreaming after he caught you in the midst of trying to sneak out? B-B-Bingo! Of course, of course it had to be you out of all people.

You stood frozen, like you did that embarrassing morning, begging your head to stop it with the callbacks and breathing out. “What if it was a dream? You never know.” You said, unwilling to give up your idiocy. Peter stared at you, his lack of amusement terrifying you further.

“A dream.”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed his face. “Jesus Christ, Y/N—”

“What?”

“Stop acting like an idiot, please.”

“Peter, you literally could’ve brought up anything else other than this.” You hissed, exasperated. “Any other fucking thing.”

“I can’t not bring this up.”

“Well, why not? I surely can.”

“‘Cause it was weird.”

You grimaced and covered your face with your hands, muffling your words, “Oh my God, I know, I fucking know. What did you want me to do—”

“I don’t know, maybe just talk, you know!” He suggested with raised hands, the harsh sarcasm in his voice deepening your pained expression. “Wh-why did you even say that?! Like—”

“I didn’t want to be there! I just wanted to leave, okay?!” You admitted loudly, uncaring of your blatancy. When you didn’t hear him, your shaking hands slowly unveiled your face. A man two seats away eyed you two as he drank, while Peter stared at the counter with knitted brows, digesting what you said.

“Do you wish it had been a dream?” He asked quietly. You began to tap your finger, your lips shaping the words you wanted to speak, but didn’t exactly know how to.

“No. That’s not it, I…” You croaked out. You couldn’t continue when you noticed what you thought was a flourishing desire in his eyes which you saw that same night back at his place. Just say it. Your fingertips thudded the wood faster, your feet shifting, voice stuttering. Say you’d do it again.

“It was just a one-time thing, right?” You whispered. Then, you doubted if that lust had simply been a delusion your brain fabricated. That, perhaps, you yearned for something bigger so badly you’d projected your own silly cravings onto the man, for all trace of that weakening glimmer was now nothing more than the familiar amity the always held.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Right.” You breathed out.

“It was just a one-time thing.” He repeated as if it were obvious.

“Yes.” You both nodded, unable to look at each other straight in the eye without squirming. As soon as some clients called for you, you shared a last glance before you left. When you returned, all you found were some crumpled dollar bills and no sign of Peter.

You didn’t buy him a gift. And neither did he, but he did send you a message saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’, and there exists a possibility that you broke down crying whilst drunk because of the smiley face he wrote along with it, but that’s something you wouldn’t ever disclose— even if it happened one more time during New Year’s Eve as your head pounded with the people around you religiously blowing their party horns. That was it, though. You didn’t see him at the bar, which a part of you could only be thankful for, but the remaining kicked itself for not fixing things when you had the chance to. For not being honest when you could have.

Your friend yet again with his wisdom from the gods told you to stop wasting time and move on with your life, albeit not as kindly, as if saying it in such a way wasn’t hurtful enough. However, after being too sensitive for two seconds, you sucked it up and knew that he was right.

You managed to keep Peter out of your thoughts most of the time, focusing on your job and getting additional money with your paintings to treat yourself. You could go out more with your friends, buy a new TV, maybe save for the vacation you’d been dreaming of for the past years. For some time, as there was no Peter in your head nor at the bar, it was just like before the man nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose sat down in front of you.

You could only maintain him out of your orbit for so long, though.

You sat at another bar two blocks down your place, hunched over and your eyes glued on your cell phone’s screen, anticipation pulling imaginary strings connected to your fingers which fidgeted, tossed the device from hand to hand. Your friend was the fourth person you texted in the last thirty minutes, an act born from desperation, perhaps; created upon an urgency for an anchor, a quick fix that would momentarily patch up the heaviness in your chest that made an unwanted visit too many times to your liking and dissipate all the thoughts in your head. You needed something, a distraction, anything— hell, you’d even texted your boss, a known shopaholic, asking if she wanted to go shopping. But everyone appeared to be doing something that night, too engaged in their own affairs to remember you. It was selfish, you understood, to think that way; they had lives, after all. Nevertheless, that selfishness was a blemish you couldn’t vanish as the three dots emerged, followed by the exact same message you dreaded: ‘Can’t tonight, I’m with dad. What about tomorrow?’ There was no tomorrow, though. No, you ached for it right now, in that instant, something.

Peter.

No. You couldn’t. Another decline was a final blow you couldn’t withstand, anyway, especially from him. However, you weren’t the one making the decisions anymore. Your heart manipulated your limbs, and in a blur, you’d searched his contact. Too soon to your liking, you heard that tedious beeping, your heartbeat then the sole noise in your ears once it halted. All of a sudden, you couldn’t talk, your words lodged in your throat, because it was strange to hear that voice again and it was too much for you right now.

“Y/N? Are you there?” Peter said after you didn’t make the slightest sound, hesitance evident in his tone, for he wondered whether it’d been an accidental butt dial. You took in a big breath and pressed your phone closer to your ear, your elbows aching from the hard counter they rested upon.

“...Hi.” You scrunched up your nose, shaking your head at yourself.

“What… what’s up?” It was odd, you both knew, because when did you ever call each other, and when was the last time you two talked? But turning a blind eye to your friend’s advice, you itched to fulfill your own cravings that night— it didn’t really matter what kind, but just a friend was all you needed, just someone.

You stuttered for a while, internally grateful he remained silent and waited for you to clear your mind. “Nothing. That’s why I’m calling, I guess. Just wanted to talk.”

“To talk?” You could hear the engines of driving vehicles in the background and you frowned, scratching the back of your head.

“Sorry, are you busy? I didn’t mean to bother you. I can call another time—”

“No, no!” He stopped you, your heart growing wings, fluttering and capable of flying out of your chest with how gentle he sounded. “I just got done with something and I’m going back home, you don’t have to hang up.”

You hit the tip of your shoes against the bar, tense brows still not relaxing. “Oh, okay…”

“Are you at work?

“No, my shift ends at a normal time on Friday’s, thankfully.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I see— so you’re home alone and bored?”

You observed the place around you, focusing on the bartender and then on your drink. “Eh, not exactly.” You closed your hand into a fist, struggling to not dissect the skin around your nails like an animal in a biology class. “I know this is unusual, we never really talk outside of the bar and we haven’t seen each other in a while, but…”

“It’s kinda our first phone call, isn’t it?”

You smiled, your lip trembling. “Y-Yeah. Our first phone call.” You almost cursed when your voice wavered.

“Hey, you alright?”

You sighed, scratching your head. “Not gonna lie, I’ve been better.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“It’s stupid, I don’t know. It’s a Friday night— everyone’s out having a good time, and I’m just… here, in a bar and on my own.” You shrugged, your nails carving the timber.

“It’s not stupid.” He murmured and you snorted, unconvinced. “If it makes you feel any less alone, I’m not exactly out partying and having a good time, either.”

“Do you even still party, grandpa?”

“Just ‘cause I’m old, it doesn’t mean I still haven’t got the moves.”

“It definitely sounds like you don’t.”

“Don’t sound so sure, you haven’t seen me at my best.” Seeing him wasn’t necessary, you could easily imagine his teasing grin.

“Hm, yeah, I’d immediately take off my clothes if you pretended to lasso me at the club.” You both giggled and you hugged yourself, glancing at the empty stool beside you, biting the inside of your cheek. “Do you maybe want to come and have a drink with me?” You shot your shot, to your thumping heart’s dismay. Guessing by the click you distinguished, he probably just got back home.

“...Have a drink with you?”

“J-Just to hangout, you know.” You quickly explained. “Chat for a while. I can pay, if you want.”

You waited for a response, a rejection. But it didn’t come.

It was quite embarrassing, to say the least, that after he agreed and you hung up, you almost dropped your phone with how the fright weakened your arms as you tried to send him the bar’s address. You eagerly waited, too, like a damn puppy anticipating its owner’s return at the end of the day. Using your phone’s selfie camera, you checked your appearance, tidying up all just to make yourself look way more put together than you actually were, even if you were in a bar, alone, and, well, drinking. Despite your awaiting, though, you were taken off guard when a man chose to settle down beside you and cleared his throat.

“I gotta say, it’s weird to see you on the other side of the bar,” Peter smiled as a greeting. Your eyes scanned him, taking in his presence, struggling to process it as if he were a ghost. In your defense, it did feel as if he hadn’t been part of your world for the last two months.

You chuckled, shyly moving your view to your beverage. “Sorry, I won’t be playing bartender tonight.”

“Too bad, I like it when you give me free drinks.”

“Technically, you still are getting free drinks from me tonight.”

He huffed, a crooked smile lingering on his face. You called for the bartender and side-glanced at Peter, quietly asking what he wanted and biting back a disappointed grunt when it wasn’t whiskey served over ice. Whatever. It was just a drink. You two didn’t share a look after that small interaction, though, your face flustered, redder than the bartender’s awful and painful-to-look-at-from-how-bright-it-was shirt. You preferred to believe it was the alcohol, regardless of the truth that you hadn’t drunk that much yet. But your skin burned since he was there, and suddenly, the last disastrous meeting you two experienced replayed way too loudly in your head, the scorching sensation only spreading further and gaining more vigor with the possibility that it did the same in his, too. The unspoken and evident discomfort was enough to make you assume that it definitely was on his mind.

You made the effort to spark up a conversation with the dreaded small talk. ‘How have you been?’, ‘Anything new?’, ‘The weather’s been pretty cold lately, huh?’— blah, blah, blah. Nonetheless, neither of you had more to say other than short, boring responses. It became so unbearable, you knew the only way you could get through this night— seeing as you couldn’t leave after he’d just gotten there— depended on your current and whoever many you could afford future drinks. Quite an alcoholic mindset, perhaps, but there was no way you were the only one or that Peter didn’t have the same wish as you.

Holding your third drink, tispy thoughts pressed you to climb out of the hell you were in. You turned your body to face him, nudging his leg with your foot. He’d been paying attention to a wildlife documentary and an animal hiding from its predator before he lifted an eyebrow and nodded at you. “What?”

“Where have you been?”

A crease formed between his brows as he found it hard to differentiate this question from the one you asked earlier. “I told you, I haven’t really been up to much—”

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked. Where have you been?” Peter pursed his lips, contemplating.

“New York.”

You hummed, bringing your drink up to your lips. “Okay. So if you were here, how come I haven’t seen you since, uh—” You pretended to count in your head, tongue poking out of your mouth as you summed with your fingers. “—December?”

“I was busy.” You narrowed your eyes.

“I thought you hadn’t been up to much?”

“I… haven’t,” Peter said slowly, too far in to escape the contradiction. You bit your lip before finishing your half-empty drink all in one go, head spinning, the weight in your stomach drawing you down to the Earth’s core.

It’s difficult to perceive the line between overthinking and legitimacy. It’s so fine and faint, like a message written with chalk in the middle of the neighborhood’s road that can only be deciphered if you stare at it long and closely enough after the days have passed by and the rain showered upon it. On one side, the message was nothing more than scrawls and nonsensical letters, an unnecessary distraction on the road disrupting you from reaching your destination on time. But then, there was the other side: the truth. A truth that, funnily enough, you reached by overthinking in the first place. Which was what occurred when you suspected the reasoning behind the lack of Peter in your life could be pinpointed to the man purposefully avoiding you; and, right now, grasped that, after all, it wasn’t just another case of irrational overanalyzing.

“Do you hate me?” You blurted out, your eyes going round with the disappearance of your filter. Confusion overflowed Peter’s head and spilled into his expression, adorning his face.

“Huh?”

“Do you hate me—”

“Yeah, I heard you the first time. Where the hell did that come from, though?”

“You’ve been ignoring me.” You stated the obvious, visibly hurt. Peter denied with his head the misconception, sighing.

“It wasn’t intentional.” He assured you not just with his words but his gaze, too. You pressed your lips together, not fully convinced.

“Was it not?” You asked with a small quirk of your mouth. He stared at you, embarrassment crawling across his skin.

“Alright, maybe it was.” He admitted sheepishly. You let out air through your nose, turning on your seat.

“So you do hate me.”

“Y/N,” Peter called for your attention, although he knew it was half-joke. You returned your attention to him. “If I hated you, would I be here, sitting next to you?” He questioned, motioning around him. You shrugged one shoulder, a grin growing on your face.

“I don’t know, maybe you’re just being nice.” You said and he groaned jokingly, sporting his very own lopsided grin.

“I’m being nice because I like you.”

Your smile fell for an instant, but you put the expression back up, reminding yourself that, once more, it didn’t go further than platonic. “Good. But you were mad, then.”

“No, not exactly.”

“You left without saying goodbye last time.”

Peter frowned, rubbing the nape of his neck. “I did. Sorry.” He apologized, the sincerity interlaced in his voice worsening your state. You wanted to place your hand on your chest, as you diagnosed with your zero quantity of medical knowledge that you had a high chance of having a heart attack before the night came to an end.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Why?”

“Well,” You placed your chin on the palm of your hand, moving your eyes elsewhere. “First, for being a dumbass back when we hoo—”

“You know what? You’re fine.” He interrupted you. “Save yourself some time.”

Your brows snapped together. “But—”

“You were right. Let’s just not talk about it and move on, alright?” He waved his hand, grabbing his drink. “If you do talk about it, I think I’m actually gonna get up and leave.”

You laughed, nodding. “Ah, I see. So that’s why you’ve been ignoring me, then?”

His actions halted in the midst of taking a sip. “Maybe.” He answered vaguely.

You rolled your eyes. “You can’t just run away from your problems, Peter.” You pointed out like the hypocrite you were, particularly after that was exactly what you were doing not too long ago. Peter, unaware of this, however, had to admit you spoke the truth as he rubbed his nose with his knuckles, grumbling.

“You see, you say that, but I’m still gonna continue doing it.”

“No, you’re not, because we’re going to discuss this like adults—”

“As an adult, I’m telling you that all is good and I’m over it.” He finished with a warning tone you couldn’t take seriously and you giggled. “Next topic.”

“Okay, grandpa. Sure thing. All is good.” You grinned, the ice in your heart melting off as he copied your countenance.

“For real this time.”

“Yeah. For real this time. Can I be honest with you, though?” Peter waited for you to go on, paying close attention, his gaze soft. You stared at him for a moment too long ‘till your eyes moved to your hand now feebly holding your empty drink. “I missed you. Kind of. Is that dumb?” You mumbled, your voice small.

You couldn’t properly see him, but through your peripheral vision, you didn’t catch any movement. That’s when you prepared to scream ‘sike!’ to his face— a real-life undo button to delete the emotions you couldn’t take back and shove down your system anymore. However, it felt… good. For once, it wasn’t spilling your guts out and regretting everything as you attempted to cram your organs back into you; you had plucked out a thorn that’d been hanging inside the palm of your hand for far too long. It was liberating. And you peered up at him, expecting that relief to be temporary, but his tender features didn’t let that happen.

“...No. I missed you, too.”

You both smiled.

The conversation began to flow. Words started to spill, and although you weren’t at the bar, you enjoyed that exact same security and blissful buzz. You realized then— a revelation that did not help your case— the location didn’t play an important role, and perhaps it never did; bar or not, if Peter was there, you’d still feel stupidly and overly content. Your worries faded away as you two caught up with no drop of MJ’s name, but some lingered anyway, because change was inevitable, looming over you. Laughter left your lips, his hand rested close to yours on the counter. You noticed, but couldn’t bring yourself to pull away, to walk away from the euphoria tainting your body. More liquor entered his, over time you stared at his mouth one, two, three, four seconds too long as you became intoxicated along with him, and so did he with yours.

“C’mon, tell me.” You pouted for an instant, interchanging it for a drunk smile. “Your secret dies with me.”

Peter slammed his fifth drink down, cheeks tinted pink. It was wrong, indeed, to take advantage of his condition and try to get out of him something you’d wanted to know for the longest time, and that he kept to himself as if it were government classified information. In your drunken brain, it did not seem too far off. Perhaps he went on outrageous underground missions. You laughed at yourself. Peter didn’t seem like a spy-type of guy. Unless…

“Do you, like, work for the government?” Peter screwed up his face at your absurdity.

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter opened his mouth, a giggle escaping. “I can’t.” You dragged your stool closer to him, as you weren’t close enough already. Actually, when did you get so close? It didn’t matter. You analyzed his face, hoping that somehow, if you looked at him long enough, you’d gain the ability to read minds and crack into his. Peter drew his lower lip between his teeth, studying you like you were the most interesting being. You didn’t know why, but you felt tempted to move that strand of hair that always hung in front of his forehead away from his face. As any rational person wouldn’t, you did, your thumb brushing against the barely visible scratch that started the conversation in the first place.

“What are you thinking?” You questioned, brimming with interest. He went crossed-eyed as he tried to follow your hand.

“About stuff. Whatcha thinkin’?” He asked back, his view traveling down to your lips. You bit your lip.

The closeness, your full-blown pupils, the actuality that you could lean closer to him and you’d meet his lips. It all seemed too familiar. And so you wondered, if you did move and kiss him, if you stopped resisting and glanced down at his lips, too, what would happen?

“I don’t know. What does it look like I’m thinking?” You asked, lowering your voice. The stench of alcohol should have been enough to stop you both from advancing any further, but Peter licked his lips, smirking.

“It seems to me like you wanna fuck me.”

You gasped, hiccuping. “Oh, my! I didn’t know this part of yours, Peter B. Parker. Is it just the alcohol speaking?”

“Maybe. But is it true?”

“What?”

“What I said.”

Your upper body swayed closer to him, tired, dizzy, and wishing to lie down. You gripped his shoulder and helped yourself add some distance, your other hand landing on his knee. “Maybe.” You simply said. Your eyes remained interlocked into one another, your hand running up his shoulder to his neck, and then all the way up to the back of his head, sensing his goosebumps. “Maybe…” You repeated as your touch on his knee traveled up his thigh. Peter took in a sharp breath, his hand unconsciously wrapping around your wrist.

You couldn’t help it anymore. You leaned in and captured his mouth in a rough kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck. Pull away, a voice said in your head as you felt his tongue momentarily slide against your bottom lip. Pull away, the nagging voice went on and you did, shaking your head.

“I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen again.” You whispered, yet your mouth came back into a messy kiss, even messier hands craving touch. Breaking glass startled you two apart and you looked down, sighing when you saw your drink’s contents all over the ground. “You owe me a drink.” You panted, your lips swollen.

Peter scoffed, his half-smile blurring your vision as he tilted his head towards your ear. “Nothing has to happen if you don’t want it to.” He said, mouth ghosting near your cheek despite his words, yearning to continue. You pecked his jaw, lips resting against his hot skin, careless about the other customers in the bar.

“I do want something to happen, though.”

You both ignored the conversation your sober selves had. ‘It was just a one-time thing, right?’. Peter slammed your apartment’s door closed whilst your lips were still connected, your hands clumsily coming down to try to unbuckle his belt. ‘Yeah’. His own hands aided yours, the clinking of his belt buckle speeding up your heartbeat as if it weren’t already dangerously fast. ‘It was just a one-time thing’. Peter groaned into your mouth, tasting like liquor, like something you’d both regret the next morning but did not care about the consequences, even if it was a lesson you’d already learned. Not at the moment.

But nothing happened.

You couldn’t recall much the next morning. The first proof that it didn’t go further from a make-out session was that you woke up in your bed, alone, and wearing the same clothes as the previous night. The second evidence you gathered when you barged into your living room and there slept Peter on your couch, his appearance also identical to the one in your hazy memories. He didn’t remember anything. As you struggled to cease your trembling legs, he simply laughed and asked if he got so wasted he had to crash at your place. You shrugged and smiled, still capable of tasting his lips and vividly feel his hot breath.

From then on, you avoided drinking or being too exhausted to have any common sense when you were around Peter. One day he invited you to go out and have a few drinks again, to ‘repay’ you, and to which you responded as calmly as you could that you had other ‘plans’; other plans that, truthfully, were faker than the disappointed expression of yours that followed. Then, as if you couldn’t ever reach a state of peace, he asked again a month later, and you had no other choice than to invent a faulty reason for why you didn’t feel like drinking that night, the next night, or the one after, even if, according to all the drunk stories you’d recounted to him in the past, you never really turned down a drink or the opportunity to get inebriated. Guilt poisoned you when he never brought up the idea after that, fingers crossed that he didn’t get the impression you didn’t want to meet him in other circumstances other than the bar; regardless that that’s exactly what was going on. Every other night after he helped you with closing the bar, you’d also nod goodbye at him and stand in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting until he turned around the corner so your feet could dreadfully carry you to the subway station, your now-unfixable car present in your head like an aggravating piece of gum that stuck to your shoe.

Nothing could be more vexing than this, though.

Eventually, you began to wonder. Perhaps, yet again, you were as weary as that time you slept with Peter, seeing as you couldn’t think straight, almost as if you’d suffered from a concussion and all your neurons died, to your utmost dismay. But there was a dissimilarity: the unfortunate detail that, unlike physical fatigue, mental exhaustion wouldn’t pack its bags and wave farewell after a night-long sleep. Not when immediately after you woke up, the same worries still found their home within your head. So your imagination took it as an initiative to force feelings and schemes onto you, ones which involved the stomach-churning plausibility that maybe, just maybe, Peter liked you back and you could happily come clean. You had to laugh. But then you really started to wonder.

You needed at least six reasons to follow through with it. First. He was the one who made a move months ago. Second. He wasn’t drunk. Third, you listed in your head, you kissed. Again. And, fourth, this time he might have been drunk, but if he did it both as a sober man and a drunk one, it had to mean something, right?

You were struggling to distinguish the line between overthinking and legitimacy again.

You went to work that day, decided, the fifth reason simply being that you couldn’t get him out of your head, but the sixth reason missing. A truck landing on you would probably do the job, you thought. You didn’t mean it whole-heartedly, of course. But, apparently, the universe didn’t know about sarcasm and how it worked since, an hour after the thought passed through your head, it sent you a nice little gift and Spider-Man just so happened to get in a fight near the bar and an actual truck broke through the walls of the pub.

“I can’t fucking believe a truck landed right here. This is why I hate living in this city so much,” You scoffed, holding a towel wrapped around ice up to your bruised forehead as you observed the gigantic hole where the truck happily invited itself into. Peter barely reacted to your comment, too focused on disinfecting the wound in your arm. You pulled the makeshift ice bag away from your head, screwing your eyes shut. “I’m starting to get a headache from how cold this is, can I—”

Peter grabbed your hand and forced it back up to your forehead, shaking his head and focusing again on your arm. “No, trust me, it will reduce the swelling.”

“Should I be worried that you know so much about injuries?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

You chewed on your bottom lip, looking down at your lap. “I know. Thanks.” You smiled, recalling the urgency in his voice after he called you, saying he’d seen what’d happened on the news. He moved on to the gauze and began to bandage your arm, making sure his movements were delicate lest he hurt you more. “I met Spider-Man, though. I think I can finally die in peace.” You caught the way the corner of his mouth lifted upward.

“Really? Did he apologize for almost killing you?” Peter grumbled, accepting the scissors you offered him to cut the cotton fabric. You released a huff of air, admittedly offended and immediately going to defend the masked superhero.

“He didn’t almost kill me, it was the other guy. Bad guys, you know? They’re everywhere.” He huffed. “He checked up on me and offered to take me to the hospital, though. Pretty cool guy.”

“And why didn’t you say yes?”

You contemplated his question. “Stranger danger.” You shrugged. Peter laughed softly, muttering ‘fair enough’. “It also wasn’t necessary. I didn’t want to interfere with his, uh… superhero duties…”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed. “Isn’t making sure you’re okay part of his duties?”

“I guess, but I’m fine, it’s no biggie.”

“Y/N, you could have died.”

“But look at me,” You patted your torso, then holding your arms wide open. “I didn’t. You’re making it sound much worse than it actually was.” Peter ran his hand through his hair, exhaling tiredly.

“Whatever,” He said, hesitance showing through his eyes. “I just think the guy should be more careful. His job is to protect the people, not to… hurt them.”

You scowled playfully, kicking him lightly. “Dude, fuck off, don’t talk shit about him like that. He’s Spider-Man. Give the poor guy a break.” He didn’t say anything, though, stirring your concern as you realized he seemed off since he first arrived. “Are you okay?” You inquired, frowning.

Peter glanced up at you before rubbing his face. “Yeah. It’s just been a long day.”

“Every day is a long day when it comes to you, isn’t it?” You joked lightly, nudging him a second time. “You helped me, now let me help you. What’s up?”

He moved his head from one side to another. “You’re always helping me.” He said almost as an apology, smiling sadly. You smirked back, standing up from your seat next to him to jump over the bar. You grasped an empty shot glass, checking no small debris had made its way into for the sake of Peter’s health (now, that’d be a hell of a lawsuit) before you slid it towards him.

“It’s my job as your bartender.”

He peered down at the glass and then up at you. Chuckling defeatedly, he took ahold of it, and you read it as ‘ah, the hell with it’ as you reached for the bottle of vodka. “I fucked up.” He whispered while you poured the liquid.

You screwed the cap closed, your eyebrows lifting high. “How come?”

Peter placed his head in his hands, nose crinkling. “I, um… talked to MJ?” And just like that, your mood took a fall as well, an inaudible ‘oh’ fleeting past your lips. “It’s the first time we talked in a long time.”

“...And?” You asked anxiously, folding your arms across your chest. Peter clutched onto the shot of vodka, watching the liquid dangerously reach for the edge of the glass after he slowly tipped it.

“Well, she’s trying to move on.” Surprise crossed your face. “And I was so distraught by it for the rest of the day that I really fucked up at work.”

“What were you thinking about?”

“That maybe I should move on, too.”

Your arms fell down to your sides. Maybe you really did hit your head too harshly, you thought, as your body started to feel heavy and you had to support yourself on the bar, for all this information you were hearing at once was colliding against you more vigorously than the pieces of wood which fled towards you earlier. Swallowing to bring moisture to your throat, you continued with the million-dollar question pestering you.

“What’s stopping you?”

You regretted uttering the words, something you seemed to be doing too much to suit your taste as of lately. However, Peter, although the question troubled him the same way it did you, clasped his hands together and you studied him whilst he went through every thought in his head and through every feeling, seeking an explanation he himself needed to know as well.

“I’m not sure if I want to. But I know that I have to.” He finally breathed out. You leaned forward, not satisfied, needing to hear more and more even if it’d hurt, because nothing was more vexing than this feeling.

“But you love her,” You said matter-of-factly. Silence. Your heart pounded rapidly enough you could sense it in your head. “Right?” You asked, embarrassed by the apparent desperation in your tone.

“Huh?” Peter snapped out his thoughts, blinking up at you.

“You love Mary Jane?”

He bit his lip as he went back inside the isolated room of his brain after only just sneaking his head out, evidently growing stressed. “It’s okay,” You brought him back out, sacrificing your curiosity as you gently smiled at him. “You don’t have to answer.”

Peter exhaled thankfully, downing his shot. “What’d you wanna tell me earlier, anyway?” He asked expectantly, his voice scratchy from the liquor. Oh. Yeah, right. Plans might have changed an hour ago, yet for some reason, you still wanted to come clean to Peter. However, right now, after hearing about Mary Jane, you forgot about the sixth reason and remembered why you never did in the first place after all this time.

“Do you… want to go get a drink?” You cursed your imagination for not working when it was necessary. Peter’s forehead creased with astonishment as if he never thought he’d hear that sentence again (in his defense, though, it’s exactly what you were planning to do).

“You finally wanna go and get a drink?”

“Hey, just be glad I’m feeling like it.”

It was an understatement to express you were feeling like it.

You continued searching for that sixth reason for the next weeks, even if the entire world knew that after you found it, you’d keep your lips sealed. Your friend put your friendship at risk when, during your September lunch with your boss, he couldn’t resist but telling her about your ‘secret crush’, saying he simply did it for a third opinion, but neither of you gained no new eye-opening advice for your boss dragged on about how Peter could be ‘the one’, which honestly worked in scaring you away from the topic. One day after, as you couldn’t fall asleep, you deliberated the reasons why you should forget about Peter.

One. He’s your friend. Your really good friend. You liked him being your friend. He’s funny, a nerd, and you could talk to him forever, even if it was merely absolute nonsense. Two. He’s a lot older than you. Not that eight years mattered that much, but it could. You were just entering your thirties whilst he was nearing his forties. Even if he’d made it clear kids weren’t his cup of tea, he could change his mind. You weren’t ready to settle down yet, despite most people reminding you the clock was ticking and you should start considering it.

Three. The iconic Mary Jane Watson. Peter’s ex-wife whom he loved dearly. He might have not talked about her since he mentioned the idea of moving on, but you knew it was easier said than done. If you opened up, he could shut you down and reveal he’s still in love with MJ. Or worse, if you two did wind up dating, he could decide to leave you for her. Four. Your friend helped you with the fourth one. He had yet to tell you about why he’s bruised most of the time. It admittedly awakened the cynicism in you, for it could be something which had the potential of putting you at risk, or get you killed. Plus, if he did not want to give you an explanation, it meant he didn’t trust you enough.

Five. You couldn’t lose him. You already almost did. Your absurd crush could be the last straw and get rid of him for good. If that was the case, then you’d do anything to muffle your heart singing its love songs when he crossed your mind or simply stood in front of you. You’d do it, even if it’d hurt.

Again, you couldn’t come up with a sixth reason. You established, then, that whichever reason you uncovered first, would be the final word. Your friend knew both a sixth reason for why you shouldn’t forget about Peter and why you should that, trying not to influence you any further, he kept to himself; it being clear in his head which one he hoped you’d find first.

It was another Friday night. You’d just returned home after wasting your money on some restaurant that definitely was not worth the price (goddamn New York) when your phone blared its ringtone in your pocket. Your heart clenched as you read the name and were about to answer immediately, until you stopped yourself. Counting eight seconds in your head, your thumb slid across the screen after you got to the last number and picked up the call. “Peter?” You were audibly and justifiably perplexed— why has he calling you at… you checked the time— ten P.M,? It may have not been the first one anymore, but phone calls were still a rare occurrence between you two.

“Hey! Are you busy?” His breathing was heavy, which made you wonder what he possibly could’ve been up to before he called you.

You opened your apartment’s door and blindly searched for the light switch. “No, I just got back home, actually.” You muttered, and then voiced a victorious exclamation when the room lit up in front of your eyes. “Why?”

He inhaled profoundly. “Cool. Great. Yeah.”

You guessed the barely distinguishable quiver in his voice could be defined as uneasiness as you sat down on your couch’s armrest, squinting.

“Is everything okay?”

“...Yeah. Yeah!” He repeated, firstly too quietly but now with faux confidence. “I needed to talk to you.”

Ah, hell. You had one important question and one only: when would you get a break from confrontation and those words? The last time you and Peter ‘needed to talk’ didn’t exactly go as smoothly. That in mind, your organs plummeted down into an expanding black hole in your stomach as you brought your fingers up to your lips. “I’m all ears, as always.” No, not really, but you didn’t exactly have any other choice.

“Okay, okay. Um, I, uh… what am I doing?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I wanna say sorry in advance.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

You could solely hear what sounded like wind. “You’re not gonna believe me, so just, just look outside your window.”

The black hole having devoured the contents in your system, you raised to your feet and sped to the window, not capable of painting in your head a single picture of what in the heavens the man could be planning. You unlatched the lock and glided the window upward, your head gradually peering out. Your eyes went as big and round as the full moon glowing above you when you saw it.

You stared dumbfounded, close to pinching yourself to do a reality check. It had to be a dream. A strange dream. There was just no way. No fucking way, it was absolutely impossible. It was beyond the innumerable existing possibilities that Spider-Man looked back at you, stuck against the wall. Similar to someone’s lack of subtlety, it couldn’t have been any more evident. You didn’t even need a big brain or to think, to analyze deeply as if it were a riddle in a newspaper. Because it was just right there in front of you, plainly obvious and transforming your blood into ice: the phone he held up to his face.

“Hi…” Said the masked hero. And so did Peter through the phone call.

Your phone slipped from your grasp, yet you didn’t glance down at it. You continued to gawk at the man as he flicked his wrist and saved not only your phone, but simultaneously also your bank account from having to spend hundreds of dollars on a new one. You did not mutter a thanks, let out no relieved sigh when he gave it back to you. You just stared.

“I know I’m pretty cool to look at, but can you please say something?” He laughed nervously. Ignoring him, you took a step back and retreated your head, eyes close to falling out of their sockets. The phone in your shaky hands rang a second time and you answered without needing to look at the contact.

“H-Hello?”

“Hi.”

“Peter, what the fuck.”

“I’ve done this so many times but I still don’t know what to say.” He groaned to himself. You put your hand on top of your head, disbelieving.

“Get in.” You abruptly ended the call and plopped down on your couch, clutching your stomach, blinking furiously after black dots uncontrollably twirled in your vision. You heard a thump, the floor shaking slightly; however, you didn’t turn around to look at your guest, instead focusing on the wall in front of you. It wasn’t until the cushion beside you sank with the man’s weight that you blew up. “Holy shit.” You cupped your face with your hands, laughing out of pure shock. “Holy shit… holy shit!”

“Don’t freak out.”

“How am I not supposed to freak out?!”

Peter— Spider-Man shrugged, his white lenses wide. “I don’t… I don’t know.” He admitted.

You scanned his mask, the mask you’d become familiar with after seeing it so many times on TV and pictures. Somehow, however, regardless if you knew that mask and the person behind it, you couldn’t believe its authenticity. “Take off the mask.” He didn’t move or respond. “Please.” You begged.

You first saw the stubble. Then his lips. Then his crooked nose, and soon, those eyes. The whiskey eyes. Peter’s whiskey eyes. Your hands wound up on his broad shoulders, and for some reason you yourself couldn’t work out, it just dawned upon you how muscular they were. Your eyes came back to his face. Yeah, that’s Peter. That’s Peter B. Parker. Peter Parker was Spider-Man. All the revelations crashed against you quick, glass shattering in your head, everything suddenly making sense. The bruises. His constant fatigue. Everything.

“Peter… oh my God.”

“I know I-I kept this from you for a really long time, and I know it’s hard to fully digest it, but I did promise I was gonna tell you one day.” He said, the corner of his lips twitching. But you weren’t smiling— all the terrible fights you’d watched on the news throughout the years flashed in your head, going all the way back in time to when you first discovered Queens’ brand-new superhero as a seven-year-old.

You gasped, covering your mouth. “You’re telling me you’ve been at this since you were a fucking kid?”

Peter let his mask drop to the carpeted ground, his back sliding down the sofa’s backrest. “Since I was fifteen, yeah.”

“Peter…”

He grimaced at your concern. “I know it sounds sad, but it’s not… it’s not that bad.” He promised you, but you couldn’t take him seriously. You picked up your legs, sitting cross-legged and playing with your fingers as you continued to go through your racing questions.

“I used to look up to you when I was little.” You revealed quietly. Peter scoffed, grinning playfully.

“What, you don’t anymore?”

You shook your head vigorously. “I do. Shit, I still do. I never thought I’d meet my childhood hero the way I did, though.”

“Sorry I’m just a sad, old man.”

You rolled your eyes, prodding him with your elbow. “You’re so much more than that.” All humor fled his expression and he shut his eyes, throwing his head back.

“Am I? I constantly feel like I’m letting everyone down.” He huffed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he spoke. There it was, of course; he couldn’t talk about Spider-Man in a non-degrading way.

“You’re fucking Spider-Man!” You exclaimed, not accepting his utter bullshit, but he was willing to accept it as he peeked one eye open to look at you.

“I know, you always say that.”

You gave up in trying to change his mind and shifted closer to him, copying his position, unable to focus on your view of the boring, mundane ceiling; so you turned your head to see Peter getting lost in the white square. “You really didn’t have to tell me. This is a big secret.”

“It’s alright. I trust you.” You were glad he kept staring up as you felt the blood rush to your face.

“You do?” You asked, your chest warm, illuminated with glee. Peter glanced at you, nodding nonchalantly.

“I mean, yeah. I really do.”

You turned your face away from him, your muscles close to tearing from how big and proudly you grinned. “Spider-Man trusts me.” You hushed to yourself.

Peter breathed out, exasperated, his eyes fluttering closed again. “Stop.” He pleaded, laughing himself nonetheless. You bit your smile back, moving to sit straight in what your friend liked to call your ‘parent worried about their kid’ sitting position.

“I guess I was right for worrying, huh?” You smiled sadly, taking in the severity of the situation. He poked his cheek with his tongue, shaking his head.

“I don’t want you to worry.” He sighed. You snorted.

“That’s dumb. You’re saying you’re always putting your life on the line? Of course I’m gonna worry.”

“Well, I worry about you, too.”

“How come?”

“If you’re close to me, then you’re putting your life on the line as well.”

You frowned, squeezing his arm to comfort him. “No, don’t say that.”

“Y/N, it’s the truth, though.” He fully sat up to turn toward you, his eyebrows furrowed. “It’s the worst thing about this. How many times have the people I care about gotten hurt? All ‘cause of me?”

You remained speechless. Moments later, he placed his hands flat against the sofa, preparing to stand up. “Y’know, I get it if you want to keep your distance from now on. I actually think it’d be a good—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” You warned him, expression stern. “It’s stupid.”

“I almost got you killed that other time—”

“You didn’t almost get me fucking killed, for Christ’s sake!”

Peter’s jaw tightened and he ran his hands through his hair, that strand of hair falling back in front of his forehead. “Whatever. You can’t be so sure, anyway.”

You pressed your lips together, knowing that he was right. You nervously placed your hand on top of his. “Can I hug you?” You asked like a child, giving him a half-smile. Peter looked down at your hand before his eyes moved to you.

“Sure. Y-Yeah.”

You wrapped your arms around him, hugging him hard, your eyes squeezing shut. You felt him slowly embrace your waist, scared of underestimating his strength. “I’m glad you told me. It must have been really hard.” You murmured against his chest. He chuckled humorlessly, his cheek on top of your head.

“You have no idea.”

“I’m gonna be here for you no matter what, okay? Whether it’s to vent or for some weird spider shit. I…” Love you. “You’re my friend, dude.”

After he left that night, you’d never been more conflicted about your feelings. It was a conundrum; a whole headache-inducing brain-teaser. You’d striked out the fourth reason why you should forget about Peter, the original five down to only four, but you still searched for that sixth— now fifth reason. As if it didn’t scramble your brain enough that it left you dazed and your thoughts impossible untangle, Peter unknowingly joined the game with the objective of rattling you up more.

You noticed he didn’t disappear without notice ever again, and if he did, he didn’t leave you hanging, rather he sent you a text the day after with an entire clarification. Then, you caught onto the increasing meter of his touchiness: new and unexpected hugs, holding your damn hand— although that only happened twice, but still. Your overdramatic friend didn’t even need to point it out.

One Saturday, he sat down in front of you, and before you could greet him, he surprised you. “One whiskey served over ice, please.” He smirked. You gaped at him, laughing, face astonished.

“What’s up with that?” He shrugged, grin never disappearing.

“I dunno, I guess I missed it.”

You never thought you’d continue hearing ‘one whiskey served over ice, please’ ever again. But you did.

This year, you did give him a present for Hanukkah and Christmas. A painting of one of your favorite photos of his that he showed you one day; a day you so vividly recalled, for he asked you to come with him to take pictures of an exhibition at a museum, and you accidentally broke a statue after you leaned against it in the attempt of doing an extravagant pose. To your surprise, he gave you one, too: a photo album with pictures from that day, and a message that read, ‘Merry Christmas!’, accompanied by a smiley face. In the blink of an eye, it was New Year’s Eve again, except that this time, you and Peter were talking.

You came out of the party’s bathroom, unable to tear your gaze away for the fourth time from Peter’s New Year’s Eve message, until you bumped into someone and had to force yourself to pocket your phone. You lazily swayed to the music, your vision blurring out, turning it harder to find your friend amidst the people. While your body was there, all your five senses working perfectly, feeling the heat from the enclosed space, the music vibrating in your chest, the smell of alcohol and smoke fixed in your nostrils, your mind lived in December 20th. December 20th being last Monday: a date that continued to echo in your head, the entirety of the day playing from the beginning until the pitch-black hour of midnight. It played, played, played relentlessly, exhaustingly. December 20th, it continued, a stupid date that your drunk self could not let go of.

You distinguished your friend in the crowd, comfort kissing your body and your tired legs guiding you to him, until you moved a person aside and saw the full view of his lower body grinding against a girl all over him. “Ah, fucking gross,” You groaned, pushing the unlucky same guy as you took a turn and headed for the glass door leading out to the balcony.

You firstly bumped into the door thinking it was open, but successfully slid it open and made it out into the winter weather, the city more awake than ever twenty minutes before the New Year. But you weren’t focusing on the future. No, you held onto last Monday, gripping it so tightly it hurt, hanging onto it as if you’d be nothing once it left. You stumbled towards the bench to your left, falling defeated on it. December 20th. You turned on your phone, squinting down at the screen, eyes struggling to focus through the brightness. Last week. You opened your contacts and without hesitation called a number, bringing your phone up to your ear, humming along to the beeping whilst you awaited for the person to pick up.

“Hello?” Peter said. You hung up, eyes wide. What the fuck were you doing? You didn’t answer your own question, though; you pressed the button to call again.

“...Hi?”

You ended the call a second time, growing frustrated with yourself. Having finally made up your mind, you called him one last time, jumping when he answered in what appeared a worldwide record-time. “Y/N, what the fuck—”

“Peter! You answered.”

There was a short silence. “I did.” He agreed, undeniably puzzled. You slumped against the wall, muffling your dopey laughter with the palm of your hand. You could hear… ah, wait. You could see, not hear, his face in your head with no problem: his furrowed brows and narrowed eyes.

“How are you?” You wanted to hear about his day. What had he eaten that day? What had crossed his mind? Hopefully you’d made an appearance at least once. That’d be nice.

“I’m good, thanks for asking.” You hummed happily. “How drunk are you?”

You shook your head, failing at rubbing the haziness out of your eyes. “Just a bit tipsy, maybe.”

“How much exactly is ‘a bit tipsy’ for you?”

“How many phone calls have we had?”

A question out of the blue, you knew, and you were expecting yet again the quietness as he processed your sudden need to quiz him about such insignificant rubbish. Well… did he think it was insignificant? So many questions bouncing off your skull all at once, worsening that awful migraine you could already feel coming… or was it the booze? No, who cares. All you cared about at the moment was his response, because knowing how many fucking phone calls you’ve had wasn’t that hard unless you didn’t care.

“What?” Really? He was going to make you repeat yourself? You dug the heel of the palm into your closed eye, white fireworks blowing up in the darkness behind your eyelids.

“Like, for these past two years. How many phone calls?”

“I… don’t know, maybe like three?”

Your face fell ever so slightly. “It’s six, actually.” You heard an unenthusiastic gasp.

“Wow, that’s great.”

“Do you remember the sixth one?”

“Isn’t this the sixth one?”

“This is the seventh one.”

“Okay, and why are you giving me a class about how many phone calls we’ve had?”

“Because you don’t remember the sixth one. I’m sure you don’t even remember the fifth one that well.”

He remained quiet for a moment. “It’s a blur.” Peter murmured.

“You were drunk…” You shut both eyes now, trying to dig through the fog to recall. “It was after you came to the bar…” Peter’s embarrassed stutters, similar to his inebriated ones, helped to uncover the memory further.

“I-I was drunk, yeah,” He admitted, “just like you are right now.”

“And what did you say?”

He laughed uncomfortably. “I think you remember better than I do.”

You grinned. “You’re embarrassed.”

“Of course I’m embarrassed, Y/N.”

“Well, what about the sixth time you called me?”

“I seriously can’t remember a sixth time.”

“It wasn’t a failed booty call.”

He breathed in harshly. “Ah, I’m glad, I guess.”

A frown took over your features. “You really can’t remember?” You needed him to. He had to. Or else... or else…

“I swear on my aunt.”

Your heart shattered, the sharp pieces prodding and hurting your chest. “So… so I guess you didn’t mean what you said?” You mumbled to yourself, realization sobering you more than you wanted it to.

Peter couldn’t help but begin to panic a bit at the mention of expressing something without his knowledge, or at least without his not drunk self’s knowledge. You immediately grew conscious of it for this time, the silence was different. “...What did I say?” He questioned, somewhat afraid. You didn’t speak. “Y/N? What did I say?” He pushed more urgently.

“It doesn’t matter,” You changed your mind. Calling was just another bad idea. You took your phone away from your ear for a second, jumping off from your seat, but your foot accidentally knocked over your drink. You stared down at the growing pool of alcohol staining the floor, seeping underneath your shoe. Blinking, you looked at your phone, at Peter’s name, and the numbers of the counter below it rising, marking each of your thumping heartbeat.

The sixth reason. You needed it to stop you right now; an instruction to back out, the reassurance that it was still an option and it didn’t stop being one long ago. But as your finger came down to end the call for the better, your head screamed, freezing you.

Sixth. You were in love with Peter Parker.

You dropped back down on the bench, eyes glazed over. That was it. The sixth reason. Peter. The man nearing his forties and with the loveliest messed up nose. The customer you met last year and that continued to come to bar you worked at just to talk to you, his bartender. The guy you laughed with, sang with, slept with, became too close with, fell in love with. You put the phone back up to its right place, anxiously licking your lips. “Look, I’m gonna regret this. I know I am. But that hasn’t stopped me in the past, so why should it now, right?” You chuckled, your eyes wide.

“I’m really concerned about that phone call, though.”

“Peter,” You glanced up at the sky, gulping. “I’m so glad I met you. I really am.”

“I-I’m glad I met you, too.”

You smiled momentarily. “Good. Working at the bar had become such a pain in the ass, and it still kinda is, but then you came that first time, and you called me ‘kid’ which annoyed me, but I was still hoping that maybe you’d stay, you know?”

“Why?”

“Because…” Your free hand came up to aid the other which trembled too much, grasping it tightly. “I don’t know, it was weird, I just couldn’t… I-I really wanted to get to know you. And it took some time but eventually we did talk— you said that stupid pick-up line and somehow it worked. I really need to higher my standards.”

“Hey, it was a great pick-up line.”

“It really wasn’t.”

“You gave me your number, didn’t you?”

The corner of your mouth twitched upward, and you laughed softly at yourself. “I did, I did. And I’m glad I did, even if you were just trying to get your mind off of MJ.” The truth stung as it glided out of your mouth.

Peter thought for a moment before continuing, “Maybe I just wanted a friend.” But it lacked sincerity, and you both could recognize that.

“But, Pete,” You bit your lip, looking down at the mess you’d left on the ground, the sole of your shoe now sticky. “Am I really just a friend?”

More silence. You breathed in, your chest moving up. “Be honest with me, please.” You begged, your voice hushed.

“Okay.”

Your stomach began to cramp up. “That time we hooked up,” You paused, the eerie shortage of noise on the other side of the line pushing you to go on. “Did it mean anything to you? Was it anything more than just a distraction?”

“I…”

“Or what about that other time at my place? Why did nothing happen?”

“We were too wasted. It was wrong.”

“So you do remember.”

“I do.”

You placed your hand on top of the other, beginning to pace around. “Are you lying about that phone call, too?”

“What is it with this phone call you say? What happened?” He repeated, desperate and with a hint of irritation. You approached the railing, placing your elbows on the metal.

“Just… be honest with me.”

“I am, Y/N.”

You kneaded your forehead with your knuckles, shaking your head. “I can’t take it anymore. It’s been too long, and it’s so confusing. You’re so confusing. Or maybe I’m stupid, I don’t know. There’s… there’s this thing, I know you can feel it as well, and sometimes it’s as if there’s a chance that you might feel the same way I do, but then the next minute it’s as if not, a-and it’s so confusing.”

“Feel the same way you do? What do you mean?” He clearly knew what you meant. Your eyes traveled around the city, the cold and strong breeze nearly knocking your body backward. If he knew, why couldn’t he simply outright admit it? Why, all of a sudden, was it taking him so long?

“The phone call…”

He groaned. “Y/N, just please tell me why you’re so hung up on that phone call?”

“It was last week. You said you liked me.”

You said it. He heard it. He finally heard it, and you waited for anything like an idiot, yet it never came. You checked if you had accidentally hung up the call, but when you saw that it was still going, you sighed and decided to end it for once and for all. “We can be anything. Anything, okay? I can just be your bartender, you can be my client, we can be friends, w-we can be more. If it’s not supposed to be, then just as long as you’re there, I really won’t mind. Just, please… I’m begging you…” You whispered, not capable of discerning whether your body quivered from the winter or the fear brutally gnawing on you.

“Be honest.”

Peter held his breath. “Y/N…” You waited, shoulders shaking, the stupid fucking silence clutching you by the neck as you waited. Just say it. Just say it—

“I’m still in love with MJ. I’m sorry.”

Oh.

“Oh.” You said aloud, voice cracking. “Wow.”

“I’m sorry—”

“No. Pete, no, I’m…Thank you. It’s just kinda hard to take it in, but I...” You tightened your jaw, your throat aching, swallowing back your pity. “I will. Thank you for being honest, though.”

“I really hope this doesn’t ruin things,” You could barely hear him: your brain too loud compared to his voice. You shook your head frantically, scrunching up your nose to hold back a sniffle.

“Never. I love you.” It wasn’t the way you wanted to say it. “You’re my friend. And I’m not going anywhere because you said I was stuck with you, remember?”

He laughed, a beam of light that almost mended your fractured heart. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten about that.” You smiled brightly, wiping the tears you’d tried so hard to stop from running down your cheeks. You stood straight, but it was only for a mere second, for your arms plopped back down onto the railing from the lightheadedness which threatened to bring you down.

“Okay,” You slurred, the bile rising up and burning your throat. “I’m gonna leave you. My friend will hate me if I miss the countdown…”

“Sure. Happy new year… be safe.”

You giggled, waving your hand at no one, really. “Don’t worry about me grandpa, I do this every year.” You doubted the idea that popped in your head, but voiced it anyway, “And if you need any help with MJ, I’m here. I can give you a discount at the bar for a date night!” The excitement you forced onto yourself was salt on the wound.

“I’m not sure if that’s a romantic idea, but thanks, I’ll think about it.” You both hesitated, waiting for something once again. But when you realized that it’d never arrive no matter how much time passed, you nodded quietly and unwrapped your arms from yourself, preparing to let go of that feeling you’d clutched onto for the longest time as well.

“I’ll see you around.” You finally said and hung up. You stared at your phone, grief by your side, holding your hand. Yet, to your surprise, a weak smile started to creep on you, relief slowly sewing your heart together. You told yourself that the heaviness in your heart didn’t matter, because at least you had Peter. At least he would still be there, at the bar, with his whiskey served over ice.

As you stumbled to your feet, ready to join your friend and drink away your bittersweet ache, your phone began to vibrate. Your brows twisted together and you looked down, sliding your thumb across the screen.

“Peter?”

#peter b parker x reader #peter b parker x you #peter b parker x y/n #sm:itsv #spider man into the spider verse #peter b parker one shot #peter b parker imagine #one make out session #fem!reader #male!reader #gender neutral #sadies1.6kwc

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athenadcvell · 5 years

Text

The Cleaning Lady

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Warnings: Nope

Word Count: 2,198

Dialogue Prompt: "For some reason, I'm attracted to you."

A/N: So, I decided that I'll use a random generator website to generate a dialogue prompt... and those websites gave me Steve Rogers and this. This is my first X reader fic, so yes, it is very very very bad, and very cringe. Read it tho and lmk what ya think!

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It's hard doing work when you have literal Gods walking beside you on the daily basis.

Y/n knew this when she was hired as one of the many maids in the Avengers base. She was thoroughly explained to all the rules and happenings of the building, and what her daily duties were. Despite her training, she didn't quite prepare herself for this.

She's been working in the Avengers base for quite some time now. Enough time that some of the Avengers have learned her name. Well, one Avenger has learned her name.

Steve Rogers. Steve Grant Rogers. Captain America. Everything about him was just so... charming to Y/n. The way he walked with authority in each step, but still treated every person he encountered with the same amount of respect and kindness. And not to mention he was Captain America. Leader of the Avengers.

And apparently Y/n's newest crush. She didn't exactly expect to fall for the Avenger, yet here she was. How could she not? He knew her name, and he always made sure to ask her how she was. Granted, she had seen him to do that to pretty much everyone he walked past, but she felt like it was different with her.

"Y/n," E/c eyes snapped up from the freshly mopped floor, attention caught by the deep voice. Y/n's heartbeat quickened as she noticed Steve walking towards her. "Hey."

"Hi, Steve," She smiles politely. Y/n would normally never refer to one of her technical 'bosses' by their first name, but Steve insisted on it. She also wished she had known he had gotten back from his mission. She hadn't worn any makeup today, and her h/c hair clung to her sweat slicked neck.

"How are you? Anything new?" He asked cheerfully, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"Not much," She shook her head, tucking a stray strand of hair away. "What about you? Did you have a good mission?"

"It was successful, yeah, the-"

"Rogers!" Before the superhero could say more, he's cut off by Natasha Romanoff gracefully striding into the room. She doesn't pay Y/n much attention, as usual. Ms. Romanoff is by no means rude, however, she is quite busy, and doesn't normally take time to acknowledge the help. Like most of the other Avengers.

Which is what made Steve special.

"Would you quit flirting with the staff and get the report room? Stark called a team meeting ten minutes ago, and if we leave him waiting any longer, I worry he'll self combust," Steve chuckles lightly at her wording, waving silently to Y/n before following the Widow out.

And leaving Y/n a blushing mess. Flirting. Natasha had said he was flirting. Though it didn't exactly seem that way, right? No, he was just being polite. Of course he was.

Or what if he wasn't? What if, all this time, Steve has perhaps been flirting back with her?

"Don't get your hopes up," Y'n jumps at the sudden voice, whipping around quickly. She finds a fellow coworker, Sylvie, standing there and wiping down a table. The two of them don't exactly speak much, but they're on good terms. Y/n finds Sylvie funny, with her blunt attitude and sassy jokes.

"What are you talking about?" Y/n stupidly asks. Sylvie rolls her dark eyes.

"You. And Steve Rogers. Don't get your hopes up."

"What hopes?"

"Oh, c'mon, L/n," Sylvie stops wiping, arching a brow. "I've been watching you're interaction with him for awhile. It's clear you have a little crush, and I'm tryna help you from getting hurt."

"I don't have a crush," Y/n mumbles stubbornly, looking down to hide the blush painting her cheeks once again.

"Oh yeah, totally believing you right now," Sylvie snorts, laying a hand on her hip. "All I'm saying, is that if the Avengers were to go for anybody, it wouldn't be us."

"I heard Mr. Stark slept with two of the cleaners and one of the tech ladies after he and Pepper Potts broke up," Y/n argues back, before quickly adding, "Not that I'm trying to sleep with anybody. I'm just saying."

"Yeah, and you're proving my point," Sylvie waves her off. "If we were to have something with an Avenger, it would just to be bang some stress off of their system. I mean, look at us. We clean up their shit. There are world renowned doctors and engineers, skilled agents and hackers that are friends with them. We don't stand a chance."

Y/n doesn't respond to Sylvie, her words honestly stinging a bit. Because she's right. To Steve, Y/n is just that one cleaning lady. And she's stupidly fallen for him because he was nice to her. Oh how her standards have lowered.

*** "Disgusting," Y/n grimaces as she scoops out the last bits of coffee grounds that have clogged up the sink. She dumps them into the trash and slips off her gloves, sighing. It's late. Very late. She was supposed to go home three hours ago, but agreed to do some overtime and take care of last minute cleanings. By herself. Sure, the staff of cleaners is small already, but this was just ridiculous.

Y/n stops at a bathroom to change out of the uniformed pants and t-shirt she normally has to wear, and changes into a more comfortable pair of light wash jeans and a hoodie. Pulling her hair into a quick ponytail, she gathers up her things and leaves.

Or, at least she tries to. However, on her way out, as she passes a few of the bedrooms, she hears something a bit unsettling. What sounds like soft murmurs and cries waft out of a certain doorway.

"Not my business," Y/n sighs, continuing to walk ahead. Until she hears a faint,

"Bucky, no!" Steve. She can't hear the voice well enough to know for sure, but she does know who Bucky Barnes is. The WWII American soldier. The only Howling Commando to die in duty. Steve's best friend. The Winter Soldier.

Y/n shouldn't investigate. It's really none of her business. She may have heard it wrong.

But, as usual, curiosity and worry gets the best of her, and Y/n finds herself walking towards the door she hears the whimpering coming from. Taking a deep breath, she taps gently on it three times.

She hears a quiet gasp, rustling, and then silence.

"Yes?" Steve's voice hoarsely asks.

"Steve?" Y/n calls gently, laying her palm against the door. "It's Y/n."

"Uh," There is more rustling on the other side, before the door is thrown open. Steve stands there in nothing but a pair of cotton pants, his hair a mess at the top of head, and his bright blue eyes tiredly staring down at her. Y/n can't tell if he looks adorable or hot. Perhaps both. "Can I help you? Shouldn't you be home? I didn't know anyone was even allowed to work this late."

"Normally not, but I was offered overtime and took it," Y/n explains hastily, playing with the strings of her hoodie. "I-I heard you talking... I think you were having a nightmare. I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"You heard me?" Steve suddenly seems ashamed, looking down. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I didn't even realize I talked in my sleep."

"Oh no, it's fine," Y/n quickly cuts in, holding her hands up. Guilt gnaws at her when she sees the expression on Steve's face. The embarrassment and regret for catching someone else's attention. She should've just left.

She should leave. Right now. The door is only a few yards away, and with a quick goodnight, Y/n could be out that door and home in no time to stay awake for hours overthinking about this very scenario.

Or, she could try to be a good friend and comfort Steve. Perhaps it's the exhaustion coursing through her, or the adrenaline she gets from talking to Steve, but next thing Y/n knows, she asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"

"The nightmare?" She mentally kicks herself at his expression and tone. Clearly, Steve didn't expect her to carry their conversation any further, but he doesn't seem upset about it. A good sign? Maybe.

"Yeah," Y/n shrugs, tugging on her sleeves. "If you don't want to, that's fine. Totally understandable. But- uh- I just want to make sure you're okay..." Her voice trails off, e/c eyes drifting down to the floor.

"Sure," Y/n's eyes snap up in shock. She didn't expect that answer. Steve clears his throat, stepping aside. "Come on in."

Y/n steps past the much taller Captain, taking a moment to study Steve's bedroom. She's cleaned some of the other Avengers' bedrooms, however, Steve is one who requested that no one clean his room. When asked about the choice, he had said he just feels weird having someone else clean up his belongings.

It's very clean, and very simple. There are a few things that make it Steve Rogers room; the compass laying on bedside table, the three picture frames of the Avengers, Steve and Bucky, and the Howling Commandos. Not to mention the shield laying on the floor.

"So," Y/n jumps, almost forgetting that Steve was here with her. When she turns around, she finds that he had put on a hoodie. "What did you... hear, exactly?" Steve rubs the back of his neck, taking a seat on the bed. Y/n gives him a small, comforting smile.

"I didn't hear much," She admits. "Most of it just sounded like muffled cries. But I heard you say Bucky," Steve sucks in a breath, nodding. He doesn't speak for a few seconds, and Y/n almost thinks that's her cue to leave. But then he opens his mouth.

"I don't... I don't normally talk about this kind of stuff," He says quietly, pressing his thumb into his palm. "But I feel different with you. Like I can trust you," His pale blue eyes snap up in the dim lighting, stealing Y/n's breath.

"You can," She nods, her voice barely above a whisper. Steve nods, his features softening as he stares back at the floor.

"It's just... these... nightmares," His brows furrow as he speaks, the confusion and hurt evident in his tone. "Of Bucky. He was my best friend."

"I know," Y/n nods, urging him to continue. "I read up about him once."

"Yeah," Steve sighs. "Bucky died, partly because me. I couldn't grab him in time, I couldn't reach to him. If I had just-" Steve stops speaking suddenly, hanging his head low. Y/n stands quietly, not quite sure why he stopped all of a sudden, until she notices the silent tear dripping onto the hardwood floor.

In some situations, words aren't needed. Words can't possibly begin to heal the wounds that have reopened themselves. But silence?

Silence brings a peace and comfort that may not heal, but it begins to.

So wordlessly, without a word needing to be spoken, Y/n drops her bag and slowly sits down beside Steve. She pulls his head into her shoulder, laying her chin atop his blonde locks and rubbing his back. No more tears fall, but a newfound connection is found as she shows him the compassion he needs in this moment.

Steve slowly looks up, slowly wiping the wet streak the tear left below his eye.

"I'm sorry. You probably want to go home-"

"No, it's fine," Y/n shakes her head, heart pounding at how close they are. Is she moved her in the slightest, their noses would touch. "Truthfully, Steve, I... I want to hear about what you're going through. I care about you," She takes a deep breath, looking down at her lap. "And since you shared something personal about yourself, I want to share something about myself as well."

Here goes nothing.

"I-" Y/n swallows down her fear, looking up slowly through her lashes. "-have feelings for you, Steve. I just need to let you know. Because they're stupid, and I'm stupid for catching feelings for an Avenger, but I did, and I just needed to let you know and I'm sorry-"

Y/n's rant is brought to an abrupt halt as Steve leans forward swiftly and gently presses his lips against hers.

"I like you too, Y/n" Steve grins laying his forehead against hers. Y/n can't help the happiness and airy feeling in her stomach bubbling up into a small laugh, pulling her hands around Steve's neck and pulling him in to her for another kiss.

#steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #captain america #chris evans #captain america fanfic #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #marvel #marvel fanfic #mcu #mcu fanfic #x reader #fanfiction #fanfic

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freewheelshippin · 4 years

Photo

Ranmaru is a musician down on his luck and out of inspiration who got taken in by a sweet old couple running a gardening/flower shop, so while he pulls himself together, he’s grouchily helping out and making bouquets and doling out plant care advice. M is a tattoo artist with not enough clients, confidence in her art, or skills in keeping succulents alive, but maybe the toughie at the store across the street can help her with all three!

and because I’m Like That I got tied up and uh....wrote a little (a lot) of something, focusing on the artistic funk part of the equation. But if you’ll let me have one more indulgence, the headcanon I have is that it eventually Happy Endings into becoming roommates and business partners, starting an indie label to support other artists!!!

anyways here’s this excessively indulgent/serious fic that came outta this LOL

He was here, folded among big green leaves for much longer than he’d intended. The owners heard he was down on hard times and didn’t have a safe place to call home, so he holed up in their guest room. Before he knew it he was stepping in for them at every heavy mulch bag, every wheelbarrow piled high, every crouch that was too much for their aging bodies.

It wasn’t a bad life. It was an improvement, sure. He was alive and fed every day, and he’d never known a home so warm. But it still wasn’t his. He felt like a houseplant, tended to and placed in warm sun, but just as easily fading into the stillness of quiet moments and the background of everyday. He’d never wanted a life like a plant. He hungered deeply even though he was eating regularly again, and he felt more like a bored tiger, pacing in its cage but nowhere to go.

******

He’d been there long enough to start noticing the regulars. The first was that friendly guy who always got idioms wrong and bought the store out of all their cat grass. The second someone was even friendlier, and he’d bug him for what kind of flowers to get a florist. He kept asking even if Ranmaru never gave him an answer past ‘I don’t fucking know’ as he arranged bouquets that used as many herbs and broad, bold leaves as traditional flowers.

The third was someone who looked like she walked in from his past life (or the one he wanted back, anyway). The shaved head, the denim and patches, the ink peeking out from under her sleeves. She was friendly enough but nowhere near as ready to ask for things or will information about herself as the other two regulars, so he only knew her from her purchases and the name on her card.

It wouldn’t have been remarkable in itself if he weren’t so hungry. He’d burned bridges he shouldn’t have while he was ablaze, and now the only people who thought of him kindly were through this stupidly quaint little shop. He was too ashamed of his bullshit to be ready to show his face in those places right now, but he also craved chasing the stage and the dream he’d stayed alive for.

It was just a made-up story he was attaching to someone, he knew this. Maybe she went home and did everything she could to fade into pleasant background like a houseplant. But he’d rather pretend she went to the shows he wished he were going to, that her fingertips were callused in the places his were going soft, and pretend like he still could smell that stuffy, stale sweat from a venue. Maybe he hadn’t burned it away completely from his life and future.

Occasionally, he still wished he was starving, but he’d bury his hands in mulch and dig space for a new plant before he gave in to dumb thoughts like that.

*****

The first time they had a conversation, it was because she forgot something. A big something, big enough that Ranmaru wondered how someone could have a head on their shoulders but forget this.

It was a long, flat portfolio bag. He flipped through it to figure out what it was and tried to not look past that. It was tempting, though, because the contents made him feel the tiniest bit sated for the first time since he’d started working here.

They were flash sheets for tattoos. It had to be hers, right? There was energy to them that he’d ached for but turned his back from. So when she came back, he brought it up very plainly.

“You forgot something here,” he said when she came up to the counter. He produced the portfolio bag.

“.......Oh.”

“What, is it not yours?”

“No, no, it is! I just didn’t realize I’d even lost it!”

“How the hell did you manage that?!”

“A swiss cheese brain full of holes,” she laughed. “...Also, I’ve been really busy.”

“What would make you so busy you forget a giant stack of art like that?”

“Uh…”

“....Whatever. It’s none of my business.” He started to properly ring her up before something occurred to him. “You bought the same succulent last week,” he commented, furrowing his brow. “And a few other times before. What’s so great about it, anyways?”

She made a face of discomfort and surprise, and he felt the same distant shame that he messed this last (even if imagined) connection to that life, too.

“...maybe you can help me, because I keep killing it.”

“You killed a succulent in a week?!”

“No! I mean. I don’t know, is that even possible?”

“First time for anything,” Ranmaru snorted.

“Okay,” she said, putting hands on the counter challengingly. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not one of those serial plant killers.”

Ranmaru just looked back at her incredulously. “You sure about that?”

“If it’s not a succulent, I know what I’m doing! I got a whole brood of chili plants and herbs and spiderplants…”

“You’re overwatering it.”

“You haven’t even seen the plant.”

“Yeah, I don’t have to. Everything else you mentioned doesn’t shit the bed if you water them too much, and succulents are stupidly sensitive to that kind of stuff. Are the leaves falling off if you barely even poke them?”

“......Yeah…” She looked apprehensive, almost resentful for a moment.

Ranmaru knew he shouldn’t, but he just kept talking. “I can’t tell you what you wanna do with your plants, but it sounds overwatered. Don’t water it at all for a couple weeks. Make sure the drainage is good, repot it if it isn’t. Bring it in if you’re still fucking it up.”

“You sure are rude as shit when a plant buddy’s life is on the line, huh?”

“What’s the point of buying a plant if you’re just going to kill it?! You’re just throwing away your money that way,” he grumbled, embarrassed. Him, caring about plants passionately. That didn’t feel right for his image, but it felt more wrong to just let people uselessly throw away their time and money just to give a living thing no future.

“I mean, I’m also buying dupes right now to spruce up my workspace, it’s not like I just have a graveyard for my cash and failed succulents.”

Ranmaru grunted. “Just bring ‘em in if they’re still giving you trouble. I can give you some cartons to make carrying ‘em easier.”

“Ahhhh, nah, don’t worry about it. I work across the street. It’s no problem.”

“Where?” He had a feeling he knew already.

“Oh, the tattoo parlor. I’m actually headed back there right now.”

“....Guess I could just as easily go over there.”

“Hey, and you could get a tattoo from me while you’re at it!” she laughed. “Here, hold on.” She fumbled a little before handing over her business card. Ranmaru studied it briefly before pocketing it gratefully.

When she tried to hand him money, he held a hand up.

“...Pay when you stop killing ‘em. I should’ve checked in sooner, and you get so much from here already, anyways.”

“...You’re sure.”

“If you feel guilty, then take my advice seriously.”

“....Weird business model, but I like it. I can’t give you a discount on ink, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Hell no. Go back to work. Come back when you stop watering them so much.”

“Alright, fine, fine. You drive a hard bargain,” she said with a laugh, scooping the plant into her hand. “I’ll see you next time I fuck ‘em up some other way.”

She left, and Ranmaru realized she forgot her portfolio bag again.

******

He didn’t do much of anything except sleep, eat, take care of the neighborhood strays, and work anymore, but he thought about practicing bass again. He didn’t have amps, pedals, or much of anything anymore, either sold in desperation or lifted by former bandmembers in spite, but his actual basses he couldn’t let go of. Sentimentality or some promise to himself this arrangement was temporary, he guessed.

He studied the business card a lot. Something about the style of the art on it felt right, beyond it being the dose of the studs, sweat, and tears he missed. He didn’t bother trying to describe it to himself further than that; it just felt right, and that’s all he needed to know, but it didn’t stop him from lying awake in bed, staring at it as he struggled to sleep or get out.

Eventually that led to the temptation of looking through the portfolio more thoroughly. He gave in after washing his hands so thoroughly he wouldn’t get the dirt of potting soil or the grease of human hands on it. Not out of secrecy, more out of respect.

Not all of them were things he’d say he was interested in -- science fiction, cartoons, dinosaurs, other stuff he didn’t recognize -- but so much was riffing on images, bands, lyrics, album covers that built his tastes in rock. Even models of bass guitars he’d tried to save up for, once upon a time. It didn’t match the tattoowork he was used to seeing, the lines and compositions feeling more like they belonged in a comic book or a gig poster.

It felt good. It was a small vision of the kind of future he’d wanted. Art and energy like that, paired with his music. He’d forgotten how the excitement of chasing a good future felt, much less feeling like it was even vaguely within grasping distance.

His eyes fell on an image that wouldn’t leave him. A severed, snarling wolf head, out of which winding leaves and vines and stems grew, blooming into orchids.

*****

She didn’t come back for weeks. He went about this life as usual, but some days he’d find his fingers sliding over the smooth neck of one of his basses, missing their calluses as the strings dug into them. But the motions never left him, at least, and they hit notes like barely any time had passed.

He should give that portfolio back to her already. But he’d found himself looking at its contents more and more when he missed the stage so much he physically ached. He couldn’t be imagining this feeling this art made him have, not after this long.

At one point he made a copy of the wolf with orchids growing out of it. He cut it out, unbuttoned his shirt, taped it over his heart, and looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time since the old couple took him in, he didn’t feel like a houseplant.

*****

He came to the parlor with the portfolio in hand on a lunch break soon after that. She looked uncomfortably unoccupied, her area empty of clients while the other tattoo beds were occupied. He didn’t bother with the receptionist before calling her name. She practically jumped out of her skin from surprise.

He just presented the portfolio bag.

“...Whoops.”

“Do you just not want your art back?”

“...It just slipped my mind.”

Because you’ve been busy, Ranmaru thought to himself as he looked at the empty tattoo bed.

“Did you kill your new plants yet?”

She straightened up and her whole demeanor changed, from the moon to the sun. “Now that I can rub in your face. Look, look, come see.”

She had a small planter of succulents, nestled among spideplants and a red prayer he remembered selling her. The spiderplant and red prayer looked healthy. The succulents didn’t look amazing, but they certainly weren’t on their way to meet their maker.

“Not bad. I’ll rec you some better succulent soil next time you come in. Whenever that is.”

“I figured I’d wait more than one watering cycle before I came in parading like a pageant queen.”

“Too many and I bet you’d be holding another plant funeral,” he said with a wry smile. “But take your shit back already. I’m tired of all your art being at my place where I’m the only one looking at it.”

“...Wait, hold on. Did you look through it?”

“....Sorry. It’s been weeks. I liked your business card and curiosity got the better of me.”

“Oh…” She looked not disappointed, just surprised. “So...you mean, like. Thumbing through the pages looking at it, not just staring at the bag look at it.”

“Is it a secret project or something?”

“No, no. Just…” She hesitated. “Some flash sheets that didn’t do well is all.”

“Really?” Ranmaru was surprised. “These?”

“...Yes? Did I forget something else in there?”

“No. Just. Surprised they didn’t do well. I like ‘em. There’s a good energy to them.”

“Well, that makes you the first,” she said with a hollow laugh.

Ranmaru barely considered with his head what he was about to ask. He’d already chewed it over so much and knew in his heart his answer that he didn’t need to hesitate.

“If nobody else claimed it, I want one of them,” he said resolutely. “The wolf with the orchids.”

“...What, like, now?”

“I’m on lunch, I can’t do now. But….when’s the earliest you got?”

She laughed grimly. “When do you get off work?”

“Six.”

“Then I’m available at six.”

“Then I’ll be here.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“...You really want it that bad?”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he growled. “I saw it and it felt right, thinking about it on me. Orchids are a part of my name, anyway.”

“....Okay, you know what? Let’s do this properly. We’ll do a consult at six. I’ll edit the design so it’s more personalized to you, then we’ll schedule an actual appointment you’re actually prepped for so you don’t pass out on the table. And don’t -- “ She caught him about to insist before the words could come out of his mouth. “-- I’m sure you think you’re real tough, but you can’t just tough guy your nervous system into taking more pain unprepared.”

“Fine. See you at six.”

Ranmaru wanted to tell her the hurry was less because he thought he could take it, and more because he was so ready to have it on him. He didn’t, though, and just left, head buzzing with hazy, overwhelming excitement he didn’t know how to express.

*************

Consulting with her on the drawing was more fun than Ranmaru had had in weeks, maybe months. She stayed past her coworkers to do the consult, so they had the parlor to themselves to discuss edits. She played doom metal in the background, sludgy and slow enough that they could properly have a conversation, but the energy as she discussed the drawing with him, drew in edits, and made conversation was exhilarating like a concert.

It was so easy to talk. Even if he was short or blunt, it didn’t seem to stop her from continuing the conversation, and every development they pushed it in just felt good. He didn’t feel invaded, but he didn’t feel insignificant, either, and the way the drawing was going, he felt a kind of known he had lacked.

“I still can’t believe you want your first ink on your pec like that,” she remarked as she refined linework. Ranmaru enjoyed watching how her pen moved.

“It’s over my heart. Not just my chest.”

“That’s, uh.” She hesitated before capping the pen. “.......Are you really sure about this?”

“...” Ranmaru felt himself recoil at the thought of telling her the depth of what this drawing made him feel, but he wanted to communicate, somehow, that he couldn’t imagine regretting this. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“.......” She hesitated again. “This isn’t….a pity thing, right?”

The thought to hold his tongue actually managed to occur to him in time. The doubt she expressed pissed him off in so many different ways. That she was unsure enough to tell him, and that it was there to begin with. The thought of throwing away this connection just to be pissed made his stomach twist, and he thought of the person he saw in the mirror with the drawing taped to his chest that first time.

“This isn’t a pity thing,” he said stiffly as he forced his voice down. “....I saw that drawing and imagined myself with it. And I liked that vision of myself more than the current me.”

“Oh god,” she said, her face bright red. “That’s so goddamn deep. My dumb fuckin’ wolf really made you feel that?”

“It’s not dumb!” he barked. “Why’re you calling it dumb to me? I’m about to get it tattooed on me, aren’t I? Be prouder of your work!”

She took a deep breath after a moment of being totally taken aback. “....You’re right. Thanks. I should be more professional about this. So….my absolutely majestic, heaven-sent fuckin’ wolf really made you feel all that?”

Ranmaru felt his mouth crook into a smile. “Yeah. I want it to be mine, and I want that better me to be mine, too.”

She smiled back widely. “I’ll do your tit justice, then.”

***************

The appointment was that weekend. When she pressed the stencil against his bare chest, he felt the hunger in him sated for just a moment. Not in a carnal urge sort of way, but more like the path forward felt brighter. Possible. Changes and connection and a future was possible again. He wanted more ink from her already, but he also wanted it to not just be that. He wanted a friendship.

“Okay,” she said as he laid on the table in front of her. “Ready?”

The whir of the machine and needles started and stirred a nervousness in his gut that he hadn’t expected, and he hesitated and gasped for a sec.

“...You OK?”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just…nervous.”

“Take a deep breath. It’s not too late to rethink or reschedule if you need more time.”

“No.” He was resolute. “I want this.”

She paused. “....I can’t do this the whole time. But just to get you comfortable.”

She offered her left hand to him to squeeze. He hesitated for a moment before taking it, folding each finger over hers. He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this.

“...Okay. Deep breath. Let out out slowly…there we go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

The needle plunged into him, and while it hurt, he felt excitement and renewal spreading through to his fingertips.

#iron maiden & rocka rolla #florist and tattoo artist au #thank you so much for the ask!!! this was definitely one of the ones i was hoping to get :)#askbox games #scribblings #iron maiden & rocka rolla art

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