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nsharks · 10 months

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part eleven —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 2.6k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: here ya go

A dry mouth and a symphony of aches awaken you.

Ambery light spills through the cracks of the hunting cabin, catching the silvery glint of dust particles in the air. It must be morning or possibly even noon based on how rested you feel. As your eyes peel open, you can see everything better than last night. The cramped space is mostly barren. There are some rusted animal traps in the corner and a faded poster with dancing bears and cheesy lettering: NATURE BE OUT HERE WILDIN'. Blue's head lays upon your shoulder. Gently, you maneuver it off, but her lashes flutter open despite your efforts.

"Twix?"

"Hey," you whisper. "Everything's okay. You can go back to sleep."

"Can you... get me some water?"

Ghost's backpack is likely off-limits, but you go through it, anyway. Beneath cigarettes and tools you don't even know the name of, you retrieve the canister of water and usher it to her lips. She sips weakly. The blanket covering her falls to her waist, revealing a bare, bandaged leg. Ghost must've taken off her blood and urine-stained jeans. You tuck the insulated blanket back over her and touch her forehead, relieved to feel the skin is cool.

"How are you feeling?"

She lays back down, wincing. "It hurts. And... and I'm tired."

"That's normal. Your body is working hard to heal. Do you need anything else?"

There is the smallest shake of her head before her slack eyelids lower back down.

Ghost is leaning against the side of the cabin when you slip outside. He must have a tolerance for the cold to have stayed out here all night without his jacket. Only a black thermal hugs his chest, a dried stain at the side where you nursed his wound. His stare instantly finds you, alert yet ringed with faint lines of fatigue.

"She's doing good," you announce quietly. "Still sleeping and no fever. Did you see anything out here?"

Ghost clears his throat before speaking, voice rougher than usual from the hours of disuse. "No." His eyes flicker down to your legs. The jacket, although leagues warmer than your own, falls above your knees, leaving them shuddering against a crisp gust of air.

“Should be dry now," he says, motioning to a nearby tree where your clothes are draped over a branch. He must've put them there because you have no memory of doing so.

"Oh. Thanks."

Begrudgingly, you change behind the cabin, your muscles and joints groaning. Despite the dip in the river, your clothes still bare faint stains of blood and whatever fluid came out of that dead Grey. They don't offer the same physical comfort that his heavy loaner did. You can't say you don't miss it when you hand it back.

"You should sleep, too."

He shucks it on, eyes glued to the distance. "I'm fine."

“You think there’s more of them, don’t you?”

He takes a moment before answering. "I took out five, then there's the two that attacked you. Big group. They would've left one or two behind to watch their camp."

It's true, and the thought grazes your teeth against the inside of your cheek. Either they will realize something happened to their companions and go looking for you, or they will be wary of the threat and keep to their turf. You aren't too concerned with Ghost here, but if they’re stocked on military-grade gear like he said, then it's better not to let your guard down.

"Look, you won't be able to keep her safe if you pass out from exhaustion. I can stay out here."

Finally, he exhales deeply, his chest moving beneath all the gear. "Wake me up if you see anything."

"I will."

You watch him go before a sudden realization hits you.

"Ghost, wait—"

He halts, eyebrows raising in question.

"My bow... I think I lost it. In the river."

There is a long pause of thought before he reaches for the handgun at his waist, offering it to you with a firm look.

"Just for now, in case there's anything."

Keeping watch is far from enjoyable. Every little movement makes your fingers curl tighter around the gun. You keep your gaze up and alert while making a small fire to purify some water from the river, drinking until your stomach feels tight. Then, you settle on a tree stump by the cabin and take out the single dried squirrel you brought. But when you bite in, a strange taste floods your mouth. Blood. Cartilage. Human flesh. You spit it out, your stomach expelling more watery vomit.

"For later, then," you whisper, wiping your mouth.

The plan was never to stay here for more than a night, but with Blue's recovery, you'll have to find more food. It could be three or four days before she’s ready for the long trip back. You ponder how you can make do without the bow, and figure you can use those animal traps. There's also a bush by the cabin that, if Paul's teachings did you any good, appears to be unripened salmonberries.

Hours drone by, each one more tedious than the last. The scent of moisture in the air begins to grow stronger. It's not until dark, swollen clouds roll in from the north that Ghost reemerges from the cabin.

"I didn't see anything, but I think it's going to storm." You gesture to the sky.

The abrupt arrival of sharp lightning and pillaging rain brings both of you back within the shelter. The storm clouds quickly swallow all the light, which leads Ghost to start another fire with the dry wood he has left. You find a few candles dressed in cobwebs and ignite them with your newfound lighter. It's not long before Blue wakes up, likely unable to sleep with all the sounds and the steady leak of water that begins to drip from the ramshackle ceiling.

Ghost may have brought a lot with him, but he doesn't have anything to patch up a leak, which leads to a small puddle taking up space and pushing the three of you uncomfortably closer. Of course, Blue is the only one lying down. You tuck your knees under your chin while Ghost bends his long legs into a crossed position. He's wide enough that his knee and shoulder brush against you no matter how much you try to inch into the corner.

Though, you secretly can't complain. There seems to be an everlasting heat that radiates off him, even here, as the fire struggles to sustain itself and the rain thrums incessantly.

He shifts around to fish something out of his backpack. Crackers.

"Here, kid."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat something."

He has to practically force little bites into her mouth, cradling her head up with his gloved hand. The sight makes your stomach howl, but you refrain from eating the squirrel in case you throw up again. You don't suspect either of them would appreciate that.

Blue goes back to staring dully at the wall after she eats, and Ghost continually peeks out a crack in the boarded-up window. The whole thing is quite miserable, even though, at the very least, you are all alive. The look in her eyes reminds you of how Joseph would get sometimes, and you hate it.

At some point, you take out the book you found.

"Hey, Blue. I... I found this. Want me to read it to you?"

Her gaze shifts to you. "Oh. What's it called?"

"Um." You glance at the cover, cringing when a male model and corny title stare back at you. That's right. It was the only book in the store for a reason. "Well, maybe not. It doesn't look very good."

"You could tell me a story," she suggests in a murmur. "Ghost isn't any good at that."

You glance at him. He must be listening, but he pretends not to. Rather, he fiddles with the magazine of his rifle: taking it out, counting what's there, putting it back in.

Under the roar of thunder, you murmur a story to her. That one your mother used to tell you. Then, you move on to memories. The happiest ones you can recall, mostly about your sister. You tell her about the time your parents surprised the two of you with a hampster, and how you argued over who got to name it, only deciding after a fierce battle of rock-paper-scissors in which you won.

"So what did you name him?"

"Frank."

"Frank," she repeats. A weak smile. "That's a terrible name."

The storm ebbs on for another day. You and Ghost set up a silent routine of taking turns to sleep, though with how he leans against the wall and clutches the rifle with his eyes closed, you wonder if he is even really sleeping. Blue is only awake to eat, drink, and listen to a few stories. You steal peeks at her wound when he redresses it, pleased to see no evidence of infection.

You finally bring yourself to eat, taking small bites and forcing it down. The pain in your limbs starts to fade, and the cuts on your face and hands are already scabbed over. When the rain clears, you set up the traps. Paul used to have ones like these. It's not long before you've got yourself another squirrel to eat. The salmonberries are terribly sour, but you wolf down a bush's worth.

Two days. You've been here for two days, and no one has snuck in an attack. There hasn't been a trace of rot in the air. You should feel relieved, but something in the way Ghost behaves makes you wary. He keeps looking through his backpack, fiddling with his guns. Perhaps over the past month, you've grown so used to his mood only shifting between hostile and indifferent, that it's easier to pick up on the signs of his unease.

Before you can decide to question him what's wrong, he confronts you.

"Twix. We need to talk."

He's caught you with berry remnants around your mouth as you sit on the tree stump and finish your meal. You swipe your tongue across your lips, staring up at him. It's sort of awkward, craning your neck as he towers above you.

"What is it?"

"I need to leave."

You inhale sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he takes the rifle off his shoulder, "I've got five bullets for this one. And," he juts a finger to the handgun, "One magazine for this one."

Understanding sinks to the pit of your stomach. He's running low. Of course. Between the people and all the Greys, he must have used up a lot.

"That's not enough to get us back?" You tuck some hair behind your ear.

"If we run into all those fucks like before, then no. I don't feel comfortable with this much."

"So what are you going to do? Go loot their bodies?"

"I already did that," he almost growls, frustrated. "This is what I've got including what they had on 'em."

"Their camp, then. You want to go find it?" When he nods, you glance behind you at the cabin where Blue rests inside. "No. No— I don't like this idea. I have nothing to protect her with while you're gone."

"I'll leave you a gun."

"I'm not good with a gun," you protest, curling your fingers into your palm as you frown. "She can barely walk, and I can't carry her if shit happens."

"Well, I can't get us all back safely if I don't have fucking ammo. You think I want to leave her? I have no choice here."

Everything he's saying makes sense, and yet, you hate it. You just barely protected her the first time he left you alone, the memory of desperately biting that guy's nose off being evidence of that. Admittedly, you don't know what to do once someone gets close. If something were to happen while he was gone, you’re not confident that you could keep her alive again. But he needs this. The trip will be a waste if he doesn’t get this ammo— the risk to all your lives would’ve been for nothing.

"What if—" Your eyes slide shut as you swallow thickly. "Fuck— what if I go get it?"

Immediately, he scoffs. "That makes no sense."

"Your priority is keeping her safe. You stay here and do that."

"You have no bow," he reminds you, roughly shaking his head. "Don't be stupid."

"You said there's likely only one or two people guarding it. I don't have to fight them. I just have to find their place and steal from them, right?"

"Why?" He demands, eyes narrowing from their typical half-lidded state. They sweep over your face, from your forehead to your chin. "Why would you do this? Risk your life?"

It's a fair question, and you realize how ridiculous you must sound even suggesting this idea. Looking at the ground, the first answer comes to you quickly. You value Blue's life more than your own at this point. Like you told Ghost, you don't know why you even bother fighting. She's a kid. A piece of light in this world. He can protect her better than you can, and he needs the ammo to do so. But there are a few other reasons you find yourself willing to do this for him, and those are the ones you decide to share with him.

"Because like you said, you need the ammo to get us all back safely. Plus," you look back at up him, "They probably have some things I need, too. Like more medicine." It's something you've pondered quite a few times since realizing how healthy and populated their group was. You lucked out in the village. There will never be another opportunity for medicine like this. "But... if I can get your ammo, then you owe me."

A deep breath expands his chest, then he huffs it out. "What would you want?"

You mull it over. "The couch," is the first thing that comes to mind. You imagine having to sleep in a flooded shed, which will undoubtedly happen with this northern weather, and the thought alone makes you miserable. "When we get back, I want to sleep inside on the couch from now on. And a new bow. You can make me one."

He stares at you for a few seconds before shaking his head to himself, grumbling something under his breath. He slings the rifle back over his shoulder, and you think he's ready to rightfully tell you how stupid you are again, but instead, he grits out, "Anything else?"

"A few shirts and your jacket," you breathe out, eyeing the fabric that fits his broad shoulders much better than it did yours. "And..." a flush threatens the base of your neck, "I also want you to teach me how to better defend myself. Once someone grabs me, I panic."

There's something detectable that passes through his eyes, maybe the memory of how helpless he rendered you not so long ago. He looks at the cabin, shaking his head again, before returning his stare down at you.

"I'm going to tell you exactly how to get this done. You're of no use to me dead, Twix. Get me a backpack full of ammo, and we'll have a deal."

#simon riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost #fanfiction #zombie apocolypse au #forgot to tag this

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a-twistedheartslonging · 4 months

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The recent Book 7 release has put Vil and Rook on the mind, so do you have any particularly interesting courtship or relationship headcanons for your nonhuman AU? Thank you :)

My god Rook would rizz you so hard, we already know how he is as a human, though I've seen headcanons that he might have some beastmen in his blood it just isn't obvious/is distant or something like that.

Anyway...

He's enigmatic with a passion for all things beautiful, something Rook very much views you as regardless of what you think of yourself. He's very enthusiastic about supporting those that he admires so be ready for him to be supportive and encouraging as fuck. Yeah, he's gonna be weird about a lot of stuff but Rook is almost always genuine in his intentions.

Expect poetry and love letters to hit your door by arrow every morning.

Ah...Birb Boi Love.

When the night sky envelops the world in its cool embrace, a ballet takes place on treetops and secluded clearings— the dance of owl courtship.

Serenading the night. Rook is already a great singer and loves to do it, with owls the males often initiate the mating process with a series of hoots. Though with him I'm pretty sure it would be actually singing that he graces you with...but still...it's kind of funny to think about...heh horny hoots.

He might be hoping for you to join him since female owls might answer back, leading to a duet. This vocal interaction strengthens the bond between the two owls and sets the stage for their partnership.

Gift giving, males often present food gifts. This act not only proves the male’s hunting prowess but also his ability to provide for offspring. He knows he can't just leave his fresh kills at your doorstep. Instead, he will use his cooking skills and bring very yummy meals cooked and caught by him. Will give a few happy hoots if you agree to letting him feed you.

He's going to bring you a lot of stuff, not just food though. Keep in mind the guy is well off and for a lot of creatures it's important to keep your mate well groomed, and he gets the good shit from Vil so expect to be gifted the best, lotions, shampoos, and skincare stuff. Along with clothes that seem to fit you perfectly...hmm how did he get your size?

Once a bond begins to form, owls might engage in mutual grooming, a sign of affection and trust. Please let him do your hair and nails he will be so happy. He gets to help you be even more pretty, gets to touch the person he likes, examine your interesting human features. He's actually someone you can trust to bathe with/wash your hair for you without trying anything regardless of his romantic feelings, even if you're nakey.

Nuzzling and nibbling will also happen, he knows you're a fan of his soft feathers and floof and will puff up to lure you in for cuddles...and then he'll get you with those gentle nibbles and nuzzle against you. At least with him, you won't have to worry about getting covered in fur after like with the others, but you might end up with a feather in your hair and will diffidently smell like Rook

Territory plays a vital role in owl mating behaviors. Male owls fiercely defend their territories from rival males, ensuring they have exclusive access to potential mates and sufficient resources for nesting and rearing young. Territory disputes often involve vocal and physical displays, including wing-spreading, aggressive posturing, and occasional physical combat.

As a result, any of the other guys should be wary of arrows flying their way when they get near Ramshackle once Rook gets to that stage in courting. The tree near your window was already one of his favorite spots before this started. I don't think he would start any fights though, not that he would need to, people tried to keep their distance from him before already.

The mental image of him doing the aggressive postering is funny though.

Hmm...wait...no...

...yeah, I can see how that would be scary if it's a man-sized owl creature doing it at night with glowing eyes and he's probably doing a weird honhonhonhon French laugh thing. He's going to scare the shit out of someone.

Some owl species, like the barn owl, engage in dramatic flight displays, which can include dives, spirals, and impressive swoops to impress a potential mate. He would definitely show off and even offer to carry you so you can enjoy a nice flight with him...you might see him divebomb someone, he doesn't actually touch them but gets pretty close.

The man loves his privacy so will likely pick a spot in Ramshackle away from everyone else to make into your love nest, only the finest blankets and pillows will be used, that fancy silk stuff you know?

Hmmm Vil.

I've thought about him ether being a Peacock-

Or a secretary bird.

I'm not sure what suits him best but I'm sure regardless his courtship will be flashy. You'll probably end up with a tail feather smacking you in the face at some point.

I might be able to think up something if you guys send in some ideas.

#twst #twisted wonderland #ask #asks #nonhuman au #twisted wonderland rook #twst rook #rook hunt

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bluerose5 · 6 months

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Wyll: *sighs* Gentlemen, weren't we supposed to be laying low once we entered the city?

Zevran: We have been laying low. What do you mean?

Wyll: Is that so? Tell me, why do both of your packs look exceptionally full today? Compared to yesterday, that is.

Astarion: I don't know what you're trying to imply here. They've always looked like that. You know that Zevran has a habit of collecting every piece of trash we come across.

Zevran: Alas, this is true. Don't worry, though. I shall turn over a new leaf from this moment onward. Perhaps some local merchants will assist me in lightening my load, yes?

Wyll: Uh-huh... Are you sure you two haven't been up to any mischief as of late?

Both: Of course not!

Wyll: Right. Then, explain these.

[Wyll pulls out two wanted posters. Astarion and Zevran squint at them.]

Zevran: Why, you can't possibly accuse us of being the culprits behind this. We just got here!

Astarion: Besides, we look nothing like those two handsome devils there.

Wyll: Astarion, you don't even know what you look like.

Astarion: And thank you for reminding me. *sniffles* You know I'm sensitive about that.

[He pulls out a rather elegant, unused handkerchief and dabs at dry eyes.]

Zevran: Yes, Wyll, what a cruel man you are. First, accusing us of such heinous crimes without evidence. Then, taunting our poor, innocent vampire about his looks. Tsk.

[He pats Astarion on the back.]

Zevran: There, there. Perhaps we should leave camp for a while. Go take in the sights to clear our heads for a bit?

Astarion: That sounds lovely. *studies his nails* I mean, unless Wylliam here is willing to compensate me for the irreparable, psychic damage he dealt me.

Wyll: Triad, give me strength. Keep waiting on that, Astarion, and tell me how that goes. I would say 'don't hold your breath,' but...

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #dragon age #dao #crossover #astarion #astarion ancunin #zevran #zevran arainai #wyll ravengard #wyll #zevstarion #bluerose writes

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idlerin · 2 years

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nonsense — 10. why are you running!?

it was your worst nightmare.

no not the one where you were swallowed up by a giant monster-like formed final paper with an F plastered on it that took up 60% of your grade for that semester. no, it’s something worse! (okay maybe that’s debatable)

“are you okay?” a hand was reaching out to you.

you looked up and met with those familiar pretty brown eyes you used to stare into all the time, but it can’t be, it can’t be him, you were hallucinating, yes! you bumped into this person so hard you’ve started seeing someone else in him. ha! how ridiculous you were being, why the hell would he be in the university out of every place he could’ve been in tokyo right now.

“[name]?” he spoke your name in the same way he did, the same voice too.

haha.

hahaha.

okay you were out of here!

true to word, you were out of there in no time, using the leg strength you actually have to get the hell away. chanting in your head, It wasn’t him, that wasn’t him. his face and his voice was really identical though, your common sense intruded your inner monologue of denial. but what if it was just a look-alike? voice-alike? you continue to try and gaslight yourself.

oh fuck it fine… it was probably him. you finally let yourself succumb to reality. he should be at work or something! why isn’t he working on a monday like a good taxpayer!

you pant, placing your hand on something solid, that’s enough running, you weren’t made for something that needed lots of stamina, this was why you became a volleyball manager instead of a player. ha, where am i? before you could properly look up, the harsh wind slammed a piece of paper onto your face, you irritably removed it and were faced with a poster with his face printed on it. you guffawed and threw it away harshly.

you then realize you were leaning on glass, you take in a breath, that run really tired you out, you turn your head to try and clear up your mind and remember a way back to kuroo. you were at a bus stop, you finally registered.

in the middle of observing your surroundings though you saw the poster displayed and again, it had his face on it! his series ad!

right on time a bus stopped in front of you, and the bus had a he who you refuse to say the name’s out loud’s banner, this time, a perfume ad. not taking it anymore, you screeched, “this is psychological harassment!”

you ignore the stare of the elderly that got off.

okay.. okay.. what was i trying to do again? ah right i was running away from kuroo.. oh kuroo! I think i dropped his shoe somewhere!

“hey [name], could you have always run fast like that!?” bokuto shows up, looking barely exhausted, damned athletes, you shake your head in disbelief, and here you were still panting like you just ran a marathon.

“kou,” you say, “i am not one of god’s strongest soldiers,” you exclaim dramatically.

“oh me too, earlier i couldn’t resist eating a slice of choco cake even though i’m supposed to be on my diet,” bokuto says.

“the one they were selling in the cafeteria?” he nods, “i can’t blame you it was really good,” you continue.

“i know right!” bokuto grins, glad you agree with him.

“ah!” you were suddenly in perfect posture, “we need to find kuroo’s shoe!”

“Is it this one?” he raises his hand which you now noticed held the familiar red striped footwear, “found it on the way here, thought the shoe was familiar!”

“oh, great!” you clap, drained.

just then, two girls that looked to be in highschool passed between the two of you, loudly chatting, “have you seen the news that oikawa tooru’s back in japan? oh my god what if we meet him!”

“i wish!” the other girl giggled.

him again. you scowl.

“uhh, you good?” bokuto said hesitantly, noting you were doing your scary face.

“I am perfectly fine,” you said, eye twitching.

kuroo, who was left at the scene of the crime, was laughing.

awkwardly.

“hanamaki!” he raises a hand to high five the forgotten male once the crowd disperses. hanamaki cheerily high fives him back.

“kuroo my man!” he greets just as enthusiastically.

“is this?” kuroo notions his head to the man who was fixing his cap, strands of brown hair were still loose. really, he couldn’t have mistaken it as anyone other than oikawa tooru once he got closer, bokuto shows him way too many pictures of the dude.

“yeah,” hanamaki nods solemnly.

masterlist — previous | next

✦ fun facts !

makki totally wanted to ask kuroo about kenma

iwa was the resident third wheel

akaashi is a busy hardworking student, he is the president of a ton of orgs

nonsense ! an oikawa tooru social media au

synopsis. you were oikawa tooru’s #1 fan, until you became his #1 hater. you hated him so much you went viral on twitter (accidentally) and literally became known as “the oikawa tooru hater”, doesn’t help that he keeps fueling the fire by subtweeting you. everyone is all in for this new drama. what isn’t known to the public, is that this particular drama’s been on hold for three years (him being your ex and all).

a/n — did you guys notice the miraculous reference. and me updating twice in the same day!? who am i??

taglist is open ! + @kawaii-angelanne @ceneridiankaa @kittycasie @rukia-uchiha-98 @polish-cereal @kellesvt @rockleeisbaeeee @kashxyou @imsoluvly @jjulliette @tooruchiiscribs @littlefreakjulia @gomjohs @qualitygiantshoepsychic @mellowknightcolorfarm @konzumeken @migosple @kuroogguk @sangwooooo @katsu-shi @wolffmaiden @rijhi @2baddies-1porsche @yeehawcity @aishkaaa @crueldinasty @rintarousprincess @yyuiz @epeec28 @llamakenma

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whosscruffylooking · 2 years

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The Beginning of Us Part 2 (Joel Miller x Fem! Reader)

A/N: Here is part 2! Next chapter brings the ultimate heartbreaks, so I will be spending a little extra time on it. Also, if anyone wants to be added to the tag list for this series please let me know!

Series Masterlist

Warnings! Spoilers for TLOU Episode 1, mentions of death, mention of panic attack, angst.

Word Count: 3.9k

»»————-　♡　————-««

*September 26, 2003* ~Later That Evening~ "So, the answer would be 783?" Sarah appears unsure. You give her a reassuring nod, "Exactly. Great job. You know, as much as I dread going to work every day, I'm so glad I don't have to do homework anymore." The two of you are sitting on her bed agonizing over her algebra homework.

As she piles up all of her papers into her folder, you wander around her room, examining all of the little touches that make the room hers. There is a simple, yet strong feminine touch to her room. A clear representation of the latest teen trends, and yet it is all a reflection of her youthful vibrance.

The poster in the corner of the room catches your eye, "You really do love Halican Drops huh?" "It's my dream to see them in concert one day," she says with a sparkle in her eye. "I think we should go sometime," you wink at her.

She jumps off of her bed, "Are you serious?"

"Yeah, I saw them once live and they are amazing. It would be even more fun to go with another fellow superfan."

Her enthusiastic expression turns to a more solemn one. Extending your arm out to her you bring her back over to the bed to sit down, "What's wrong Sarah?"

She pauses and takes a deep breath, "My dad is a good man...but he's been through a lot. He has been hurt a lot. Uncle Tommy has tried to get him to date, but nothing ever comes of it. That's why I know you are different."

"W-what?" Your brain stutters for a moment, struggling to process what is happening.

"I know you slept over last night. And before you freak out about that, I just want you to know that it makes me happy to see my dad as optimistic as he's been. He's come out of his shell again. I swear to God everything we talk about somehow comes full circle back to you too. The other day I said I want to go to Disney World and he told me how you have a baby picture of yourself with Mickey Mouse on your fridge. That was my first signal that my suspicions have been accurate."

Leaning forward, you take her hands into yours once more, "Sarah...if any of this makes you uncomfortable at all please tell me. I would never want to overstep or make you feel like-"

"Hey hey hey, I'm so happy about this. Since you moved in a year ago, you've slowly brought my dad back to me. I can see the way he looks at you, it's kind of how he looks at me...but different."

Tightening your grasp around her hands, you draw her into a hug. She settles into your embrace and whispers, "Just don't hurt him." Kissing the top of her head you quietly express, "I'll keep him safe I promise."

»»————- ♡ ————-«« The rest of the night is spent waiting on Joel to get home. You and Sarah intensely watched the clock as the hours passed by, wondering when he'd get back.

Finally, the door-knob to the front door begins to shake and you can hear Joel mutter a curse word when he realizes it's locked. "Well, you locked the door for once, good job," he acknowledges Sarah once inside. "That's because I made her," you stare down at her. Nothing can hide the disappointment on her face. She'd wanted so badly to spend the day celebrating her dad, and nothing had gone according to plan.

The young girl kindly reprimands her father for coming home past the time he'd promised AND for forgetting to bring home a cake, she makes him swear to make up for it tomorrow. Eager to move past the awkwardness and save Joel a little embarrassment, you signal to Sarah to give him his watch.

"Fixed it for you," her hopeful eyes look to his in search of commendation and gratitude. He tricks her into thinking that the watch wasn't properly fixed and you watch the two of them with such admiration, for the beautiful bond they have. The ability to have a deep father, daughter relationship and yet be each other's best friends was so endearing. You never want to come between them, but you'd be honored to have a front-row seat to their little family unit.

"Where'd you get the money for this?" He inquires.

"Drugs. I sell hardcore drugs," she says in all seriousness.

You and Joel laugh in unison, your eyes meeting briefly before turning your attention back to his daughter.

"Actually," she rests her head on your shoulder, "Y/N helped."

There is a pleased look in his eye, as his gaze meets yours. It's as if some element of peace washed over him and pure contentment settled into his rough features. It's been years since a woman showed him this much kindness, and you'll be damned if that job ever goes to someone else. »»————- ♡ ————-«« Sarah had fallen asleep to a movie, her head laying in Joel's lap. The two of you kept stealing glances throughout the movie. You feel his fingertips graze your shoulder and you turn to him, resting your head on the back of the sofa.

"Hi Joel," your pupils dilate.

"Hi beautiful," his eyes twinkle, fixated on studying every detail of your face.

Very quickly, you learn that your conversations do not need words to feel meaningful. The tilts of your heads, the shrugs of your shoulders, the serene sighs of surrender when you feel completely at ease with one another. Both of you are soothed by each other's presence and it is evident even in the voids of quietness. In those moments you can fully savor the company of the other and thrive off of the respect and admiration that radiates from you. There is a feeling of safety and confidence that stays between you and has existed since the beginning of your friendship.

The sharp ringing of the phone snaps you both back to reality. He answers it. You can't make out the words but can tell it is Tommy on the other line. With a heavy sigh, Joel falls back against the couch in defeat.

Damn it Tommy. You got yourself locked up again, didn't you?

Joel turns to you, jaw clenched with annoyance, forehead furrowed in disappointment. He wants to stay here with you a little while longer.

You offer to remain at the house and make sure Sarah is taken care of while he picks up Tommy. He takes her upstairs to tuck her into her bed. Dragging himself back downstairs, he rolls his neck from one side to the other in an endeavor to relieve the kinks. Stifling a yawn, you meet him halfway in the living room.

"We'll be here when you get back."

Although his expression was pensive, it eases slightly as you pull him out of his thoughts and back into the present with you.

"Thank you for staying with Sarah. Hell, sleeping over two nights in a row...things are getting serious." He gives you a goofy smile.

"Go!" You let out a short laugh and shove him out the front door. »»————- ♡ ————-«« As the hours rolled by, your sense of urgency grew. Joel should have been back with Tommy by now. Eager to distract yourself you turn on the television and aimlessly channel surf until you discover a movie that piques your interest. Another hour of watching the front door, willing Joel and Tommy to walk through it, passes by.

Drowsiness begins to overtake you. You take your eyes off of the television screen not wanting to exert any more effort into looking at it. Each muscle in your body begins to release the tension of the day, one by one as you settle onto the couch. The faint buzz of the television lulls you to the edge of sleep in mere moments.

Jolted awake by the deafening rumble of helicopters passing overhead, you fight off the dream that is still clouding your mind. Everything from your eyelashes to your feet feels heavy. Resting your eyes once more, you grant yourself another moment to enjoy the void of unconsciousness.

That moment is interrupted by Sarah shaking you awake.

"Y/N, what's going on? I think I can see explosions outside..."

Groggily sitting up, your vision finally focuses on the TV just past Sarah. The channel that was airing a movie not too long ago is now distorted with static. Sarah picks up the remote and changes the channel.

"STAY INDOORS! Law enforcement and emergency services are in the area and will be in contact with further instructions."

"What the f-"

Your attention shifts from the national alert to the sound of scratching at the window. The Adler's dog is loose and attempting to get into the house.

Okay, this night CANNOT get any stranger.

"It's Mercy! We need to see if he's okay," Sarah rushes to the door. You grab her arm, "Uh, I don't think that's a good idea. I think we need to stay inside right now and keep the doors locked."

"But he never gets loose. What if something is wrong with the Adlers?"

Suppressing the dread that is developing rapidly within you, you swallow your fear for Sarah's sake. You have to keep things calm and safe for her.

"Alright," you smooth your hand over her hair, "I'm gonna go over to my house and grab my nursing kit okay? Let me go check on them, but you do not, and I am so serious right now....do NOT leave this house by any means. Understand?"

She was too frightened to even lift her head, rather she stared out the window at the distant flares of light coming from the city.

You kneel to her level and hold her for a moment, "Everything is going to be alright okay?"

"Can I see if Mercy is okay?"

Conceding, you cautiously open the door and allow Sarah to clutch onto the dog. "Remember Sarah, do not leave the house."

Your pulse beats in your ears, as you turn to face your house. Although your mind is intent on making the trek across the street, it is as if your feet are cemented to the ground.

You tell yourself that being a little nervous is a completely normal reaction to what is going on. But that's just it, what IS going on?

God Joel, where the hell are you?

»»————- ♡ ————-««

"Damn it Tommy can you drive any faster?"

Tommy's grip on the wheel tightens, finding an odd comfort in the grooves between his fingers.

"Joel, I am going as fast as I can okay? They will be fine. Sarah is a smart girl and she has Y/N who won't let anything bad happen to them."

Joel could not wrap his mind around any of the events that transpired once he left his home to go get Tommy. One second he was in the comfort of his living room, within arms reach of the woman he'd just spent the most incredible night with. And his daughter, the embodiment of his heart and soul, was safe asleep on his lap. Next thing he knows, he and Tommy are being chased by a stampede of rabid-like inmates at the Travis County Jail. He could no longer restrain the tremors in his hands, shaking in an irregular rhythm.

"You really care about this girl don't you," Tommy's voice manages to break through the wall of thoughts blockading Joel from thinking clearly.

Recalling the night before, he is transported back to the moment when you pulled his shirt over his head and started grazing your hands across his chest, down the ridge in between his abs. It was a sensory overload, every nerve ending in his body tingled with anticipation. The two of you collapsed onto his bed, your bodies trembling as you bonded with every motion, each passionate touch leaving a flaming sensation on your skin. Your hearts raced in tempo with one another, like a symphony crescendoing to its epic finale.

"I do. This is the only time since Sarah's mom left that I've felt alive. Young again, invincible." Joel has never felt so certain in his life about someone, not even his ex-wife. Being with you is effortless. In your presence, he feels weightless. Like a drug, you drew him in slowly, tempting his every desire. At first, he took you in, little by little. And without detection, he became addicted. »»————- ♡ ————-«« Emerging from your home, nursing kit in hand, you prepare yourself for whatever you might face at the Adler's home. Surely it is nothing too grave, and yet you can't help but wonder why her kids didn't come to get you or call 911 if something happened to Nana?

Passing Joel's house, panic passes over you, causing the fine hairs on the back of your neck to rise. The front door is still open. Your mind races faster than your feet as you rush into the house. The endless possibilities as to what could've happened to her plague you.

You are confident that if anything happens to Sarah, Joel will strangle you with his bare hands...and not in a pleasurable way. Even if you told that stubborn girl not to move a finger from where you left her. She reminds you so much of yourself though. Curiosity can be so enticing at times that it blinds a person. Especially someone with as honorable of a heart as Sarah's.

"Sarah!" You frantically call out in each room.

Where are she and that damn dog?

Joel, hurry up. Please.

After surveying the entirety of the house to no avail, your chest tightens, and your lungs feel as though they have been wrung out of oxygen. Unsure of whether or not your lack of oxygen is due to the running or the panic attack creeping up on you, you take a moment to gather your thoughts. Mind over matter. Where would she go?

The dog. The damn dog. She's at the Adler's.

The next few seconds are a blur. You are uncertain how you got to the Adler's doorstep so swiftly. It felt like you were practically flying. Similar to Joel's home, the front door is open.

This girl needs to learn how to not only lock doors but actually CLOSE them.

A sickening sensation flares through your body as you peer into the still home. There go the hairs on the back of your neck again, but this time, the tingling sensation snakes down your spine and arms too. Instinctually, you know not to go in there. But, Sarah is in there and she matters more than any gut feeling or self-preservation right now.

"Sarah?"

Apprehensively, you venture deeper into the house. That's when you lay eyes on her, frozen in the kitchen. Unclear as to what she is fixated on, you join her in the doorway. That's when you see it. A trail of blood leads directly to Mr. Adler, his mouth agape and his limbs contorting. At first, the sight does not phase you. As a nurse working in an emergency room, you handle bloody wounds day in and day out. It's not until you look closely at where the blood is coming from that your fears reignite.

Is that...a bite wound?

A guttural noise captures your attention. Following Sarah's line of sight, terror sucks the very breath from your lungs. There is Nana, atop Mrs. Adler. Another river of blood floods from the daughter-in-law's neck.

Nana's raspy breathing slows to a more even tempo as she raises her eyes toward you. Vine-like appendages protrude from her mouth, attaching themselves to Connie's neck. The drumming of your heart, deafening and irregular, obscures your mind with fear.

Fight? Or flight? First, get Sarah as far away as possible.

Latching onto Sarah's arm, you tug her behind you.

One word. "Run."

Keeping your eyes on the gasping old woman, you ready yourself to prevent her from reaching Sarah at all costs. You listen intently for Sarah's footsteps pounding out of the house until you are positive she's made it outside.

You can feel the flight responses taking over your body, flooding you with increased adrenaline.

Nana stumbles to her feet as she releases a splintering screech. That is when the adrenaline ceases full control over your body, sending you hurdling towards the front door. Whatever creature has possessed the once docile elderly lady, is now hot on your heels. Her bone-chilling snarls signal you to her presence behind you.

Just as you begin to fear the worst outcome, you see him.

"Don't go," Joel's pleas echo in your mind from mere hours ago.

The thought of being wrapped up in his secure embrace once more drives you to push your legs harder.

Anguish pierces his voice as he calls out your name. Even so, it translates into a calming melody that brings some clarity to your mind.

"Get behind me..." He motions you over to Sarah.

As you hold her trembling frame, you turn back to Nana who is collapsed on the ground. Her limbs are mangled and her eyes are void of any life. Suddenly, the sharp cracking of her bones churns your stomach. Like a rabid animal, she growls and sprints toward Joel on all fours. Rising to her feet and closing in on him, she flails her arms wildly.

"What are we doing Joel!?" Tommy exclaims.

Without hesitation, Joel swings the wrench clutched in his fist and lands one solid blow to the side of the woman's head, sending her motionless body to the ground. Sarah screams and you quickly shield her from the sight of her father standing over their neighbor's corpse...or at least the shell of what she used to be.

Joel rushes to his daughter's side and caresses her cheek, looking her over to make sure she's safe and in one piece.

"You killed her," she cries in disbelief as she collapses into his arms.

He tightens his grip on her, "Baby, I'm sorry." He pulls away and stares into her eyes with strength and focus, "It's not just the Adlers. But we're gonna be brave and we're gonna get out of this."

Not just the Adlers? The helicopters flying towards the city...whatever took control of Nana did not die with her, she was merely the introduction.

Feeling lightheaded, you lean against Tommy's truck. He rushes to your side and holds you up, "You got that nursing kit of yours?"

"N-no. Inside," you point to Joel's house.

One by one, generators and streetlights begin to explode. Sparks of orange and gold, light up the sky over your neighborhood.

Joel ushers Sarah into the car and turns to face you. For a brief moment, time stands still. His pupils dilate, as he looks at you, the woman who made the future look like skies as clear as sapphire. Yet, he recognizes a shift in the atmosphere. A shared dread hanging over you like a dark, impenetrable cloud. His hands tremble, searching for yours to steady them. He twitches, his body responding to your delicate touch.

"Don't go." He implores you. His signature phrase to you. That in itself could be your new love language.

Attempting to open your mouth to speak, no words flow out. A simple nod is all you can manage. With that permission, he hurries you into the truck, meanwhile warning another one of your neighbors to stay inside and lock her door. Once Joel is inside, you lean forward and drape a reassuring hand on his shoulder. A subtle, but significant sign of solidarity. He laces his fingers with yours and holds you in place against the back of his seat.

As aggressively as Tommy floors the truck into motion, he brings it to a screeching halt. The headlights of the truck illuminate the Adlers stumbling onto the street. Their limbs are just like that of Nana's, wrenched and fidgeting.

"Get your seatbelts on," Joel declares.

Tommy warns, "Hold on..."

His foot finds its way back to the accelerator with no delay. Bracing yourself for the unthinkable you turn to Sarah, "Come here." She folds into your lap, a whimper escaping her lips. The Adlers charge at the truck simultaneously. Connie soon disappears from view as the truck plows over her and sideswipes Danny.

Closing your eyes, you do everything in your might to hold down the bile rising in your throat.

Sarah sits up and wipes a few stray tears from her eyes, "Daddy-"

"We don't know," Joel interrupts.

You shake your head in disbelief, "The Adlers, they were infected with something, some kind of parasite maybe?"

"That's what they're saying on the radio, some kind of virus," Tommy confirms.

"Are we sick?" The young girl persists.

"No. Of course not," Joel's fearful tone turns to a more frustrated one. As a father, his instinct is to protect his daughter and provide her with comfort, but he has no clue what kind of threat lies ahead and can't give her satisfying answers. You tighten your hold on his hand, and he gives you a firm squeeze.

Joel's brother slows the truck as you spot a family pulled off onto the side of the road.

"Tommy, don't," you state firmly. The family shouts after you in desperation.

"But they have a kid."

"So do we," Joel glares at Tommy.

It's officially every man for themselves. Each outsider you bring into your safety net becomes a variable. An unpredictable risk that could put you and the people you care most about in grave danger.

Beams of crimson light glow in the distance, a vast sea of unmoving taillights. Seems like everyone in Austin had the escape plan as you, sending Tommy into a frenzy.

"It's okay, just think it through, we'll think it through," Joel says in repetition, not just for Tommy, but also to ease himself.

Coming from the opposing direction, panicked vehicles race towards you, and away from the perpetual gridlock that hundreds of other cars are trapped in.

Looking out the window into the vast, empty land that stretches for miles uninterrupted, you have a plan.

"Tommy, the field. It's the perfect detour. Cut across it and we will end up on the west side."

Speedily, he veers off onto the barren land. A stampede of cars follows behind you. The collective rays of the headlights light your path to....another dead end. The highway is infested with army vehicles crawling along it.

Tommy and Joel bicker over what the next move should be. Joel opts for a small town on the north side.

"And then what?" You interject.

Joel steadies himself against the dash, the unstable terrain tossing your bodies left and right.

"I don't know. Mexico. Just far, far as we can."

Sarah's eyes gloss over. "Maybe it's everywhere. Maybe there's nowhere to go."

"Hey, hey look at me. We are going to be fine. As long as the four of us stick together, we will be fine. There will be somewhere for us to go and find safety. I promise you, we won't let anything happen to you," you place your hand over your heart and affirm to her.

The dilemma is, you don't know if you can even accept what you promised Sarah. This isn't some influenza you can shelter in place from. The battle is against mankind's worst enemy, man. But not normal men, men being transformed into monsters.

"I-I believe you." Sarah's faith in you is unshakeable, "And I love you too Y/N."

»»————-　♡　————-««

Tag List: @midgetpottermills @erenswiffe

#joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller one shot #joel miller #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal imagine #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal one shot #the last of us imagine #the last of us

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gaysindistress · 1 year

Text

Dial Drunk - part 2 of Fine Line

Pairing: Mafia!Steve Rogers x reader

Warnings: angst and the feels oh and Peggy Carter slander

Word count: 2.1k words

Master list

Fine line 1 & Cocaine Jesus 3

Tag list: @vickie5446 @cakesandtom

a/n: I love a good song fic. Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan sponsors this fic so I highly suggest you listen to it.

disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image/gif. found on Google/Pinterest

“Son, is there someone I can call for you?” the Sheriff asks while half dragging and carrying a drunk Steve into the station. Under the dead weight of the mafia boss, the elderly Sheriff struggles to get them inside as the rain pelts them so hard, he’s expecting there to be bruises on both of them.

Steve mumbles something as his head lolls to the side but the other man cannot make out a single word or number for that matter. At the door, he waves to his deputies to him with the door and he all but drops Steve onto his younger deputies.

“Son, I don’t know your name. Where is your wallet or your phone?”

Steve shoves his hand into his coat pocket which sends all of them into high alert but it’s all false as he dumps the asked for items onto a desk. The Sheriff gets to work to figure out his name and find an emergency contact or anything at all that might be helpful.

“Alright, Mr. Rogers,” he announces as he types away at a computer, no doubt pulling up Steve’s criminal record as well as his contacts, “Should I call a Mrs. Margaret Carter Rogers? Is that still current?”

Steve scoffs at the name as he falls into a seat next to the Sheriff, “My own wife hates me.”

A deputy gives the Sheriff a look but he ignores it and calls the number nonetheless. Steve slumps back into the hard chair and drops his head back in attempts of sleeping off the horrendous hangover he’s going to have. The phone rings and rings, leaving him with just the dial tone as Peggy ignores the call. They try again but nothing happens. She ignores the call. They try a third time and finally she answers.

“Hello?” her accented voice wakes Steve.

“Hi is this Mrs. Margaret Carter Rogers?”

She snorts, “Not anymore. If this is about Steve, call someone else. I don’t care”

The dial tone replaces her voice and all of the officers look at each other in disbelief.

“Did… Did she just hang up?” the same deputy asks.

The sheriff clears his throat and brushes over his thick gray mustache as he thinks about what to do next.

“I told you she hates me,” Steve pipes up, “Wasted your time.”

“Is there anyone else we can call?”

He shrugs, “She won’t answer either.”

Behind them two deputies are whispering to each other about how wrong it was of Peggy to hang up but quickly stop when the Sheriff gives them a pointed look.

“Maybe SHE will answer. What’s her name and number?” He extends the phone out to Steve who drops it and has to slowly reach down to pick it up. It takes him longer than usual to open it and find the number of the woman whose house he practically ran from. After he left Y/N’s house, he found the nearest bar and drank the place out of anything that would numb the rejection pain. For ten years, he dreamed of nothing but seeing his girl again and when he finally did, his past decisions ruined any chance of a relationship with her again. For ten years, he resented Peggy, his father, his mother even and himself for not fighting harder for Y/N. For ten years, he regretted everything he had done and prayed that somehow he could go back in time to just be with her.

“Y/N hates me too.”

Still the sheriff dials the number and hopes that this mystery woman will answer the phone. It rings five times and they’re all beginning to think that this will be a repeat of the first call but she does answer.

Her voice is raw from crying but she answers, “Hello?”

“Hi ma'am, is this Y/n?”

“Yes, how can I help you?”

“Well ma’am, this is the Kings County sheriff department. I’m Sheriff Anderson. I have Steve Rogers here and he’s going to be held overnight in the drunk tank or you can come pick him up.”

“Shit, okay. Um…” there’s a long pause but they can hear her shuffling around, “I can be there in 45 minutes, is that okay?”

“Yes of course ma’am. We appreciate you answering the phone so late and coming right away.”

“Uh… yeah no problem I guess,” she mumbles something else but Steve doesn’t catch it.

Anderson motions to his deputies and has them take Steve to a cell while he waits. He’s half asleep and even heavier than before as they haul him into his own cell. Next to him is another lonely drunk stranger who was ignored and left to figure their shit out alone. Regardless he can’t be bothered to care and he shucks off his overcoat to use it as a pillow. Crossing his arms over his chest and his legs over each other, he settles into a short nap while he waits for Y/N. A part of him isn’t even sure that she is actually coming and he’s starting to convince himself that she never answered the door in the first place. She’s not coming to take him home…there's no home where they live together. There is no place where they love and support each other because he destroyed that when he married Peggy. Tears begin to grow heavy on his eyes but he won’t allow himself to cry over the past no matter how recent it might be.

He pulls his arms tighter across himself and rolls over so that his back faces outwards. With his face hidden, the tears start to fall against his will and he does nothing to stop them even though just moments ago he vowed that the past wouldn’t bother him. He doesn’t try to wipe them and lets the pain metastasize in his body, growing a tumor of emotions that can’t be cured by anything.

Time slips away from him as the memories and hurt wash over him. Anderson clears his throat to get Steve’s attention and starts to unlock the cell’s door.

“We took his keys so you can drive it home if you didn’t bring your own car,” Anderson says to Y/N.

She smiles and nods, taking the keys from him and clutching them as she stares at the sad excuse of a man laying on the bed. Steve wipes at his eyes and groans as he slides off of the hard jail bed. Shaking out his pillow coat, he puts it on before making eye contact with her. She sighes at him and thanks Anderson for all that he’s done even though it’s not procedure. When Steve stands, he sways and she’s quick to catch him, waving off Anderson who offers to take him. They don’t say anything to each other as she acts as his crutch and walk towards his car. She fumbles with the keys and drops them.

“Lean on the car,” she tells him as she bends down to pick them up, “Do you need my help getting in?”

He furrows his brow like a toddler, “No I can do it myself.”

Shaking her head at him, she unlocks the car and lets him struggle to fold his large body into the passenger side. She slides into the driver’s side and takes a deep breath. Never again did she think that she would dealing with Steve let alone driving his car as he’s almost black out drunk in the passagner seat.

He mumbles something along the lines of “It’s a remote start.”

Y/N hums her understanding and finds the button. It blinks to life and heavy metal music greets them at an unbearable volume. He whimpers at the noise and slams his hand onto the power button to turn it off as quick as he can. Satisfied that the offending noise has stopped, he curls into himself against the window and rests his head on the cool glass.

“Did you put your seat belt on?”

He answers by puling the belt over himself and clicking it into place.

She backs out of the spot and leaves the Sheriff’s station behind. Silence fills the space around them as the street lights and porch lights pass through the window. The lights splash across her face and unbeknownst to her, Steve is stealing glances at her through the window’s reflection. What little he can see of her breaks his heart even more as he can see the fatigue and hurt tense in her features. Her hair, usually styled and pristine, has been hastily clipped up with a claw clip that’s holding on for dear life. Under the long winter coat she’s wearing is just a pair of pj pants and a white crop top. She’s not even really wearing shoes but instead a pair of worn down clogs that should only be worn inside. Seeing how vulnerable she is, he can’t help himself grow protective and upset that she left in such a hurry.

“I hope you drove,” slips out albeit slurred.

“What?” she asks, quickly looking over at him.

“I said I hope you drove.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Do you see what you’re wearing?”

She blinks and scoffs at him, “I just picked your drunk ass up at 2 am and you want to lecture me about my clothing choices.”

“That’s not what I….”

She cuts him off, “Stop. You’re sleeping on the couch and I expect you to be gone when I wake up.”

“Honey.”

“Don’t. I already made myself clear earlier; I want nothing to do with you. I should’ve left you at the stupid station,” she mumbles the last part to herself but he still hears it and sews his mouth shut. The rest of the car ride back to her house is quiet aside from the normal noise of the car and the city.

She wants to regret hurting him with her words but she can’t find it in herself to care anymore. Maybe it’s the exhaustion or the petty side of her that strives to inflict as much pain as she can onto him. He did deserve it after all and he’s not protesting at least out loud.

Internally he wants to confess his undying love for her but he knows she won’t care and it won’t change her mind. He does deserve all of her hate and anger. It’s all just no matter how harsh it might be.

Steve keeps stealing glances of her in his window’s reflection and accepts the heartache it induces. Her house comes into view and he can feel her relax when it does. She pauses before fully pulling it and has the garage door open to hide his car from sight in it.

Once inside, she turns it off and waits for the door to shut completely before getting out. Steve watches as she kicks her shoes off and takes off her coat, leaving her in her thin pjs. He climbs out and does the same as her. Following her inside, she instructs him to sit at the island like before while she goes to get him blankets and pillows.

His eyes find the Polaroid again and the memories replay again. The sound of Y/N dropping a stack of bedding brings him around again.

“Here’s a couple blankets and a pillow. Don’t worry about folding them, I'll have to wash them.”

She turns to leave but he calls out softly and stops her, “thank you.”

Her hand rests on the wall beside her and she drops her head to rest on it.

“Why do you do this to yourself?”

��I want you back. I want YOU.”

She faces him again, “That’s not how this works. You don’t get to make a reappearance and magically everything goes back to how it was.”

Steve pushes off and is before her in a few short strides. He gently holds her face in his warm hands and refuses to let go even though she tugs lightly at his wrists.

“Give me another chance. Please honey, just one more chance,” he begs her as he touches his forehead to hers. Y/N’s eyes flutter closed and her breathing grows shallow, hot breath brushing against his face.

He nudges her head back and ghosts his lips over hers, waiting for her to push him away. When she doesn’t, he captures her lips in a slow and intimate kiss. Everything he’s felt over the last 10 years is flooding her as he moves his lips over hers. Every promise he’s made to himself in her name is conveyed as he sighed against her lips.

She’s the first to pull away and is shaking her head when she does so.

“No.”

#mob au #mafia! steve rogers imagine #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x y/n #mafia steve rogers x reader #mafia steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #fine line steve rogers #steve x reader #Steve rogers #marvel imagine #mafia au

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dreamwatch · 1 year

Text

STWG daily prompt 09/10/23

Prompt: balcony

c/w outing

****

“It’s beautiful, Eddie.”

And it really is. A two storey house over looking the beach. Real wood floors, so many windows, leaving the house bright and airy. The furniture was all new, too. There was a huge beige sectional in the living room and Wayne didn’t think he knew enough people to fill it. It was crazy.

And the view. There had been no money for vacations when Eddie was growing up, so save for the occasional camping trip they made do with looking at brochures from the travel agency in Hawkins. And they would plan. Make lists of all the places they were going to go. Picked their hotels and their holiday homes. Always the biggest suite available. Always with sandy white beaches and clear blue seas, swimming pools and cocktails.

This place was all those vacations rolled into one.

“You like it?”

Wayne just nods back, feels a little choked if he’s honest. He’s so fucking proud of this kid. Every achievement in his life has been hard won, no one handed him anything on a platter. Even for this, he worked his ass off and Wayne knows for a fact Eddie pushed himself, pushed the band, into touring more than was good for them. Eddie had become a workaholic over the last couple of years, something Wayne was going to have to keep an eye on. Though the distance made it hard.

The day Eddie left Hawkins was bittersweet. It broke Wayne’s heart, truth be told, but he did the thing you’re supposed to do when you’re a parent. Stood outside their trailer and sent his boy off into the world and told him the door was always open. That had been five years ago and Eddie hadn’t stepped foot in Hawkins since then.

And look at him now, buying fancy beach front property. Wayne walked out onto the balcony and shook his head. They were a million miles away from that trailer right now.

“You know I’ve a mind to take a photograph of this and stick it on a poster in the middle of Hawkins.” He spread his hands out, framing the imaginary image. “‘Welcome to Eddie Munson’s beach side abode.’ It would be worth the cost just to watch people choke.”

Eddie gives him an impish grin. “Uncle Wayne, this isn’t my house.”

He frowns back. “Please tell me we’re not trespassing, Ed, I’m on vacation son, I just want a nice-“. He stops when Eddie grabs his hands and drops a set of keys into it, a heavy key ring attached. A single silver ‘W’.

“This is your house.”

There’s silence for a while, though anyone with really good hearing would hear the cogs screeching to a halt in his head.

“I don’t understand.”

Eddie leans back against the balcony guardrail to face Wayne. “I bought it for you. I want you to live out here with me. I fucking miss you, old man, I hate it. Hate not having you close by. So. Yeah.” He ends with a shrug.

“Can you even afford this? I mean, you have a place already, can you afford another?”

Eddie nods. “I can afford it. Bought this outright, it’s yours, bank doesn’t own a single square inch. My place is mortgaged. I figure, you know, I fuck everything up eventually, so I still need a home to come back to when it all comes to an end.” Wayne tuts at him, hates the way he puts himself down. Hang over from school, and his parents. He thinks it’s so deeply ingrained he’ll never break him out if it now.

“I took the liberty of picking my room out, but the masters all yours.”

“Son, I don’t know…”

Eddie’s face falls. “You don’t like it. I should have asked. Fuck, I knew it, I shouldn’t have just assumed you’d want to move, you have a life back-“

“Eddie-“

“-and I didn’t even consider if you’d like to pick out your own home, like, who fucking does that, and I don’t even let you-“

“Eddie!”

“Yeah?”

“Calm down, son.”

“Okay.”

“I love it.”

Large brown eyes meet his, full of hope. Not without some fear. “Do you mean it? Because we can look elsewhere? Like, another neighbourhood, maybe? You know, if you don’t like this one.”

Wayne laughed. “Where’s your place? In relation to this?”

“Fifteen minute drive.”

“Hmm, fifteen minutes beats thirty hours, I think.”

“It’s only five hours if you fly.”

“Fifteen minutes beats five hours, too.”

So that’s how Wayne Munson, previously of Forest Hill’s trailer park, winds up living in a million dollar beach house in California.

—-

It’s weird, the not working, the finding of a new routine when yours has been the same for literally decades. He’s a creature of habit, likes a little order. So he still wakes early every morning. Still likes to sit out and smoke every evening. Only now he gets to do that lying on a lounger on a huge balcony watching the sunset over the Pacific Ocean. It’s a new routine he’s very happy to have.

—-

“That boy of yours working yet?”

They’re sitting, knocking back a couple of beers watching the sunset. Eddie’s been spending more time here lately, and Wayne loves it, but he’s also not an idiot.

Eddie nods before finishing the last if his beer. “Yeah. Got some modelling work coming up.”

Wayne hums.

“Don’t, Wayne. Not tonight.”

So they don’t.

—-

Eddie swings by as much as he can when he’s not touring or working. Wayne worries about him everytime he heads into LA, especially since the riots, but he tries not to mollycoddle. He’s twenty seven now. Not a kid anymore.

But he’s touring a lot. They just got back from the biggest one yet, 331 days, 189 shows. It’s too much. Wayne hates it. But Eddie doesn’t listen. So on they go.

—-

“Forgot to tell you, I got a postcard from Curly.”

“I can’t believe you still call him that,” laughs Eddie.

Dustin will always be Curly to him, and no rockstar is going to tell him otherwise.

“He’s hiking on the Appalachian Trail, did you know that? Think he’s got the Wheeler boy with him, too.”

“I did know that, they tried to get me to go with them.”

Wayne stares at him likes he got two heads. “Have they not met you before?”

Eddie splutters. “I’ll have you know I’m incredibly fit. Touring is hard work. I’m in peak physical condition, thank you.”

They laugh at the thought of Dustin Henderson and Mike Wheeler hiding from bears and finish another couple of beers, watching the sun go down.

—-

Wayne has started to build a new routine. He likes to walk in the early evening. He tried it after lunch one day and nearly collapsed. (He never told Eddie about that.) So now he heads out around five in the afternoon when the temperature is a little more manageable, and has a leisurely stroll around the neighbourhood or along the beach before heading back to the house.

The first thing he notices when he comes through his front door is the hold-all on the floor, barely zipped up and hastily packed.

“Ed?”

He doesn’t get a response but the sliding door is open and he just makes out the figure curled up on a lounger.

“Son?”

“Can I stay a couple of nights?” There’s a broken sound to his voice, like he’s been crying. Wayne hates it.

“You know you never have to ask.”

Wayne brings them both beers, and takes his usual seat. Just waits.

“There’s going to be an article in the press. Don’t know the details, but looks like I’m being outed.”

And there it is.

“By who?”

Eddie looks at him forlornly. “Does it matter?”

“And what does… Luke, does he know?”

“He’s leaving tonight. I just didn’t want to be there until he’s gone.”

“Good. I’ll go round tomorrow make sure he’s out. Get the locks changed.”

They sit for a while, listening to the ocean.

“Is it so bad? Hmm? You got a lot of fans now, people love you. They wouldn’t care.”

“You don’t know that,” Eddie replies, sounding pained. “And it’s not just me. I have to think of the others. If they take me down they might take the band with it. And…” he looks at Wayne, large brown eyes spilling with tears. “It was mine. They had no right to take that from me.”

“You’re a public figure though,” Wayne sighs, hates he’s having to say this. “It was always a possibility, hmm? Not saying it’s right, just… just saying.”

They finish their beers in silence before Wayne cracks open a bottle of whisky Eddie bought him a couple of years back. Pricey, he knows, but if ever it was needed it’s now.

—

It’s news, for a while, but mostly in some of the shittier publications. There are jokes and taunting in some of the rock magazines, and it starts being a thing interviewers want to talk about. Their management company make sure everyone knows it’s off limits.

Wayne hates it so much.

—-

He puts up some wind chimes. He spends more time out on that balcony than in the living room, so he decides it’s time to jazz it up a bit. He’s far enough from his neighbours that it shouldn’t bother them, but he also doesn’t give a shit.

Just as he sits the phone rings, and he needs to get a line out here, because somehow it doesn’t matter who it is they always get him the moment he sits down.

He’s a little rude when he answers the phone.

“Uh, Mister Munson?”

“Yes, and who is this?”

“It’s Steve Harrington, sir, I don’t know if you remember me? Um, from Hawkins?”

Yes. Yes he remembers Steve very well. You tend to remember people when they save your kids life. Tend to remember them when they spend a lot of time with your kid afterwards.

“I remember you, Steve. Don’t worry about that. I didn’t know you were in contact with Eddie again, he’s not here I’m afraid, he’s on tour, not sure where is today-“

“Sydney. He’s in Sydney.” Steve clears his throat, and there’s something about the tone.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s okay,” Steve gets in as fast as he can, “he’s- honestly, he’s going to be fine.”

“What’s wrong, Steve?”

“He collapsed, on stage.”

Wayne feels the air leave his lungs, doesn’t realise he’s made a noise until Steve cuts in.

“He’s okay, but they’re keeping in the hospital overnight, doctors are saying it’s exhaustion, so they’re getting fluids into him and they want him on bed rest for a while. He hit his head on the edge of the drum riser when he went down, so he’s got a few stitches and he’s gonna have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. But he’s going to be okay.”

Eddie’s home two days later, Steve in tow carrying the bags, and he looks terrible. Gaunt, dark circles that need more than a good nights sleep to erase, and a gauze dressing in the middle of a dark purple bruise on his temple. He looks pitiful. Wayne pulls him into a gentle hug and he feels Eddie go loose in his arms.

“Let’s get you up to bed, hmm? We can talk later.”

After, Wayne takes Steve out on to the balcony, and closes the door behind him.

“Thank you, for looking after him.”

Steve smiles. “You don’t have to thank me for that, he’s my… he’s my friend. I’ll always look after him.”

Wayne thinks on that for a while. He can read between the lines as well as anyone else.

“I didn’t know you were back,” together?, “in contact.”

“Yeah, a few months back, Dustin’s wedding? Yeah, it um… yeah it was nice. Unexpected.” He sees the look on Steve’s face. Knows that look. Saw it on both their faces back in Hawkins before Eddie left to conquer the world.

“So, when do you go home?”

Steve taps out a rhythm on the side of his can. “I got a couple of days of leave I’m gonna take, just till I know he’s okay. But I need to get home soon, work you know.” He carries on with his tapping and Wayne thinks he recognises it, one of Gareth’s grooves. Catchy. Not that he’d ever say that to the band.

“I, uh. I’m thinking of moving out here, actually.”

There’s a couple walking along the beach, their dogs racing back and forth and in and out of the ocean. They can hear them laughing from here.

“This is a nice neighbourhood. You know, if you were looking for a place to settle.”

Wayne can see Steve smile and nod out of the corner of his eye.

“So I’ve heard.”

—-

They’re out on the balcony at one am with a bottle of champagne and three beers. He’s usually very respectful, but tonight his attitude is very much ‘fuck the neighbours’.

“So, where you gonna put it?” Wayne asks.

Eddie sways, he’s been celebrating all evening, long before he arrived here with Steve. The two of them in sharp tailored suits and shiney shoes. Wayne should get a photo before they take them off. Eddie in actual shoes.

Eddie leans over and grabs it, the gold gramophone glimmering under the balcony lighting.

“Hmm… I was thinking right over there,” he says, pointing to a litte decorative table on the other side of the sliding doors.

Wayne’s stares at him, confused. “You got to take it home, put it somewhere where everyone will see it.”

“I don’t need everyone to see it. I just need us to see it.”

Maybe it’s the champagne and the beer he’s been mixing, but suddenly it all hits him. The heat in his face, the stuffy nose. Ten years. Ten years of hard work.

“I’m so fucking proud of you.” He dabs at his eyes, and he watches as Eddie wipes his on his shirt, Steve tutting at him about using a handkerchief.

Wayne grabs the Grammy and takes it inside, placing it on the table next to the photograph of Eddie and Steve that he likes to keep close by.

They spend the night out on the balcony, drinking and talking, wind chimes twinkling, and they wait for the sun to rise.

#stwgdailyprompt #eddie munson #wayne munson #steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson #steddie #steddie fanfic #my writing #dreamy writes #steddie fanfiction #cw outing

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kanos · 3 months

Text

WIP // LAST LINE // MUSIC MONDAY

all in one bc i'm so so behind but i was tagged by @imogenkol @ruvviks, @g0dspeeed @tommyarashikage (i think that was everyone im sorry) to post wips and last lines of wips and idk what music monday is but like lets goooo

there's a lot in this so i'm so sorry lmao its been awhile since i've posted a wip or even finished writing a fic wow

some ronan x ellis i started writing on the plane a month ago

“Did you find it?” He called from the kitchen. She hadn’t, for her attention was caught by something else. Underneath a stack of books was a wanted poster with a crude drawing and her name in bold letters - her name she knew, but the rest of the words on the page was unreadable. The eyes were too dark, the scars more angry and grotesque, and the hair was short. It was clear this was the work of someone who hadn't seen her in person but only heard the frightened words of bystanders who caught sight of her. Word of her infamy wouldn’t have reached as far as the small town of Faith and how he had come by a poster of her was unclear. Ellis holds the paper steady in her hands, eyeing the curve of the other woman's smile before turning around and heading back for the kitchen. Ronan looks up and his curiosity falters as their eyes met. “Ms. Cooper?” She drops the poster in front of him and pins it to the table with her knife, the blade through the caricature's throat. With the other hand she grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him closer. “Where did you get this?” A quick glance to the paper and back. He holds his hands up and attempts to calm her rage down. “I can explain, but you have to let me go.” “I don’t think so. You can talk just fine like this.”

uuuuh rian / maxi / ghost anyone?

"Those two seem to be getting close lately." "Who is?" Ghost questions with clear disinterest, not even glancing towards his friend. A soft hum is his answer before any verbal response. He was hesitating. "Sinclair and Brennan." His gaze flickers to his friend and then follows the direction he is looking to find the two in question standing beside each other. The Irishman has his arm draped over the woman's shoulders, leaning down close. Maxine has the faintest hint of a smile on her lips but she doesn't shrug the man off. Rian's hand brushes over hers as he takes the knife she held and flips it around. Ghost feels his hand twitch and he's thankful for his mask to hide what he could only assume would be the expression of annoyance. "So? That's good she's getting along with someone." "Is it?" Soap teases, shrugging as he stands from his seat. "Then I better do the same - what if they get married? Then he'll be family."

LAST LINE(s)

"For fucks sake, Theo. How many people are you sleeping with? Next, you're going to tell me you're fucking one of the Seeds, huh?" Nathaniel can't conceal his anger - no, not his anger, but frustration for having such a reckless niece. Theo clicks her tongue and crosses her arms over her chest. "Really don't think this is something I should be discussing with my uncle." A stifling moment of silence doesn't have time to settle when Nathaniel speaks again. "You're not going to deny fucking one of the Seeds?"

and lastly my music monday contribution, enjoy this

tagging everyone again i'm sorry @strangefable @anoramactir @firstaidspray @pitchmoss @pavus @florbelles @carrionsflower @thedeadthree @roberthouse69 @carlosoliveiraa @shellibisshe @statichvm @risingsh0t @hollytanaka @confidentandgood @leviiackrman @bigbywlf @samuelroukin @cryptcombat @beemot @tekehu @evilvvithin @red-nightskies @pheedraws

[taglist opt in]

i apologize that this is writing and not everyone wanted to be tagged in writing but if you have any wips or just want to do the music thing, that's fine to!!

#*tag games #i'm soooo sorry this is a lot #anyways i need to actually finish something lmaoooo #got a couple other ones i need to finish that i didn't want to post here #feel free to put me out of my misery pls #edit: tagged some more people who might be interested in posting some wips but no pressure

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matchadobo · 1 year

Text

KIDD; coming home to you

tw: major spoilers from chapter 1079, angst (?) with happy ending, sfw, fem reader, cursing, nothing sussy just fluff in the end, this was my first time making angst and if you're willing to go through all that then proceed wkwk

summary: name and kidd had a falling out when kidd wanted to rechallenge akagami after the fight in wanokuni. name later found out that the kidd pirates had been eradicated, including kidd himself.

wc: 2134

a man worth three billion berries was completely eradicated.

your eyes furiously scanned the columns of the newspaper, trying to look for answers. seeing kidd and akagami's poster in one page, the word "defeat" in bold capital letters. you began seeing red.

your mind went blank. you felt your body froze. your fingers went numb, loosening grip on the newspaper you were clutching. your ears started ringing. your heart felt like it had stopped for the wrong reason. your limbs felt like jelly. the ground felt like it started disappearing beneath you. your senses went mute. all the despair washing over you as you stared at the paper as the only form of connection between you and kidd.

you left the kidd pirates a few months ago, almost a year now. it was a tear-filled farewell, a sorrowful time where you separated from your friends and your lover. and it wasn't a peaceful one. every fight with kidd was never harmonious, it'd always start and end in screaming fits between the two of you. after all, no one can match up to his temper other than you; since you were as equally as stubborn.

it all began when the fight with kaidou ended and the kidd pirates had set sail to the next island.

"don't be stupid, kidd." your tone was crossed, as you tried everything in your power to stop him.

"don't interfere with this, name." he bit back, towering over you yet you weren't backing down.

"why do you never listen?!" you stomped your feet on the wooden deck. nails digging on your palms from anger boiling under your skin.

"because i fucking have dreams, name! you should know that better than anyone else!" he retorted, eyes burning with passion and fury. voice bellowing louder as he pointed at himself. you could see the genuine ardor in his eyes, how dedicated he was in pursuing this. regardless of getting himself killed.

"but why are you choosing to let yourself be killed?!" your voice cracked as hot, sticky tears gushed out your eyes. desperately trying to change his mind. "i don't want to see you die by the hands of some pirate..." your weakly persuaded, looking up at him with hopeful eyes. he fought his heart, trying to mask how he softened amidst your argument with the sight of you.

"that's akagami you're referring to." he said through gritted teeth.

"I DON'T CARE IF THAT'S THE STRONGEST YONKOU OR SOME SHIT! THAT DOESN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT I WANT YOU TO LIVE, EUSTASS!" you shouted, finally breaking into tears. your voice sending shivers down his spine. the clear desperation and sorrow in your voice got him wavering.

he cleared his throat. "you have to understand that if i don't do this, that if i don't face him to win, i'm good as a worthless weakling in the new world." he looked away, walking past you. tone bitter and dismissive. "it's the new age, i'm not fuckin' sittin' ducks, okay?! this is a goddamn race as pirate king! i've already put my life on the line and i am more than willing to risk everything for it. you fuckin' know that." he looked over his shoulder, fist clenching as his chest tightened.

"but what about you? so you'd choose to push through this suicide mission, huh?"

"..."

"suit yourself, captain." you heavily sighed in defeat. "i said i'd be with you every step of the way. that i'd be there when you'll claim that title but i don't want to see you kill yourself, love." you reached over to stroke his cheek and shaky hands. "it... was a nice ride with you, thank you for everything kidd. consider this as a goodbye, i...love you." your words struck to him like a needle, leaving a scar in his soul.

you could see the shift of anger to a dismal look in his amber eyes. he wanted to say it back, he wanted to stop you and pull you back, he wanted to say something to let you stay. but it all welled up in his chest, staying unsaid, leaving a nasty taste in his mouth. stuck in between his pride and his dream, this moment was left to him to decide how it will turn out.

"name." he called out, your name rolling out of his tongue in a rancorous tone you've only heard at this moment. "once you step out of this ship and leave my crew, you're just a woman getting on my way." his words stung like venom, filled with resentment and morosity. you carried on, biting your lips in pain as you left the ship and just like that, the ties between you, him, and the kidd pirates had severed.

it all came back to you like a melancholic nostalgia, you'd feel your surroundings go deaf as you tried to calm yourself down. you recalled how his voice sounds; the last thing he ever said to you, the last time you saw his face, the last time you felt his lips on yours, the last time you saw him throw his head back whenever he'd laugh at you for the littlest things you'd do, the last rum he shared with you under the moonlit deck of the victoria, the last dance where he spun you around on the silence of his quarters; just the two of you melting in each other's embrace, the last time you felt his arm around you, and the last "i love you" you heard.

you'd feel your eyes sting as tears formed at the corner of your eyes and your heart grow heavy, feeling like putty in your chest. you clutched the bottle of liquor in your hands at the local pub in town, the same liquor you'd drink with him during those nights where it feels heavy.

a few days had passed and you still haven't recovered, it was almost a week. you'd light candles for him, holding the necklace close with a magnet pendant he made for you; the only memento you have from him.

you'd always visit the bar, downcasted. days passed as if you were just existing, not living. not like the joyous days in the victoria. not like the crazy adventures with the crew nor the amorous nights with kidd. days were just days, nothing special. not how special your life was before you left the victoria. and now, thinking back, you don't have any chance of coming back to it.

"ya all good there, love?" the faint voice of the bartender brought you back to reality, the old man had a genuine look of concern in his face. "ya been starin' and sweatin' cold for the past minute in there, aye?"

you composed yourself, taking a deep breathe, swallowing all of pain welling in your chest, and downing the rest of your liquor. "i'm all right, old man. thanks for the booze." you smiled, leaving your payment at the counter and exiting the premises.

you made your way to the shore, burying your feet into the pearly-white sand of the beach as you held your knees close to your chest. and you finally allowed the tears in your eyes to fall, choking out a sob as you embraced yourself. it was the same pearly-white sand the north blue was known for. it was where you two ran around when you were little, basking under the sun. the grainy sensation of sand under your feet brought back the memories of yesterday. where each time, at each place; he'd be by your side, standing before you as you gaze at his back with pride and admiration—a presence so assuring and loving.

was it regret? are you cursing destiny? you couldn't piece out whether it was anger or forlorn. all you wanted to know was why did it turned out this way. you were well-aware that when you left, it will be the last. you were well-aware that once you leave his crew, there's little to no chance of coming back. you were well-aware that you wouldn't be able to hold him close, call his name, bother him in his workshop, stand side by side during battles, and kiss him like you used to. but most of all, it never left the back of you mind that he'll be dead the next time you see him. what comforts you is that he'll be dying with no regrets, he lived a fulfilling life after all; he chose to follow his heart. yet you're here, miles away from him. how paradoxical.

while you bury your face in your knees growing wet and dripping with tears, that familiar scent of his coat wafted your nose and that fluffy fabric draped your figure. you felt goosebumps spread across your skin, hastily looking back to see if he really was there.

"you can stop crying like a baby now-" your fist slammed into his face in a swift second. your body moved on its own, not even you could process what you did. "what the fuck, name?!" he clutched his jaw, blood dripping from his cherry lips.

"s-sorry i..." you cluched your hand, the pain registering after a few seconds. a manic smile on your tear-stained face. "y-you're here." you hesitantly reached out to caress his face, hand stuttering from shaking and doubt. not until he pulled your wrist, swiftly maneuvering you in his grip as his palm reached the small of your back and pulled you into his arms.

"tadaima," he mumbled, placing a kiss on top of your head. his embrace tightening as he reveled on your touch and scent.

"o-okaeri." you stuttered, voice shaking as you fisted his shirt and hit him weakly but repeatedly. tears frantically streaming down your cheeks as you sob soundly in his chest. he winced a bit, from the amount of bandages covering his body it's evident how fucked he was. "don't go disappearing on me like that...! you're so perpetually dumb, i hate you so much." you muttered, ignoring his protests when you persistently smack his bandaged chest.

you two melted into each other's touch for a while. how he felt around you after ten, long months. oh how you missed that callous touch of his, quite painful yet it feels like home.

you two had settled down in the same spot, you were sitted between his legs, head resting on his neck as you two faced the pink painted skies while he had his arms around you. his fluffy coat covering yours and his legs.

"s-sorry." he broke the silence, clearing his throat as he tried to repress the tears. you looked up at him and he tried to avoid your gaze. "i was...hard on you, didn't fuckin' listen, and i...was dumb enough to let you leave."

knowing kidd, as someone so stubborn and refuses to admit his wrongs. it took him a lot of courage to concede his feelings to you right now. how his voice wavered and that hint of hesitation in his tone proves just how hard he tried and how much pride he discarded to let his feelings reach you.

"that's not like you, apologizing." you teased, you missed seeing how his cheeks turn pink and how his lips stutter each time you fuck with him.

"shut the fuck up." he gritted his teeth.

"do you regret it?"

"fighting akagami? hell no. i'd regret it if i didn't go for it. means i don't have the damn balls to face someone strong."

"as if that ever stopped you. of course, when did giving up occur to you." you fondly remarked, as if you were falling in love with him all over again.

"but you're all battered, covered with bandages." you tried stifling your laughter but failed, laughing out loud.

it was like music to his ears and a solace to you. hearing your laugh after a long time, moreover because of him, it was like heaven for him. he mused at how happy you were, how it seems like you haven't laughed like this in so long. you were beautiful. it brought him to breaking into fond laughter as well, tears forming in his eyes as he threw his head back.

you two stayed there until midnight, just rambling about the past ten months. laughing, crying, and kissing under the moonlight before the loud splashes of the sea. and once again, the sea had brought you two in each other's arms.

and not for long, the crew had reunited with you. the heart pirates were also found looming at one spot in the beach, later joining the lot of you. you later found out that trafalgar law had helped your lover and the crew, begrudgingly to be exact. the doctor had claimed that he was "told" by strawhat to do so. and so, the lot of you soundly partied with the village folks until dawn.

this is just me coping from the latest chap, gaslighting myself that he'll be coming back. wwww oda i have so many questions wtf

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hamsterclaw · 2 years

Text

Heartbeat

Your colleague Namjoon's infuriating. He's intelligent but he's also smug, competitive and cold. You hate him until you realise you don't.

Pairing: Namjoon x F! reader, ft Jimin x F! reader and Seokjin

Rating: 18+

Genre: Medical AU, smut, angst

Word count: 8.5k

Warnings: Snark, sex, swearing, ex boyfriend Seokjin, fuckboy with a heart of gold Jimin, Namjoon biceps

You’re fumbling with your bag, trying to find the key to your new office when a shadow falls over you.

You turn, nearly spilling your coffee.

There’s a tall man who’s come up behind you, wrapped up against the winter chill in a beanie and scarf and a coat that looks like you could use it as a parachute if you decided to jump off the top of the hospital.

‘Hey, are you the new cardiac fellow?’ he asks. His voice is deep, mellow. He nudges his glasses up his nose bridge like it’ll help him see you better and peers at you, a little like an owl.

‘Yeah,’ you say. You hold out a hand. ‘Y/N. You must be Namjoon.’

‘Yeah. I’m the current fellow.’

He reaches up to the top of the door frame, barely even having to stretch to do so, and comes back with a key.

He unlocks the door and nudges it open. ‘After you.’

Is he joking?

The office he’s just unlocked is barely the size of a storage cupboard. There’s a shared desk, two computers and a bookshelf loaded with crusty old medical textbooks from before women were allowed into med school.

You scoot around to the half of the desk that looks less populated.

‘It’s kind of a squeeze,’ he says. ‘We won’t spend a lot of time here, anyway.’

You put your coffee down.

‘I would’ve texted you to ask if you wanted coffee if I knew your number,’ you say, trying to make conversation. ‘There’s a good place I pass on the way.’

‘Oh I don’t drink coffee,’ he says.

You blink.

‘Yeah? What’s your drug of choice?’ you ask, trying for levity.

‘I don’t do drugs,’ he says, straightfaced.

‘Yeah sorry. Bad joke,’ you say.

There’s a pause where you look at the poster behind him, a schematic of a bronchial tree.

‘We should exchange numbers though, if we’re gonna be working together,’ you suggest. You type the digits he reels off into your phone and call him so he has yours.

His profile pic flashes up as you call him.

It’s kind of cute. It’s him with his arm around a pretty girl. They’re both dressed down, there’s a backdrop of autumn leaves, a clear sky.

It’s cuddly and warm and reminds you of Seokjin.

Fuck Seokjin.

You shove your phone in your coat pocket.

‘Hey where do we get changed?’

‘I’ll show you,’ Namjoon says. He acts like he’s going to let you squeeze past him but with his puffy coat you’re not sure if you’ll fit.

Oh shit.

His coat isn’t that puffy, he’s just that big.

He looks down at you inquiringly as you stop, pressed against his front.

‘Stuck?’

‘Yeah,’ you squeak.

You wriggle away, feeling vaguely obscene about it.

‘Sorry,’ he says, nudging his glasses up again.

You follow him down a series of corridors to the locker room.

‘It’s communal,’ he says, shrugging.

You quickly look away from the bare male ass that caught your attention when you walked in.

‘Got it.’

You grab scrubs, step away from Namjoon and get changed quickly, a little off balance.

You’re shoving your feet back into your sneakers when Namjoon approaches.

He’s looking carefully away from you, up at the clock on the wall.

‘Ready? We have an MR list this morning.’

‘Sure,’ you say. You look at your clothes uncertainly.

‘You can put them in my locker if you want?’ he offers.

‘Thanks.’

By the time you reach the MRI suite you’re vibrating with nerves, but the familiar setup has you letting out a sigh of relief.

Everything in this new place where you’re going to be working for a year is new and daunting, but this at least is familiar.

You snap on gloves and get started.

It’s a full list through the day but the cases are interesting, and you’re concentrating so hard the day passes quickly.

You’re surprised to learn it’s past six by the time you finish.

‘I’m gonna stop by the library before I go home,’ Namjoon tells you at the same time as you ask, ‘do you want to grab dinner?’

You laugh, awkwardly. ‘Yeah. See you tomorrow Namjoon.’

You back out of the MR suite quickly, and are halfway back to the office when you realise your clothes are in Namjoon’s locker still.

You debate going to find him, but you have no idea where the library is.

The truth is, it’s been a fucking long day, and you live five minutes walk from the hospital.

You shoulder your backpack and walk home in the cold.

Your new apartment is large, spacious. The area around the hospital is a dive which is how you can afford the space.

You look, determinedly, at the stacked cardboard boxes of your packed things. You moved in a week ago. You should unpack.

You slice through the masking tape of the first box and pull the flaps apart, only to be greeted by a fluffy alpaca and a searing memory of Seokjin on your first date.

Ah. This is why you put off unpacking.

Your tears surprise you.

You fold the flaps back over, gently, and just go to bed instead.

***

You’re standing in front of the hot counter in the hospital cafeteria, trying to decide between carbs or carbs.

The morning’s been pretty dull, you’ve been doing some follow up calls and catching up on emails.

When you get back to the office, Namjoon’s standing just outside the door with your boss, Dr Lam.

‘We missed you at the M&M,’ Dr Lam says pleasantly.

You flick your gaze to Namjoon.

‘Namjoon did an excellent presentation on ACD,’ Dr Lam continues.

‘Ah I’m sorry,’ you say, ‘I wasn’t aware there was an M&M scheduled.’

Namjoon hadn’t mentioned a thing when you saw him this morning.

‘It’s on the calendar on the wall,’ Namjoon points out.

Is he trying to make you look bad?

You unclench your jaw and force yourself to apologise again to Dr Lam.

As soon as she’s walked away, you suck in a breath.

‘You didn’t mention an M&M this morning when I saw you,’ you say, trying to keep it civil.

He looks at you like you’re the unreasonable one.

‘It’s on the wall calendar. It’s not a secret,’ he says.

You resist the very strong urge to rip his glasses off his face.

‘Thanks,’ you say, dry, brittle.

Pointedly, you stare at the wall calendar. It’s ridiculous, you can’t see anyway through the waves of rage coursing through you, but that’s not the point.

It’s your second day. Wouldn’t it have been the nice thing to do to just mention it to you?

‘Also your clothes,’ Namjoon says. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s aware he’s on thin ice.

He pushes his locker keys across the table at you.

‘Do you want them back?’

You stand so quickly the rickety desk rocks up.

‘I’ll get them right now,’ you say, snatching up the keys.

You don’t say anything else because you’re still so annoyed you could burst.

Instead, you get turned around on your way to the locker room and end up in a random stairwell, lost.

Why is hospital signage always so bad?

You sit on the stairs and burst into tears.

You never cry, it’s unlike you.

You never fucking cry because life is stupid and people are stupid and fucking hell Kim Seokjin is stupid for letting you go.

It still hurts so much that he let you go. That he chose to be without you when he was a big part of your life for so long.

And now here you are crying in a stairwell because of some cutthroat colleague.

You’re better than this, aren’t you? You’ve had your shit together for so long you can’t even remember what it feels like to spiral.

You swipe at your tears and exit the stairwell.

You give up on trying to find the locker room.

You toss the keys back on Namjoon’s desk with a murmured ‘thanks.’

You can feel his eyes on your tearstained face, so you stare back at him, challenging him to say something.

He looks away first, and you take that as a win.

You’ve not really won at anything lately, so this counts.

***

It’s Friday, you’ve made it through the first week of your fellowship relatively unscathed.

You’ve cried twice, once that first night and then in the stairwell.

You’ve had three hospital cafeteria lunches and that’s all you’re going to subject your digestive system to.

You’ve drunk more coffee than you care to recall.

It’s not the best start to your fellowship, but it’s not the worst either.

You’re gathering your things to leave when Namjoon enters the office.

He puts your clothes on the desk.

‘Why didn’t you take them back?’ he asks.

‘Got lost on the way to the locker room,’ you say, truthfully.

‘Why didn’t you ask me for directions?’ he asks. His jaw tightens as you raise your eyebrows at him.

You shrug. ‘Not your problem. Like reminding me of the schedule on my first fucking week isn’t your problem.’

You take a fierce, childish pleasure in the way he stares at you, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

Your partner is a big man, but you’ve made a lifetime out of taking on male assholes and cutting them down to size.

Figuratively speaking, of course.

You brush past him on your way out.

***

Your med school friend Hana who you’re reconnecting with now that you’ve moved into the area always was a social butterfly.

She’s throwing a party at her place, a luxe apartment by the quay with stunning views and a penthouse terrace.

You knew you should have gone into ophthalmology.

Hana greets you at the door with an excited hug.

She presses a drink into your hand and pushes you onto the terrace with a vague wave of her hand and an instruction to ‘go mingle’.

You head to the edge of the terrace overlooking the water.

It’s beautiful out, cold but clear. The lights from the boats light the water like stars.

The drink in your hand’s disappearing fast, but it’s ok. You’re easy.

You’re sick of feeling sorry for yourself.

You sense someone approaching you before you hear their voice.

‘Do you sail?’

‘No.’

You turn to see a good looking guy smiling at you.

He’s a shade taller than you, with plush lips and skin that looks like it’s been airbrushed.

He says, ‘me neither. I’ve always wanted to.’

‘I like swimming,’ you offer.

His eyes are still crinkled at the corners.

Gosh, he’s pretty.

‘I dive,’ he tells you. ‘Park Jimin.’

‘Y/N L/N,’ you reply, shaking the hand he holds out.

His grasp is firm, skin cool. The silver hoops dangling from his ears glint in the floodlights over the terrace.

Park Jimin gets you another drink, and you find out he works with Hana.

Damn. Now you really wish you’d gone into ophthalmology.

He’s a flirt, and that’s ok because you can flirt too. You’re rusty though, it’s been a while since you were single.

All the friends you’ve had in the last few years knew how committed you and Seokjin were to each other.

You push away the unwanted intrusion of his name.

Jimin’s leaning back over the glass balustrade, his arms braced, the position making his shirt gape open.

He catches you looking and flicks his tongue out over his full bottom lip.

The gesture makes your cunt clench, mainly because of the intent in his eyes.

‘Up for a refill?’ he asks. His voice is silvery, with a husky undertone that’s steadily making you dampen your panties.

He flicks his tongue out again, and your thighs tighten.

Your face feels so warm.

You realise he’s still waiting for an answer.

‘I don’t want to be too tipsy,’ you say, looking at him steadily.

Jimin sees something in your eyes that makes him lean close.

‘Are you just tipsy enough now?’ he asks. He’s so close his hard chest brushes yours.

‘Yeah,’ you reply. ‘Just enough.’

It turns out Jimin’s apartment is next to Hana’s, which in practical terms means it’s barely ten minutes before you’re unrolling a condom onto him and lowering yourself down into his lap.

You’re so wet already the slide is easy, so turned on by his beautiful body and the pretty sounds he’s making that he barely has to touch you to make you cum the first time.

Jimin turns out to be the best kind of overachiever, fucking you into your second orgasm whilst also gleaming sweat all over his sculpted torso.

After he cums he ties off the condom neatly and goes to get you a drink.

You’re looking for your clothes when he comes back.

He hands you a glass of water.

‘Going so soon?’ he asks.

There’s a naughty gleam in his eye.

‘I have to work tomorrow,’ you say, regretfully.

‘Shame. I wanted to eat your pussy,’ he says.

He hasn’t bothered to put his shirt back on, and standing like this, you can follow his v line straight into the waistband of the black boxer briefs he pulled back on.

‘I thought you’d want me out,’ you say lightly.

He smiles charmingly at you. ‘This isn’t college,’ he says. ‘Stay as long as you like. I can make you breakfast in the morning.’

The last time you had sex with someone you barely knew was in college, and his name was Kim Seokjin.

Look how that turned out.

‘Ah but how will I leave you wanting more if I stay?’ you say, half joking.

Jimin, the perfect gentleman despite how he’d defiled you in his bed, insists on walking you down to your taxi.

When you get home you drop him a text.

Y/n: Hey thanks for a lovely evening.

Jimin: Anytime. You know where I live, door’s always open.

You don’t know what else to say, so you leave it at that.

***

You’re finishing up some notes when Namjoon walks into the office.

‘Saw you’d written up the case from last month - the alveolar proteinosis,’ he says.

‘Yep,’ you reply, shooting him a look. .

Things have barely been civil between you but you don’t need him to do your job so there’s that.

He looks like he’s about to say something when there’s a knock on the door.

It’s Dr Lam. ‘Good paper,’ she says, nodding approvingly at you.

‘Thank you,’ you say.

‘I think it’d be a good one to present at the next regional meeting,’ she says. ‘I’ll email you the details.’

‘Sounds great. Thank you,’ you reply.

When she leaves the office you bask in the glow of Dr Lam’s praise and the barely disguised envy Namjoon’s emanating.

‘Hey, did you hear that?’ you ask, cocking your head.

Namjoon looks at you, brow furrowed. ‘What?’

‘That’s a slam dunk on your head,’ you say, deadly serious.

Namjoon stares at you for a moment. His lips quiver.

Then he laughs. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asks.

‘What’s wrong with you? Apart from too much protein powder?’ you mutter.

Namjoon laughs again.

You’re part-way through reading a paper when he says, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t remind you about M&M.’

You search his eyes.

‘It’s fine, I know you’re competitive.’

‘I’m not — competitive like that,’ he protests.

You roll your eyes.

‘Ok, I am competitive. We all are. You wouldn’t be in this job if you weren’t,’ Namjoon says, finally.

He leans forward over the desk, holding out his hand. ‘But I’m not going to try to sabotage you or screw you over, ok? I’m not like that.’

You look at his big hand. ‘Why do you want me to touch you?’

‘Jesus, it’s a handshake,’ Namjoon says, exasperated.

‘Fine.’

You shake his hand, firmly. ‘No sneaky shit,’ you say, warningly.

‘No sneaky shit,’ Namjoon echoes.

‘I swapped out your office key for the store cupboard key,’ you confess.

‘Shit that was you? I thought I was going crazy.’

‘I also put gum in your ethernet port,’ you say, since you might as well come out with it.

‘God damn it, IT spent an hour trying to fix it! My new computer’s arriving tomorrow.’

‘Just saying, you don’t want to get on my bad side again.’

‘Noted,’ Namjoon says. He smiles at you, and for the first time you notice the dimples bracketing his lips.

You want to smile back but you give him a stern look instead.

He gets up. ‘I’m gonna go stretch my legs. Want a coffee?’

‘You don’t drink coffee,’ you say.

‘I’m going to get myself tea. I’ll get you a coffee.’

You watch him leave the office. You hadn’t realised his shoulders were so broad.

***

You’re trying to retrieve a pen you dropped from under the table when the office door opens.

You crawl out from under the table and are confronted with Namjoon’s lycra clad thighs.

‘Shit,’ you say, hitting your head on the bottom of the table.

In a moment he’s crouching next to you. ‘Are you ok?’

Like this, his thighs are splayed, giving you a direct and clear line of vision to the bulge of his —

‘It’s too early for lycra-covered cock,’ you complain, and he gets up so quickly the table rocks.

‘Stop staring at it,’ he says.

‘It’s right in my eyeline!’ you protest. ‘Put it away.’

Namjoon waits until you’re standing next to him.

‘Why are you dressed like a slut?’ you ask, averting your eyes.

‘I’m wearing my cycling gear. I cycle to work,’ he answers.

‘Ok, I’ve heard enough. I know we said we wouldn’t backstab each other but we can’t possibly be friends.’

You look up and notice how sweaty he is.

A droplet of sweat streaks down his neck, disappearing into the neck of his tight top.

You have a sudden unexplainable urge to lick it away.

You realise he’s looking down at you.

A dimple flashes. ‘Are you checking me out?’

‘I would never,’ you vow. ‘It’s just – why are you dressed like a whore if you don’t want me to look?’

‘That’s problematic,�� he chides.

‘That’s problematic,’ you mimic.

He tosses his (rain-proof) jacket at you. ‘You know, if I said the same thing to you, HR would rain down on my ass so quick.’

‘Yeah, turn, I want to see your ass too. Also, where are your glasses? I love a sexy nerd.’

‘I can’t cycle with them on,’ he mutters.

‘Can I take a photo? I’m sure that nurse in IR who likes you would flip if she saw you in this getup.’

‘Stop objectifying me,’ he whines.

You laugh him out of the office.

***

There’s a knock on the door.

You look up, ready to torment Namjoon, and stop with your mouth slightly open.

Wow.

There’s a very hot guy in glasses looking at you, a computer screen tucked under one arm.

‘Hey, I’m here with a new computer for Dr Kim,’ he says. His voice is gravelly, low.

You close your mouth. ‘Sure.’

You watch him set up for a few minutes, then decide to confess.

‘I stuck gum in the ethernet port. His computer’s probably fine.’

He looks at you, expression unreadable.

You think he’s not going to answer you until finally, he says, ‘One, I already carried this all the way from IT on sixth. Two, I really don’t get paid enough to care.’

‘Fair,’ you say, nodding.

He looks at you for a moment longer, then says, casually, ‘That’s a pretty smart way to sabotage someone.’

‘He wears cycling lycra to work,’ you reply, not looking up from your computer.

‘What kind of asshole does that,’ he says.

‘Right?’

You look up to find he’s smiling at you.

Wow. He’s got a gorgeous smile, all perfect teeth and gums.

‘Min Yoongi,’ he says, holding out a hand.

‘Y/N L/N,’ you reply, giving him a firm shake. ‘Can I get you a coffee while you set up?’

‘I’m done,’ he says, logging out of Namjoon’s new computer. ‘But we can get coffee. I told my boss I was rebooting all 50 of the computers on ICU.’

‘Done. Let’s go,’ you say, getting up.

‘Wait,’ he says, ‘are you getting me a coffee to get extra IT privileges?’

‘Well, I could use a new headset,’ you say, feigning seriousness.

He looks at you seriously, mouth in a line. ‘If you want the extra comfy set for all day use you’ll need to get me a muffin too.’

‘Done.’

***

Dr Lam enters your office unceremoniously.

‘All hands on deck folks, there’s been a multi-casualty incident. You’re needed on the ICU.’

You and Namjoon enter the ICU to a cacophony of beeping monitors, terse conversations and the incessant whine of the drug fridge, left ajar.

You close the fridge and look up as Delia, the head nurse approaches.

‘Thank god,’ she says, brisk. ‘Bed 11 needs intubating, bed 15’s bleeding out on the floor and there’s a fucking hot orthopaedic surgeon wandering around distracting my nurses but not otherwise helping. Get to it, chaps.’

She walks away, and you turn to Namjoon. ‘I’ll sort the bleeder if you take the tube and the orthopod,’ you suggest.

‘If you see him send him my way,’ Namjoon replies. He flashes you a grin that you stare at a beat too long.

‘Goddamn it put those dimples away Namjoon. It’s a serious situation here.’

You’re putting in a line to pour blood in when Namjoon turns up by the bed.

‘We called it,’ he tells you.

‘Shit,’ you say, commiserating.

Namjoon picks up the bag of blood hanging by your head. ‘Squeeze this in?’ he asks.

His forearms flex beautifully as he runs the blood.

You have to tear your eyes away, and the nurse beside you lets out an audible sigh.

You roll your eyes and snap off your gloves.

‘I’m gonna call for some cryo,’ you say.

You’re taking a quick drink break amongst the carnage, standing next to the water cooler when a shadow falls across you.

‘Mind if I —-‘

You turn to see beautiful dark brows raised over intense eyes, wavy hair swept back from the most beautiful male profile you’ve ever seen.

You step back to let him get some water.

You take in the scrubs, the clogs, the faint line from a scrubs hat marring the perfection of his forehead.

Holy fuck. This must be —-

Your entire field of view is obscured by the broad back of Kim Namjoon as he steps between you and the fucking distractingly gorgeous orthopaedic surgeon.

He’s so close his back is in your face.

He smells nice.

Namjoon puts a hand behind him to steady you.

He turns, briefly. ‘Stop sniffing me,’ he says, stern.

He turns back to the surgeon. ‘Taehyung, you’re needed down in the ED.’

‘Sure,’ Taehyung says. Christ. The timbre of his voice is as gorgeous as he is.

Namjoon turns to you as Taehyung saunters away.

‘I wasn’t sniffing you,’ you say, lying through your teeth.

He looks down at you and brushes a lock of hair that’s escaped your ponytail out of your face. His touch is warm, firm.

‘You ok?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ you say. .

His eyes on your face feel oddly penetrating. He pours you another glass of water and watches as you gulp it down.

‘There’s a new patient in 17. Shall we?’

You try not to stare at his ass and thighs as he walks away.

***

The moon’s high in the sky by the time the hospital’s been stepped down from red to amber alert.

You’re getting changed alongside Namjoon in the locker room, grimacing at the bodily fluids splattered on your top.

Namjoon shoulders his backpack. ‘I might just crash in the mess,’ he says, running a hand over his face. ‘I don’t feel like cycling home.’

‘You can sleep at mine,’ you offer. ‘I’ve got an extra room.’

‘Yeah?’ he asks.

‘Sure. I’ve got a spare bathroom and everything. But there’s one condition,’ you say.

Namjoon cocks a brow at you.

‘Can you put your little lycra number on again?’

He rolls his eyes and pulls you under his arm.

Your face is squished against his hard chest, his pec firm under your cheek.

‘Nice tits,’ you say, muffled.

He lets you go. ‘I don’t even have the energy to tell you off,’ he tells you.

‘Yeah,’ you agree. ‘Should I order us a pizza?’

***

Namjoon’s in your living room by the time you get out of the shower.

‘Love what you’ve done with the place,’ he says, dry.

He’s being sarcastic, of course.

The boxes, and the past you can’t bear to face, are all still scattered around the place.

‘It’s industrial chic,’ you tell him.

You put the pizza on the coffee table and gesture to the couch.

‘Mi casa es su casa,’ you tell him.

Namjoon tears into the pizza and you flick on the TV.

You eat in companionable silence.

It’s when you’re in your kitchenette cleaning up that Namjoon asks about the picture of you and Seokjin on your fridge.

It’s a magnet, a photo of you and Seokjin after some wedding you went to. He’d been in his long-haired phase, sexy in his suit, and you’d been….

Happy.

‘It’s my ex,’ you tell him. ‘We were together a long time.’

‘It’s hard learning to be single again,’ Namjoon says. There’s no inflection in his voice, he says it like it’s a fact.

It’s kind of everything you’ve wanted to hear since the breakup. Seven words. Enough to make you bite hard on the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes blur with tears anyway.

You want to wipe them away but your hands are in the soapy water and you still think you can hide the tears from Namjoon even though he’s right next to you.

You sniffle, too loud.

Namjoon says. ‘I’m sorry.’

He pulls your hands out of the water, dries them off with a dishcloth, gentle.

You want to pull your hands away but he’s still got them clasped in his.

‘Forget the dishes,’ he tells you.

He’s walking you into your bedroom, laying you on the bed.

He lays on his side next to you, pulls you into his arms.

‘Shh,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s fine. I won’t tell anyone you actually have a heart.’

You manage a watery grin into his chest.

His arms are solid around you.

It’s been a long time since you’ve been held like this, and it’s been a tough fucking day.

He wants to hold you, so you let him. His steady heartbeat against your cheek lulls you to sleep.

***

When you wake, he’s still beside you, rolled onto his back, arm across chest.

He’s beautiful, face relaxed. His glasses are on your bedside table, he must have taken them off at some point.

The clock tells you that you’ve got an hour before work to get ready.

You could watch him sleeping for hours.

His voice, low and husky from sleep, startles you.

‘Sleep ok?’

‘Yes,’ you tell him.

You watch as he fumbles for his glasses.

You lean over him and pluck them from the table, slipping them onto his face.

‘I’m sorry you had to deal with all that emotion,’ you tell him.

He sits up a little, braces himself on his arm.

You try not to think about how good he looks in your sheets.

‘It’s human to have emotions,’ he says. ‘It was a hell of a day yesterday.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I know what it’s like when a relationship falls apart,’ he tells you, serious. ‘For whatever reason.’

He turns over and lays back onto your bed.

‘We broke up because he got an amazing opportunity abroad,’ you say. You smile at the memory of how excited he was when he heard.

‘He deserved it.’

Namjoon reaches over and squeezes your hand.

You exchange a smile.

‘This bed is comfy,’ Namjoon says.

‘Don’t get used to it.’

‘Baby I haven’t even had a chance to show you my skills yet,’ he says, goofy.

You’re still laughing when you get into the shower.

***

Namjoon’s leaning against the wall of the radiology seminar room when you get there.

The room’s packed, it’s standing room only.

Namjoon shifts over obligingly when you reach him, making a space for you between him and the wall.

‘I knew we were friends for a reason,’ you say, patting him on the shoulder.

He flexes a bicep and you work hard to keep your mouth from falling open.

‘That’s quite enough,’ you say, recovering enough to give him a quelling look.

‘You seem to like it though, you’re always staring at my arms,’ Namjoon says.

He ignores your half-hearted attempts at defending yourself.

‘It’s fine, I know what I look like,’ he says.

You punch him in the shoulder and he laughs like he’s amused. He doesn’t even flinch.

‘No one likes a cocky nerd,’ you mutter.

The lights dim and CT images start flashing up on the screen.

Namjoon frowns as the person in front of you shuffles back a little, nearly bumping you.

He moves a bit closer to you, like he’s trying to shield you with his own body.

You barely take anything in during the meeting, you can’t when he’s this close to you.

He’s distracting, the smell of him, the warmth emanating from his skin, the size of him. His goddamn shoulders.

Namjoon glances over at you, the screen reflected in the lenses of his glasses.

‘You ok?’

‘Fine,’ you whisper back.

He leans down, lips so close they almost brush your ear, and asks again, ‘you ok?’

You nod quickly.

You spend the rest of the meeting hoping your face will cool down before the lights come back on.

***

Namjoon gets up from his desk. ‘I’m gonna head out. See you tomorrow.’

‘See you tomorrow.’

You’re packing up your own things when he comes back.

‘Left my phone,’ he tells you.

You take in his soft looking black turtleneck, the crocodile belt, the smart trousers.

‘Hot date?’ you ask, casual.

‘My sister set me up with someone she works with. We’re on a double date with her and her husband,’ he tells you.

‘You look great,’ you tell him. ‘Don’t forget to flex.’

‘Thighs or chest?’ he asks, quirking his lips at you.

‘You’re not a goddamn chicken meal,’ you say, laughing.

He’s still waiting, the asshole, so you say, ‘thighs obviously.’

‘Like this?’ he asks, innocent, perching on the desk, flexing in a way that makes you want to ride his thigh immediately.

‘Yeah, you tease.’

‘Just checking,’ he laughs. He grins at you and you resist the urge to poke your finger in his dimples.

‘Have fun,’ you say.

You shoulder your backpack and head home.

You’re getting ready for bed when your phone lights up.

Jimin: Hey, I’m out for drinks near the hospital. Are you up?

Y/n: I’m up.

Jimin: I’ve been told I look good in this shirt. Wanna see?

Y/n: Love to.

You text him your address and wait by the door.

He doesn’t keep you waiting long, appearing on your doorstep with a smirk on his face and his shirt already more than half unbuttoned.

He looks even better than he said.

You greet him with a kiss.

***

Namjoon’s sprawled on your couch, so big you wonder if you should have got a bigger one.

He’s on his laptop, scrolling through the articles you sent him as you work on your literature review together.

‘If we publish, who gets first author?’ you ask.

He lifts a brow. ‘Arm wrestle you for it?’

‘Sure,’ you say, elbow down on your coffee table.

Namjoon gives you a doubtful look as he lines up with you. He clasps your hand, and his biceps jump.

Fuck it.

You reach out, grab a fold of his t-shirt and tug.

He comes willingly, stops an inch or so away.

Your faces are so close you can feel his breath on your cheek.

‘Namjoon,’ you breathe.

His eyes flutter closed at your voice.

‘Mmh?’ he asks.

He’s a big man, but his voice is controlled, quiet.

‘What are we doing?’ he asks.

‘You have a lot of questions,’ you say.

Your hand trails a path from his shoulder, down the front of him. His stomach muscles jerk as you tuck three fingers into the waistband of his sweats.

‘Can I suck your dick?’

‘Fuck,’ he utters.

His eyes are open now. Stupidly, your arms are still braced against each other.

You push, and he lets you flatten the back of his hand on the coffee table.

‘I’m first author,’ you say. ‘Come on, let’s fuck.’

Namjoon lets you take him to bed.

***

Namjoon likes kissing, you find out. He likes it when you kiss along his face, dimple to jaw, down his neck, trailing a path to his collarbones.

‘Off,’ you murmur, tugging at his t-shirt.

He pulls it off so quickly he almost hits you in the face with an elbow.

You take a moment to admire his chest, the pecs outlined so well by his scrubs tops, dusky nipples, the silver chain hanging between his collarbones.

You slip off your top, and his gaze drops to your body with flattering speed. He gives you as thorough an inspection as you did to him.

He reaches out, tucks a finger under the tiny bow separating your breasts, tugs a little.

‘I’ve thought about this,’ he tells you.

You pause in the middle of sliding down his body. You bury your face in his groin, and his hips jump. The hardness of him thrills you.

‘Yeah?’ you ask, fingers all tucked into his waistband.

He lifts his hips, and you slide everything off.

His cock lays against the warm skin of his stomach.

You wrap your fingers around him, and he wraps his hand around yours, grip firm. He pumps himself a few times, even though he looks and feels plenty hard already.

Your pussy’s tightening just at the sight of him, your underwear sticking between your legs.

‘Let me,’ you say. His grip loosens, and you smirk at him as you lower your head.

You gather your hair in a pony so he can see you worshipping his cock.

Namjoon’s hand splays in your hair, holding it back so you can free your hand.

He’s warm, full, filling your mouth so beautifully you could cry. You lick up the underside of him, and he jerks, hand tightening in your hair.

‘Fuck,’ he utters. ‘I don’t want you to stop.’

You take more of him in with every dip, until your nose hits his groin.

The stretch of him is unbelievable, and you want more.

Namjoon’s fisting the sheets now, face contorted with pleasure.

‘I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop, love,’ he tells you.

You swallow around his cock, tongue working, and he grunts, loud. ‘Gonna –’

You don’t know why he’s still trying to warn you, like you haven’t made it clear enough you want him to.

You swallow again, and he grabs your shoulder, groaning. He’s so deep you can’t feel him but you swallow him down anyway, flicking your tongue on him, gently until he loosens his grip on you and you feel his cock softening in your mouth.

He moans again as you pull off his cock. He’s beautiful like this, flushed, sweaty, wrecked.

He pulls you up to him, engulfs you in his arms. ‘I’m gonna reciprocate, just give me a sec,’ he tells you, voice hoarse.

‘Reciprocate? God damn, I was trying to make you cum your brains out,’ you say.

He laughs, sounding more like himself. ‘What do you like, baby? I’d love to eat you out.’

‘I’m good, I’m fine,’ you tell him.

He’s sitting up then, face creased. ‘No, shit, let me –’

‘Hey, you can get me next time,’ you say.

You have no idea why, you’re still so wet and you’ve seen what he can do with his hands.

Namjoon’s pulling his sweats back up, sitting up to pull you into his lap. ‘You’ve just given me the best orgasm I’ve had all year,’ he tells you, ‘and I haven’t even had a chance to touch you.’

‘I like blowing you, I’ll do it anytime,’ you tell him.

His hand splays on your back. ‘I can go slow, baby, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.’

‘You’re gonna need to go slow, the size of you,’ you tease.

He laughs, hand brushing over his cock. ‘I’ll make sure you’re ready to take me, don’t worry.’

‘Come on, we should get back to work,’ you say. ‘I’ll make us tea.’

***

You’re ensconsed in Namjoon’s lap, and he’s kissing the back of your neck, light, teasing.

He’s worked out that you love the sound of his voice when it’s husky and low, and he’s been using it to his advantage.

Your breath hitches as he reaches under your loose tee to palm your breasts, tweaking your nipples.

You wriggle your hips in his lap, against the erection you’re pretty sure he’s been sporting for a while.

‘Is cockwarming a thing?’ you wonder out loud.

Namjoon chuckles in your ear, making you shiver. ‘I’m up for it if you are.’

He groans at the sight of your ass, bared for him.

‘I wish you could see this,’ he tells you.

You turn your head to watch as you lower yourself onto his cock.

Namjoon hisses as your ass lands on him, his hand coming up to fix your hip against him.

‘I think you need to stay still,’ he tells you.

‘Yeah? I don’t like being told what to do,’ you retort.

He pushes up, dick nudging up into you, snug.

‘Joon,’ you say, trying but failing to sound mad. ‘You said we had to be still.’

His cock jerks inside you.

‘Damn, it’s pretty hot when you’re mad at me.’

‘Is that why you’re so annoying the whole time?’ you ask.

Namjoon curls his arms around you.

You’re getting wetter even though he isn’t moving, you can feel it.

A soft sound very like a whine escapes your lips.

Namjoon hums. ‘That was pretty, do it again.’

The presence of his dick in you, hard and throbbing, is maddening in the best way.

‘Shit,’ you say, low. ‘I want to come, Namjoon.’

‘Yeah?’ he asks, lips moving against the back of your neck.

His hand is up under your t-shirt again, cupping your breast, fingers plucking at your nipple.

He bites at the neck of your t-shirt, and you lift your arms up so he can pull it off you.

His cock’s still lodged inside you, he’s still so hard.

Your cunt flutters around him as you shift your hips.

You both groan at the change in position.

‘Joon,’ you plead.

‘Look at your tits,’ he says.

You look down at yourself.

He’s been steadily squeezing your breasts, making your nipples puffy and full and so tender you almost can’t bear it.

As you watch, his hand delves down between your legs.

He moans your name into your ear as he pets your clit.

He’s wearing rings today, the silver ring on his middle finger gleams in the dim light.

Seokjin used to wear a ring like that, you think to yourself.

The thought jars you out of the pleasured haze you were in.

Namjoon’s still whispering filth to you, but you can help feeling this is wrong in a way that it wasn’t with Jimin.

Because Jimin is a great guy, but he means nothing to you.

Whereas Namjoon —-

You’re worried that Namjoon could mean everything to you.

Namjoon, perceptive as ever, says, very gently, ‘are you ok?’

He sounds totally calm, you’d never know about his raging boner if he wasn’t inside you.

‘Yeah,’ you say, trying to salvage things, ‘I’m fine.’

‘I said we could go as slow as you want,’ Namjoon says.

He lifts you off his cock.

‘We can finish,’ you say, ‘I was enjoying it.’

Namjoon presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You put your hand on his cock, and he covers it with his own.

‘Stop,’ he says, and there’s sadness in his eyes now. ‘I’ll still be here when you’re ready.’

There’s not a lot for you to say after that.

***

‘Hey,’ says Dr Lam, poking her head into the office. ‘Congratulations on the new job, Professor Han’s an old friend of mine, she called to let me know.’

Namjoon shoots you a look. ‘Thank you, I’m excited,’ he says, politely.

‘What job?’ you ask.

‘I’ve accepted an attending post at Mercy,’ Namjoon says. ‘I’ll be running their cardiac service.’

The news hits you like a blow. You work hard to not let it show on your face.

‘Wow,’ you say, hoping your smile is as bright as the effort you’re putting into it. ‘Congratulations, that’s incredible!’

Namjoon’s expression is a mix of emotions that you can’t read.

Dr Lam says, ‘actually, Namjoon, do you have a minute now? I wanted to discuss the case last week with you.’

As soon as Namjoon leaves you get up. You can’t stay sitting, you need to move so that the outside of you matches up with how jumbled up you feel on the inside.

Why hadn’t Namjoon told you he was applying for other jobs?

Did he think you wouldn’t encourage him because of what happened with Seokjin?

Like you’d ever be so much of an asshole you’d ask someone not to take an amazing job opportunity just so they could keep fucking you.

You would never.

Is that the kind of person Namjoon thought you were?

A gust of wind chills you, and you realise you’ve paced out of the main hospital entrance.

You should go back inside, get your things.

You go home instead.

You hurry through the slippery icy street, head down, arms crossed.

By the time you’re in your front door you’re shivering.

You look at the piles of stacked boxes, the reflection of your emotional stiltedness, and wonder if Seokjin’s coping better than you.

You hope he is, and with a start, realise that you’ve just thought of Seokjin, and the sadness hasn’t crippled you or your fissured heart.

You miss him, of course you do, but for the first time you think you can see your way through the gloom.

You grab the Swiss army knife from your kitchen and cut open the first box.

It’s time to move on.

***

‘I’d do the opposite, actually,’ you say, loud and clear, in the team meeting.

You ignore the way Namjoon’s staring at you.

‘I think Namjoon’s plan would be fine if we weren’t a specialist centre. However, we’ve got the resources to run the test, therefore we should plan a semi-elective procedure instead of waiting.’

You flick your gaze to Namjoon, watching as his jaw tightens, cheeks hollowing.

You haven’t spoken to him since you found out about his job, but even worse, he hasn’t tried to speak to you.

Like there’s no reason for you to feel affronted.

Like he hadn’t promised you he’d be there when you were ready.

Asshole.

Back in the office, Namjoon taps a series of keys into his computer in an increasingly frustrated manner.

‘Fuck! Why can’t I log in?’

You look up, bored. ‘Oh, did IT reset all your passwords?’ you ask, feigning innocence.

Min Yoongi, to your delight, was a man who understood revenge, but also, more importantly, a man who was easily bought. You considered the coffee and croissant from this morning money well spent.

Namjoon glowers at you.

‘Do we need to talk about something?’ he asks.

You study your nails. ‘Do we?’

‘That’s it,’ Namjoon snaps.

Namjoon grabs your arm, hard enough to hurt, and hauls you into the equipment room.

He crowds you into the door he’s just slammed, hard chest pressing into you.

‘What the —‘

Your furious protest is cut off by his lips on yours. He kisses you hard, demanding, totally unlike how he was in your apartment.

He spreads his legs so he can lower himself enough to grind into you.

‘See the thing is,’ he says, voice soft and dangerous, ‘you’re a fucking brat.’

Your eyes flash at him, and he laughs, humourlessly.

‘You’re not just a brat though,’ he says, fingers working deftly to unbutton your blouse. He gets halfway down and slips his hand under to palm your breast.

Your moan slips out before you can hold it back.

‘You’re a smart brat,’ he informs you, thumb working your nipple. He tugs the cup of your bra edown, and for a moment he stares at your exposed breast.

‘A body like this is wasted on a brat like you,’ he tells you. He pinches your nipple, and a mewl escapes you.

‘Why do you look like this?’ he asks you, shaking his head like he’s genuinely stupefied.

He leans down to lick your nipple, tongue laving, hand coming up to caress your other breast.

You’re breathing hard now, bucking against him.

‘Still,’ he commands.

You move again, and he hoicks your skirt up.

‘Stay still or I’ll slap you.’

You stare at him, shocked.

He realises you’ve stilled completely and pulls off your breast.

‘Never in the face, baby,’ he says, voice gentle.

He unfastens your skirt and lets it fall to the floor.

You’re still trying to process when he kneels at your feet, lifts your leg over his shoulder and buries his face in your cunt.

Your hands flutter to keep your balance, and he reaches up to grab you.

‘Put them on my shoulders, baby. Or in my hair, if you want.’

He flashes a dimple at you, then kisses your cunt like he kissed your mouth.

Hard, demanding and so fucking sloppy you don’t know if the wetness between your legs is from you or him.

He flattens his tongue and delves into your folds, nose nudging your clit.

You grab his hair, and he groans into you.

You cry out breathlessly as he presses his lips to your clit and sucks.

‘You feel so good, I’m so fucking hard,’ he tells you.

You look down between his legs as he palms his cock over his trousers. The outline of his hardness sends a spike of arousal through you.

Your clit throbs as he licks you, one big hand on your ass pushing your core into his face.

He unbuckles his belt, tugs his trousers down one handed.

The wet spot on his grey boxer briefs makes you clench. His tongue and lips, his whole face is buried in your cunt.

He pulls back a little, lips and cheeks gleaming with your slick.

‘Cum on my face,’ he says, fisting himself, ‘and you get this cock.’

You moan.

‘You want it?’ he taunts. ‘Brats like you never ask nicely do you? You just push and push and push until you get shoved in a closet and taught a lesson.’

‘Joon,’ you plead.

He ignores you and goes back to licking you out.

‘C’mon ride my face. I’m a big guy, I can take it.’

Your fingers tighten in his hair as you grind into his face, pussy pulsing, clit throbbing.

‘Joon,’ you cry.

He squeezes your ass, hard, helping you ride him.

You press a hand to your mouth to muffle your cry of pleasure as you cum.

‘Fuck, fuck, that’s my girl,’ Namjoon says.

He turns you around, cock nudging against your folds.

You moan senselessly as he pushes in.

‘Never fucking tell me you can’t cum for me, my love,’ he tells you.

He slaps your ass so hard you squeal.

‘Not when I can get you crying on my cock like this.’

His first thrust pushes you against the door.

He turns your head to kiss you as he fucks you. He angles your hips so he can hit the spot that has you gasping with every thrust.

‘Joon,’ you sob.

‘I’ve got you,’ he promises.

He wraps an arm around your chest, the other reaching down between your legs to thumb at your clit.

‘Fuck. I’m gonna fill you up,’ he tells you, breath warm against your ear.

‘Do it,’ you moan.

Your whole body tightens, thighs quivering.

God, he feels so good, so good.

He strokes your clit hard, pressing, and he swallows your scream as you cum again, hard.

You’re vaguely aware of his deep groan, the hot cum he’s spilling into your cunt, but it’s his hold on you that keeps you anchored.

His arms are curled around you so tightly you can barely breathe.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, muffled. He nudges your chin with his nose, tilting your face up.

You use the pretense of getting your breath back to wait.

The silence between you stretches.

‘I should have told you I was applying for other jobs.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ you ask, quiet.

‘I didn’t want to change things between us,’ he says.

‘I’m happy for you,’ you tell him.

It’s the truth.

Namjoon says, arms still tight around you, ‘Mercy’s two hours on the train away.’

You’re not sure what he wants you to say.

You get re-dressed in silence.

***

You walk into the office and stare blindly at the empty desk opposite yours.

You haven’t spoken to Namjoon since the storage room, but you hadn’t known he’d be leaving this soon.

You pull out your phone to call him.

He answers on the first ring.

‘Where are you?’ you ask.

‘I’m outside your apartment,’ he says.

‘I’m on my way.’

You run most of the way home, stumbling into the hallway leading to your apartment, cold, breathless.

At first you don’t see him.

Then he pushes off your door that he’s been leaning on, and the expression on his face would make you cry if you weren’t already tearing up.

‘I came to drop off a letter,’ he says. His throat works as he presses a hand to your cheek, thumbing away the tears.

‘Just tell me instead,’ you say.

‘I meant what I said. I’ll be here when you’re ready.’

‘I’m ready now,’ you tell him.

‘I’m here.’

His lips meet yours, sweet, like a promise.

Later, much later, he’s on your couch because you never made it to the bed, looking around your living room, not a box in sight.

‘I like what you’ve done to the place,’ he says.

You look up, still hazy from your orgasm. ‘I thought I should move on,’ you say, shrugging.

There are so many things Namjoon wants to say, but you’re kissing him again, and he decides it can wait.

He’s got all the time in the world for you.

#namjoon x reader #namjoon fanfic #namjoon smut #bts smut

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straightupsickfics · 1 year

Text

best friends, ex-friends til the end | royjamie

(better off as lovers)

this is definitely something that i wrote to get out of my own head after thinking about it literally since the show ended.. but maybe someone else will enjoy a little (~2.1k words) sick jamie + reluctantly caring roy kent <3

Sicktember Prompt #2: “What happened to your phenomenal immune system, huh?”

Jamie really doesn’t think anything of it when most of the lads (...and Ted, Trent, Rebecca, and Higgins) are all out with some kind of mysterious cold throughout the early fall. He felt bad for them, yeah, course, offered to bring Colin and Isaac and Dani soup, even. But it didn’t occur to him that he should be, like, “worried about germs,” or whatever.

Jamie Tartt never gets sick.

Like, ever.

He has an unbeatable immune system, and, according to his mum, he always has. Not that any of his ill teammates seem particularly interested in hearing about that particular fact when he shares it on one of his soup drop offs. Isaac had actually told him to “fuck off outta here with that gloating,” while Colin cough-laughed beside him.

Well, fine. Jamie knows when he isn’t wanted. He leaves, confident they’d be fine in a few days, no doubt thanks to the soup he’d left them. Then, they can all make their way back to normal on the pitch. The whole dynamic’s been off for weeks with everyone being taken out one by one by this thing, and Jamie’s getting sick of it. He needs everyone there to really dominate the way he’s used to, even if it means he has be “a bit of a fucking prick about it.” (Roy’s words).

It turns out, all of that ass crack of dawn training is paying off after all. Like, really paying off — Jamie is better and faster than ever now, all thanks to his supreme commitment to the game, and his unmatched talent.

And Roy’s training.

Okay, mostly Roy’s training, but he wouldn’t be admitting that much out loud without more than a few pints in him. And since Roy isn’t letting him drink at the moment, Jamie figures he’s in the clear.

So, yeah, Jamie Tartt’s life is fucking mint as of late.

Now, leaving Isaac and Colin’s, he looks down at his phone and finds a message from Roy himself, think of the devil.

Granddad: McAdoo just said you’d been by… WTF are you thinking?? You want to lose a week with whatever fucking bubonic plague’s going around the club???

Jamie: Christ, do you get tired of yelling at me, old man? It’s FINE. Jamie Tartt don’t CATCH the plague

Granddad: 🙄 If you say so, but don’t come crying to me when you’re laid up in bed you absolute muppet. Get some sleep, I’ll see you at 4:00 AM.

Jamie: Be there with bells on ♥️

The next few days go by in a blur of training, post-training FIFA with Roy, and sleep. He’s been feeling knocked on his ass every night this week, overtired and exhausted in a way he usually isn’t, thanks to Roy’s brutal workout regime, but he can hardly complain with the way he’s been playing. He’s been getting home late most nights, too, always a little reluctant to leave Roy’s and go home to his own empty flat.

It’s not like Roy seems to mind either, though. He’s been making them dinners almost every night, after all. Or, well, he makes dinner and sets out two plates and doesn’t tell Jamie to get lost, which is basically the same thing, right? It’s nice, having some company. Having Roy for company, has become something he never knew he needed.

Or maybe he just never let himself even think about asking for it.

After one such night, Jamie showers and climbs into his bed (empty, always empty, these days, something a former version of himself would never believe let alone enjoy). He thinks about Roy. Thinks, tiredly, how nice it might be if Roy were here now, and then shakes the thought away. Since when does he think about Roy Kent in bed?

(Since always, he’s had a poster of him over his bed since he was thirteen.)

Thoughts of Roy are replaced with thoughts about water. His throat’s been dry all day, and a glass of water sounds killer right now, but Jamie’s asleep before he can do anything about it.

Jamie wakes up to something jackhammering.

No, not jackhammering. It’s his phone, vibrating on his nightstand.

Fuck, why is it so loud? He pulls himself up to look at it, but he feels like he’s been him by a ton of bricks. Bad idea. He feels like utter shite if he’s honest, like he got hit by a truck in his sleep. His head’s pounding, for one thing, he can’t even think straight, and the dry, scratchy throat from last night has grown into a monster of a sore throat. Plus, he feels sweaty all over.

Shit.

Roy was going to kill him.

Shit. Roy. Their training. It’s that thought that gets Jamie into an upright position, at least enough so that he can grab his phone before laying back down with it. There are five missed calls from Granddad, and a handful of texts and other notifications that Jamie ignores for now.

Somewhere in his scrolling, it hits Jamie that the sun is coming in through his window. It’s almost 8:00 in the morning, and he’s completely missed their training. He’d slept through his alarm, missing the training with Roy, and, judging by how entirely fucked he feels, would likely miss the team training today, too.

Jamie swallows and winces. His throat feels like he’s swallowing burning knives, but he calls Roy back anyway.

Roy answers on the first ring, and by some act of Jesus Christ himself, doesn’t sound pissed off.

“What the fuck, Tartt, are you alright”

No, he definitely doesn’t sound mad, he sounds… concerned.

“Mm? Yeah, grand.” Jamie tries to sound relaxed, but his voice sounds awful, hoarse and gravelly and blurred with congestion.

“Fuuuuck,” is all Roy says for a minute. Then: “Let me in, I’m outside.”

“So, what happened to your phenomenal immune system, huh?” Roy says when Jamie finally makes his way to the front door and lets him in.

Jamie tries to roll his eyes, but even that hurts his head. “First time for everything, yeah? What’re you doin’ here?”

“You didn’t show up for almost four hours!” Roy explodes. “You weren’t answering your phone, no one had heard from you, I was—” Roy stops himself, looking at Jamie and then away, suddenly finding the cars in the driveway extremely interesting.

“Aw, you were worried about me,” Jamie supplies. It would be much better if he could actually enjoy this moment, but as it is he feels like he could collapse at any moment, so he holds onto the cool granite of his kitchen island.

“Fuck off,” Roy growls.

“You came to me in me hour of need,” Jamie says, then turns to the side and coughs, ruining the moment.

“To be fair I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, had to make sure I didn’t need to see about finding a replacement.”

“I’m irreplaceable, hello? There’s no replacing an icon.” Not that he feels like much of an icon now, with his nose starting to run and an annoying itch starting to form somewhere behind his sinuses. He scrubs a hand over his face, wishing Roy was here in his flat on literally any other morning.

“Muppet,” Roy says, shaking his head and studying him in a way that always makes Jamie feel all squirmy inside.

“S-shit, gimme me a second,” Jamie says, breath catching as he turns away and sneezes four times in quick succession. “Hh’itsh! Hpt-ISH! Uh-hu’ishhiew! IshhIEW!”

“Were those sneezes? Y’sound like Phoebe’s cat when she sneezes.”

Jamie just groans, turns around, and flops onto the couch. He doesn’t even have the energy to argue with Roy, and he loves arguing with Roy.

“Bless you, by the way,” Roy says, voice just marginally softer as he follows Jamie to the living room.

“Sorry I missed training,” Jamie says, voice half lost to the pillow he’s currently trying to disappear into. “Y’can find a new way to punish me for it next week, m’sure.”

Roy’s quiet for a minute. “Think you get a pass. Team spirit, lookin’ out for the lads when they needed it and all.”

Jamie lifts his head up, arches an eyebrow. “Thought you said don’t come cryin’ to ya?”

“I came to you, didn’t I?”

“‘Cause you were worried about me,” Jamie says, smiling despite how bad, well, everything feels just now.

Roy’s here. Jamie’s flat feels warmer with another person here, which helps, since he’s freezing on top of everything else.

“Do you have any tea in this place?” Is all Roy says in reply. He’s already back in the kitchen, navigating around Jamie’s cupboards like he lives there, and Jamie’s thinking how nice it all is when he falls asleep again, right there on the couch.

When he wakes up again, Roy is still there, Jamie’s feet in his lap, and it’s much later in the day, he can tell immediately. He must be so sick he’s hallucinating, because there’s no way Roy Kent came over to watch him sleep, covered him with a blanket, and is watching You’ve Got Mail on his TV.

“Ah, you’re alive. I was starting to think I should call someone,” Roy says when Jamie stirs. “You look like shit. Take that,” Roy continues, pointing to a bottle of something and a glass of water on the coffee table.

Jamie feels, impossibly, worse than he had this morning, his head feels like it weighs about a million pounds. He doesn’t argue, just swallows the medicine and water and grimaces at Roy.

“Didn’t have to stay here,” Jamie says. His voice is wrecked.

“Fuck, you sound fucking awful,” Roy says, his hand on Jamie’s ankle — how long had that been there? He moves his thumb up and back absentmindedly, and suddenly it’s all Jamie can focus on.

What is happening?

“Well, never drank that tea you were on about earlier,” Jamie says.

Roy nods. “Never do want to listen to me,” he says, but his voice is different now, softer. Kinder. Fonder.

“Took the liberty of ordering a takeaway, should be here soon. Soup for you,” Roy says. His hand is still there, warm on Jamie’s ankle.

“huh-IItshh! IishhIEW!” The sneezes catch Jamie completely off guard, shivering out of him before he can do anything but lean into it. “Sorry,” he mutters, sniffling. He looks pathetic, he knows that, and he’s torn between elation that Roy’s here and complete humiliation. “You’ll be down with this next,” he warns.

“Bless you. Y’really do sneeze like a cat, Tartt.”

Jamie’s laugh turns into another coughing fit, and when Roy leans up to rub his back, he decides that happiness wins out over embarrassment.

They’re side by side now, closer than they’d usually sit for FIFA, though not by much. They’d been getting closer in just about every way these last few months, and Jamie realizes he’d like nothing more than to lean into it. Let Roy deal with all of it in that growly, take-charge way he has about everything else. He’d feel better soon if Roy said so, right?

“Food should be here soon, if you want to close your eyes for a few more minutes. This prick hasn’t put Meg Ryan out of business yet, so…” Roy trails off, eyes trained on the screen rather than Jamie, who nods. His eyes and head are still so heavy.

Daring a look at Roy out of the corner of his eye, Jamie lets his head rest on his shoulder, sniffling into the soft fabric of Roy’s ubiquitous black t-shirt and yawning. He could get used to this, if he let himself. Whatever this is…

“You’re thinking really fucking loudly,” Roy says, voice impossibly close to his ear. He doesn’t sound mad about it, though, more like amused. Jamie’s still half convinced he’s dreaming this entire day. Jamie Tartt doesn’t get sick, for one thing, and Roy Kent doesn’t play nurse with his players. “Close your eyes.”

“Fine, but only to stop your yelling, Granddad,” Jamie says with another yawn. He doesn’t lift his head from Roy’s shoulder, and Roy doesn’t say anything else, just turns his attention back to the movie.

Jamie’s ninety-nine percent asleep when he feels it, the faintest, softest brush of lips against his sweaty forehead.

Maybe this is something after all.

Maybe Roy Kent does play nurse when it matters.

And maybe Jamie Tartt does get sick, though he decides then and there that it’s not too bad if this is what he gets in return. Pretty fucking mint, in fact.

#my fic #i cannot get enough of them truly idk #roy//jamie #ted//lasso #sicktember #i have never written them before pls be gentle with me <3

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doomreed · 7 months

Note

I’m not hyped about the new fantastic four news either. though I think what I kind of hope will happen is marvel doing something like they did in the last mcu spider man movie where we see 3 peter parkers team up.

I think it would be super cool to see the cast from the 2005-2007 fantastic four movie meet with the ones from the newest movie. and have the 2005-2007 Doom (Julian McMahon) meet with the Doom from this upcoming fantastic four film too.

so we have more than one “fantastic four” team and also more than one Victor von Doom in the same movie. that would be pretty epic to see in my humble opinion. (if this really is the case, I still have hope that marvel won’t mess it up, because it sure has the potential to be great.)

I mean marvel did just very recently confirm that all the events prior to the mcu (so… sony’s spider man and fantastic four) are also canon to the mcu, and I doubt they would say that if they didn’t plan to do something with it (they said it after the event of the last spider man movie with 3 peter parkers), especially when mcu is heavily heading towards the direction of multiverse, various timelines, various variants of the same person (character) right now. I mean we basically have 3 peter parkers (from both sony and mcu) and literally a bunch of lokis. so let’s see what’ll happen next.

also not related to the topic but I should just say that I’ve been a fan of your blog for some time now. thank you for all the DoomReed goodies

The only part of the casting I agree with is Ben. It feels like Marvel is playing it extremely safe with casting Pedro, like since Multiverse of Madness they've clearly been aiming for the "soft dad" angle with Reed, probably in an attempt to get ahead of possible complaints about him based on canon? I love Reed Richards to a fault, but he's always been a little bit of an asshole. Not intentionally, and much of that perceived assholeness stems from him being on the spectrum imo but it's there, and ignoring that does him as much a disservice as playing up Tony's alcoholism purely for laughs and then never mentioning it again was to that character--another thing the MCU has done.

The poster, the casting, idk. It radiates a nuclear-family blandness, with a camp overlay used purely for aesthetics that will probably be quite popular with general audiences and leave F4 fans from the comics and old movies and other sources of media quite cold. We are not the audience Marvel Studios wishes to court, they've made that very clear.

I'd love to be wrong about how this will play out, though. Pedro is a gifted character actor when he's allowed to be, the trouble is, studios know too well how much audiences love him as a person, and are too prone to mixing the two to improve audiences' appreciation of a character he's playing, rather than just letting the man cook. 😔

I don't have a firm opinion of the other cast other than: this will be the most money anyone named Kirby has ever made on Fantastic Four, so good on her. 👍 And the Ben casting feels right. I'm outside the Johnny demographic so no real opinion there.

I had read that the baddie for the first movie will be Galactus, which is like leading your football season with the Superbowl? But no one asked me, so... 😅 maybe they have a set up that will make that work, who can say.

I've also read (on reddit, so make of that what you will) that Doom will have a "cameo" in the first movie, but no clue what that means or even of it's true.

I like your idea a lot. I think the Deadpool & Wolverine movie will have a Fantastic Four cameo of some kind, probably. The comic book we see in the trailer next to Wade's head on the desert world is Secret Wars #5, which is a recap of the story so far and how everyone got to where they are--so it's possible the desert world they're all on is Battleworld, run either by future-verse Doom or (more likely) the Beyonder. I do think the movie will include them in some way bc the studio will want to start building hype for that as their next big project, going into the MCU version of Secret Wars.

And ofc SW will have crossovers galore, since Marvel Studios has unfortunately set audience expectations for that being what it's about 😅 so, worst case, they'll turn up between those two films no doubt.

I'd love to see Julian McMahon's Doom encounter a closer-to-comic-canon version, but a thing to know about Victor is that he kills every variant of himself he meets. Like, historically, that's just his thing (it's an expression of his own self-loathing, which is really tragic in a way) ...I dunno if the MCU will carry that fun little trait over, but as a writer I can say it's an easy, low-stakes way of showing "this character is a bad guy and also there is something very wrong with him" so... yanno. I am expecting it. 😁

Sorry for the negativity on this, I'm trying to stay upbeat about it all but so far they're not inspiring confidence yet. We'll see what future developments bring, if nothing else we'll always have fanart and fics and the comics themselves. It's not like this fandom hasn't dealt with bad adaptations before, I think we'll be alright whatever happens.

#thank you though #hope to get some writing done this week im so far behind 😭#(answered)#i guess this is a long-winded way of me saying it doesn't look gay enough for my liking 😂

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tomurderornottomurder · 1 year

Text

if we could just pretend; peter parker

pair. ceo!peter parker and male!reader

summ. peter reunites with an old friend. his old friend is a recovering drug addict. his old friend doesn't recover.

gen. angst, fluff, hurt/no comfort

wc. 8.8k

tw. death, drugs, addiction, overdose descriptions, blood, injury descriptions, decomposition descriptions, body descriptions from drug use, alcohol, guilt, food/eating mentions

note. can you tell i'm clearing out old drafts? song is if we could just pretend by flatsound. this has been sitting in my drafts forever and also this is the longest oneshot i've ever written. this has been two years in the making simply because i forgot it existed and got stuck several times and i did not know how to end it, so please enjoy and feedback is appreciated. as it's been sitting, my writing might show some of it's age but overall, i think it's solid. lastly, disclaimer that i have never dealt with drug addiction myself but have been around people who have so if anything is incorrect please let me know so i can improve/change it.

Where did you go, and what did you do,

With all that time, you too scared to move?

"I really appreciate this, Pete." You slap a hand on his shoulder, "I promise to make it up," You point a finger at him, "and you can hold me to that, alright?"

"You don't owe me anything, you know that," Peter replies, holding one of your bags.

The elevator dings and you step out. Peter's penthouse is extravagant and honestly just not like him. "Holy shit," You mumble. "You sure you live here?" You turn to him with raised brows.

Peter laughs softly, "I've got a few spare rooms so let me know which one you like best."

You throw your arms around his neck and press a kiss to his cheek. "Peter!" You drop your arms to wrap around his torso, "Ah, thank you so much."

Peter freezes up as his face turns bright red. He drops your bag to reciprocate your hug and rubs a hand up and down your back, "It's no problem." He's forgotten how affectionate you can be.

"You're the best, Petey!" You give him a squeeze before pulling away. You laugh softly, "Sorry 'bout the kiss, I'm just so excited! And oh my god have I missed you!" You wrap him into another hug and squeeze.

"Can't breathe," He mutters.

You pull away and put your hands on his shoulders, "Sorry, man."

"Well, I hate to leave you but I'm going to be late for a meeting. I should be back soon, feel free to explore."

"You sure?" You quirk a brow at him, putting your hands on your hips.

"Definitely. Enjoy yourself,"

"Oh," You laugh as Peter heads to the elevator. "Peter Parker, you have made a mistake giving me such freedom."

He just laughs, "Don't burn the place down." He flashes a smile before the elevator doors close.

You twirl around in amazement, "You have really outdone yourself, Pete." You tour each room and finally pick one down the hall from Peter's. You unload your things and roughly set up your room to keep yourself busy. You explore the penthouse to get an idea of the layout and your mind piles questions up to ask Peter later. Out of pure curiosity and boredom, you peek into Peter's room. You smile at the light blue walls and vintage, framed posters. You take a step inside to get a better view and quirk a brow at a discarded bra on the floor. "Oh," You mutter. What have you been up to Peter?

"I'm back!" Peter announces, stepping out of the elevator.

What is it like, to be by yourself, for three and a half years

For roughly three and a half years

"Welcome home, Pete." You smile at him. "So, what's on the menu?"

"I'll just cook something," Peter shrugs, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up. "What do you like?"

You shrug, "Anything you cook, I'll probably eat."

"Great," He flashes a smile but you can clearly see how tired he is. He rolls the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows as he strides into the kitchen.

You follow Peter into his kitchen, taking a seat at the island while he sifts through pots and pans. "So, the famous Peter Parker doesn't have a personal chef or something?" You rest your head on your hands as you lean your elbows onto the island. You watch Peter as he gracefully pulls out ingredients and prepares them.

"I like cooking," is his simple reply.

"For your lady friends?" You smirk.

He cranes his neck in your direction with wide eyes, "What?"

You laugh, "I saw a bra on your floor. Is it from a girlfriend or a mistress?" You bite your lip to hold in another laugh as you watch Peter become more and more flustered. This is the Peter Parker I know.

"I don't have a girlfriend or mistress," He points a pan at you. "But it's probably from a one-night stand," He shrugs, turning back to his stove.

"One-night stand? Is this my Peter Parker who couldn't ask out Liz Allan or Mj? How's Mj doing by the way?" He really has changed.

"She's in Europe right now,"

"Good for her," You reply. "But back to my point, since when has Peter Parker been a one-night stand kind of person?"

He shrugs, "I grew up I guess."

"Being rich turned you into Tony Stark?" You chuckle, looking at him with pure adoration. He shakes his head with a low giggle. "Onto my next line of questioning then," You get up from your seat walking to his side. "You have alcohol?" He points to a cabinet. "Great. Now that wasn't my question," You reach up and grab some alcohol of your choice. "Why do you have so many paintings?" You lean onto the island, alcohol in hand.

He shrugs, "I enjoy art." He starts throwing ingredients into a pan.

"Are you okay? Did your meeting turn to shit?"

He quirks a brow and looks at you as he tosses in more ingredients. "Why?"

"You're kinda snappy today. You can tell me what happened," You grab the bottle of alcohol and offer it, "and have a drink."

He sighs, "Sure, pour it." He throws in a few more ingredients before pouring a bit of vegetable oil.

"Anything special?" You ask, grabbing a glass from a cabinet. He shakes his head, focusing on his cooking. You smile and decide to whip him up the same thing you had when you got him to drink alcohol for the first time. "This is a classic, Peter Parker. And frankly, if you don't recognize it, I'll be offended." You smile at him as you mix his drink.

He chuckles and shakes his head before turning his attention back to cooking. His mind is all over the place, especially with you here and by his side, he needs to focus on his cooking though.

"We make such a great pair," You start as you finish pouring his drink. "You can cook and I mix a mean drink." You slide over his drink and start downing your own. You sigh, leaning onto your hand and watching Peter. This is a nice moment, a nice break from the hell of your life.

Silence takes over the kitchen with the only noises being the moving of glasses and sounds of the food cooking. Peter's entire focus is on his cooking while your mind wanders. You watch him for a bit before momentarily drawing your attention away to refill your glass every so often. You think about how much he's changed since high school. How he's still the same yet vastly different. How your worlds greatly differ and how lucky you are for your path having come across his again.

"Peter," You start -a bit too quiet for your liking- with your throat burning, guilt coming up just like puke does. "Peter," You repeat and this time your voice is at a volume you like. "What did you do?" You ask this too quickly. You catch how vague the question is and expand further, "I know we weren't the closest and we still aren't and I'm sorry but what did you do? What did you do in those years I was gone? I know I didn't keep in contact like Mj and everyone else did- and Ned stayed here so-" You cut yourself off. You're rambling too much. "I shouldn't have left like I did. No contact, not even a text or DM. That was shitty but I want to know what you did? What did you do by yourself?"

Peter turns to you with a soft smile but you can feel the sadness behind it. He really doesn't know what to say. "It's okay, you know?" His head is tilted down but his eyes peer up to look at you. "It's okay that you left," He wants to assure you and hope he does. He can't be sure that he's reassuring though because he's not sure the words he's using are right. "By myself," He mumbles to himself but doesn't realize it. He sighs before explaining what happened after graduation, how he graduated college early, and lastly how he inherited some of Tony Stark's company and started his own.

"God," You shake your head after Peter finishes. "I wish I could say the same," You chuckle sadly. Your mind wanders back to before now, before college, just at the beginning of the disaster that your life is.

If we could just pretend, that I went to college

And that is why you, you haven't seen me

Your future looked bright. You just graduated and were sorting through college acceptance letters. Peter was doing the same with his Aunt. You really wanted to go to a college out-of-state; you'd lived in New York forever and wanted to branch out. Not only did you want to attend college across the country but you planned to study abroad; hopefully the college you chose to attend had one of those programs. You needed a new adventure and sure there was always something going on in New York with all the battles and things but you needed to be the adventurer.

Your first weeks of summer were spent thoroughly vetting the few colleges that truly spoke to you. You were planning to visit each campus, even one with Peter though he was set on attending school near his home. It made you kind of sad to think about; you and Peter were set on different paths. But you knew Peter would keep in touch; he never broke a promise. He was good like that, such a good person, such a good friend.

---

Two weeks into college; things were rough. You liked- well, no. You loved it. A new atmosphere was really what you needed. It's just that starting over is hard. You knew no one, had to navigate campus virtually by yourself, and classes were difficult; nowhere near what high school was like. It was exhilarating, too! So much to learn, so many people to meet, so many opportunities. You were honestly so caught up in all the newness you had forgotten about Peter; obviously, you knew he existed, and every so often something would remind you of a memory you had with him but when he texted and called, you never answered. You were just so busy and every time you checked your messages, it was late and you didn't want to bother Peter; you were sure you'd get back to him soon enough.

A year had passed before Peter stopped texting and calling. You didn't blame him and soon he completely left your mind. He hadn't been new enough for you and the guilt of this still burns in your chest.

Two years in and you were abroad in France. The country was beautiful, the people were interesting, the nightlife was exciting, and the drugs... the drugs were out of this world. The drugs took off the edge, they helped you forget, and they came in handy to crank out assignments. Well, that's how they started off, that's always how it started.

It wasn't long before you were in a week-long bender and lost in France. While high, you dropped out of college in a short, curse-filled phone call. You had missed your flight back to America anyway. From then on, you went spiraling further and further. Your mind was a blank slate and France held no consequences. You weren't native to the country and whatever happened there would stay there. You could abandon the country and fly home and forget it all ever happened. At least you thought you could.

I wanted to go, but not for this long

"Why can't you? What happened?" Peter asks as he slides a plate over to you and takes a seat next to you. He's truly worried, he hasn't seen you in what feels like forever and he just wants to know. He wants to be able to help someone he used to and still holds so close to himself.

You shake your head. You can't tell Peter what happened; there is no way you won't throw up if you do. You shrug and twirl the pasta Peter had made around your fork. "Well, I didn't graduate, unfortunately," You bite your lip. Fuck, I think I'm going to cry. Your childhood dream of graduating slipped through your fingers and all you have to blame is yourself.You choke down a sob before continuing with a chuckle to cover for yourself, "But hey! At least I got to get out of New York and I even went to France!" You beam at him before trying the pasta he's made you. Filling your mouth with Peter's wonderful cooking helps to stave off the sobs and quiet the burning sadness within you if only for a little bit.

"You can always go back," He proposes. "That's what Mj did," He adds, looking up at you with that bright smile of his.

That smile sends you back to high school and all the good times you had with Peter. Your heart is full, swelling, bursting at the seams. This is a good feeling, you miss this; feeling good all over, your whole body filled with goodness. "I guess," You shrug. "But it feels like it's too late." The statement is one of defeat and both Peter and you know that. You gave up so easily and you can only hate yourself for it.

"It's never too late," Peter beams at you again.

You can't help but smile back before replying, "I mean-" You sigh, "I guess I could but money's kind of a problem and I don't know if I can do the whole uh, going to lectures and mingling thing." You want to believe his words because some small part of you does but it's too real for you to face right now.

Peter wants to act laid back but he quickly replies, "I could always pay for it. I- I wouldn't mind at all," He suggests. "And if you want, we could sign you up for online courses! You could um," He bites his lip. Should I? And he does, "Stay here and attend your classes." It was hopeful and a stretch but Peter wants it. He misses you. He is worried about you. He doesn't quite realize it yet but now that you are back in his life, he wants to keep it that way; to keep you around and more importantly, keep you safe. He can't lose you again, that's too real for him to face.

You don't know what it is. Maybe having someone care for you is too much. It is terrifying. It's even sickening in a strange way. You really haven't kicked your addiction yet and it is so easy to get drawn back in. You wish it weren't but it just is. And now you're lying on Peter's living room floor, foaming at the mouth, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and reaching out for someone who isn't there.

I overdid it

Well, Peter is there. He steps out of the elevator but he doesn't see you right away. Your body is blocked by his sofa but your coughs and gurgles fly over it. Peter's ears perk up and his spider-sense starts going crazy. He dashes and then jumps over the couch. He kneels beside you, his eyes wide, mouth going a mile a minute as he tries to say something- anything coherent. He quickly calls 911, holding your hand throughout and swiping his thumb over the top of your hand. He assures you that you'll be fine and keeps repeating that he's there.

Soon enough sirens flood the building and paramedics stampede into Peter's loft. Yelling and screaming ensue as Peter screams, fighting to stay by your side while police and paramedics yell. Three police officers have to not only drag Peter away but hold him down as he fights relentlessly to stay by your side. He just wants to know- he needs to know that you are okay. He can't lose you, it's too real.

As his body and mind calm so do his thoughts. His mind explores the possibility of him getting in the way of paramedics saving you and so he gives up, letting the officers restrain him with ease. But his mind wanders further and further. How did you get drugs? Why? Did he do something to set you off? What had he done?

Of course, none of his thoughts hold any truth but the possibility that they could, begin within Peter a ceaseless torrent of tears. He's sure by the time you leave the building and the police finally let him go, he could fill thirty pools with all the tears he's shed. But there's no time to dwell on his thoughts, he has to get to the hospital and be at your side! He won't let you leave him so easily, not again.

Why did you say, that I was one in a million?

Everything's been a blur. This moment now is blurry but you are present within it. Peter is sitting at your side, slumped over in a chair, one hand holding yours and the other holding his forehead as he mumbles curses to himself.

Slowly, you turn your head and unknowingly squeeze Peter's hand. In an instant, he's looking up at you and your eyes are open staring back at him. He could just scream! "Y/n," Your name rolls off his tongue and out of his mouth breathlessly, desperately. You both hold each other's gaze and each other's hand. The moment is blurry but it is nice.

"Peter," You whisper back, voice sore and croaky. You squeeze his hand again, it says more than your words ever could.

The pooled tears that have been swimming next to Peter's eyes finally fall and flow down his cheeks. Most tears follow the red paths down his already tear-stained face, a few divert creating new paths for the seemingly endless stream of tears. "I-" His voice and his pain catch in his throat. What can he say? What could he possibly fucking say?

"Why did you have so much faith in me?" You have to ask. You have to know. And you assume by now he has lost all that faith and so you must phrase the question the way you do. Your chest and whole upper body hurt like hell. There's a burning near your heart and in your throat, there's a tightness strangling your throat and crushing your ribs but the look Peter gives you hurts much more. The guilt within you burns hotter than Hell could ever be imagined to.

Because I believed it

You lean into Peter and Peter into you as he helps you walk out of the hospital. At the very moment that your foot hits the pavement, rain starts to fall, pelting you both in a way that can only be seen as some divine punishment. Even so, to you, the rain is heavenly and a respite from the thick cleanness and infuriatingly boring white inside the hospital. Peter quickly slips his jacket from his shoulders and carefully pulls you closer to him before covering both of your backs and heads with the jacket the best he can.

He rushes with you to the passenger side first, letting you slip into the seat he closes the door for you. You watch him only for a moment as he reaches the driver's side. You keep your head down, looking at your lap, and unwittingly begin to pick at your fingers. Your nerves are through the roof now more than they ever were in the hospital. At least in the hospital, you can expect Peter to be mostly calm but now you don't know how he might act. He's changed so much after all this time and who's to say he won't scream and yell at you? You swallow down your nerves as you hear Peter plop into his seat next to you.

Surprisingly and thankfully, the car ride is quiet. The rain pelting the car helps to ease your mind if only for a bit. You allow yourself a quick glance at Peter. His expression is almost unreadable if not a bit sad. Quickly, you turn away before you can start crying yourself and watch as cars and people and buildings pass you by.

Peter's mind is swirling with thoughts and question after question bounces around in his head. He wants to ask so many things but he can't and he knows that. He doesn't want to make you feel worse than he knows you're feeling right now. He just wants to let you have this time and hopefully, you can gather your thoughts enough to answer him when you're back at his loft. The whole time he drives though, his knuckles burn white as he grips the steering wheel too tightly. There's a tension that won't leave his body.

---

You two reach the building and before Peter reaches your side of the car, you step out, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, head held down as rain pelts the back of your head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. The pelts of the rain help you keep a rhythm as you silently curse yourself and demean yourself with names. Each drop of rain against your skin serves as an insult your brain must deliver to itself. It isn't going to help but it does make you feel better. All the while you've been standing just outside the car, Peter has pulled his jacket over himself and motions for you to come under. You shake your head and trail a foot or two away still following him.

In minutes, you reach an entrance into the building and Peter holds the door open for you. You step through the threshold, head still down, and arms still wrapped around yourself. It's almost as if you were to move your arms away, your body would simply fall to pieces. Peter is at your side in a moment and you continue to follow him into the elevator. You both stand awkwardly and shivering a few feet apart as your clothes and body drip rain onto the marble floor of the elevator. This ride is as silent as the car but has a more threatening ambiance.

The elevator dings and Peter motions for you to go first before he follows. "You should take a shower," He proposes quietly.

It must have been some coincidence because right at that moment a shower is exactly what you crave. You nod at him, following him to the nearest bathroom. You try to peel your shirt off while Peter fetches you some towels but you have no luck.

"Do you need any help?" Usually, he would be asking this in a teasing manner but the words could not have left his lips any sweeter than they just did. His voice is quiet and calm, a little wavering but not so much as to cause concern. He's still shivering and dripping wet himself yet he stands there looking at you with such kindness.

You nod, "Please."

He shuffles to your side and slowly peels your shirt from your torso. He lifts it slowly, softly asking you to put up your arms. He gets a quick glimpse of your bones just barely being held behind your skin and bruises littering your torso. His face is close to yours as he pulls the shirt over your head and you can feel his breath. One more moment and he is pulling the shirt off of your arms. He gets a glimpse of the bruised injection sites on your arms and has to hold his expression. "There," He smiles, looking into your eyes.

"Thanks," You immediately cross your arms back over your chest, both from the cold and embarrassment. God, I probably look like shit.

Peter hasn't seen you like this since high school gym class and even then it was rare to catch you without a shirt on.

"I've got it from here," You tell him and he nods before closing the door.

Peter lets his mind wander to high school gym class. You hated it so much but Peter needed it. He had so much energy and he needed an outlet. That was of course before he had become Spider-Man and then he joined in on your hatred of the class though, he always did better than everyone there.

He wanders into his room to change before grabbing a towel to dry his hair as his mind wanders to a vivid memory of one of the only times he had seen you shirtless back in high school.

The class had gotten done swimming and everyone was out of the locker rooms, except Peter who had to do extra laps and had just gotten out of the pool. He dried his hair as he walked over to his locker but stopped in his tracks when his spidey sense started to go crazy. He looked in every direction but there wasn't anything he could see. A few more steps revealed you, sitting on one of the benches, your shirt laying in your lap and a towel wrapped around your waist.

That did catch Peter off guard but there was another thing: you were crying. Peter's stomach twisted in knots as he looked down at you. Suddenly, your eyes were on him. Shit! Why hadn't he said something? Now, he just looks creepy!

"Peter?" You asked in a hushed tone. You had looked like you'd been crying for a while. Your whole face was red along with your eyes, you looked terrible.

"Y/n," He returned your tone. He took a few steps forward and bent down a bit. "Are you okay?"

You shook your head. You were in no mood to avoid your feelings. You hurt and you hurt bad. "No," You answered bluntly.

Peter took a seat beside you. "What happened?"

The memory isn't the most pleasant but he remembers how after that you stayed at his apartment for three days and that seemed to have done you good. He wonders what happened to the Y/n he knew back then. He doesn't feel any differently toward you, not at all but what happened to you to make you so miserable now?

He finishes changing and drying himself off and steps out into the hall. At the same time, you step out of the bathroom. Peter meets your eyes and walks over. He looks you over and smiles, you have a towel tightly wrapped around your waist and a towel thrown over your head. "Here," He places his hands on top of the towel at your head and dries your hair.

You stand there, heart beating wildly as Peter helps you dry off. You notice his change of shirt and before fully thinking about it, reach out with your hand to slip it under his shirt before rubbing your thumb over the top of the fabric. You're sure Peter already saw the marks littering your body and right now you just didn't care. You want to feel his shirt and that's all you want.

Peter stiffens as you have a hold of his shirt. Your fingers aren't touching his skin since you hold the shirt out a bit but they did for a brief moment and the tingles it sent up his spine are unlike anything he's felt before. He accidentally stops drying your hair but continues as soon as he realizes that he's stopped. He sets his eyes upon you and it's a good thing you can't see his face. Anyone could see right through him at this very moment and pinpoint where his thoughts are.

He finishes drying your hair with the towel and slides it behind your head, letting the towel rest on the back of your neck. For a moment, he holds each end of the towel toward himself and he can't meet your eyes now. His head is down but he is looking at you.

Your head is down but you're looking at him. Your eyes dart from your hand still holding his shirt to the pecs you can just make out underneath his shirt. This is a moment of safety, of home, of tenderness, of friendship, of love. There's a silent agreement between you two and so, for the time you separate. You go to your room to get dressed as Peter goes into the living to wait for you.

"It's cold, isn't it?" Peter asks as you settle on his large couch. You nod and Peter sets a blanket over you. "I've got some hot chocolate on the stove," He knows that's your favorite. "It should be done soon."

I thought i had something that you

Were too scared to lose

You nod again, wrapping yourself in the blanket. "Thanks," You whisper.

He takes a seat next to you with his own blanket wrapped around his legs. He swings his legs so they rest on the couch and leans in, his shoulder touching yours. "What's on your mind?"

He genuinely wants to know, what the hell? You let out a deep breath and lean your head against his shoulder. "I was just thinking about high school. We used to be so different. I used to be so different. What happened to me?" You turn your head and stare into his eyes.

You don't know either. "I-" He's at a loss for words. "Whatever happened," He pauses and places his hand over yours. "It's not all bad." He smiles at you before standing. "Hot chocolate's ready," He says before walking off to the kitchen.

You start picking at your fingers again as you wonder what you're going to do. You can't rely on Peter for everything, that's just not how you are. You didn't even have any money after blowing what little you had on what you OD'ed on. God, why are you so stupid!? Peter's nice enough to let you crash at his place and what do you do?

"Hey," Peter's presence pulls you from your thoughts. "Here," He bends over as he hands you a cup of hot chocolate. He takes his seat next to you again, sitting a bit more straight this time so as to not spill his drink on you. "'Thinking about something?"

You nod, "Yeah, just..." You bring your cup to your cheek and bask in the warmth. It's been too long since you've truly felt any warmth like Peter's been showing you this whole time. "I can't stay with you forever," You muse, flicking your eyes to his, unsure of what he might say.

Peter chuckles, "Well if you want to, you can." He flashes that boyish smile of his at you and it hurts. His eyes and nose crinkle and his features are so bright. "I said it before, Y/n. I'll do anything for you."

God, that hurts. He cares about you too much. "Peter," You stop him in his tracks. He shouldn't be saying stuff like this. He needs to protect himself from you. "Don't say that." He's too attached, you can't let him be this attached.

Peter's soft expression turns puzzled and he turns to look at you. "Y/n?" He's looking at the side of your face while you keep your gaze straight ahead. "If it's about staying with me, I can get you your own place. I know-"

"Peter," Your voice is stern but tinted with softness as you cut him off. "I've got to do this stuff on my own."

"No," Peter protests immediately.

"What?" You sit up straighter now, looking at him deadly serious.

"You don't have to do anything alone. If it were me, you would say the same! I won't let you be alone with this." He sets his drink down on the coffee table as he continues to speak passionately. "I love you, Y/n." It's a confession masked as a friendly gesture of affection. "You're my friend." This covers his tracks though he wishes he didn't have to cover them in the first place. "I'm going to take care of you." It's the truth and it's real and he means it.

You can only look at him in awe, utter awe. He's serious about this.

"I-" He starts out confident but falters. Should I really say this? He catches the thought and tosses it aside. His confidence is back, only a bit less than before. "I can't lose you."

Something in you wants to slap him. He can't lose you? What the fuck!? You hold yourself back, hands tightly gripping your cup. You hang on his every word. Just what is he thinking?

Peter sighs, looking down momentarily, shaking his head. "I don't want things to be like before. I want to see you and be around you; I want to know that you're okay. And I want you to be happy."

You swallow his words and let them digest. They don't sound bad, at all. But there's a knot in your stomach and a scribbly, black haziness in the back of your mind setting off alarms.

Peter leans in as he says, "There's nothing wrong with asking for help." He sits back again, "You don't even have to ask, I'll just do!" He reaches out for your free hand, "I'm here for you." He gives your hand a small squeeze. "Just let me be here for you." It's a plea and it's all he can do.

Peter's greatest fear is loss. He's lost so many people in his life already he surely doesn't need to lose another. But losing you isn't exactly his main concern, it's seeing you live up to what you've always wanted, it's letting you chase your dreams and catching them, it's waking up every day with some real purpose, it's seeing you change for the better. His concern is you. His concern is your life. His concern is your well-being. His concern is your happiness and fulfillment. His concern is your recovery. And his concern is your change. He's lost you once, he won't lose you again.

It was all in the past now, you had nothing to be scared of. The road ahead is fruitful with opportunity. Peter is by your side. You're recovering. You can handle this. You've got it.

So if we could just pretend that I went to college

And traveled abroad, and did something different

Things go well for weeks and weeks, it feels as though nothing bad has ever happened before. But something sets you off. You see something on the street and return to Peter's loft as you cry like a maniac. You feel foolish for breaking down like you are, crying as hard as you are, and being unable to move from Peter's living room floor as you are. And even worse, Peter comes home.

He's taking off his coat casually as he normally would until he hears your sobs, then he rushes to your side. He rests his hand on your back and leans in close to ask what's wrong.

Your body refuses to let you answer and so, you just cry as he sits there before slowly pulling you closer and into his lap. He pets your hair and smooshes his cheek against your forehead as he quietly whispers. You two sit like this for about an hour before you finally calm down.

You try to wipe your tears away as fast and as best you can as you quickly crawl out of Peter's grasp, sudden and overwhelming embarrassment coming over you. "Please," You beg with your head held down, trying your best to keep Peter from seeing your face. "Can we just forget this all happened?" You're bent over now almost like you're praying even with your hands clasped in front of your head as your eyes though closed are pointed toward the ground. "Pretend I'm not some massive loser that wasted his life when you- you were here doing great things and I was just-" You sigh loudly, your head finally collapsing against Peter's floor. "Please," You cry out as tears start flowing heavily and you can feel a sob start to rack through your body, "please."

Your head hangs, chin pressing against your chest. Your eyes feel hazy and you can't see much. Your back is pressed against the cool brick of the wall behind you that you can barely feel due to the thick sweater and bloated jacket that warms your torso. Your legs are out in front of you and you laugh at their strange longness. You look at your feet next, the shoes they're adorned in, and how they too look strange and funny to you. You start laughing more and more, finding everything oh-so-funny.

Anything but just sitting at home

For three and a half years

Writing song, after song, after song

Your arms now look as if shooting targets were made out of Swiss cheese. The holes only seem to get larger and darker, like the darkness could swallow your body whole if you weren't careful. And you weren't. Your eyes had always been dark but now they were pits, black holes of nothingness, no knowledge held there, nothing, just nothing. Your face is sunken like the tar roads in the summer, always sinking deeper and deeper or like the deep trenches of the sea where something terrible lies. Your lips are chapped like the hands of the working man, skin always peeling off, and never able to be quite comfortable because they are raw and red and always rubbing against each other. You're as thin as a needle, legs barely able to function as you walk bone on bone, the grinding like that of teeth against teeth. Speaking of teeth, yours seem to keep falling out, leaving your mouth pouring blood flowing like the divine wine of Jesus.

Where was Jesus now? Not here to save you. Your Jesus, your divine savior, Peter Parker is far away now, not because he chose to be but because there is nothing else he could do, nowhere he could be, not for you. And you chose your new savior, it was not him. It used to sting your arm but it doesn't seem to do just that anymore. It helps you ascend but not as long as it used to. Your belief is starting to wane but not quick enough, not quick enough.

So what is it like to be by yourself

The elevator dings as Peter reaches his loft. He steps out with his coat hanging off his arm. The place is quiet, the only noise being made by Peter as he hangs up his coat and steps into his kitchen. He opens his cabinet, the grip on the little knob staying far longer than it needs to before he opens it and lets the knob go. He reaches up just like you had on your first night. He grips the bottle tightly and sets it on the counter, it makes a noise too, a sort of clinking sound almost. He grimaces as he grabs the neck of the bottle and opens it, the smell stings his nose as he brings it close. His lips kiss the bottle and he swallows some down.

The bottle accompanies Peter to his large and lonely couch, his tight grip around its neck, carrying it carelessly. He takes out the DVD that you left, your favorite movie, he's careful with it as he sets it in the DVD player (something you had ragged on him for not having when you were first there). (Something that he hadn't used since, not until today). (Something he would probably never get rid of now, only being thrown out when he was dead). He stumbles back over to his couch, falling onto it not as clumsily as he could manage but enough to shake up the alcohol in him. He extends his arm, pointing the small remote that came with the thing at the television and pressing play. His arm falls against the couch as the remote leaves his fingers, finding a new home in the arms of the faithful couch.

He watches almost angrily, there isn't anything like it, this emotion Peter feels. Is it really anger? Contempt even? Surely, not toward you. But the drug, toward the drug. ...Right? Or was he even angry? Hateful maybe. Toward you, toward the drug, toward himself. What was this that he was feeling? It's like an ache with no name or possible description. Empty isn't the right word. He's not hollow inside, he's all filled up, some even splashing out of him but what is it? What is this substance, this feeling, this emotion, spilling out of Peter Benjamin Parker? What is this thing that spills past his lips and fills up his head? Is it... you...? Surely not, that's ridiculous!

Peter doesn't notice until now, too focused on the movie he's seen far too many times, but his hands are trembling. His knuckles are a soft red, his veins are all in place, those little clumps of blueish-skin-pigment below the reddened knuckles, his fingers long and intermittently pale the ends a bit darker than the rest, all shake in chorus. He flexes his fist, bending his fingers and splaying them out, then he checks again. They shake just as much as they first did.

And not feel like you'll die around everyone else?

Your hands were shaking, that was the first thing you noticed. It's almost exhilarating, they shook like they did when you first shot up. It was heaven. This was cloud nine. You were in paradise, lost in it. Your head was delirious, your eyes were bleary, your lips trembled as much as your hands, you were about to lose it all and all you could think about was how great this high was. You were about to die outside a house, just on the steps, of a den of drugs, a place filled with people dying just like you were about to, and all you could think about was how great this high was.

Quickly, your thoughts shift to how awful this was. Your body lost control. You fell. Your head split against the concrete of the makeshift porch. Your back fell into the stairs that sat on either side were two dying drug addicts. Foam spilled past your lips and for a brief moment you thought of Peter then you were back to focusing on dying. You couldn't control your body. Your eyes would not work with you to see. They were gone now, they no longer wished to see the world. Your hands wouldn't do what you told them to. Your ears were ringing, there was so much noise, noise, noise! Why couldn't there be quiet!? Everything just needed to stop for a second, so that you could get a grip on things. You would set things straight. You wouldn't be found in places like this anymore. You would die somewhere resectable. But death doesn't care about respect, for him, there is no respectable place to die, and you are just another soul to be collected. Indifference is his gift but the indifference of the junkies you died next to led to searching through your pockets and hands all over your body and privacy violated and nothing left on you but the things they didn't care for. Your ID, some crumpled note you'd shoved deep into your pocket, a few too many wrappers for too many different things, and something else.

I thought I was one in a million

The distant clattering of silverware and private conversations set the stage as Peter sits across from a fine, young gentleman. He holds a menu in front of himself, his hair slicked back something you had told him made him look handsome you had said, his feet nervously sliding back and forth. Words come out of the gentleman's mouth and everything starts to fade out like watching a movie as your eyes blink more and more before you fall asleep.

It didn't go well whatever that was. A date, Peter supposes, an awful date.

Peter holds a large bouquet of red roses. The dark red is contrasted by the white plastic that wraps around them. He holds them with both hands. He shifts his shoulders uncomfortably, his lips moving awkwardly against each other. His stride isn't really a stride, rather a walk but a quick one, like he has somewhere to be. A date perhaps?

Well, thanks for nothing

Peter's stride leads him into a cemetery. He passes headstone after headstone, a few full-on statutes, and some grave markers. The roses are strange in his hands in this cemetery. He shifts his grip on them a few times. His collar feels like it's choking him and sticking his finger under it hasn't done anything. His thoughts don't consume him this time like they usually seem to do; some are seething, others are sad, most are guilty, and a lot are what-ifs. Never helpful, those what-ifs. Peter accidentally passes your grave before stepping back.

He reads the engraving as he always does before taking careful steps over. He sits above your dead body (that's buried several feet down), in front of your headstone (that stares back at him like a gargoyle), and underneath a weeping willow (that he wished he could see you under, not like this, not like this). "Well," Peter starts, setting down the roses, "he was allergic to roses." He sighs. "I miss you." He leans over, resting a hand on top of your headstone and closing his eyes.

He talks some more and if anyone were watching him, they might think he was having quite the conversation with a headstone. He moves his hands and looks at the headstone like a person, making eye contact with it, maybe even willing it to respond. It never does. And it never has. It's too bad you didn't have a spirit, you might have sat underneath that willow, leaning back against it, and watching Peter just for something to do. But you were dead and that was that. There was no coming back from being dead. Your body was buried beneath the earth and now you belonged to her.

Peter groans as he gets to his feet, "Well, buddy," He rests his hand on your headstone, patting it almost like you would a dog, "I've got to get going. I'll see you tomorrow, alright?" He pauses, not intentionally but he lets the silence hang in the air in hopes he might get a response. He never gets a response. There is no satisfaction or catharsis for him, only the silence of the whistling wind and the whipping of the willows as they reach as far off their branches as they can. Maybe if he hoped hard enough, one day he would get that long-awaited response and you wouldn't have died for nothing.

Peter's lids are heavy as he tries to blink away sleep. This never works just like all those other things. He always falls asleep; you never answer him. He just wishes you would answer him. Peter's eyes close rather quickly this time and nothing matters but the dream he can feel is real and he feels apart of it.

Thank you

Peter's hand reaches out as you fall, your fingers graze his. He can see the desperate look in your eyes like a dog begging for its life. Your eyes are not only desperate but terrified too. (Like a dog that knows it's going to be put down, he thinks). Some noise comes from you, some words but his ears can't decipher them, like everything in his dreams they are distant, blurry, and unmemorable. He just wants to know what you're screaming. He can see the extension of your jaw, the crinkling and wrinkling in your face, and the raise of your brows but he still can't hear what it is you're saying.

Then the scenery shifts. You slipping past his fingers is no big deal as you fall onto a hospital bed. You look at him all tired like and puppy dog kicked. You are worn out and bruised like a dropped fruit or a childhood blanket. You look like you might be molding. Your face is sunken in, your eyes hauntingly dark and blank, the flesh of your nose beginning to rot away, and the plush of your lips gone now replaced by the hard, cold warning of your teeth. You're missing a few and your gums are starting to turn yellow. Peter can't save you. He can't do anything. He watches as you rot. He tries to leave the chair he's stuck in but he can't, his arms won't even lift off the sides. He can't get to you. You're so far away.

Before your body can fully decompose and shift into sand and fly away in the wind, again, the scenery changes. Paris. He can really only recognize it by the Eiffel Tower. You had talked about it before. A lot. Before you left. Before what happened, happened to you. Peter wanted to go there with you. He never got the chance. At least you had seen it yourself. He finds it strange that he stands in Paris but he can't see you ...like you're gone. But then everyone is screaming and there from the clouds falls a body. Your body is falling, your arms are spread out, and you're limp like a fish. In seconds, your back is pierced by the spire of the Eiffel Tower. Killed by the very thing you love. Or loved. Or did you even love it all? Did you just talk about it?

There is no time for Peter to process seeing someone he loves getting killed right in front of him. He's in an alley now like the one you died in. There are homeless people and drug addicts, drug dealers, and you. You stand there like an angel with your skin glistening thanks to the sun and despite the grime in the air. Peter can't take his eyes off of you. He doesn't want to anyway. He needs to see you like this, happy and aware and bright-eyed and in good standing with life. He can't bear the reality of flesh and bone and blood and six feet underground. It's always been a flaw of his. Feeling those that are dead are not really, not really. They still linger, he feels them, he can't see or hear them but he knows them. He can feel the brush of fingers against his back or the jostle of his loose curl. They live within him, just outside of him, in his fingers and feet and the way his eyes move follows them though he can't really see them there.

A blood-curdling crack stops everything. In a moment, you're lying on the ground with blood running from your forehead down past your chin and drip-dropping against your neck. And Peter is down on his knees in front of you, holding your torso, pulling it up onto his lap, and he holds your head like a kid holds a teddy bear. He strokes your hair as you gurgle up blood. He can't do anything for you. He's stuck. He's not allowed to save you. He is not allowed to save you. You did not need saving. He didn't know what you needed and neither did you. With your head in his arms and his nose pressed against the line of blood down your forehead and your limp body against his thighs, he rocks back and forth, whispering things he doesn't know and you can't hear. You'll be okay. I've got you. I won't leave you. You can't leave me. You will live through this. And your dead, limp body is not motivated to live.

And there you lie, next to him in his bed, your head turned toward him, and you're smiling. The sun shines on both of you; Peter can feel it on his skin. Like being kissed by a god. Like being kissed by you. He's a cat in a sunspot and you're stretching out toward him. Your fingers brush against his cheeks and you're smiling at him. He fills your vision; Peter can see his reflection in your big, beautiful eyes. He wants to kiss you and you move closer. Your eyes stay on him the whole time, if it weren't so beautiful, it'd be unnerving.

You're on top of him now. Your hands -fingers and palms- caress his chest, trace his collarbone, feather down his ribs to his hips. He shudders under your touch. He wants it again. He wants it real. He doesn't realize it isn't yet. On all fours, over Peter's body, you lean down and kiss him. It holds, lasting long enough for him to hold your cheek and to satisfy him if for a fleeting moment. You pull back, your eyes staring into his; he's in love. (You're not real). Your hands trail down his chest again as you sit on top of him. You're just looking at him.

And when Peter turns, now awake, he's alone; you're not there by his side. He reaches out across the sheets like you would reach out if you could. Poor Peter, he doesn't know.

#murder writes #peter parker x reader #peter parker x male reader #peter parker x male!reader #peter parker x m reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x m!reader #peter parker you make me sad

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