#ignore how she carries a first aid kit on her at all times it doesn’t mean anything (it does)

[treedaddymcpuffpuff]

Excessive Force : Tom Ludlow x Fem Nurse Reader (COLLAB W/ THE INCREDIBLE @johnwickb1tsch) - Chapter One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen

TW: nsfw, violence, angst

“What–”

“The fuck you think you’re doing, McCauley?” 

The cop on the stool–who is clearly drunk–turns his attention to Tom towering behind you. “Just enjoying the view, Ludz. She’s got great tits.”  

He’s clearly stupid too. 

A second passes that feels like an eternity, before Tom bursts into action, knocking the asshole off the barstool with one punch. There’s a wave of outcry through the crowd, but before anyone can do anything, Ludlow has the guy up by the collar and is marching him out of the bar. You watch through the dimmed front windows, barely able to see past the crowd, as there’s more of a scuffle between the two on the sidewalk. It doesn’t last long at all–Ludlow hits the guy like a hurricane, knocking him down flat, before stalking away back inside. 

“Sorry about that asshole,” says Tom, barely broken a sweat, though you can’t help but notice his knuckles are torn. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” you sigh, reaching for his hand. “Let’s go get you patched up.” Surely he has a first aid kit in his car. 

However, he can tell something has changed. He turns your gaze up to his with a hand on your cheek, searching your eyes. “What’s wrong? What did he say to you? Swear to god, I’ll fucking kill him.”

You grab onto his arm before this high strung man can march back outside and finish the job, if the idiot has not yet cleared out. 

“He said you’re married,” you inform him, doing your own search of his soul as you drop this bomb. 

“What?” He seems genuinely confused. 

“He said I should be careful, or I’ll end up like your wife?”

Tom shakes his head with a growl. “Fucking asshole. No, I’m not married, sweetheart, I promise you.” 

“Then…?” It’s only getting louder in the bar as the night goes on, and you can barely hear each other now. It’s not the best place to have a serious conversation, and maybe he senses that you’re not going to enjoy yourself again until that conversation is had. You’re not the type to take a don’t worry about it at face value. 

Tom sighs, throws some money down on the bar and lifts you down off your stool. “Come on.”

The ease with which he manhandles you is almost more intoxicating than the vodka you’ve just consumed. 

He almost tries to carry you out of the damn bar, but you protest against that vehemently. 

You spill out onto the sidewalk, and find the asshole has indeed made himself scarce. There’s a dark stain on the concrete that might be a little splatter of blood. You decide to ignore it. 

“I’m guessing you want me to take you home?” It squeezes your heart, how disappointed he sounds, but you nod anyway. You walk back to his car in silence, only broken when you thank him softly for opening the door for you. 

He starts the Charger’s engine, the thing growling to life like a beast of the jungle. His expression matches the sound of the car, thunderous and maybe a little feral. You don’t prod him as he drives, waiting. He knows very well what you want to know. It takes the whole journey home and him parking on the street before he’s willing to open his mouth again, and even then it’s begrudgingly. 

He turns towards you in the seat, taking your little hand in his. He’s very interested in your silver rings, and you think you just might die from the suspense. 

If this man is married, you are swearing off the dumber sex forever. 

“I was married,” he finally begins. “She died of a blood clot in her brain. She was with another man, and he just dumped her on the sidewalk in front of the hospital where you work, like she was a sack of garbage. She died alone, and I’ve never been able to find out who the fucker was that treated her like that.”

You know your eyes are the size of half dollars by the time he finishes his tale. You think you might recognize this story, told by the nurses in the trauma center from a few years back. “What was her name?”

“Cheryl.” 

“Fuck. I…heard about that, from the other nurses. God, Tom, I’m so sorry.” 

At least you know he’s not lying. 

He just nods, but he won’t look at you, and it chews your heart up. Finally you reach for him, physically turning his gaze back to yours. His eyes in that moment are black pits of despair, and a part of you is sorry for ever asking, even though you had every right to know. 

“Come upstairs with me,” you say. “I’ll patch up your hand.”

He looks down at his excoriated knuckles, grins, shakes off that abused puppy dog look. You can tell he’s about as good with emotions as you are, which is going to be a match made in hell, but it doesn’t really matter right now when you want him so bad you can taste it. 

“Alright, I guess if you’re gonna force me.” 

“Nurse’s orders. Come on.”

“Bossy. I like it.” You roll your eyes, but utterly fail at suppressing a grin. You had to hand it to him. He knew how to lighten the mood from misery to humor in two seconds. You suppose that came with his occupation. Otherwise, you’d go mad.

He trails behind you, your tall shadow, letting you lead the way through the security door and up the stairs. When you let him into your tiny one bedroom apartment he smiles, looking around with the curious eyes of a detective. You're sure after five seconds he could describe the scene with 99 percent accuracy, down to the colors of the tapestry hanging above your blue couch, and how many house plants you managed to cram in the one good window in the kitchen.

“Have a seat,” you invite, waving towards the couch while you go to get your medical kit.

He perches himself on the edge of the couch, almost awkwardly. It's kind of cute, and something you don’t expect from this brutish man. 

“The couch doesn’t bite,” you tell him, setting your little first aid bag on the stand and then taking his hand rather boldly in your own. 

“Sorry, feel like I’m gonna ruin your cute place with my man smell, or something.”

You giggle, resisting the urge to tell him that if he wants to rub against everything in here like a cat in heat and leave it smelling just like him, you won’t mind it at all. 

His woodsy spice would pair nicely with your patchouli-lavender candles and sandalwood incense.

“You’ve broken your knuckles a lot,” you inform him absentmindedly while cleaning his fist. You can tell by how prominent they are, how the ones in his left hand-his dominant hand-are bigger than the ones in his right. You’d hate to be on the receiving end of this fist when he’s mad.

“Yeah?” While you dote on his hand, wrapping and cleaning, his heavy attention is fully on you, and it would make you blush and squirm if you weren’t so focused on patching him up. 

“How many fights have you been in?”

“I lost count. You?” 

You scoff. “Hey, I actually have been in one fight.” 

He gives a little whistle. “I was actually expecting that number to be higher, feisty girl.” 

“Nah.”

“Okay, so who’d you fight on the school playground?” 

You roll your eyes. “It was an ex.” You know you should learn to think before you speak, because fuck if that doesn’t open up a whole other can of worms when you watch those huge knuckles flex white while the rest of him visibly tenses.

“He beat you up?” His voice is low, quiet, it makes you want to turn the convo back around into playful territory again. 

“Yeah.” You try to smile, play off the tension. “And I hit him with a flower pot.” 

“What’s his name?” 

It’s a horrible mistake to ever make direct eye contact with Tom, but especially in this circumstance. Even though his orbs are as black as the consuming ocean, the color of anger in them is vibrant and burning. 

“It was a long time ago. Back in Kansas.”

He uses his other big hand to cup your cheek, run a calloused thumb over your bottom lip. “I’m gonna find out who he is whether you like it or not, honey.” 

A cold steel spike of adrenaline straightens your spine when you understand his implication. “Tom, he lives in Kansas.”

“That’s the problem.”

You blink at him stupidly. “What?”

“That he lives.” 

You would roll your eyes and swat his hand away and tell him to get real because you’ve heard all this shit before from other men who thought they were valiant, vengeful knights in armor. So, yeah, you would just brush him off with a scoff, but you have this feeling—and maybe it’s because of what happened at the bar or maybe it’s because of him “arresting” Julian or maybe it’s because of his terrifying tenacious persistence—that Tom will actually find him and wreck his shit. 

The idea should not turn you on. It really fucking shouldn’t. And, since his knuckles are bandaged and you need to cut some of this tension and the alcohol still buzzes pleasantly in your veins, you lean up and distract him with a little wet kiss.  

His eyes get softer for you, which is a mini power trip of its own, and he hazards a smile again. “Alright, alright. You fixed me, now I’m gonna fix you.”

You’re confused for a minute until he scoops an arm behind your knees and drapes your legs over his lap, settling back into the cushions.

The hem of your dress rides up over your thighs again, giving him a little peek of the cute, perpetually damp panties, before you can wiggle your legs shut and tug the fabric back down.

He adjusts you, asks if you’re comfortable while propping your knees on a pillow and turning sideways. 

“I’m-yeah, I'm comfy. What’re you doing, Tom?”

“I’m gonna give you that massage I promised.”

Deja Vu. Two massages in one month from a hot doctor and a cop? You feel like an absolute little whore. “Wait, Tom, you don’t have to-“

He silences you with his mouth over yours, swallows the nervous words and turns them into a sweet moan. God, this man can kiss. You’ve never considered yourself unintelligent, but his lips make you absolutely stupid. 

He untangles your hands from his hair, because apparently they ended up there somehow, sets them in your lap, and pulls away with a little trail of saliva. “Settle down,” he murmurs, guiding you back onto the throw pillows. “I’ve got you.” 

“Really, you don’t,” you try with halfhearted sincerity.

“You know,” he says, making you jump when he engulfs your right foot in his hand. “My aunt, she had a chihuahua.” 

“Yeah? Okay? Was it cute?” 

His fingers press deep into your arch, and it’s actually really pleasant. The muscles in your foot, overworked and underpaid, sing for his hands as they knead the ache out. 

You debate whether or not to tell him he’s better at this than an actual doctor who studies human anatomy, but he already looks like his ego has grown impossibly bigger throughout the night, so maybe you’ll save the praises for later when his dick is inside of your weeping, furious cunt. 

“She was. You remind me of her.”

“I remind you. Of a chihuahua?” You feel the tension in your body fade while he works. “Okay, that actually feels really fucking good.” 

“You do. Tiny, nippy, sweet once you warm up to someone. Adorable.” He knuckles your heel and you sigh in pleasure, pressing back into his hand. 

“I’m gonna pretend you’re complimenting me just because of this amazing foot rub.” 

“Well, I’ve already told you how smart and great you are, and I’ve already told you how pretty you are, so the only two things left, obviously, are either comparing you to a chihuahua or telling you how sexy you look in this dress and how hard it’s been not to rip it in half the entire night.”

You swallow your nerves and your rationality. “So, do it.” Then, you rethink, because this dress was thirty damn dollars and you like it. “Okay, maybe just take it off.” 

This is when he offers you the most infuriating smirk in the history of mankind. “Maybe when I get up there…” 

Waiting doesn't feel like a valid option, because you're pretty sure you’re on the brink of self-combustion. His hands on your feet are heaven, and he’s even moved those strong hands up to your calves, and you just wish he would keep going until he could find for himself exactly the damage he’s wreaked on your panties this whole time.

You collapse back on the arm of the couch dramatically, fighting not to squirm in the grip of your pent up desire. “Tom Ludlow,” you grouse, “I think you might be an evil man.”

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lifts your ankle up to kiss and graze with that rough, tickling stubble, makes you giggle, then turns the laugh into a groan while his tongue travels the length of your calf, right up to the bend in your knee. 

“Fucking shit.” It’s more your cunt talking than you, now, while he nibbles and kisses supple flesh. It's such a strange spot, one that you never thought could be erogenous in any way. And he finds so many of those tender slices of you with his mouth and hands that you’re sure by the end of it—panting and teary eyed and already asking please—it’s just the proverbial Tom Ludlow effect. 

His hands move up your calves, thighs, skip the important stuff, which you curse at him for, a mean protest that he subdues by tugging your dress up and kissing your pantyline. 

“You always give massages with your mouth?”

You don’t know how it’s possible, but that smirk just gets wickeder. “You need me that bad, baby?” 

He would fucking make you tell him about it. 

Not sure who you’re more annoyed with, him or yourself, you look away, huffing under your breath.

“Oh, no pouting, beautiful, a man can only take so much.” Suddenly he has grabbed you up, dragging you across the couch so that you are laying on top of him. All this happens in the blink of an eye–you’re not proud of the girlish yip that escapes you.

It only seems to spur him on, his mouth finding yours in one of those toe-curling, brain-melting kisses. “I am trying to prove to you that I’m a nice guy, remember?”

“Hmm,” you say cheekily, feigning amnesia. He is so broad and solid beneath you, that you just might pass out. “Seems unlikely. Your kisses are very nice though.”

“Oh?” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the bridge of your nose, makes you laugh and bury your head into his neck where he uses the new found position to kiss your hair. 

You have to chastise him a little bit when he pulls you up by your hips so his mouth can pepper kisses on your throat and shoulders, not because you don’t love being handled like that stuffed bunny you won, but more because you love it a little bit too much, and a girl could really get used to this. 

“S’wrong, thought you liked my kisses?” He licks at the hollow of your throat, presses that knife of a grin to your jugular and sucks. 

You have so much you could say, and all of it is lost in the wet, heated sin of this moment. You should be frightened of how preoccupied you are with everything that is Tom—the delicious, dark cologne, the solid weight, the burning, roaming, calloused hands—except you don’t have enough sense to be scared because he’s suckling your neck and teasing your dress higher and higher and higher until his fingertips graze the bottom of your ass and you make a pathetic sound with a bonus hip thrust just to add to the humiliation. 

He pushes open your thighs just a tiny bit. “You want me to touch you?” He asks, tickling down the crease of your butt, so fucking close to where you need him. 

“I can’t-yes. Yes. Touch me.” 

His thumbs run the tops of your inner thighs, and you press down for more, absolutely positive you’re whining like that chihuahua he mentioned earlier. 

“Here?” He asks, and the humor in his voice makes your bare toes curl against his calves. 

“Maybe here?” He tries, smoothing the pantyline that covers the very start of your puffy cunt. “Oh, you’re soaked under here, huh?” 

“Tom. Please. Fuck.” 

“I bet.” He covers the center of you completely with three fingers. “I bet I could fit right in - nice and tight and comfy.” 

You grind down onto his hand. “Yeah, yeah, do that.” 

You let out an exasperated cry when he retreats from your center, moving to trace the lacy edge of your panties on your butt cheek, slipping his fingertip just inside the seam. Even that is enough to make you writhe against him; the impressive (perhaps even intimidating) bulge in his pants beneath you is driving you equally mad.

You decide to take matters into your own shaking hands, sitting up to straddle him, reaching for his belt, the buckle jangling beneath your fingers. You’ve never met a man who could resist it, once his dick was out.

But he outmaneuvers you in that too, pushing your hands away to wrench the leather free of its loops. The resulting crack raises every little hair on your body; yet you don’t have the sense to be terribly afraid.

Either that, or…you trust this man.

“So I’ve been thinking, about you, and Dr. Bitch, and what exactly about him might have appealed to you.”

Nevermind the fact that Julian is a handsome, successful doctor…You’re smart enough not to say this aloud.

He reaches around you, securing your hands behind your back with a loop of the belt. “And I think what you want, Miss Tough Girl, is someone to take charge for you, just for a little while.” He adds another loop. “Someone you trust.” He lifts one of those perfect eyebrows, and something crucial inside you just melts. His voice softens. “Is this ok?”

He can probably tell by your body language alone—the cant of your hips, the flushing goosebumps dimpling your flesh, the little choked sounds of anticipation while he tightens his belt around your wrists—that this is more than okay, but that’s not good enough for him, so he cradles your cheek and runs his thumb over your lips while leaving one hand secured around the unfinished cinch of his belt. You reach out to kiss his fingertip, suck and taste as much as he’ll let you before he takes it away. “Is it okay, baby?”

“Yeah.” 

“Is it what you want?” You have never felt so seen in your life as in this moment, with this man’s penetrating dark eyes looking straight into your soul.

You realize you do trust Officer Tom Ludlow implicitly, not to hurt you physically, at least. You do not feel any of the uneasy trepidation you’d experienced with Dr. Julian, only a burning desire that, if not satisfied, will surely eat you alive. 

Licking your lips, trembling like a newborn fawn, you slowly nod.

“You know you’re safe with me?”

You nod again, and fuck if his wicked smile does not melt all the rest of your doubts, your inhibitions, and your sanity. He is so handsome it hurts, and you know it’s stupid, but you want to give him everything. 

He seals the deal with an expertly executed cinch of that belt, and fuck if it doesn’t echo something inside your heart falling into place for this man. 

“Good. Now come back here, I like you laying on top of me with all these luscious curves of yours.” He guides you back down on top of him, and you swear this man is going to fry some crucial wires in your brain, and turn you into a vegetable. You are doubly certain of this, when he catches your mouth with his, working you over with those plush lips in a way that absolutely makes you see stars. By the time he is done with you, he’s turned you into a quivering, needy mess on top of him, and you can tell he’s loving every minute of it.

Really, you’re easy to please after a lifetime of being touch starved and mostly void of the basic pleasures of human softness, so his everywhere hands and hungry mouth and bulky warmth are more than enough to drive you up the fucking wall, but then he adds those little coos of reassurance—the hushed repetition of “you’re safe, pretty girl”, “I got you”—and just absolutely destroys you. 

For most men the position he has you in would be a problem, but his arms are so long he can easily reach his intended prize–or grab two handfuls of it, squeezing the globes of your ass with a groan of appreciation. 

“Finally, I get some payback for the torture you put me through, having to watch you in your cute fucking scrubs but you wouldn’t let me touch you.”

“I’m sorry I wouldn’t let you feel me up at work?” There’s no real venom in your words as you fire back–how the tables have turned. 

“You’re going to be.” You can just hear the grin in his voice, and that alone is enough to make you squirm against him, burying your face in the bend of his neck. You kiss the column of his throat, sucking at his pulse; you feel the rumble of approval from deep in his chest, more than hear it. 

His big hands slide up your back, under your dress, kneading the tension and ache out and in all at the same time, and there is something maddening about this man’s touch that makes you feel uncharacteristically small, and vulnerable. When at last his hand rubs down, into the back of your panties, you think you just might die. The tip of his middle finger tests your weeping hole, just barely pressing in. Before you can even think to whine about it, his mouth is covering yours, swallowing your cries and your curses as he only slides into the first knuckle, teasing you with slow circles.

While he plays with your insides, his mouth does equal damage to your lips. Fast learner that he is, he’s come to find that if he just sucks and licks and nips your top lip swollen without really kissing you it makes you clamp and pulse rhythmically and desperately on his long digit. 

You unstick your mouth from his to plead your case, because if you don’t get more you’re going to fucking die, and he follows your lips with his teeth. 

“Wai-“ takes you back into a slow, awful, soaked kiss that sets every piece of you on fire, sizzles the skin and fat and meat off your body to leave only exposed nerve endings. 

Reasoning turns to begging fairly quickly when he finally lets you talk. “Want your fingers on my clit, please.”

He hums and pushes sweaty hair behind your ear. “Just my fingers? Not my tongue?” 

“No no no yes that’s better ok-“

“Shh.” He gives you a tiny peck, nuzzles his nose against yours, inspires a strangled gurgle of frustration. 

You're about to press the issue, but then he’s on top of you with your body pressed tight into the couch cushions. 

He really does dwarf you, gets concerned about his full weight and keeping it off your lungs. Unfortunately-fortunately-the position his caution inspires puts his mouth in line with your chest. 

Your chest, with which you so masterfully distracted him into missing his last shot in the shooting gallery.

You just know he’s thinking about that, as he glares down at your breasts as though they’d talked back to him. “I should cite these,” he says between planting open mouthed kisses to your cleavage, “for Reckless Endangerment.” He sucks at your tender flesh, hard enough that you know there will be a purple mark.

“I can’t help it that you looked,” you protest, arching against him. Here you are with your hands bound behind your back, with the cheek to talk back to this big, bad man pinning you down with his delicious weight–you must be missing some crucial wrinkle in your brain just for risk assessment.

He just clicks his tongue in answer. “Please keep talking back to me, sweet girl, it’s giving me ideas.”

Said ideas seem to include nibbling at your nipple through the thin satin of your bra, sending a jolt of longing straight to your already agonizingly aching cunt. “Please,” you beg, on the edge of losing your mind to this man’s touch. 

“I could spend all day giving these attention,” he tells you, ignoring your begging, flicking a path of saliva over the fabric covering your tits, landing a wide kiss on your other hardened bud while his thumb tweaks the tip of the last. 

You wish you could grind into the solid mass of him, but his weight pins your hips still, and this inspires a little feral growl that is, apparently, hilarious judging by his responding laugh. 

“That so?” He asks, finally giving you a proper hard suck that puts little teardrops in your lashes and conjures a strangled scream. “Didn’t think it through, huh?” 

“I hate you. You expect me to be able to think right now?”

“Yeah. Maybe that’s not fair,” he agrees with a wicked curl of lips. 

You think that maybe, just maybe, he might take some mercy on you, as he begins to move down your body. His long fingers hook in your panties, drawing them down your legs as slow as is humanly possible. You hold your breath, determined not to make the slightest sound of complaint, because if you do you just know he will punish you somehow.

With your ruffly skirt up around your waist he stares down at you, long enough that you almost wish you could cover yourself. Yet when his dark eyes roll up to meet yours, the intensity in his gaze makes your needy cunt clench so hard it borders on pain. “So fucking beautiful.” Suddenly it’s as though he is the one who cannot wait, scooping under your hips with his strong arms, holding you down with his big hand spread over your belly as his tongue dips into your center.

This is how you die.

From pure pleasure, and if he did not restrain you, you would have arched off of the couch as he laps at your clit, driving you wild with pointed licks and wide strokes of his tongue. He does not tease you with a single finger, gifting you two thick digits as deep inside you as he can reach, your needy cunt clenching fiercely upon him. It makes him groan, and he slides his fingers in and out of your velvety wet warmth as he takes you to heaven with his lush mouth. You fight not to crush his head with your thighs, your hips canted desperately as you strain for release.

“Oh, god, Tom…” You don’t know how you manage to form even that much of a coherent thought. The deep grumble of his approval vibrates against your pussy, straight to your womb, and you feel the tightening coil of pleasure tensing in your loins. It’s ridiculous, how fucking grateful you are that he doesnt tease you any longer, his clever, furious tongue shoving you over the edge of oblivion into a place of ecstasy that lasts for just a few, perfect, seconds. You’re not proud, but you scream nearly at the top of your lungs as it washes through you.

You’re afraid he’s going to think you’re a spazz, because there are tears in your eyes, and you literally cannot remember the last time anyone took such good care of you. Jesus fucking Christ. Do you say that? To this man, who was so generous to you, but is so fucking full of himself? He already knows he holds the keys to your castle. Does he have to have access to the inner sanctum too?

“My pretty girl,” he coaxes you with a kiss to your inner thigh, bringing you down so sweetly with his fingers still stretching you inside. “You taste so good, I could eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” Just hearing it makes your pussy flutter around his fingers, and he smiles to himself, bestowing your clit with one last lazy lick.

“Fuck. Tom!” You're not sure if you’re begging, or protesting, at this point.

When he slides out of you, you feel almost unbearably bereft of him, too empty for words, only able to watch with a lazy gaze as he sucks your glistening cum off his fingers.

Those damp fingers flick some tears off your face. “You alright?”

You try a little timid smile. “Yeah, I’m great.”

“Good, cuz I might have to make you cum again just to see that pretty look on your face.” 

You squirm in either protest or agreement, unsure if your body can handle more so soon. It would be kind of like going from 0 to 100. Plus, your hands are going a little numb underneath you. 

He must sense your hesitation, great detective that he is, and helps you sit up. 

“Why don’t you lay on your belly? Let me put a pillow under your hips?” 

Even though your body is thoroughly stimulated, it bristles at the idea of him inside of you. The idea of getting him closer, of having more of him is intoxicating, enthralling. 

He pulls your bottom lip from the sharp grip of your teeth, and kisses the sting away. “C’mon, I know you can give me more than that, beautiful.” 

You don’t know why you feel so embarrassed asking for this, but your eyes can’t focus on his own when you open your mouth. “Are you—can you be inside of me?” 

“Ass up and I’ll think about it.” 

And you do—you do end up with your ass in the air, dress pooled around your hips, cool air licking at your soaked cunt that you didn’t realize would be so open for his viewing pleasure. 

You squirm, huff, make him laugh. He kisses the hill of your bottom and gives the crease of your thigh a little singing slap. 

“Ow,” you whine, attempting to slide away from his fingers. He settles you back into place with a tug on the belt around your wrists and then kisses the little raw red mark left from his hand. 

“Let’s take a vacation so I can spend it sucking on this pretty pussy.” He flicks his tongue over the plumped back of your cunt.

“Tommmm.” Frustrated. Because he promised—okay, he said maybe—he would fuck you if you got into this vulnerable position, and instead he’s just teasing you with his tongue again, cleaning up all that sensitive sticky flesh and coaxing you back into a needy little creature. 

You hear blessed fabric being pulled and shifted, the telltale sign of his beautiful cock springing free, and this has never happened to you before, but when you look back at him, your mouth actually waters. He’s perfect. Dark, plush hair, florid, plump tip with just a tiny bead of cum dolloped on top that you desperately want to lick into your mouth. The tops of his thighs are bulky and lined with muscle. He’s thick and slim in the right places, eats his goddamn wheaties, that’s for sure, and you want to taste every inch of that tight olive skin. 

He pets the length of his shaft with his thumb, grips the head, and smiles at the probably stupid little look of awe on your face. “You good?” 

Spectacular. Goddamn fantastic. “Take the rest of your clothes off. Let me see you.” You don’t even care that you’re basically begging at this point. Anything to see him, feel him sliding inside your deprived, clenching cunt. Anything for him. 

His smile does not waver, as his hands go to the buttons of his shirt. He is not shy about laying himself bare, but then, why would he be? He’s the most gorgeous specimen of male beauty you’ve ever seen. You make a small sound, when all his clothes are in a pile on the floor, and his broad chest is on full display.

You cannot stop staring.

His smile widens a little, though there is a softness in his eyes for you that melts you even more as he lets you stare at the beautiful length of him. All you can really do is look at him, so much so that it strains your neck and makes the space between your shoulder blades ache. 

He takes that wonderful appendage between his legs and presses the bulk of it inside your pussy lips, grinding the head against your clit and getting the whole thing nice and soaked in preparation. “You know,” he grunts, “when I first saw you in that waiting room, I thought you were beautiful.”

His sweet words contrast so beautifully with the filthy slipping tease of his cock, and you could cum from the combination, but you’d much rather do that with him stretching you open and pounding into your desperate pussy. “Tom, want you.” You take a ragged breath when he presses his tip more firmly against your clit. 

“You got me, baby,” he soothes, steadying the thrum of your hips with his sure grip. 

He’s so close to sinking inside you, splitting you open, filling you in a way that’s surely. going to ruin you for any other man. You sob into the pillows, hands knuckled tight around the thick leather of his belt when his head presses against your gasping entrance. 

“Please please please.” You’re not even sure if you’re begging aloud or if your voice is even coherent at this point. All you know is Tom, and he’s all you want to know. 

He sinks into you, deeper than his fingers and tongue, deeper than anything you’ve ever experienced. You feel more whole, in this moment, than you have in a very long time with him nudged up against your cervix, with his warm hips pressing into your ass. Maybe you never realized just how empty you were up until now. 

He doesn’t sound much better off than you do, and you can tell by the tightening of his thigh muscles he’s trying to give it to you slow and deep, just like you told him on the phone, instead of fucking into you like a depraved animal. 

You giggle when he curses, using this new found position to wiggle your hips and push him deeper, wrenching sharp groans from the both of you. 

“Jesus, fuck.” He spreads you open so that he can watch himself sink in and out, see your overfilled cunt milk him slowly. “I knew you’d feel like heaven,” he growls. “Do you have any idea how insane you’ve been making me?”

When he reaches to touch your clit with his thick cock filling you to the brim, your smug laughter dies on your lips, replaced by a hedonistic moan, a sound you hardly recognize as coming from your own mouth. 

“Yeah?” he says, as though you’ve said something actually intelligible. “Is that good, baby? You like my fingers while I fuck you with this big cock?” The panting strain in this steadfast man’s voice, who is usually so in control, is as maddening as all the rest. That this man goes to pieces for you is as intoxicating as it is seemingly unbelievable.

“Yes,” is all you can manage, your face pressed into the cushions of the couch, your hips straining for him even though it must be physically impossible for you to take any more. After the fury of your first orgasm, you don’t know how it’s possible that your body could deliver again, but by some miracle you feel it filling the cradle of your hips, the clench and burn of your nerves desperate to immolate themselves again.

You have a feeling this miracle has a name, and it is Tom Ludlow.

“You gonna cum again for me, pretty girl?” 

You absolutely are.

You answer him with a fierce squeeze that makes him curse again. You feel him trembling behind you, fighting not to drive himself inside you with total abandon. You decide that you want that. You want to feel him come undone, to fuck you the way he wants to. For once you’re not afraid. You want to give him everything. 

“Harder,” you pant. “It’s ok. Take me. I want you.” He stutters in his rhythm behind you, as though just the thought is almost enough to drive him over.

“You sure, baby girl?” His big hand makes a soothing circle over the globe of your ass. It makes you purr like a cat, and you know you are utterly lost to this man.

“Yes.”

He gives a tiny thrust, hitting just right, pinching your clit at the same time, taunting. “You positive?”

“Fuck you, Tom. Just fuck me. Please.” 

And he does. Not only understands the assignment, but goes above and beyond to achieve it. Your first orgasm on his cock is white hot, back arching, lip splitting. You think for a second you might pass out, like when you’re laughing too hard or stand up too fast, but he’s still drilling away. Rubbing diligently with three disperse fingers, staying right there despite having to fight against his own girth getting in the way and the absolutely slippery soaked mess between your bodies. 

“There you go,” he praises, “you deserve it, honey. Take it all.” His words are broken, voice evident with the threat of his own release. 

You’re an absolute mess, wracked with sobs, clawing at the skin of your own back. He tugs you back, because you’re trying to unconsciously get away from the overwhelming stimulation, absolutely painfully and pleasurably fucking cock drunk. The sole focus of your body is where you are joined with Tom, where he is doing exactly what you asked. 

He leans over you so that his scratchy five o clock shadow presses into the crook of your shoulder and makes a shiver curl down your spine. He’s not doing it because he’s tired, he’s doing it so he can talk to you, whisper in your ear and lick your throat and take you deeper.

“One more, baby girl. Can you do that for me? Love feeling you cum on my cock. Could stay inside you for hours, sweet girl, give me another one.” 

Filthy words whispered so lovingly against your skin–who knew it could work out for you, for once, to be a people pleaser? That is, if this doesn’t kill you. But God, what a way to go. You have reached a point of euphoria and overstimulation where you are practically hovering outside your own body, watching yourself with a birds eye view as Tom absolutely rails you from behind. Defying your own expectation and hell, maybe even anatomical possibility, that scintillating pleasure explodes and spreads through your loins. You cry out into the couch, partly for happiness and in part for mercy. It’s all so much and you’ve never felt anything like it in your life.

“That’s my girl,” rasps Tom from above you. “So perfect. So good for me, giving me everything I want.” His thrusts become longer, more erratic, his tip bumping your cervix before withdrawing almost completely, then slamming back inside you again. You can hardly control your own body at this point, your every muscle trembling with the intensity of it all. “Love the way you take me. Want me to fill you up, beautiful?” 

If you had a brain cell left in your body, you might have found this amusing. The unflappable Tom Ludlow, babbling, for you? But somehow, at the the same time, amidst the desperate bump and grind of this carnal dance between you–it’s also impossibly sweet. Without a grain of shame left to your name, you beg for it. “Yes, I want you. Give me what’s mine, baby.”

With a groan that rattles you to the marrow of your bones Tom’s hips snap and lock against you, filling you with the hot rush of his seed. You cry out with him, meeting him as he spasms against you.

The world has taken on a hazy, golden edged focus. You are vaguely aware of deft fingers on your wrists, the belt loosening behind you. “You ok, baby?” He rubs your wrists, kissing the reddened skin.

“Yes.” You laugh, a sound of dazed joy. “More than ok. Jesus fucking christ, Tom.”

He collapses on the couch beside you with a knowing smile, pulling you into his arms, where you both rest in a breathless heap.

“Fuck,” he says softly, kissing the crown of your messy hair. 

“What?” You ask.

“We’re gonna have to get Plan B.” 

“I’m–” You are still trying to catch your breath, your face buried in his broad chest. “On birth control.”

“Sorry, I should have asked.” he kisses your hair again. “Just wanted inside you so bad.” 

You giggle for a little bit, and he laughs with you. For a minute, that’s all the both of you can do. It’s the after euphoria, that pleasant droopy high.  “Oh, how terrible of you, Tom.” 

“We should get you cleaned up,” he suggests, making no move to untangle himself from you. 

“Mm, yeah,” you agree, also not moving at all. 

The temptation of sleep looms closer and closer while you’re wrapped up in Tom, and you know you have to go to the bathroom because UTIs are never pleasant, but the thought of getting up almost makes you want to cry. Maybe Tom Ludlow knows more about female anatomy than you would give him credit for, though, and it makes you admire him even more. “Hey,” he says in a sleepy voice, rubbing your side. “C’mon. I’ll be right here waiting.” 

He helps you stand, kisses your tummy, and then waits patiently to pull you back into his arms where everything is golden and warm and safe. You kiss his cheek, and he chuckles. “Me too, honey.”

You fall asleep in his arms, and you’ve never, ever felt more safe.

[kuroshirosb]

Even if there was no way to escape being haunted by this impurity, I didn’t want to let you go, so I kept gripping onto your hand.

Until the day eventually comes where we can choose that unavoidable separation, this light from tens of thousands of years in the past will continue to guide my path. I’ll grieve you, with the lamp lighting my descent to the underworld.

[2][3][6]

[thaliaisalesbian]

i get myself twisted in threads

Chapter 5: sitting as usual

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

She doesn’t know how Steve manages to stay awake all the way to the Byers’ house. It takes them at least an hour and a half to get there.

It feels so much longer. Maybe it was; even if she had a watch on, Nancy wouldn’t be checking it now. Because they keep stopping to make sure he’s not going to bleed out. They have to. Jonathan uses one of their stops to wrap his jacket around Steve’s torso, pulling it as tight as he can. He ties the sleeves in a knot right above the wound.

Nancy thinks she would have screamed, if someone had done that to her. But Steve is either out of enough that he doesn’t feel the pain, or he doesn’t have the energy to do more than mumble.

Which he’s doing an awful lot of.

The rambling mumble he keeps up is actually calming, in a way. It makes it easier to know he’s still alive, for one, and he’s talking about the kids, everything he knows they like and don’t like.

At least, she’s pretty sure he’s talking about the kids. It’s hard to tell. Half of it is too quiet to hear properly, and slurred on top of that. She’s too terrified, too worried, to pay much attention to what he’s actually saying.

Dustin, Lucas, and Mike are waiting in the yard with the first aid kit when they get there. Joyce and Hopper are just getting out of their cars, parked haphazardly in the yard. Nancy wants to collapse when she sees them; she barely registers that Will, El, and Max are joining the huddle with the others. She does collapse when Hopper lifts Steve up and carries him the rest of the way into the house.

“We’ll come get you when you’re allowed inside. If your parents start calling and asking where you are, you’re going home. I don’t care if you’ve seen him or not.”  Joyce takes the first aid kit from Mike and gets the door for Hopper while he addresses the kids.

“Is he dead?” Dustin asks, staring after them, and, god, she’s too tired for this right now. She can’t handle the kids’ questions and fears when she hasn’t even started to handle her own.

“No, he’s not dead.” She says. “He was still talking to us.” Not coherently by the time they’d gotten here, but he’d been talking.

“Hopper said we shouldn’t be inside for this part.”

“Hopper’s right.” Jonathan sits on the ground, ignoring the blood on his clothes. She’s covered in it, too.

It doesn’t look good.

What if they were too late?

"But we want to see him!"

"Not now." Jonathan glares. "Mom and Hopper have to clean him up first."

"That's a lot of blood." Will points out quietly.

"He'll be fine." Nancy comes far too close to snapping for her comfort; she doesn’t want the kids to catch on just yet that she's not sure Steve will make it this time.

"Nancy, Jonathan? If we could get a little help in here? I'm not exactly big enough to help move Steve." Joyce's voice comes through the door, and they’re both reaching for it before she finishes her sentence.

Jonathan has proof on his clothes, all over his body, of how much blood Steve has lost.

Of how bad the injuries are.

It doesn’t prepare him for how pale Steve is, or the amount of used gauze and bandages on the floor.

How much blood can a person have in their body?

Jonathan tries to remember, but he can’t. But Mom and Hopper’s faces aren’t grim enough for this to be… they’re not going to tell them he’s dead. He’s not dead.

“What do you need?” He asks. The kids are trying to get in, but Nancy is already locking the door behind them.

They don’t need to see Steve like this. Jonathan’s not sure he wants to see Steve like this; bloody and barely-alive. Not when he’s always thought of how he looked on that night, bursting back through the door to save them, swinging the bat like he was planning to hit a grand slam.

Steve’s hand had been warm when Jonathan had grabbed him to pull him away. Since then, he’s had the on-and-off thought that he wants to know if Steve’s hands are always that warm, or if it was just because of the adrenaline rush.

Nancy brushes her hand against his when she turns away from the door. He wants to hold onto her, but they’re both tacky with drying blood.

Of course, a lock won't stop El if she really wants to test it, but something makes Jonathan think that she won't. At least not right away. 

“We really do need help moving him, and I thought you’d both like to change.” Mom manages a half-smile.

“How bad is it?” Nancy’s voice is as steady as she holds her pistols, like she’s prepared to be told Steve will die tomorrow.

(He doesn’t know how she manages it. Right now, his heart is in his throat and he can't get any words out past it.)

“He’s not going to be doing anything for a few weeks.” Hopper says. “If it gets infected, we'll have to take him to a hospital, but Joyce and I did our best. He’s not actively bleeding out anymore. Once we get him into bed, I'm calling Owens.”

A non-answer.

continue reading or finish on ao3

“How bad?” He has to swallow three times before he can repeat Nancy’s question. What if he doesn’t wake up again? “We’re not the kids, Hopper, you can tell us.”

“Honey,” His mom says, softly. “I think he’s lucky to have any flesh left on his right side at all. I don’t know how you got him here alive while walking.”

“He was awake.” Nancy whispers. “The whole time. He kept mumbling, something about the kids. And—Jonathan, you didn’t see the wounds, but he was bitten in the Upside Down too. On his legs. He walked on those for days.”

“He climbed trees, too.” Jonathan adds. “He was sleeping in them.”

“We can rehash that later.” Hopper says. “For now, let’s put him in one of the bedrooms.”

“Mine.” He says immediately. “My bed is big enough.” When he’d outgrown his mom, she’d given him the bigger bed. “And it's the closest.”

His mom—she has the least amount on her of all four of them—goes to change the sheets and clear a path first, while he, Hopper, and Nancy try to figure out how they’re going to carry Steve without bumping him into walls, or waking him up, or dropping him.

Somehow it’s harder than him and Nancy carrying Steve from the lab all the way here.

It takes a few minutes, but they work it out.

“Go shower up, you two.” Hopper says. “Joyce and I will handle the living room mess and the kids.”

“Just don’t take too long, okay?” Mom winks at him, and he knows he’s bright red when they leave the room. He knows she trusts them, and of course they’d never even think about anything like that while Steve is maybe dying on his bed.

“I know she’s joking, but I honestly can’t even think about that right now.” Nancy leans her head on his shoulder. “We have blood everywhere.”

Jonathan feels like scrubbing his skin raw until he doesn’t see Steve’s blood on his hands ever again, but he thinks that’s going to take a while, so he settles for washing Nancy’s back clean for her before she does his.

“Do you think Steve would fit in your clothes?” She asks, pulling on one of his shirts and a pair of pajama pants that she keeps here. “I have a few here, but he certainly doesn’t, and he’s going to need something to wear.”

“It might.” Most of his stuff is a little big on him, it would probably fit Steve. His pants might be a little short, but that will just make checking his ankles easier. “I don’t think putting a shirt on him is a good idea right now though.”

“The kids are going to want to see him.” Nancy takes his desk chair, watching Steve’s chest as he breathes.

They’ll break down his door if they don’t get to, probably. Especially after they locked the door, kept them out.

“Yeah, but what if he starts bleeding again?”

“Just put a blanket over him.” His mom’s in the doorway, holding a trash bag. “We’re not going to be able to save your clothes.”

He tosses their ruined clothes into the bag, trying not to think about how much blood is on them.

“Do we need to take him to a hospital now?” Jonathan’s not sure they can, honestly, because of the nature of the wounds. They don’t have bears around here, and even if they did he doesn’t think this looks like an animal attack.

They also might not be allowed to see him if he's in the hospital. His parents will have to be notified, and then they’ll be in charge, they’ll be free to move him somewhere far away if they want to.

“If things get really bad, we will.” His mom answers. “You know I went to nursing school for a couple of years, and Jim has done field medicine before. He’s trying to get in contact with Owens right now.”

“How much worse is ‘really bad’?” Nancy’s got her arms wrapped around herself. He’d hug her if he thought she’d accept the touch right now.

“I don’t know, honey.”

He looks at Steve, almost as pale as his sheets, torso wrapped in bandages with drying blood still visible on his upper chest.

“What about his ankles?” He can't let himself think about what will happen if Steve dies. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to sleep in his bed again, knowing his friend had died there. In this room, probably. He’ll have to move in with Will or take the couch. Seal it off, only to come in when he wants to regret everything he never said all over again.

“We took a look at that too; cleaned them up a little and rewrapped them.”

“Why can’t we see him?” He can hear Dustin from here. The kid’s always been the loudest of the bunch, but he’s not sure he’s heard him this distressed in a while.

He doesn’t catch Hopper’s response, too busy staring at the blood and thinking about how close they came to really losing Steve this time.

Because he was willing to sacrifice himself for them. Again.

He'd hardly talked to them, but he’d still been ready to die if it meant they escaped. 

Jonathan had had to practically shove Steve behind him to keep him from using himself as a human shield.

He thinks about Steve’s face, the way he’d pulled that cocky mask back up so quickly when he’d overheard the conversation he and Nancy were having that day.

There’s none of that now, wasn’t any of it in the Upside Down, just a certainty and a protective edge that made the kids feel safe, that made him feel like everything was going to be okay, even if he didn’t know how or when.

It’s not something he’s felt often when dealing with the Upside Down. 

He slides past his mom to the bathroom, soaks a washcloth until it’s dripping, squeezing all the water out multiple times to give himself an extra minute. 

He probably uses too much force to get the blood off. He wishes Steve would complain. He’d be awake, at least. 

When he’s done, Nancy covers Steve with a blanket and sits on the edge of the bed carefully instead of going back to the chair.

“Jon,” she’s staring at Steve still, making sure he’s still alive. “We need to tell him. I can’t—We can’t lose him. Not like this.”

“I know.” He sits opposite her, finds Steve’s wrist under the covers, feeling for his pulse.

It’s there. A little slow, maybe, but it’s there.

“I can’t stop thinking about it.” She admits, “He looked like he was going to cry, and then it was just— gone. He was back to being an asshole and it was like nothing ever changed.”

“He heard the wrong part of that talk,” Jonathan agrees. It’s on a loop in his mind, everything they could have—should have—done differently. He could have caught Steve’s hand again, pulled him in to tell him the truth.

Right now, Steve’s colder than he was the last time Jonathan held his hand.

“Steve?” El’s peeking around the door, eyes wide, and suddenly all he can hear is the way she screamed for him before Nancy had gotten her through the gate.

“Come here, El.” Nancy might be thinking the same thing, because she tucks El into her side. “He’s going to be okay, see? Joyce and Hopper know what they’re doing.”

“I know.” She says. “It is still scary.”

“You’re right, it is.” He knows it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the kids figure out El’s slipped away from them, before they come in demanding to be allowed to sit around him and wait for him to wake up.

For now, they’ll keep this odd, almost grief-like, quiet for just the four three of them.

<- 4 6 ->

[unicyclehippo]

Sorry you had a bad day yesterday, hope today is better for you.

If you are still taking prompts, maybe a Ronance one where Nancy gets injured (be it in the upside-down or just in regular normal life) and Robin patches her up /takes care of her?

after everything they’ve been through, it takes four splattered pizzas and a skinned knee to make nancy wheeler cry.

for a moment that stretches on and on, punctuated by the sound of nancy crying—and it’s awful, it’s so quiet and strained like she can’t breathe and robin’s chest aches like her rib cage is closing right around all the tender parts of herself—and while the girls kinda fold toward her, the boys are frozen in place, a strained frozen panic like the basement has become a minefield and any wrong movement could blow them all into pieces, and mike—jesus, mike—he’s staring at nancy, horrified, like seeing his big sister cry is the first sign of the apocalypse.

robin claps her hands. it’s a sharp sound and she hurts her hands with how hard she clapped. and there’s a prickling under her skin when all eyes—except, notably, one pair—land on her. she’s expecting the attention to make her panic and it does, sort of; she can feel her pulse hammering, and her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth and her brain goes all fuzzy but through it all she can hear herself thinking: good. give her a little peace, give her a little space.

‘little wheeler, call the shop. we need new pizzas—stat!’ she barks when he doesn’t move. he jumps and sprints up the stairs, two at a time. ‘other boys—‘

‘we have names,’ lucas mutters under his breath, like he always does. it’s so common, so routine, that a little of the tension dissolves—the strain of panic drifting sidelong into the familiar strains of teasing—and the joke settles over the basement like a bandaid, holding them together until this—nancy—can be fixed.

robin ignores his comment, like she always does, though this time she smiles. ‘paper towels, soap, bucket of water,’ she lists. he salutes her like a soldier. grabs will to help him. robin spins on her heel. ‘henderson—‘

‘you know his name?’ someone mutters before the basement door closes.

‘—rubbish to the bin.’ he nods. sidles past the still crying nancy like she’s radioactive. ‘el, max—‘

‘we’re helping. we’re helping you,’ el says firmly, and plants herself solidly beside nancy. max—who shouldn’t be walking let alone looking very much like someone who intends to carry nancy up a flight of stairs—nods and limps to nancy’s other side.

robin can’t deal with helpful little girls right now so she just nods. ‘go. go to nancy’s bathroom. i need warm water in the bath—just a little, not the whole tub—some towels, and a first-aid kit if you can find one.’

‘but—‘

‘go, max.’ she knocks her knuckles against max’s temple, pulls her head against robin’s shoulder. ‘give her time to chill,’ she says, asks, explains. max nods.

‘okay. take care of her.’

‘of course.’

robin sits next to nancy on the floor of her basement. her chest is tight with panic—should she have ignored the kids and dived to the floor next to a crying nancy wheeler? should she have tried to calm her down or helped her out of the room? but what’s done is done and robin twists, lays one leg behind the crouched, shaking nancy wheeler and her other out along her side in a V.

‘what am i doing?’ she mutters. would nancy even like this? would she find it weird or off-putting or, worse, maybe it would frighten her, make her think of vines and ridged prehensile bat tails—and then nancy’s breath catches and she almost retches she’s trying so hard to cry silently, which, fucking hell. and robin stops thinking and instead wraps her arms around nancy wheeler’s shockingly tense shoulders, pulls her sideways into a bracing hug.

nancy tenses.

‘didn’t think you could get more tense, wheeler, robin teases. ‘relax. just me. robin buckley. from school,’ she adds, like an idiot.

nancy’s shoulders twitch. her hands, white-knuckled closed over her mouth, relax enough for a strangled little breath to escape. that’s good, that’s a victory in robin’s books. she unwinds her arms and stops with a wince; one of nancy’s hands drops from her mouth so fast, claws her nails into robin to keep her where she is. wide eyes, washed pale with tears, lift from the pilled carpet to stare at robin, entreat her to. stay? maybe?

robin closes her in that tight hug again—so tight it probably hurts, so tight it makes her own ribs creak—and lets nancy cling to one arm. the other, she only moves enough to start to rub big circles over her back.

‘obviously from school,’ she continues, because nancy had laughed or breathed or whatever and that was better than these frankly disturbing sobs. ‘but also from such notable locations as your own basement, family videos, and—‘ she stutters, trying to think of somewhere else she frequents that isn’t a hell world. that’s kind of sad, isn’t it? school and work? ‘the library. fuck me, i’m a nerd,’ robin groans.

nancy breathes in, shaky.

‘i’m a nerd. i’m gonna graduate with a goddamn three point eight and a trumpet at my side and zero goddamn friends because all i do is study and work. i’m a tragedy of a teenager,’ she laments, in the dramatic, humour-laced tone of someone who only half means what she’s saying. ‘wonder if anyone else is gonna graduate without having been to a single party or gone to any of those dances. shit, does the principal even know who i am? maybe i’ll hire someone to walk the stage instead of me and they won’t even know. i’ll call it the buckley spectacular, what do you think?

‘i’m—‘

robin clamps her teeth down on her bottom lip to stop a relieved shout, hearing nancy speak ever so faintly. she nudges closer, lifts her knee so nancy has a backrest, curls her circling hand around nancy’s shoulder. distantly, in a way she knows she’ll scream into her pillow about tonight, she notes that nancy is kinda cold. not freezing, but the kind of cold that makes robin want to grab her and hug her even closer, warm her up, rub her hands up and down her arms to coax a little heat back into her.

‘you’re what?’ robin asks, soft as she can.

nancy tenses and robin strokes her hand down from her neck down her spine, rubs wide over her shoulders, to warm her, relax her, and she swears she’ll pull back the very second it seems like nancy doesn’t like this but then nancy is letting her breath out with a shudder and like a string-cut puppet, all her limbs seem to let go of the tension and she drops heavily into robin’s hug.

‘i’m three point nine.’

robin blinks. then rolls her eyes. ‘wow. trust your superiority complex to pull you out of a panic attack. only you, wheeler,‘ she says, and she bites her lip again hard, her hand stutters in its circling reassurance, when the words come out so fucking fond.

nancy doesn’t react except to bury a snotty, teary laugh (more of a sob, to be perfectly honest) into robin’s shoulder. robin lets her. robin would let nancy do just about anything. robin feels honoured, pleased, moved beyond belief to get to be the person with nancy when she’s studying, let alone breaking down in the circle of her arms. she should probably think about that at some point but. not yet. for this second, she takes in the feeling of nancy’s weight against her, the flutter of eyelashes against her collar. the way nancy is still gripping tight to her arm and the tightness of the grip is only only released in fractions respective to how tight robin hugs her. somewhere overhead, pipes rattled and groan and spit, and she knows that’s her cue.

‘let me take you upstairs,’ robin says finally, against the top of nancy’s head. ‘look at your knee.’

‘everyone’s gonna look at me.’

robin hums. ‘they won’t.’

‘they will—so stupid,’

‘they won’t, nance. and if they do, i’ll tell them to fuck off.’

nancy laughs, a soft exhale. it’s gross, objectively, the feeling of her hot breath against robin’s neck, just because she’s been crying there and robin’s neck feels snotty and slimy with tears, so it’s totally stupid that robin’s brain tingles all over like someone opened up her skull and replaced it with popping sherbet. her fingers shake, her stomach drops right through the ground and drags at her, empty of food—RIP pizza—empty of everything but shame. stupid, stupid, stupid, to feel like this when nancy wheeler is crying on her.

she has to swallow twice before she can get the words out. ‘you ready?’

‘no.’

robin blinks. ‘oh. i never- huh.’ nancy wheeler, not ready for something. the thought hits her like a bat, bruising something in her. it hurts when she thinks of it.

nancy peels away from her shoulder. her face is grey, pale and streaked with tear lines. makeup smudged. utterly lovely. robin stares until she realises she shouldn’t, and looks away. to the basement door, still closed.

‘that bad, huh?’ nancy jokes. her attempt at a smile—because robin can’t not look for long—pulls her lips sideways, not up. ‘I’m an ugly crier. splotchy.’

robin shakes her head. draws her hands back into herself, drums restless fingers on her knee, curls the other around the back of her neck. ‘no,’ she says. hands flail. from knee to floor. from neck to hair. ‘you’re - fine. i, all my freckles go white. or, my face goes red so they look white. it’s—bad. puffy eyes. you look—‘ robin flicks her eyes up, over nancy’s face again.

she’s still so close. lower back against robin’s thigh, knee still propped up behind her. feet tucked under robin’s other knee. one hand trying to tame her curls, or going through the motions. eyes red-rimmed and exhausted. robin wants fiercely for no one else to see her like this, because nancy’s pride is important to her and so is pretending that everything is okay so the kids don’t freak. she wants to be the only one to know that nancy’s lips tremble in the aftermath of such sobs, like anything could propel her back into crying. wants it to never happen again. wants to be the one nancy clings to every time. such dangerous thoughts.

‘pretty.’

‘pretty?’ nancy repeats.

robin’s heart tries to kill her. slams in her chest. she can feel it under her throat, trembling in her wrists. ‘i - yeah. i mean, you even cry pretty. can’t be that smart, miss three point nine, if you think you’re an ugly crier.’

nancy’s lips twitch upwards. her hand in her hair falls to robin’s shoulder, slides across until it comes to rest on the juncture of her collar and neck. she rubs her thumb against the skin there and robin prays to every being capable of granting miracles that she doesn’t feel the way robin’s heart thunders away under her touch. ‘i cried all over you. sorry. that’s so gross.’

‘i’ll clean up when i look at that knee,’ robin prods.

nancy rolls her eyes. winces.

‘headache?’

‘a bit.’

robin nods. ‘i’ll send the kiddies for ice-cream, a heat pack, a tom cruise movie, advil, and tea.’ nancy looks bemused by the list. ‘it’ll keep them busy. and who knows? maybe we get lucky and one of those things helps.’

‘i think i just want to sleep.’ nancy peers around at the empty basement, the title screen of their movie still exactly as it was, paused at the promise of dinner. ‘shit. i totally ruined movie night—‘

‘no.’

‘i did—and mike, shit, he saw me crying—he’s going to think i’m nuts—‘

‘nancy,’

‘and all these kids have been through so much, they don’t need me breaking down over something so stupid—‘

‘nancy!’ robin scrambles to her knees in front of the other girl. takes her by the wrists, draws nancy’s hands from where they twist into her own hair. she pulls them down to nancy’s lap and lets go, can’t stop one hand from going up and patting her curls back into place. ‘please don’t freak out again,’ she asks, politely. ‘i don’t think i can take it.’

nancy stares back at her, eyes wide, pupils blown. ‘okay.’

‘thank you.’

‘you’re welcome.’

robin crooks a smile. ‘help you to your feet?’ she stands first and reaches down, takes nancy’s hands and gently eases her up. her skinned knee is probably sprained, or bruised, because nancy needs to hold onto her and limp toward the stairs. robin loops an arm around her waist, turns worriedly to her when nancy tenses. ‘Is that okay?’ she asks.

nancy nods, frowning down at the floor. the stairs, probably seeing what robin sees, a mountain to climb ahead of them.

‘let me help,’ robin says, and figures she’s too close to nancy when a curl sways with her words. she turns away sharply to regard the stairs. ‘i could probably carry you, honestly, steve and i lift boxes all day every day and, and you’re tiny, so—‘

‘robin?’

‘yes.’

‘just lift when i jump.’

‘good idea, yes, can do.’

[oseytorvan]

Dislocation?..

Annotation: Astrid finds herself in Hiccup's arms for the first time, and... damn, it looks like she fell in love with him even more. (Modern AU) 

***

“Ah, my leg! Aw, aw, damn, I can't get up! Oh, what a terrible pain!..”

The sky blinded Hiccup for a moment when he rolled his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

Astrid's moaning made want to slap myself on the forehead rather than help. However, Hiccup didn't even mind — at least some variety among the annoying chatter about the prom. Which, by the way, will come in five hours.

“1 out of 10 for acting. My girlfriend has too much ego to ask for help.”

“Hey!”

“Persuaded — 1,01 of 10. For the effort.”

Astrid, sitting on the lawn near the school building, finally stopped defiantly grabbing her leg.

“Come on, Hiccup!” she exclaimed, throwing off the pretense. “It doesn't take much from you. Just pick me up already and carry me past that bunch of ram!”

Hiccup cast an indifferent glance where her hand waved.

“Past your friends?” the guy clarified, looking at Astrid again and raising an eyebrow skeptically. “You do realize that you're acting like a child, right?"

“It would be easier if you agreed to go to the ball,” she retorted grumpily. “They think you're too weak to hold me while dancing!”

“I don't care what they think of me,” said Hiccup patiently. The devotion with which Astrid defended him in front of her company could have made Hiccup smile with emotion. If she hadn't reached the point of absurdity, as now. “We've already discussed this, Astrid. And we agreed that you would go to the prom with your friends and have fun. And then I'll pick you up. Shall we go?”

Hiccup adjusted the strap of the backpack hanging on his shoulder and jerked his head towards his car. Astrid frowned at the gang. Ruffnut was flirting with the young teacher with might and main — poor Eret Eretson did not know how to wriggle out of her tenacious grip. Fishlegs and Snotlout looked at this spectacle with jealousy, Tuffnut — with undisguised disgust.

With a snort of displeasure, Astrid started to get up, but after a second she landed on the grass again.

Something in her face  — either the curled lips, or the wrinkles that gathered for a second near her nose — made Hiccup alert.

“Are you all right?”

“It's okay. Go. I'll see you later,” Astrid began to lace up her sneakers for some reason, but Hiccup managed to notice how her hands carefully walked over her ankle.

It doesn't really look like a practical joke.

Hiccup dropped his backpack into the grass and squatted down next to her. Ignoring Astrid's protests, he took off her sneaker and examined her foot closely.

“So you really sprained your leg?” Hiccup looked up at her in confusion.

“Well...” Hofferson faltered, which made her even angrier at herself. “Don't make a drama, it's just a dislocation. I can walk!”

“Are you sure?”

“Are you doubting me?”

With an air of offended pride, Astrid took her sneaker from Hiccup and put it back on, wincing again.

Haughtily sticking out her chin, she leaned on Hiccup's shoulder and tried to get up again, but a weak exclamation gave her away.

Without waiting for Astrid to lose her balance, Hiccup caught her in his arms and…

“Hey! What are you...” clutching his shoulders, Astrid blurted out confusedly when he lifted her.

“I have a first aid kit in my car,” Hiccup explained, changing the position of his hands to make it more comfortable for her.  “We're going there. Just be patient, okay?..”

A pumped-up guy carrying his beloved in his arms… It's always very romantic. According to books and movies. Even she, Astrid, sometimes loved to look forward with gamble and vindictive pleasure to how the faces of her friends would stretch when it came to those that Hiccup was not a weakling at all!

But... in fact, everything turned out to be not so amazing at all.

Hiccup's skin didn't seem stretched from the muscles, but his hands were strong, safe and confident. In them, Astrid felt weak and dizzyingly light — her legs, suspended in the air, seemed to consist of cotton wool. But this sensation didn't make her feel like floating at all. This sensation caused her embarrassment.

She clung awkwardly to Hiccup's shoulders and didn't know where to put her eyes. Ruffnut's cooing, her brother's indignant exclamations, Eret Eretson's confused mumbling—all this subsided. Astrid felt her ears light up at the thought that they were all staring at her now.

Astrid wanted to moan and bury her burning face in Hiccup's shoulder, but there was a special fragrance coming from his skin, exciting, penetrating deep, deep into the lungs, and…

“I'm going to patch you up,” the slight grin in Hiccup's voice made Astrid blink.

She sat on the edge of the open trunk and looked at her sneakers, scattered on the asphalt in inappropriately bright spots.

“So…”

Squatting down, Hiccup gently took the aching foot in his palms — the same palms that had recently been warm on her back and under her knees…

A sudden chill went through Astrid, snapping her out of her trance. She jerked and hissed when Hiccup put a bottle of water to her leg.

“Shh, be patient, you'll get used to it quickly,” Hiccup assured her as if nothing had happened and lightly patted her shin as a sign of support. Astrid felt herself blushing again. I wish he hadn't done that...

“By the way, if it makes you happy,” Hiccup continued to chatter, wrapping Astrid's foot in a bandage with the dexterity of a doctor. “Your friends saw everything. And they seemed to like it.”

That was the last straw.

“I'm not going to the prom,” she said with grim determination and, slightly pushing Hiccup away with her foot, jumped off the trunk.

“What?” he was confused, watching Astrid with hissing and swearing trying to put on sneakers.

“I need to clear my head. Don't follow me.”

“But…”

“Don't follow me.”

Wincing and limping, Astrid resolutely hobbled away. Dumbfounded, watching her, Hiccup caught himself thinking that feeling her weight in his hands... was quite pleasant.

[just-horrible-things]

Credit to co-author @whump-sprite AU: Chewtoy – Revelation [Prev | Next]

Ariadne unfastens her own seat belt, but she doesn’t even reach for the car door. Connor does it for her, and takes her arms to help her out. She won’t look at his face. 

Her legs fold almost as soon as her feet touch the floor, and Connor catches her awkwardly against his body.

His blood is boiling. He'd like to see Riven try to whip him like this.

“What’s wrong with your legs?” he asks Ari. “What else did he do to you?” “Mmhh,” she groans into his shirt. “Sorry. Jus’... jus’ sore, I got, got electrocuted last week…” “What?” “S’complicated.” None of this makes sense. Connor should have taken her to medical. “Okay,” he sighs, “okay, you can explain later.” 

She’s here now.

He picks her up like a child, ignoring her breathless squeak of protest, and carries her inside. She doesn’t weigh enough. She used to weigh more than this, and Connor can feel too many of her bones.

He sets her down on his couch, pushes a couple of pillows aside, and grabs one to put under her head and shoulders. Ariadne still won’t look at him, tucking her chin against her shoulder to avoid Connor’s gaze.

She looks sick. Connor thought the harsh light of the interrogation room wasn’t doing her any favors, but even under the warmer and more forgiving light of his front room her color is off and the hollows under her eyes are dark enough to be painted on.

“Sit tight,” he tells her, “I’ll be right back.”

The first aid kit is well stocked, and he sets it on the floor by the couch to unpack it. “When’s the… last time I saw you?” It must have been two or three years, now? They fell out of touch after Caleb was killed. “Dunno,” mumbles Ariadne. “Ages ago…” She stopped answering his texts, Connor thinks. But it was long enough ago that he’s not sure he wasn’t equally to blame. She was grieving, maybe he should have tried harder.

“I gotta clean you up,” he tells her. “Gonna fucking hurt.” Her unhappy little half-voiced exhalation isn’t quite assent, but it isn’t quite a protest either.

Connor peels back her blood-soaked turtleneck to expose her back.

“Fuck.”

He should have taken a better look back in the facility. This isn’t the only time she’s been whipped to shreds. Her back is all scars and scabs and open wounds. And she’s so thin.

He shoots Ariadne another disbelieving look, but she’s staring straight ahead. Her jaw is tight and she looks almost like she might cry. Connor exhales slowly. 

He wets a clean bit of cotton wool with antiseptic, sits on the floor beside the couch, and starts working on her back.

Ariadne twitches and shudders under the touch. Connor knows how bad it stings, so he doesn’t hold her little gasps and whimpers against her. But when she starts outright sobbing he stops what he's doing, alarmed.

"Srry," she mumbles miserably into the pillow. "M'srry." "Okay, okay,” Connor tells her, perturbed. “I'll quit touching it for now. You don't have to cry." "M'srry." The Ariadne Connor knew wouldn’t be caught dead sobbing like that. 

He sits back on his heels and waits for the crying to stop. 

Eventually Ariadne sniffles her way into silence. She keeps her face down, hiding it in the pillow.

Connor clears his throat. "You gonna tell me what the hell is actually going on?" "I…" she starts, muffled by the pillow, "... dunno what t'say." "Who the fuck is torturing you, say that. Don't give me this bull about discipline." Ariadne lifts her head just enough to look sidelong at Connor. "It's Riven," she says. 

Connor is speechless. It can't be Riven, he'd never get away with this. The man is an asshole but this goes so far beyond–

"That's not… Have you… I'm gonna report this, I…" "Tried that," Ari interjects sulkily. "Jesus fucking Christ. You should leave. It's not worth it. – Nothing is."

Ariadne abruptly tries to sit up. She doesn't get far, wincing with bared teeth, but she manages to get her elbows under her. She looks around as if she's never seen Connor's front room before – which he supposes she hasn't. He did move last year. 

"Where… where are we?" "My house, Ariadne." "Oh fuck." She's wide-eyed. "They let you just–" Cold dread settles in Connor's gut. "Let me what?" Ariadne hesitates. "They… don't let me walk out," she confesses, breathless. "Excuse me?" "Security don't let me out," she repeats. Her eyes flicker to the front door. 

Connor found her on the floor in an interrogation room. He thought she was a prisoner. Riven isn't disciplining her, he's torturing her. Interrogating her. 

"Fuck," Connor breathes. 

"What aren't you telling me?" he demands, suddenly cold. "What did you do?" "I-I –" Ariadne flinches. She looks terrified. She looks guilty. "I don't know, nothing, I-I-I'm just – not good e-enough."

Connor still has his work belt on. He takes the handcuffs off the back, and closes one cuff around Ariadne's nearest wrist.

"Don't take me back, Connor," she pleads as he feels under the couch for something he can secure her to. "Please don't take me back." He locks the other cuff closed around the leg of the couch, and stands up. "I'm on goddamn camera taking you out of there," he tells her. "What did you do?" "Nothing, I don't know, I don't know what you want–" "What am I gonna find if I look up your file?" "I-I don't know, sir, I'm sorry."

Asking her is pointless. Connor pulls out his laptop. While he waits for the database connection, he watches Ariadne bury her face in the pillow. Her shoulders shake.

He’s ready to see access denied, but her file comes up without warnings.

She looks healthy and confident in her photo.

Ariadne Milonas, special agent.

Same enrollment date as Connor, same end-of-training. At first glance her record looks normal. 

She’s still listed as Active Service.

But looking closer, there are discrepancies. She doesn’t seem to have any clearances. The field is just empty. Connor wouldn't expect to be able to see everything, but he should be able to see the entries that match his – the basics for a special agent, and for Site 17 personnel.

He scrolls down to her service history and finds that weird too. The first year and a half looks normal – a few disciplinary notes, a few successes, a few scathing comments from Riven.

Then the entries get less frequent, and soon there’s just… nothing. No commendations, no discipline, no comments.

Something happened about three, three and a half years ago. But… no, that can’t be right. Connor could swear she was at a New Year’s party two years ago.

He clicks on every disciplinary infraction he can see. A few of them ended in corporal punishment, but never more than ten or fifteen strokes with the rope. Connor remembers most of them. Ariadne never let it get to her.

There’s no mention of the whip anywhere.

Connor gets up. Ariadne’s shoulders tighten as he gets near. He takes a close look at her back, focused on the area he’s already cleaned. Ariadne shudders as he touches a finger to a pale, raised scar.

It has to be years old. 

There’s another one next to it that’s still reddish, maybe a few months healed.

He glances back at her file still open on his computer. 

If her… treason, it'd have to be treason to warrant this – if it was classified under a clearance Connor doesn't have, is this strange, sparse file what he’d see? Or…

“You expect me to believe,” he says aloud, “that Riven is keeping you prisoner in there and torturing you because… he thinks you’re not good enough. And everyone just lets him?” Ariadne turns her head to look up at him, fearful and suspicious. Her mouth twitches, but she doesn’t seem to have an answer.

She’s still wearing half her uniform. Why would she still be in uniform if she was a traitor and a prisoner?

“Can I just… clean you up,” Connor sighs, “and then we’ll figure out what to do.” “Okay,” she says in a small voice. She barely sounds like the Ariadne he knows.

He sits down beside her once again. He’s as careful as he can be, but she still makes muffled, pitiful noises into the pillow as he applies more antiseptic. The handcuffs click against the leg of the couch as she twitches and shudders. 

Connor frees her wrist. It’s not as if he couldn’t overpower her.

Then he presses down over one spot and Ariadne jerks away from his hand with a loud, choked “Gghh–!” Connor pulls back at once. “Fuck, sorry,” he exclaims. “What’s –” “Think, th’rib’s broken,” Ariadne manages through gritted teeth. “He broke your fucking bones? Where else?” “S’fine,” she mumbles. “Jus’... just don’t press too hard?” “No,” Connor tells her. “I need you to tell me what else is broken.” She flinches, and mumbles “srry.” It’s an obvious effort to free her arm from under her body, but she indicates another spot further down her ribcage. “S’mostly healed,” she claims. Connor makes a note to be careful.

After that, he mostly works in silence. He doesn’t stop when she starts crying again. He can hear her trying to keep it quiet, and it seems kinder to pretend that he doesn’t notice. 

It still doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. Connor turns the pieces around in his mind and gets nowhere.

[Next]

[shemarmooresfedora]

Rebuilding Family

Summary: Y/N and Spencer were college sweethearts at Cal-Tech but once Spencer got accepted to the FBI Academy, he ended things deciding it was not fair to make Y/N wait for him. When they meet again years later, he discovers something unexpected.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Masterlist

Chapter 9

“Dinner at my house at 7. Be there,” Rossi announced to everyone in the bullpen.

Everyone nodded, accepting the invitation.

“Sorry, I can’t. I have Jo tonight,” Spencer declined.

“Bring her with you. The more, the merrier! Her mom is welcome too, I would use her name but I’m still in the dark about that one,” Rossi said.

“Well, I, for one, would love to meet the lady that Pretty Boy is throwing punches for,” Morgan smirked.

“Henry will be there, Spence,” JJ informed Spencer, trying to convince him to bring Jo.

“Alright, Jo and I will be there. I will ask Y/N and yes, that’s her name if she decides to come,” Spencer gave in.

-

“I don’t know, Spencer...can’t just you and Jo go?” you asked.

“Yes, we could. I don’t want to pressure you but I think it would be fun if you went too. Plus, Rossi’s pasta is phenomenal,” Spencer stated.

“I don’t want to intrude...and I’m horrible at small talk,” you added.

“Rossi specifically invited you so you’re not intruding. Will and JJ will be there, who you already know, and I promise I won’t leave your side until you’re comfortable,” he assured you.

“Fine, I need to take a shower and get ready then. How formal is this thing?” you asked.

“Most people either stay in their clothes from work or go home and change into casual clothes,” Spencer shrugged.

You nodded and headed up the stairs.

A half hour later, you came down in a cream colored midi sundress with a floral pattern and a slit down the side.

Spencer’s breath hitched in his throat.

“How’s this?” you asked, giving him a little spin.

“Y-Yes that’s f-fine,” Spencer choked out.

“You don’t like it?” you frowned, “They’re gonna hate it...and me.”

You started walking back up the stairs to change when you felt someone grab your wrist gently.

“I was having trouble speaking because you look absolutely radiant,” Spencer spoke softly.

“Not too bad yourself, Doctor,” you smiled.

Spencer had lost his sweater vest and tie from the work day, leaving him in just his pale blue dress shirt with a few of the top buttons undone.

“Jo, come on! I’ve got to do your hair before we go,” you called out, pulling out one of the kitchen table chairs.

Jo came running down the stairs in a light pink sweater and overalls.

“What do you want?” you asked, using a spray bottle to wet her hair slightly and then brushing it out.

“Two braids please, Mommy.”

You parted her hair and began working on the first braid, feeling Spencer’s eyes watching curiously from beside you.

Once you finished the first one, you turned to looked at him.

“Do you want to do the other side?” you asked.

“I was observing your movements but I’m not sure if I can replicate them with the same speed and accuracy,” Spencer stated as you pushed him forward.

“I’ll be your instructor then. You’re going to need to learn how to do this. Jo doesn’t like to have her hair in her face so she likes to have it styled back somehow,” you said.

Spencer brushed the hair on Jo’s left side once more and then sectioned out three even pieces from the front.

“So basically you just keep crossing the side strands over into the middle and adding more hair to the side strands each time,” you explained as Spencer slowly started to braid Jo’s hair.

By the time he got to the end, it was a little bumpy and a small chunk of hair had been left out of the braid and was hanging astray.

“Okay okay, not bad for a first attempt,” you encouraged him.

“I think I’ve got it this time,” Spencer released the braid from its elastic and combed Jo’s hair out again.

Spencer’s confidence definitely increased this time through, he was going much faster, almost as fast as you. His tongue was poking out the side of his mouth in concentration. You had to admit that he looked absolutely adorable.

“Much better,” you smiled as he tied off the braid with the elastic.

“If you can do a braid, pigtails and ponytails will be a piece of cake,” you informed him.

“I think my fingers are cramping,” he chuckled, admiring his handiwork.

-

“Spencer, what if they hate me?” you nervously asked as you walked up Rossi’s driveway.

“They are not going to hate you,” Spencer assured you as he carried Jo on his hip, “See, JJ and Will’s car is already here so there’s two people who already know and like you.”

Spencer rang the doorbell. You heard laughing and lots of conversation inside. You were nervously playing with your hands until Spencer reached over and grabbed one, squeezing it a little before letting go again. The simple gesture soothed you tremendously.

The front opened, revealing an older man with black hair and a goatee.

“You must be Y/N,” he smiled.

“Yes, that’s me,” you shakily returned the smile.

“I’m Dave or Rossi whichever you prefer. Come inside! Dinner will be ready shortly!” he waved to Jo in Spencer’s arms.

You entered the kitchen to see a bunch of grinning faces, staring at you.

“Guys, this is Y/N and you all remember Jo,” he introduced you to the group.

You gave a small wave, “Hi! It’s nice to meet you all.”

A blonde woman was the first to get up off her seat at the kitchen counter and wrap you in a warm hug. You squeaked a little at first, not expecting it.

“Hi, I’m Penelope! Sorry, I’m an avid hugger,” she chirped.

“No worries,” you smiled back.

Another woman with long dark hair approached you next, “I’m Emily! I love your dress!”

“Thank you! I actually got it at a thrift store downtown,” you replied.

Next in line was a man still in his suit, smiling only slightly but you could tell he was trying his hardest.

“I’m Aaron but everyone calls me Hotch,” Hotch said as he shook your hand.

And finally, “Derek Morgan, at your service,” Derek grinned as kissed your hand.

Spencer narrowed his eyes at Derek.

“Ignore him,” he said to you.

“Jo, I’m loving the braids,” JJ said as Spencer set her down on the floor.

“Daddy did the left one,” she beamed.

“Did he now?” JJ looked up at you and Spencer incredulously.

“Yes, he did,” you confirmed.

“He is going to have to start braiding my hair,” Penelope chimed in.

Henry and Jack came running into the kitchen.

“Jo!” Henry exclaimed, “Me and Jack are playing tag. Wanna play?”

Jo nodded enthusiastically and Henry touched her quickly and began running away.

“You’re it!” he called out.

“Oh, that was a cheap shot, Henry,” Will chuckled as the kids all left the kitchen once again.

“Jack is Hotch’s kid,” Spencer explained to you.

“Y/N, do you want some wine?” Emily offered.

You looked up at Spencer and he nodded, mouthing “I’ll drive home”.

“Sure! Thank you,” you accepted the glass.

You were talking to JJ, Will, and Hotch when you heard a familiar crying coming from outside. You set your wine glass down and ran to the backyard.

Jo was on the ground, clutching her knee, and the boys were hunched over her.

“Oh no, Baby J, what happened?” you asked, kneeling down.

“I fell while running and my knee got a boo-boo,” she cried.

You picked her up in your arms, rubbing light circles on her back, as Spencer came running outside carrying a mini first aid kit.

He gently rolled up Jo’s pant leg to above her knee as she clung to your neck.

“Alright, Jo, I have to put on some ointment and a band-aid so the boo-boo doesn’t get infected,” he spoke softly, applying ointment to the little scratch.

After he smoothed the band-aid over it, he kissed her knee three times.

“All better?” he asked.

“Thank you, Daddy,” she sniffled, letting go of you.

“You’re welcome, Princess. How about we have some dinner now?” he asked, using his sleeve to wipe her tears and snot.

Jo nodded and you all got up from the ground, heading back inside.

The rest of the team scrambled away from the window to pretend they weren’t just watching a truly heartwarming co-parenting moment.

[volleychumps]

Can I request a scenario where seijoh has a first year manager and kyoutani lashes out at her, making her cry

SKAJKJDSAKJS *ahem* yes

Seijoh w/ a Manager That Cries bc of Kyoutani 

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

“Y/N, please?” 

“Oikawa, I said no.”

“Yeah. She said no.” 

“Shut up! I heard her the first time!” The setter glares at a chuckling Hanamaki before visibly wilting with a pout, making you giggle at the imitation Mattsun delivers behind him. 

“Why not?” Oikawa attempts again, prompting Iwaizumi to deliver a well-deserved smack upside the brunette’s head, causing him to whine something about continued abuse as you sigh, setting your clipboard down to attempt to gain a hold on things. 

“Y/N doesn’t want to go on a shitty date with you, you piece of trash.” 

“I second that.” 

“I’m your senior, Kunimi-kun!” 

“Is that...the wind I hear Kindaichi?” 

The first year blinks once in utter confusion before beginning to ask what the hell Kunimi meant, causing you to clap your hands together once to handle the chaos, successfully managing to silence the whole Aoba Joshai team efficiently.  

The third years (minus Oikawa) share a knowing smirk, impressed a first-year like you was so capable of handling a group of this demeanor. 

“You guys are cute, but stop goofing off and focus on your practice!” You cross your arms, frowning as Oikawa grins at the term cute, prompting the other third years to trip him as he jogs back to the court. “We have prelims coming up soon, so you guys need to be at your best!” 

“No need to yell, you baby.” Matsukawa taps your head in passing as Kindaichi flashes you a thumbs up, causing you to smile warmly as Oikawa flashes you a wink. 

“Hai~ Y/N-chan!” 

“Your faux crush on her is the lamest thing on earth.” 

“Like you don’t, Iwa-chan. And it is so not faux!” 

“Stop saying shitty things.” 

You smile a bit when they all seem to listen to you, bickering nonetheless before nervously shifting when a single one doesn’t. 

Kentaro Kyoutani was the hardest to get through to ever since he had been recruited, simply ignoring the others and turning down team get-togethers at every opportunity. The boy was skilled, no doubt about it, but still seemed to hold a dangerous edge to him that was evident in his playing skills. 

“Kyotani-Kun?” You swallow your nervousness as you approach him, shifting your hair to the side as the rugged boy simply glances at you once before going back to staring at his laces. “Are you gonna practice?” 

You flinch when he whips his head towards you before clicking his tongue, taking a slow-paced walk towards the gym. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

With those sweet parting words, the spiker huffs once more in a way you almost thought was child-like, before you find yourself facing his back. 

Another big factor about you was you were a tad bit sensitive, meaning when anyone as much raised their voice at you, you found yourself on the verge of tears. When the boys at the last tournament were a little too pushy in getting your number, resorting to grabbing you by the wrist, you yelped a little too loudly- causing your Seijoh boys to step in to the situation accompanied by the cracking of their knuckles. 

You curse the growing lump in your throat before swallowing it down, taking your position to observe the practice. 

“Makki!” 

You grin a little bit as your team’s star setter hits a perfect set to his third-year friend, already forgetting about the previous events before- 

the collision seemed to happen slowly, your hands instinctively grabbing the first aid kit that held multiple ice packs as you rush towards the scene. 

The clipboard falls to the ground as your shoes find themselves in front of a groaning Makki, moving next to be in front of a growling Kyotani who seemed to have a large bruise growing on his calve from the fall. Shakily, you reach an arm out to lightly touch his shoulder as you see from your peripheral vision Mattsun and Oikawa aiding Hanamaki. 

“A-Are you alright...?” 

“Will you just leave me the fuck alone and flirt with all the goddamn team members like you usually do?” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You’re just here because you need a school activity right?” He continues, dark eyes glaring into you judgementally as your hand slackens back, arm falling at your side. “So what, just because you get to stare at guys all day you’re suddenly the boss of us? Give me a fucking break.” 

The silence that settled around the gym was so heavy you felt odd at how quiet the boys were. 

You’re the first to move, kneeling down slowly before opening the first aid kid, carefully placing an ice pack by his side a safe-distance away to where he could still reach it, seeing Oikawa reach a hesitant hand out to you from your now blurred vision as you stand to your feet. 

“Y/N...” 

“Iwa.” 

You turn, fighting the quiver in your shoulders and crack in your voice as the heat floods your eyes and down your cheeks before you can stop it. 

“U-Um...Carry on practice, will you? I’ve got to go to the bathroom...” 

Embarrassed and flustered, you wipe at your eyes as you feel everyone watching you pick up the pace to get out of there sooner, leaving the Seijoh team facing silence once again. 

Kyoutani scoffs at your retreat, not being able to hide the surprise in his features when the one man he respected suddenly had his practice shirt in his fist, pulling him towards his pissed-off expression to lessen the proximity. 

“What the actual hell is wrong with you?” Iwaizumi’s voice was genuinely questioning with an edge that seemed to promise death, scarily quiet to the point where Kyoutani felt a shiver. 

“Y/N hasn’t done you wrong in any way, has she?” Mattsun crosses his arms, obviously irritated as Hanamaki clenches his teeth at the way Kyoutani rolls his eyes, refusing to answer. 

“First you mess up the set- and now you go and make our manager cry? You must be real fun at parties.” Kunimi, surprisingly, scoffs as amusement and irritation twinkles in his usually bored eyes, knowing damn well Kyotani wouldn’t do anything to him with the third years around. 

“Listen.” Iwa growls as Oikawa jogs off in your direction to go find you. “I don’t give a shit if you’re on your period or what, but newsflash: We’re a team. A team that’s lucky to even have a manager like Y/N- so the next time you call her a slut in front of any of us?” 

Kyotani glances at the icepack, furrowing his brows. 

“I won’t hesitate to get the coach to keep you on the bench all season. Don’t forget that.” 

Iwa releases the tightened material, standing up before moving his voice to a volume to speak to the whole team. 

“Practice is almost over anyway. Be here tomorrow morning.” 

Kyotani growls, the growing pain in his calve becoming unnoticeable as the sound of multiple sneakers jogging past him sound, signalling the rest of the team were leaving the gym with him by his lonesome- 

a melting ice pack now in a gripped hand as a foreign emotion swirls around in the spiker’s stomach.

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

“I’m not crying!” 

“You’re totally crying.” 

Iwa swats Oikawa for the second time that day, causing the brunette to groan as Matsukawa taps on the women’s bathroom door, Hanamaki leaning on the wall next to it. After instructing the underclassmen to head home to let them handle this, you now had four tall, scary-looking dudes (again, minus Oikawa) outside the women’s bathroom waiting for you. 

“Will you all just go home?” You groan through the door, dabbing at your now puffy eyes with cold water as you hear Iwaizumi audibly sigh. 

“Come out so we can at least make sure you’re okay.” Hanamaki calls through the door as you lean your back against the door, not wanting them to see you like this. 

“I’m fine. Thank you all for caring.” you respond softly, tapping your head back against the door. “Maybe this manager position isn’t for me.” 

“What?! You’re gonna let some little punk tell you what you should and shouldn’t be doing?” Mattsun exclaims, irritation evident in his voice at the thought of you giving up as you sigh, opening up the door as you manage a smile at the relief that floods their faces. 

“I don’t know. I shouldn’t...but what if he’s right?”

“I’m not.” 

You flinch at the voice, eyes widening as Iwa and Hanamaki simutaneously take a step in front of you as Kyotani takes limping steps towards the five of you. 

“No. Um...” You push them apart, surprising the both of them as you step through. “Let him speak.” 

“..............sorry.” 

“Wow. Give him a standing ovation, everyone.” 

Oikawa flinches, hiding behind you at the raise of Iwa’s hand as you find yourself smiling gently at the way Kyotani was looking everywhere else but you, your smile widening at the gripped and dripping ice pack in his hold. 

“I...” Kyotani coughs, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said those things. Sorry. I hurt my leg.” 

Despite the simplicity of his words, a beam spread across your face before you look down at said leg. 

“Will you let me wrap it for you?” 

Kyotani relaxes a little as you approach him, nodding once as the third-years smirk at the fact that you were beginning to have the newcomer as whipped for you as the rest of them were. 

“See you guys at practice tomorrow?” You ask with a now bright grin, supporting Kyotani with his arm wrapped around his shoulder as you turn towards the direction of the infirmirary. 

“Sure you don’t need us to come?” 

“He’s not dangerous.” You roll your eyes, causing Kyotani’s eyes to widen a fraction at your words before Oikawa’s groan sounds throughout the hall. 

“Does this mean even more competition?!” 

“You really are a piece of shit.” 

[siimjaeyun]

blue bag- jay park

genre: fluff, angst, bad boy au

tw: street violence, mentions of gangs

-------

Jay's reputation at Belift wasn't exactly a secret to most people. The loose uniform with the leather jacket, covered bruises, and exposed tattoos were noticeable to anyone who bothered to pay attention.

Most people would like to assume to not judge him by his appearance, but his character matched it to a tea. He never bothered to give anyone the time of the day, much less even look in their direction. The only people who received such privileges were his closest six friends.

Or anyone who dared to cross his path- including the slight punches he's thrown at the occasional classmate.

But people couldn't see behind his intentions. Like the time he almost beat one of uppers to a pulp when they tried picking on jungwon his first year. All good intentions.

On this fateful day, the teacher had thought a slight change would mix things up. Instead of placing Jay in the back by himself like usual, he placed him right beside you.

"Hi Jay!" Your warm welcome startled him to say the least. Sure, he was used to love letters by other girls, but you didn't really look at him that way.

He stayed silent and placed his head back onto the desk. At the end of class, you bid him goodbye and walked out with your friends who seemed to tattle over him almost immediately.

-------

After yet again another argument with the rivaling gang leader, he finds himself cornered in the back of an alley way. Maybe it wasn't the smartest idea to think you could fight five men at once.

Tired, and out of breath, he's barely holding onto himself before there's a final blow to his lower stomach, collapsing onto the ground before him.

The men are about to approach him, this time, aiming towards his back, but retreat at the sounds of a siren.

"Here, hurry! They might come back." He looks up and finds it's you, carrying a bag in one hand and reaching out towards him with the other.

"Get lost." Jay, who is too stubborn to ask for help, attempts to get up before his knees give up on him.

"You can't walk. Stop being a bitch and let me help you." You swing his arm over your shoulder, and pull him up, guiding him towards the exit of alley way. At the closest convenience store, you rest him on a bench, bringing a towel to his face to wipe off the blood from his brow and lip.

"How did you see me?" He barely manages to ask.

"I didn't know it was you until I saw your face, which is very beat up by the way." He observes quietly and patiently waits for you retreat the towel from his face, slowly admiring the way you move your eyebrows while humming a small beat. 

“I’m done. I’ll call a taxi to take you home so you can finish up. I’m going to assume this isn’t the first time you get beat up.” Jay, snapping back to reality, stands up quickly and blocks your view of the street. 

“I can manage. Now go home.” He nods towards the direction of the grand city. 

“You can barely walk. Either I take you home, or text someone to come pick you up.” Jay immediately takes the second option, and searches quickly for his phone before realizing he must of left at it home. 

“Go ahead, call the taxi.” He mutters under his breath. The bright lights signal to him that he has arrived, and in silence, you drop him off, and leave, not letting Jay even look back and say a quick ‘thank you.’ 

----- 

If Jay didn’t know any better, it’s almost as if nothing had occurred yesterday. He’s still wearing his black mask to cover up his bruises, but you walked in with a smile and the same welcome from the past two weeks. 

Usually, he would turn the other way or not even bother to look at you, but his slight nod was reassurance enough. 

At the end of class, he was almost the last to leave, given that he had woken up from napping the entire class. Rather than seeing the empty room he was used to waking up in, he saw you again in front of him, holding a blue bag. 

“Here. Eat well okay?” You left the bag onto his desk and walked out again before he could respond. He stuffed the bag into his backpack and went towards the lunch room he was used to meeting his friends in. 

“Jay’s late and beat up. What a surprise.” Sunoo’s snarky comment doesn’t catch him off guard, and instead pulls out the blue bag from his backpack and rests it on the table. 

“Oh? Jay brought lunch? Quick, let’s rate his cooking skills.” Before Jay can react, Heeseung had already snatched it from the table, pulling out a Tupperware with a sticky note on top. 

“Who’s y/n? And why did she call you a loser?” Heeseung asks, opening the container to a bento box. 

“No one, now give it back.” Jay takes back the container, almost admiring the contents inside. 

It was the first time his heart began to take notice of you. 

----- 

Everyone was quickly suspicious about Jay’s relationship with you. It all started with him publicly going to you and thanking you for the food. Then it was the constant good mornings when you would welcome him at the beginning of class. Then it was the morning coffee, and walking you to class in the morning. He was practically stuck to you when he wasn’t with his friends. 

“You know, I think Jay likes you.” One of your friends mentioned casually, causing you to roll your eyes. 

“Stop taking those rumors too seriously, he’s just paying back a favor.”

Yet, your friends weren’t the only ones who were beginning to notice. Most noticeably, Jay’s very own friends. 

“Sunghoon, I don’t like her, so can you shut up?” Jay, almost irritated by the constant confusion of emotions. 

“So, you wouldn’t mind her being so close with Sunoo?” Jake points at your direction. You laughing and trying to hold yourself together while punching Sunoo in the arm. 

“No. Of course not." Yet, he still finds himself burning holes into Sunoo's skull as he sees you wrap an arm around his neck to pull him into a head lock.

It seemed as if that was the last straw because in the next moment, Sunghoon was attempting to prevent Jay's next big mess.

"Get your hands off him." Jay commands, catching not only your attention, but those around him as well.

"Relax Jay, she's just playing around." Sunoo gets himself out of the head lock, and looks at your face who's been cleared of any laughter.

"I'll see you later Sunoo." You can't even look at Jay in the eyes before walking off with another friend.

"What's wrong with you? You know she wasn't hurting me!"

"Don't talk to me right now Sunoo." Jay storms off in the opposite direction while Sunoo turns his head to the side at Sunghoon.

"Am I going to die?"

"Not yet anyway. I think if you stay off y/n, maybe it'll extend your life line." Sunghoon states honestly.

"What do you think would happen if I told him she's my cousin?"

"I don't know but I've never seen Jay so..like this. Its a good look on him."

However, Jay is his full fledged rage, begins to shove everyone in his way including a poor freshman who happens to fall in front of your locker.

"Jay what the fuck!? Are you okay?" You crouch down and reach your hand out, giving Jay a bitter feeling.

"Is this how you catch men? You pretend to be the good guy?"

"Excuse me?" You repeat, shocked at Jay's sudden attitude.

"Nevermind just stay away from me? Got it?" You don't even process the words before he dashes off, ignoring his friends who are attempting to catch his attention.

"Sunghoon, what's his issue ?" Sunghoon only let's out a heavy sigh before shrugging his shoulders.

"It's not my business, but I can assure you that anger won't end well."

-----

And it just so happens that Sunghoon's response was quiet accurate considering Jay's familiar situation. He's been long enough member of his gang to know what territories they're not exactly welcomed.

Yet, he doesn't care and does so anyway because anything is better than having to imagine you with some one else.

"Haven't seen you in a while Jay, must have been busy hmm." The leader mocks him, but it only infuriates the pent up anger within him causing him to land a punch at his gut.

"Don't test me." And as if history repeats itself, he finds himself once more cornered in the back of an alley way. With the collection of bruises forming on his stomach, one could tell he was a kick or two away from a good surgery.

"Jay! Stop!" He curses himself mentally when he watches you run towards him.

"You better leave pretty one...I mean unless..." He approaches you, reaching for your chin to tilt it sidewards, leading to Jay using his last strength to push him off you.

"Don't touch her." Jay grits his teeth, earning a smirk that quickly turns into a frown at hearing the sound of police sirens.

"You got lucky this time." He flees the scene leaving you again with a bloodied up Jay.

"You promised me to not fight anymore!" Jay chooses to ignore you and limps away to a nearby post.

"And I told you to stay away from me y/n. I don't need people like you to worry about me because they pity me" He responds.

"How am I not supposed to worry when you left so suddenly? One moment we're good and the next you're mad at Sunoo and everyone?" You place him on the stair case while getting your first aid kit ready.

"How am I supposed to stay away when you worry me? Do you have any idea how fast I ran here with this when Jake told me you weren't at your house?" You continue to apply a bit of alcohol on his open cuts.

"I'm sorry, I was upset. I saw you with Sunoo earlier and I don't know what came over me. Sunoo is so darn perfect, and what about me? I was afraid you'd leave me." Jay mumbles the last part quietly, but you manage to hear it well.

Without much hesitancy, you press a light kiss onto his bruised and swollen lips. He gasps slightly but manages to wrap his arms around your waist.

"I'm not leaving okay, I'm here to stay if you want me to." Jay grabs you and pulls you in for a hug, resting his face in the crook of your neck.

"Please stay." He mumbles, letting his grip on you get stronger. He stays there for a while, before looking at the blue bag in your hand.

"What's this?"

"I brought some dinner because I figured you would be too lazy to do it yourself and end up eating frozen nuggets again." He smiles slightly before admiring your features.

"I really like you y/n.." Jay confesses, still in the position of hugging you.

"I like you too Jay...I really do." A grin forms on his face and he drops another kiss on your cheek before leading the way out.

Perhaps Jay wasn't exactly perfect, but you always knew he was more than ready to love and learn by your side.

------

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts haha, but I figured we could all use a little fluff with everything going on :( <3

[hartigays]

rafebarry prompt: not canon compliant but rafe and barry are trying to get away from ward but barry gets hurt so rafe begs sarah + pouges (not on good terms w each other) to help them escape bc he loves barry<33

just a little something i thought about! totally up to you on how this all goes down if you decide to write it, anything you write is amazing !!

this was a stupid fucking idea. stupid, stupid, stupid. rafe knew from the beginning, he should’ve never agreed to this.

there aren’t many things that he and barry don’t agree on, surprisingly. even if they start off disagreeing about something, they generally always end up on the same page. but this plan had been something they’d gone back and forth on, never settling on a definitive decision.

in the end, barry had simply manhandled rafe over to the place he’d formerly called home - before ward booted his ass out - and waltzed them through the front door like they owned the place.

all to steal from ward, to get more money for coke and groceries (re: booze and hot pockets) and whatever other fleeting indulgences they could think of.

rafe had disagreed with this plan throughout its development and execution, not wanting to cross the one and only person in the entire world who scares him: ward cameron. and he’d been right to, because now barry is gasping for air, holding his side while blood spills from between his fingers.

they’re racing through the woods, trying to get as far away from ward’s long-range hunting rifle as they can.

rafe doesn’t know if ward knew he was barry’s companion in this little venture. he’d insisted they wear bandanas over their faces, but rafe is pretty sure ward would know his son in a heartbeat regardless.

he doesn’t even want to think about it. about the fact that ward shot barry, or that he probably would’ve shot rafe too if rafe hadn’t had the presence of mind to shove both barry and himself out of the nearest window, plunging into the bushes below before ward could get off another shot.

another shot on the person he more than likely knew to be his son.

ward had continued taking shots as rafe dragged barry across the yard and into the treeline, disappearing from view.

now, they’re back at the main road, barry collapsing against a tree as he clenches his hand around the wound in his side.

“let me see,” rafe demands, kneeling down and peeling up barry’s shirt despite barry shaking his head.

“ain’t got time, country club,” barry wheezes, trying to push rafe back so he’ll stand up and keep moving.

rafe doesn’t budge, just swipes at the blood with his shirt sleeve to get a better look at the wound. the bullet just grazed him, but it’s enough to warrant stitches at the very least.

“you’re not going to make it to the emergency room like this,” rafe comments absentmindedly, pulling out his phone a firing off a text to topper letting him know he’s going to need to borrow his car.

barry manages to push rafe back an inch this time, shaking his head furiously. “ain’t no way i’m goin’ to no damn hospital. i ain’t got insurance and your daddy done cut you off months ago. how you gonna pay for my little siesta in the ER with them empty pockets?”

and okay, he has a point. rafe will admit that. not to mention, ward has people all over the OBX, and if he sends out word about looking for his son, they’ll surely be caught if they’re trapped in the emergency room.

there’s only one other place rafe can think to go. one place where ward won’t know to look, one place where barry can get some medical help without having to shell out a fortune.

rafe may have to grovel a bit (or a lot), but he’ll do it. damn it, he’ll fucking do it because barry is going to bleed out if he doesn’t and that would really fucking suck because rafe was just starting to sort of like him.

he must’ve said that last part out loud, because barry manages to glare at him and say, “quit that shit. we been dating for a year, dickhead.”

then barry sort of slumps to the side, and rafe has to all but carry him to topper’s place.

rafe has just gotten the keys topper keeps in the cupholder into the ignition when he looks at his phone, seeing a text from top.

can’t let u borrow the car tonight, have a thing in the morning. srry bud.

rafe glances over at barry, who’s blacked out in the passenger’s seat, fresh blood still seeping out of his shirt.

“sorry about this, top,” rafe says to himself, turning the key and hearing the engine roar to life. “i’ll get you back later.”

he peels out of the driveway, speeding down the familiar streets until they become more and more unfamiliar, figure eight bleeding into the cut.

he zooms past more and more unfamiliar houses, searching for the only one he knows, starting to feel hopeless, starting to really worry that barry might actually die in the passenger’s seat of his car.

or topper’s car, rather. it’d be super annoying to have to apologize for that on top of having to apologize for stealing it in the first place, to be honest.

then suddenly, rafe is idling outside a house that is both familiar and unfamiliar. the few times he’s been here before, he’d been fucked up beyond belief and fueled by violent anger. it seems almost foreign to him now, while he’s sober as a judge (only due to his current circumstances, mind you) and fueled by nothing but pure adrenaline.

rafe practically drags barry to the house. there are all sorts of lights on, both inside and out, and rafe can hear the sounds of music and laughter drifting out from an open window nearby.

he only hesitates for a moment before circling around the house and banging on the door.

john b answers the door with a smile, a small wad of cash in his hand, clearly expecting some sort of food delivery. his smile fades instantly when he realizes it’s not his pizza or what the fuck ever, and is in fact rafe cameron and a half-dead barry.

“no,” is all john b says before trying to shut the door. rafe kicks his leg out, foot jamming between the door and the frame, preventing john b from closing it.

“fuck off, rafe,” john b grunts as he tries to shut the door. rafe can hear concerned voices from inside the house. “you’re not dragging us into whatever shit this is! literally fuck. off.”

“sarah!” rafe shouts, ignoring john b’s protests. “sarah!”

footsteps, and then sarah is pushing john b out of the way gently, looking at rafe in confusion, then at barry in horror.

“rafe? oh my god, what happened?”

sarah ushers them into the house, and rafe is literally dragging barry at this point. still, no one helps him get barry onto the couch. he manages regardless, but he’s panting when it’s all said and done, sliding down onto the floor with a grunt.

“i need you to help him,” rafe says, and he’s looking at pope, who’s seated in the corner beside jj, a guitar that he’s no longer strumming still sitting in his lap.

but john b is the one to answer, shaking his head. “no. besides, we can’t even help him. we don’t know how to do shit like that.”

“he does,” rafe says, still looking at pope, who’s now looking at barry thoughtfully.

“what?” kie laughs, looking bewildered. “pope may be smart, yeah, but he doesn’t have a medical degree. this guy needs a doctor.”

“i know how,” pope sighs, and rafe suppresses a smug smile. “i volunteered at the hospital last summer, remember?”

“and you knew this how?” john b asks rafe, accusatory.

“he was on my rounds once,” pope says calmly, leveling rafe with an unreadable look. “alcohol poisoning and a drug overdose all in one night.”

rafe fights the urge to look away, choosing instead to shrug nonchalantly.

“just another night in the cut, right?” rafe asks, arching one brow. “look, we can dredge up my poor life choices later, if it’ll make you all feel better and get your fucking panties out of a wad. but right now he needs help, so are you going to give him that or are you going to let him bleed out on your ugly ass couch?”

“i say let him bleed out,” john b snaps, clearly irked by rafe’s demands and insults.

rafe wants to knock the guy’s teeth down his throat, but he just breathes steadily through his nose. just like barry has been teaching him. “we can’t go to a hospital. no insurance, and ward’s hunting us down as we speak. so do i want to fucking be here? no. but i have to, so name your fucking price and we’ll pay it.”

“besides,” rafe continues, turning his eyes to sarah, challenging her, “you’re not just going to let someone die, are you?”

sarah narrows her eyes, hands perched on her hips. “no, that’s more your style, isn’t it?” then, she looks at pope. “come on, help him. he isn’t dying on john b’s couch. that’s way too creepy for me to deal with right now.”

pope nods and disappears from the room as sarah and john b bicker quietly. kie and jj glare daggers at rafe, while also eyeing barry, lying on the couch looking far more dead than alive.

when pope reappears, he has a first aid kit in one hand and a sewing kit in the other. he shoos rafe out of the way. rafe just scoots a little further to the left to give pope room, but stays close to barry.

“rafe, we need to talk,” sarah says after a moment. “outside?”

rafe shakes his head. “not until i know he’s okay.”

the room falls silent, and rafe looks around, glaring. “what, it’s illegal to care about people now? fuck off.”

“so do you want us to like… give you a room, or something? maybe some champagne and rose petals? we could get some ambient beats going, really set the mood, you know- ”

kie throws a pillow at jj, effectively shutting him up. “gross, jj. don’t put that image into my head.”

“look, whatever,” sarah interrupts, rolling her eyes. “but once he’s patched up, we’re having a conversation.”

rafe puts his hands up in mock surrender. “your house, your rules.”

he’s only trying to irritate john b, and it works. rafe smiles to himself when john b starts grumbling about it being his house actually, storming off to his room, undoubtedly to pout. sarah follows, and kie and jj trail after them a moment later. jj is the only one to look back, throwing a concerned look in pope’s direction before inevitably disappearing into john b’s bedroom.

rafe looks back at barry, all smugness disappearing from his expression when he sees just how bad the wound really is now that pope has cleaned it up a bit.

he really doesn’t care if he has to talk to sarah later - all he knows is that if barry dies, he’s sure as hell not going to be outside listening to sarah bitch at him when it happens.

rafe takes one of barry’s hands, ignoring the way pope’s eyes flicker down to the movement before returning to his work, remaining silent.

“you love him,” pope says suddenly, still not looking at rafe. he’s began sewing up the wound, his hands surprisingly steady.

“what’s it to you?” rafe asks defensively, but he curls his fingers tighter around barry’s, a little possessively.

pope just shrugs, like he doesn’t really care one way or another. “just an observation.”

he ties off the thread and cleans up the remaining dried blood from the wound with a rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton ball before applying a bandage and tugging barry’s shirt back down. it’s a lost cause, the shirt, but rafe appreciates the gesture anyway.

“it’s good to know you care about someone other than yourself,” pope says, finally turning towards rafe and giving him a hard look. “maybe there’s hope for assholes like you after all.”

rafe opens his mouth to say something bitchy back, but pope just claps him on the shoulder, stands and cracks his back, then leaves the room.

it’s just rafe and a passed out barry now. at least this way he can openly worry about his boyfriend, gnawing on his lip as he thinks about what it’ll be like if barry doesn’t make it.

rafe has been living with barry for some time now, ever since ward kicked him out. it’d started with sarah - she’d ran away and no one had known where. rafe ended up finding out through topper, but never seemed to get around to telling ward. don’t ask him why - he really doesn’t fucking know.

after sarah’s disappearance, ward’s temper reached its peak and rafe was kicked out mere weeks after his sister had gone missing. he stayed with topper for a while at first, often making trips to the cut to harass the dirty pogues who’d whisked his sister away from their supposedly happy family and her happy relationship with one of rafe’s closest friends.

when topper’s mother got sick of rafe loitering around her house, the only place left to go was barry’s. it’d helped that they’d already been screwing around for a while, initially so rafe could get discounts on coke, then turning into a full blown something over time.

their relationship has a definition now. barry had manhandled rafe into bed one evening and declared them to be officially official. meaning a relationship, meaning a bunch of figuring shit out as he goes because rafe sure as shit has never done any of this before.

he’s also pretty sure other relationships don’t involve hard drugs and robberies and shootings, so he thinks he’s got a few more obstacles to overcome than most when traveling the rocky road of a first relationship.

“rafe?” sarah calls, suddenly re-entering the room. “think we can talk now?”

rafe looks at her for a long moment. she looks different - happier, maybe? rafe wonders if he looks the same. maybe not right at this moment, with barry’s limp, clammy hand resting between his own, waiting on bated breath for barry’s eyes to blink open.

the need to hear barry’s slow drawl of coUnTrY cLUuUb is almost too much to bear, so rafe cuts his line of thought off, nods at sarah in answer to her question, and follows her outside.

they don’t talk for a long while, just staring out across the yard in silence. it’s not uncomfortable, per se, but rafe still wishes she’d say what she wants to say so he can get back inside. back to barry.

“this is a one time deal, you know,” sarah finally tells him.

when he looks at her from the corner of his eye, she’s staring directly at him, her expression serious. “i know,” is all he can come up with.

“i expect a thank you, just so you know.”

“i’m not thanking you,” rafe says immediately.

sarah actually smiles, just a little bit, then parrots back, “i know.”

“what did you want to talk to me about?” rafe asks eventually, pulling a cigarette from the pack he keeps in his pocket and lighting up.

sarah doesn’t answer for a moment, then shrugs, looking down at her hands. “i hate you, for the way you’ve treated me. and my friends. but sometimes i miss you. i miss my brother. what happened to you?”

it’s almost like she’s just thinking aloud, but rafe knows it’s a genuine question. one he doesn’t have an answer to. because he doesn’t really know where he went wrong - just that he could never seem to get anything right. not as a kid, not as a teenager, and not now as an adult.

“i don’t know,” rafe answers honestly, for the first time in a long time. he doesn’t know what else to say, so he tells her, simply, “but thank you for helping anyway.”

yeah, yeah. he wasn’t going to thank her, blah blah blah. whatever, shit happens.

the back door swings open, and rafe and sarah turn to watch barry stumble out of the house, still clutching his side but finally looking like a living, breathing person instead of a corpse.

“ain’t i tell you them things gonna rot your lungs?” is the first thing he says, plucking the cigarette from rafe’s lips and taking a drag.

rafe rolls his eyes, but lets barry rope him into a hug, careful not to bump into his wound.

“ugh, gross,” sarah huffs, making fake gagging noises before going back inside. rafe doesn’t miss the small smile that’s playing on her lips, though, and he’s suddenly filled with warmth.

it’s disgusting, and he’s surprised that he’s missed it. and that maybe, deep down, he’s missed his sister, too.

she said this is a one time deal, but maybe there’s a possibility of reconciliation. it’s a thought to revisit at a later date, rafe decides, wanting to focus on this moment right here, where barry is blessedly alive and safe.

so rafe just leans down a bit and buries his face in barry’s neck, taking a deep breath, feeling barry inhale and exhale around his cigarette as they stand in each other’s arms, companionable silence falling around them.

“you done saved my life, country club,” barry says, the first to break the silence.

rafe smiles against barry’s neck at the nickname, pressing a kiss to barry’s pulse point before pulling back a bit to look at him.

“yeah, you’re the only one who knows how to empty the septic tank,” rafe replies, deadpan.

barry throws his head back and laughs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of rafe’s head, pulling him down gently so he can press a kiss to his forehead.

“damn good thing you saved my ass, then.”

“sure is.”

when barry kisses rafe, he tastes like tobacco and blood, sour and metallic on his tongue. rafe should think it’s gross, but he just kisses barry harder, trying to scrub all the thoughts he’d had about barry dying from his memory.

it helps to have barry here, real and solid in rafe’s arms, lips soft against his own.

“can we get outta this shithole and back to our shithole?” barry asks when they separate, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “‘m pretty sure them shits would object to us christening their couch.”

rafe, for a moment, is tempted to try just to see what kind of reaction he’d get. but instead of following the urge, he lets barry guide him back to topper’s stolen car.

“who’s ride is this?” barry asks when they’re both buckled in, backing away from the routledge property.

“topper’s,” rafe explains, smirking to himself. “i, uh. borrowed it for the time being.”

“for the time being?” barry questions, and when rafe looks at him, barry is looking right back, brows raised and amusement written all over his face.

“mhm,” rafe confirms, matter-of-factly.

barry just glances around the car, a slow smirk spreading across his lips. “sweet ride. think ol’ topper’d object to a little christening, too?”

rafe starts the car, letting his own smirk grow. “as a matter of fact, i think he would.”

barry blinks at him, then stares at his nails casually.

“so where we gonna park her?”

rafe just smiles, peeling away from the routledge house, cruising into the night.

“i know just the place.”

[prettyvampiress96]

Breaking point part 2 - Felix Volturi ANGST

Before Demetri followed in pursuit of Felix he stopped by Heidi's room and briefed her on the recent events asking if she would subtly help you . He had a Felix to see too. Felix had stormed off to the training room wanting to avoid everyone else but Demetri was not about to let his friends anger get the better of him. Demetri motioned his head at the few lower guard members hinting at them to leave the two alone. "Go away D , I want to be alone" Felix said not even turning to look at Demetri. Demetri scoffed in response Felix needed to hear what had to be said and to hell with it.

"No you won't be left alone , you do not get to dismiss me. The other guards may put up with it but by now you should know I i not. As your best friend Felix I have to say that I am absolutely appalled at the way you have just spoken to your mate and furthermore I am furious that you had the nerve to take the anger you have for the twin's out on her. You physically hurt your mate and that is something I won't stand by and watch" warned Demetri, keeping his eyes on Felix watching for a reaction but there was none. "I said somethings yes but" Felix started speaking but Demetri held his hand up silencing him. "But what ?But nothing. There is no but here Felix you hurt her and not just with your words , you pushed her through that table perhaps not intentionally but you still did it . She's back in that room seeing to her own injuries because she wanted me to come after you, even after you hurt HER , she is still putting you first. You seriously need to get your act together , you were angry at the twins not her . There are plenty of other ways to lose that anger . I'll take it for god's sake , that poor thing does not deserve the pain she is about to feel , and for what all because your feelings got hurt. Well I have news for you buddy this whole thing wouldn't have been easy on her either but she accepted you and vice versa. You want to be alone so be it , but you think about what you have done and in the meantime I will take care of your mate" seethed Demetri , he raked his hand through his hair in frustration and turned to leave Felix sitting there alone.

When Demetri returned to Felix's room Heidi told him that you hadn't spoken a word or moved to sort your injuries and you wouldn't allow Heidi to look. He had to do something . He was actually fond of you. " Could you rush to the medical wing and grab a few supplies , I'll handle Y/n oh and we will be in my room , she can't stay in there" Demetri asked Heidi nicely before entering the room and crouching down to your eye level. You flinched when you felt the cold hands grasp yours , snapping out of the trance you were in , you came eye to eye with Demetri and you relaxed slightly. "Come on darling, you'll stay under my care. For the time being it'll be easier to have you in my room until we get this one sorted plus I get to have extra time with my favourite little human" Demetri grinned slowly pulling you to your feet before you hissed with pain. Demetri gently picked you up bridal style carrying you down the hall to his room and to the bathroom.

Heidi returned with a first aid kit with extras that Dem would require. Demetri had Heidi assist you in the bath. When you emerged from the bathroom Demetri had you sit on the end of his bed and explained that he needed to stitch up a few of the deeper cuts and apply some anti-septic cream to the shallower ones . He was thankful for Carlisle's years in the Volturi . Every time you flinched or hissed from the pain Demetri profusely apologised and promised he was nearly finished. Heidi brought in some loose fitting sleepwear for you along with some food, drink and painkillers. You accepted the medication and the drink but you couldn't bring yourself to eat. The mere thought of food making your stomach twist. Demetri understood and made a note to try again later.

A few days past and Felix had began hounding Demetri about your well- being and as usual Demetri ignored any questions about you. "I just want to know how she is. I need to know, it's killing me. I regret everything that day you were right I didn't mean anything I said and I definitely did not mean to hurt her of course I didn't . I love her please d I need your help" Felix begged hands clasped together in front of him . "It's not me you need to say that too Felix . She's in a bad way . She barely speaks. She doesn't touch her food , I'm on my way to take her to the gardens for some air in hope that will help some what so excuse me" Demetri said. He had spoken to Carlisle and asked for some advise , when Carlisle said it sounded like depression. Demetri instantly began looking into ways to help and a change of scenery was one of them. When Demetri reached his room he knocked and entered so that he didn't scare you. He walked over to the closet and pulled one of his cloaks out before handing it to you. You looked up at him with a confused expression. "I'm taking you down to the garden's for a spot of fresh air and I promise if you don't like it I will bring you right back" Demetri offered pleading. As you stepped out of the room for the first time since the incident you started panicking slightly , Demetri whom was by your side the entire time held your hand in his, rubbing soothing circles on the back of your hand with his thumb. Before you knew it , you were at the gardens and the first few inhales of fresh air felt like it burned your lungs but it was a pain you welcomed. "Demetri?" you asked , your voice coming out as barely a whisper . "Yes y/n" he replied with a tilt of his head. "Was it something I did?" you queried unsure. Although before Demetri could answer somebody else did. " No , it wasn't anything you did, the fault lies with me "Felix spoke answering your question, out of instinct you took steps backwards and hid slightly behind Demetri's form. "I never should have reacted the way I did and for that I am truly sorry. I hurt the one person I love more than anything and I've made you doubt yourself. I understand your reaction but I do sincerely hope that with time you'll allow me to make it up to you" Felix apologised before going back the way he came. He had to make this right . He just had too.

[kaylaxwrites]

Bar Fight

Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader Words: 2.1k Request: “Idk if you are up for it but if you are, a request: Frank Castle x reader where he has to stitch her up after she gets into a fight with a guy at the bar who was hitting on her and touched her inappropriately, Frank being both mad at her for putting herself in danger and fighting a bigger guy and also being impressed at how baddass she is because he didnt expect her to get into a fight” (anon) A/N: god I wish I could write smut bc this got real close folks. and this accidentally skipped the two requests above this, but I’m finishing up Punisher season 2, so I have a little bit more inspo for Frank

Warnings: reader gets groped nonconsensually by a stranger, reader gets called a bitch (but I don’t think I used anything worse), lots of cursing, but I mean, it’s a punisher fic

You sipped at your drink as you sat at the bar, fiddling idly with the straw your drink was served with, waiting for Frank to show up. It was your weekly date—between your job and Frank’s…whatever he did, it was hard to find the time to spend with one another. But Frank was running late. And you were getting annoyed.

As you debated sending Frank a text, a man slid against the bar next to you, despite the numerous empty seats on either side of you. You rolled your eyes. You didn’t feel like dealing with whatever bullshit this was about to bring. You tried your best to ignore him, but looks like he was going to make that impossible.

“Hey there,” he said, ducking his head down to try and get in your line of sight.

“Hi,” you deadpanned. You glanced around the room, hoping Frank had arrived without you noticing.

“What’s your name, gorgeous? I’m Aaron.”

You finished the last of your drink in one quick gulp. “Does it matter?”

“Just making conversation, baby, what’s the big deal?”

You swiveled in your chair to face him. “The deal is I’m clearly not interested. Now fuck off and go bother someone else.”

“Don’t be like that, baby,” he said as he slid his hand down your back to grope at your ass and hip. You ducked your head down and grimaced. Looks like it was gonna take more than a verbal no to get rid of this guy. Fuck. You rolled your head back up to look at the man, a fake smile plastered on your face. From his answering smirk, he fell for it.

You slid down from your seat and swung your jacket over your shoulders, tossing a handful of dollar bills on the counter to cover your tab. “Let’s take this outside, handsome,” you said, brushing past him and heading for the door. The instant your face was out of his sight, your smiled dropped and you rolled your eyes as he trailed after you. You could practically feel his gaze on the swing of your hips as you walked.

Pushing the door open, you breathed in the crisp fall air as you stepped outside, thankful for the easy breeze that cooled your skin and settled your mind. You were already wound up from the workday you just had and this definitely wasn’t how you wanted to finish out your evening. You just wanted to be with Frank and not have to worry about anything other than you and him.

As you walked around the corner of the building to the alleyway, you briefly went over the self-defense moves Frank had taught you in the past year or so you’d known him. With the practice from all the drills he made you run, you were confident you could take this guy—at least enough to shake some decency into his head and to send him running with his tail tucked between his legs.

You allowed the man to cage you in against the wall, a hand on either side of your head. You fought down your gag reflex as his smoke-coated breath fanned over your face. “You gave in pretty quick,” he said. “The chase is half the fun.” He leaned in closer to you, widening his stance. You grinned to yourself at the opportunity the movement presented.

“Harass all your girls like that?” you asked. A confused raise of an eyebrow was all he had time for before you were moving.

In one quick exhale, you brought your knee up into the man’s groin. As he doubled over, you slammed your elbow into the side of his head. You took a few steps away to give yourself distance and prepare for you next move, but he recovered faster than you thought he would. Within a few seconds, he was on you, wrapping you in a bear hug from behind. This was the most recent move you learned from Frank, but you had no time to hesitate. You dropped your center of gravity and rolled forward, flipping the taller man over your shoulder. You scrambled to your feet, but a sharp pain at your calf nearly brought you to your knees. You glanced down and the deep red on your pant leg nearly made you nauseous.

The fucker had a knife and he sliced your leg open. And these were your favorite pair of pants!

Before you could let your anger and adrenaline consume you and make you attempt to beat the man within an inch of his life (keyword: attempt), he let out a squeal. You glanced over. A boot was pressed none-too-gently into his wrist—you could almost hear the bone snap. You followed the leg up until you met Frank’s eyes.

You breathed a sigh of relief.

Frank slid his attention back to the man at his feet. Aaron was frantically trying to pry Frank’s boot off of his arm, but Frank was immovable. “The hell is going on here?” he asked, looking to you for answers.

Before you could answer, Aaron started stammering out an answer. “She—she started it, man! I was just—I was just defending myself!”

“That right?” Frank’s eyes turned to yours once more.

“More or less,” you shrugged, more focused on the gash on your leg. Maybe you had started the altercation, but… “Asshole groped me at the bar. Thought I knew enough to teach him some manners.”

“Yeah? We’ll talk about that later,” he said, pointing to you before returning his attention to the man at his feet. “You out here assaulting women?”

“It’s not like that, man! C’mon, get off me!” Aaron cried, struggling to pull his arm free.

Frank knelt to get closer to the man’s face, never easing the pressure on his wrist. “Calling my girl a liar, then?”

“Goddamn bitch led me on!” Aaron shouted.

“I was minding my own goddamn business!” you shouted back, plopping yourself onto the ground and pressing your hand against your still-bleeding wound.

“See?” Frank said, leaning even closer to the man pinned on the ground. “I think I believe her over you.” He pressed harder into the man’s arm, pressing until you could hear it snap from several feet away. You almost winced in sympathy.

“I didn’t know she was yours!” Aaron screamed as his forearm snapped clean in two.

“Doesn’t fucking matter.”

The next few moments were a blur. You kept your eyes on your leg, trying to ignore the constant sound of Frank’s fist pounding into flesh. Sure, maybe you started the fight, but you hated watching Frank finish them. After several minutes, you called out his name.

“Frank,” you said, softly at first. Then louder. “Frank. Frank!” On the third call of his name, he paused. He didn’t look at you, but you knew he was listening. “Piece of shit’s not worth it.” He moved to swing another punch, but you called out again, “He’s not worth it. Frank, please. I just want to go home.”

With a huff, Frank rose from his knees. He gave one last kick to Aaron’s ribs before turning to you. You took his outstretched hands and he pulled you to your feet. You wobbled for a moment, but Frank was there to steady you. He pulled your arm over his shoulder and grabbed you around the waist. Half carrying you, he helped you limp home.

The stairs to your apartment turned out to be one hurdle you couldn’t clear. After gasping and whimpering your way up a handful of stairs, Frank had had enough and pulled you into his arms, carrying you up the remaining flights.

Once in your apartment, Frank sat you gently on the bathroom counter before ducking down to grab the first aid kit from the cabinet underneath you. He sat on the closed toilet seat and pulled your injured leg across his lap. You winced as he pulled your pant leg up and over your wound. He poured medical-grade alcohol onto a gauze pad and began cleaning the skin around the gash. “What, no scotch to pour over my open wound dramatically?” you tried to joke. You’d seen Frank stitch himself up dozens of times now and not once did he ever use the actual alcohol meant for cleaning wounds.

Frank just glanced up at you before returning to the task at hand. “It’s gonna need stitches,” he said.

“Shit, really?” You leaned down to take a closer look. Surely it couldn’t be that bad, right? But the sight nearly turned your stomach and you leaned back, closing your eyes. “Yeah, okay.” You tried to psych yourself up. It couldn’t be that bad, right? Frank did it all the time without flinching, you could handle it, right?

Frank gave no warning before sliding the needle through your skin. “Fucking shit,” you cried out, clutching the edge of the sink so hard you thought it might break. The other seven stitches were a similar stream of curses. At one point, Frank had to hook his elbow around your ankle to keep you from kicking out. He scolded you for squirming, but you didn’t really register the words.

You breathed heavily when it was over, panting against the wall. Frank carefully wrapped gauze around your calf and tapped your knee when he was finished. He slid you to the edge of the counter to make enough room for him to wash his hands in the sink. “How…do you do that?” you asked him.

“Years of practice,” he deadpanned.

He packed up the first aid kit wordlessly, not once looking at you. When he was finished, he just stared blankly into the sink, thoughts churning in his head. His anger radiated off him in waves. You were the first to break under the oppressive silence. “Frank?” you asked hesitantly.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he exploded after a heavy inhale. “Huh, Y/N? What made you think you could go up against a man twice your size?”

“I was thinking I had a great teacher—”

“For self-defense! Not to go after the first guy you see!”

“He fucking groped me, Frank! What, I’m supposed to let that slide by? Ignore him until he finds some other girl to harass, to assault?”

“That’s not what I’m saying—”

You let out a dry laugh. “Then what are you saying, huh?”

“You call me. You call me and I handle it.”

“I don’t need some knight in shining armor to come and rescue me!” you shouted, leaning into his personal space.

Just as quick, he was right back in your face, pushing himself between your thighs to be that much closer. “And I don’t need you throwing yourself into harm’s way!”

You stared into each other’s eyes, chests heaving. Like a coil snapping back into place, his lips were on yours. Your head ricocheted off the mirror behind you, but you barely felt it. Your arms were looping around his neck, ankles hooking over his hips, pulling him closer, closer. But it wasn’t close enough.

His hands roamed over every inch of skin he could touch. Starting by rubbing his thumbs softly over your cheekbones, sliding down your neck, palms brushing over your collarbones. Easing over your shoulders and down your arms next, gripping protectively at your waist, massaging at your hips. Grazing over your thighs, down your calf—one misplaced press against your newly stitched wound had you gasping and pulling away.

Frank instinctually moved to step away from you, but you grasped at the collar of his shirt to keep him in place. You leaned your forehead against his, using the time to catch your breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Frank started quietly.

“I’m fine,” you whispered in response. “Just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Frank settled back between your thighs, leaning his weight against the bathroom counter you were still sat upon. He took a minute to let his eyes roam over your face before you spoke. “You’re pretty great, you know that?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Watching you toss that man over your shoulder like he was nothin’… Sexiest goddamn thing I’ve seen.”

You laughed, throwing your head back. “Well, I did learn from the sexiest man alive. Think if I petitioned to get you on the cover of People’s Magazine it would blow your cover?” He laughed, shaking his head. “Just a bit?”

“Let’s get you to bed,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“So you can ravage me, Mr. Castle?”

Frank pulled you to the edge of the bathroom counter and wrapped an arm under your thighs, lifting you and carrying you to your bedroom. “We’ll see about that.”

[suunnysyde]

Haikyuu x reader headcannons

Guess what mamas 🙄

I died, decided to write Haikyuu headcannons for when they’re dating you, and voila! Bon appetite.

I made these for what?? Nothing, so I decided better get some use out of it.

* I tried to not make it too biased on anything, for example not many milk mentions for Kageyama or video games for Kenma. I slipped a few times oops.

Content under tag cause its a long one lmao

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ GIRLS ]

- You and Alisa dress each other up.

- Alisa would take you shopping for your dates with Lev ( or her )

- You hype Yachi up when she feels down.

- You play volleyball with Kiyoko sometimes, that’s partly why she got good.

- Yachi probably has a lower than normal immune system so you’re taking her of her a lot, think of it as a way of giving back to her.

- Kiyoko prepares the most extravagant dates for you, if you ask why she merely says “only the best for my lover.”

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ KARASUNO ]

- Kageyama would file your nails while you talk if he sees you picking on them.

- Hinata would go to school with his nails painted because his sister painted them. On that note, Hinata would paint your nails if you needed help on your non-dominant hand.

- Tsukishima and Akaashi would grab your hand when they’re nervous and squeeze it gently.

- Asahi likes it when you play with his hair.

- Dates with Yamaguchi would either be ordering take-out and binging anime or just cuddling and sleeping.

- Nishinoya would teach you ‘Rolling Thunder’ if you asked.

- Nishinoya also really likes it when you play with his hair.

- You and Tsukishima have study dates at a cafe and eat strawberry shortcake.

- Sometimes Sugawara goes to your house to cook for you. Or you both cook together and then share it to the team as a treat.

- Daichi would take you out to a carnival and win whatever you want for you.

- Nishinoya’s grandfather adores you, and always asks how you are. And scolds Nishinoya in front of you sometimes, saying how he should treat you right.

- Tsukishima would make playlists with songs that remind him of you.

- You let Yamaguchi explain volleyball shenanigans so he remembers them.

- Kageyama *loves* getting hugs from you, but doesn’t start them in fear you don’t want to reciprocate the hug.

- If you play volleyball you practice spiking with Hinata so he can practice receiving.

- You and Asahi go to movie drive ins and cuddle in the backseat.

- If you do something to Asahi’s hair, like a hairstyle, he would wear it around without taking it off. Nishinoya comments on his hair saying how he’s lucky to have a girl like you.

- The pretty setter squad ( specifically Kageyama, Kenma, Akaashi and Oikawa ) are all really observant so if you have some random cut they’ll and you don’t notice they’ll put a bandaid on you.

- Daichi keeps a note on his phone on things you like and don’t like plus things you’ve said.

- Tsukishima let’s you wear his glasses when you two are alone, he enjoys seeing you happy. Even if he doesn’t admit it.

- If you have freckles Hinata would count them and draw constellations on your face. ( bonus: he kisses each individual freckle )

- Kageyama tries to braid your hair, he’ll probably just tangle it though.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ NEKOMA ]

- Kenma knows how to braid hair pretty well, so he would often practice on you, if you have short hair small braids.

- Kenma also likes to rest his head near your neck, it feels like you’re somehow protecting him from the outside world.

- Kuroo takes you on beach dates during summer vacation.

- You and Kuroo would throw insults at each other to see who gets mad first, loser normally buys food. On that note if you’re close to breaking and you’ve lost twice in a row he’ll call quits.

- The pretty setter squad ( specifically Kageyama, Kenma, Akaashi and Oikawa ) are all really observant so if you have some random cut they’ll and you don’t notice they’ll put a bandaid on you.

- Kenma would name his starter Pokémon after you, since he keeps his starter till the end. ( bonus: uses a lot of potions on you so you don’t faint )

- Kenma gets you stuffed animals when he goes to the arcade.

- Yaku treats your wounds if you trip and scrape your knee. ( carries first aid kit for his wounds )

- Alisa would take you shopping for your dates with Lev ( or her )

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ FUKŪRODANI ]

- Tsukishima and Akaashi would grab your hand when they’re nervous and squeeze it gently.

- Bokuto often calls you at 3am to ask you to go with him to a supermarket or to tell you he’s outside your house.

- Akaashi would help you study for your exams, he can quickly grasp any subject’s basics.

- Akaashi would read you what he’s reading at the moment, or a resumen of what’s happening.

- TW: SWEAR // Kenma is shit at 8ball so he tends so ignore your 8ball advances.

- The pretty setter squad ( specifically Kageyama, Kenma, Akaashi and Oikawa ) are all really observant so if you have some random cut they’ll and you don’t notice they’ll put a bandaid on you.

- You and Bokuto dance in the rain even if Akaashi advises against it because you two always get sick afterwards.

- Bokuto loves PDA and showing you off in general ( “HEY GUYS! LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL LOVER!” )

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ AOBA JOHSAI ]

- Iwaizumi does work out dates ( pls his muscles )

- You and Oikawa would watch crappy movies and judge them. Especially sappy romance movies, though he jokes about going on cheesy dates with you.

- The pretty setter squad ( specifically Kageyama, Kenma, Akaashi and Oikawa ) are all really observant so if you have some random cut they’ll and you don’t notice they’ll put a bandaid on you.

- Oikawa would ask you to make him lunches as he adores your cooking.

- Iwaizumi makes you lunches, pretty good cook.

- If any of his fangirl do anything to you Oikawa will not hesitate to scold them, he won’t leave your side afterwards for a week.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ SHIRATORIZAWA ]

- Tendo and Futakuchi would start prank wars with you.

- Tendo once joked about committing arson with you. ( once, for now )

- Tendo brought you to an abandoned building with pizza and you both ate pizza at the rooftop before stargazing.

- Tendo has joked frequently about stealing a stop sign though, it’s on his bucket list on things to do with you.

- //TIMESKIP Tendo makes you chocolate for when you’re on your period ( if you like chocolate )

- Ushijima *never* gets sick. Bacteria are scared of him.

- Tendō always talks to you about the latest manga and encourages you to read it with him.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ JOHENZI and ITACHIYAMA ]

- Terushima once brought you out to a laser tag date, it got intense. He lost. No mercy.

- Terushima’s music taste changes every month so every month he makes you a playlist of the songs he likes most.

- Sakusa likes it both when he plays with your hair and when you play with his, although he won’t admit the latter.

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

[ DATEKO ( DATE TECH ) ]

- Tendo and Futakuchi would start prank wars with you.

- You and Aone go to petting zoos as dates.

❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

OUTRO

now, now, wait. Before you go. If you made it this far lmao, allow me to serenade you, with Haikyuu Chants

TW: all caps

( idk if I had to mark that but I know someone who hates all caps so ye )

AOBA JOHSAI, AOBA JOHSAI ( OH! )

OOOOH SEIJOH

NEKOMA NEKOMA, NEKO NEKO, NEKO MA

SHIIIIIRATORIZAWA ( dun dun ) SHIIIIIRATORIZAWA

GO GO LETS GO, LETS GO DATEKO

NOHEBI NOHEBI NOHEBI * smt in japanese * HA CHI CHI CHI

[blitzturtles]

Title: Fever (Ao3)

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): BruAbba, AbbaBru, (Platonic) Bucci Gang

Summary: “Hey, so… where’s Booch?” Mista asks, leaning back in his seat.

All eyes are on him suddenly, before they gravitate to the chair that Bucciarati frequently takes up as his own.

Notes: For Day 1 of Sicktember, "Fever", because I never do anything on time. @sicktember

The morning goes like any other. One by one, the Don’s closest filter into the kitchen to get their first cup of coffee and whatever they feel like scrounging up for breakfast. There’s mundane conversation between the more wakeful lot; they aren’t allowed to talk about work until everyone’s finished their meals, which means the conversation doesn’t get much more interesting than whatever they’ve managed to get up to since the night before. It’s an odd sort of rule, but it helps to ensure that they can maintain some boundaries between their professional and personal lives, which further guarantees that they get more time together as a family, rather than as a team.

“Hey, so… where’s Booch?” Mista asks, leaning back in his seat.

All eyes are on him suddenly, before they gravitate to the chair that Bucciarati frequently takes up as his own. It’s empty with no sign that the man has made it downstairs, despite their designated breakfast time ticking by.

Narancia elbows Abbacchio to get his attention when he doesn’t seem to pick up on the same thing the rest of them have. He makes a motion for Abbacchio to take off his headphones and repeats the question.

“How should I know?” Abbacchio deflects with practiced ease, but there’s an edge to his tone. Sharper than even his usual morning demeanor calls for, and it’s clear--from the way his eyes fixate on Bucciarati’s spot--that he’s as concerned as the rest of them.

“You sleep in the same room,” Fugo points out, matter-of-fact and oblivious to the daggers that Abbacchio shoots in his direction.

“Yeah, well--” Abbacchio falters. He doesn’t actually have a reply for that.

“Maybe we should go check on him?” Trish asks, ever the most reasonable of the bunch, aside from perhaps Giorno.

“You don’t need to go… crowding him,” Abbacchio trails off as Mista and Narancia race out of their seats, already making a beeline for the stairs. He sighs and gets up to follow them.

What he doesn’t tell the group won’t hurt them. They don’t need to know that Bruno had been complaining of a headache the night before, or that he crashed unusually early. Or that he had been less than compliant about waking up with Abbacchio.

“So much for ‘just a headache’,” Abbacchio mutters under his own breath as he follows the kids up the steps. He can hear the rest behind him, each as eager as the first two to check in on their once-leader. “Hey, knock it off,” he calls when he finds Mista and Narancia outside the door to their bedroom, banging on it obnoxiously.

“But he’s not answering!” Narancia whines, dramatic and loud.

“And you think this will help?” Abbacchio raises his eyebrows, but he moves to unlock the door. The moment he opens it, he can see what his tired eyes failed to notice earlier. Bruno’s face, as little of it that is visible, is bright pink. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and it’s obvious he’s been tossing and turning since Abbacchio left, which means he likely spiked a fever sometime recently.

Abbacchio ignores the kids in favor of making his way to the bed. He frowns at the dry, parted lips and the labored breathing that greet him. Bruno’s eyes haven’t so much as cracked open a hair, despite the sheer volume of Mista and Narancia. The rest of the gang catching up doesn’t seem to phase him either, even though none of them seems to be capable of shutting up.

Without thinking, Abbacchio undoes the clips that must have been left in from the night before. It speaks volumes to how poorly Bruno felt at the time. He always takes his hair down before bed, and Abbacchio isn’t sure how he missed that not-so-little detail.

“What’cha doing?” Narancia asks, startling Abbacchio out of his thoughts.

“He doesn’t like it when his hair gets sweaty,” Abbacchio explains without thinking. He splits Bruno’s bangs down the middle to pin them on either side of his face. It isn’t the most fashionable look, but it should hold.

“Guess you would know, huh?” Mista asks with a raised eyebrow.

Abbacchio feels his cheeks burn red at the suggestion, and he turns around to give the kid his best death glare. “That’s not what I meant.”

Mista throws his hands up quickly, “I was joking.”

“Don’t,” Abbacchio answers gruffly. He turns back to Bruno, trying to work out the best way to take out his top braid without disturbing him too much. He settles for loosening it instead, careful to avoid tugging it in a way that might pull. The point is to reduce the pressure, not add to his discomfort.

“He wears his hair down when he goes fishing,” Giorno speaks with such sincerity that it’s all Abbacchio can do not to snap at him, too. Plus, it would probably disappoint Bruno. If he were awake.

“Yeah, I pointed that out too. It’s weird.” Abbacchio shrugs. He would think that having your hair stuck to your skin with salt water would be worse than sweat, but he guesses that Bruno finds some nostalgia in it. He’s long given up on understanding certain things about his partner.

“I think it’s safe to say he’s sick,” Fugo points out, breaking the silence that follows. “We should probably get his fever down.”

“Right, yeah!” Narancia nods enthusiastically, then stops for a moment and looks dumbfounded, “How’d we do that?”

Fugo smacks him on the back of the head, “With medication and cold towels, obviously.”

“Hey!” Narancia spins on his heels, so he’s facing the other teen. He crowds in on Fugo until their chests are pressed together and Fugo’s reaching for something in one of his pockets.

“Cut it out!” Abbacchio snaps at both of them. He pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders why he ever let the whole group up here in the first place. He’s more than capable of taking care of Bruno on his own, even if he had missed the earlier signs.

“I can go get medicine,” Trish says, a bit meek compared to her usual self, and she’s gone before anyone can say otherwise.

“I’ll go get towels?” Giorno looks uncertain. He’s never had to deal with anyone else’s illness before. Not like this, and he’s always taken care of himself while sick. Usually by pushing through until his body sorted itself out.

“I’ll go with you,” Fugo offers with a half-smile. It’s meant to be reassuring, and Giorno seems to take it as such.

Abbacchio’s just relieved to have less people around. Mista and Narancia linger, but he elects to ignore both of them in favor of tucking the blankets in around Bruno. The best thing for a fever is to sweat it out, after all.

By the time the other three get back, Narancia and Mista have made themselves busy by going in search of a thermometer. It’s really more like a competition between the two, but Abbacchio doesn’t care as long as it keeps them distracted.

“I brought some water, too,” Trish says as she extends her bounty to Abbacchio. In one hand is a bottle of water; in the other is the medication she must have scavenged her own medicine cabinet for. That or the Team first aid kit. There’s actually a few of those throughout the house, but Bruno’s the only one that bothers stocking them, and that’s only when he knows to. For the most part, they run out of supplies because someone uses them without remembering to say anything later.

“We got hand towels in a bowl of ice water. It should keep him going for a while,” Fugo explains as he nods to the bowl that Giorno’s carrying and deposits his collection of towels on one of the bedside tables. He takes one and unfolds it enough to make a thin strip out of it. He dunks it into the water and squeegees out the excess before handing it to Abbacchio.

“Thank you,” Abbacchio says, taking the towel and placing it gently on Bruno’s forehead. It’s worrisome that he hasn’t stirred in the slightest. That despite all the ruckus, he’s remained sound asleep. Part of Abbacchio wants to leave him that way, but he knows getting the fever reducer in him will help him faster than the towels will. He gently shakes his partner’s shoulder and calls his name until familiar blue finally peaks open.

Bruno’s eyes are red around the edges, and there’s no focus to them. He blinks at Abbacchio a few times. Slow and owlish.

“You’re sick,” Abbacchio explains with little to-do. “You just gotta take these, and you can go back to sleep.”

A quiet hum is all he gets in response, and it’s damn near enough to convince Abbacchio to take Bruno to the nearest hospital. He’s never known Bruno to be cooperative a day in his life. Not when it comes to being sick or injured, but he forces himself to be reasonable. To think logically. Bruno isn’t indestructible. He’s allowed to feel like shit, and that means he’s allowed to want nothing more than to be left alone to sleep off the worst of whatever bug he’s managed to catch.

“I know,” Abbacchio murmurs, more to himself than Bruno. He helps Bruno sit up enough to take the pills and helps him back to lying down after that. He fixes the blankets and puts the wet towel back on Bruno’s forehead. Once he’s all settled, it takes only seconds for Bruno to pass back out.

“It’s weird seeing him like this,” Fugo admits, quietly.

“I don’t like it,” Trish’s voice is somehow softer, but there’s more to it. Her tone holds something else, and Abbacchio curses himself for not picking up on it sooner.

“He’ll be fine,” he says, doing his best to be reassuring. The problem is that he generally isn’t. “It’s been awhile, but Bruno does get sick.”

“Yeah,” Fugo says quickly, eyes following Abbacchio’s. “He’ll be fine, probably by tomorrow. Besides, Giorno can help if he needs to, right?”

Giorno looks a little startled to be pulled into the conversation, but he’s quick to nod, “If there’s any kind of damage, I can replace it.”

“See? All good. You all should get to work. It’s late already,” Abbacchio points out. Never mind the fact that he doesn’t plan on leaving Bucciarati’s side, which means they’re down, not one, but two men for the day. “And, if you see Narancia or Mista, tell them to forget about the thermometer.” The best thing they can do for Bruno at this point is leave him alone and let him rest.

“Right, yeah, let’s--let’s do that,” Trish says, stumbling over her words as much as her feet. She’s quick to reach for the door, obviously relieved to be dismissed without having to do so herself. Abbacchio can’t blame her. He doesn’t like seeing Bruno like this either, but he doesn’t have a recently deceased-from-illness parent at the forefront of his brain. He knows how much that still eats at Bruno. He can only imagine what it does to a teenager whose memories of the event are fresh.

Fugo follows her with a simple nod of his head at Abbacchio. A small sign of his appreciation that someone is taking care of the man that he sees as his savior, even now. Abbacchio mimics the gesture in acknowledgement and almost turns his attention back to Bruno before he notices Giorno, lingering by the door.

“What?”

“It’s--” Giorno swallows, “It’s nothing. Take your time. We can work out whatever we need to until he’s feeling better.”

“I will,” Abbacchio says with a tone that’s almost dismissive. Truthfully, he’s grateful for the permission. To hear it aloud rather than to think it to himself, but he won’t admit that. Least of all to Giorno. “Don’t forget to take the other two with you.”

“I will,” Giorno echoes with the slightest curve of his lips.

Cheeky little shit, Abbacchio thinks, but he watches Giorno with a near fondness reflecting in his gaze. It’s odd how much the little bastard has grown on him. Not, he supposes, unlike the rest of them. Maybe it’s all the time they spend together, given Abbacchio’s position in Investigations. Or maybe it’s the mutual concern for Bruno’s wellbeing. Whatever it is, Abbacchio’s glad the kid sees things his way. Just this once.

[srirachvbi]

Kageyama and Bokuto taking their kids to practice headcanons !

request: hihi i was wondering if you can do a continuation of the bringing their kids to practice with some of the other haikyuu characters? i’d love to see it with kageyama especially but honestly you can pick anyone! thank you :)

a/n: i AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG... I have no excuses, i was too sad about haikyuu e wording but i have read threads on how to write characters on twitter and i am thriving... so n e ways i was looking for a reason to write more of these because i just... love the idea of this so tsym for requesting!! if i write more parts, i might do hoshiumi, hinata, atsumu, and... maybe oikawa? i’m a huge bokuto stan so his might be longer than kageyamas im sorry <3 and and ik that kageyama goes to italy but for the sake of i want to write other characters, i will be using the adlers oops. i will also be only doing probably two characters per post for these because i write so much for it. LMAO ALSO these are super unrealistic this would NOT be allowed during pro sports practices but for the sake of entertainment, let’s just... do it warnings: manga spoilers

Bokuto Koutarou

He had been wanting to bring Kaori to practice for a while but each time he tried to, you would be like no bitch </3 

heart been broke so many times

When you told him that you had to go into work and couldn’t schedule the nanny in time, he was like “I’LL TAKE CARE OF HER!!!”

Honestly you were only against him taking her because you were still mad at him for leaving her in the high chair for a while and you came home to her crying and him just knocked out 

Like... Kou, pls <3 

He had brought Kaori into post game interviews before but you were always there so this would really be the first time he’d take care of her by himself for a period of time longer than an hour

He’s a good parent dw !! he had just spent the whole night thinking about the most random shit and he ended up sleeping like three hours 

He was thinking about horses cause Ushijima brought them up in an interview >:0

You were still mad tho 

It had been a while and he had actually shown to you that he could take care of her by himself so you were fine with him taking her to practice

He was super pumped and was practically shaking in excitement (he was texting Akaashi the whole morning asdlfjskdf)

Bokuto-san AGHASHEE!!!!! Y/N IS LETTING ME TAKE KAORI  TO PRACTICE!!!!!!!!! AGHASHEE Congrats, Bokuto-san. 

That conversation but every two minutes

I’m sorry Akaashi <3 

He also texts the whole group chat and Hinata’s equally as excited

Kaori and Hinata were best friends !!!! She literally loved him

Like he would put her on his shoulders and they’d run around for hours

How he has so much energy goes beyond everyone but it’s fun to watch 

You lectured him for half an hour about what he should do in certain situations and unlike most times, he listened really well because :(( the baby cares about Kaori

Both Kaori and him actually walked with you to the train station and saw you off before heading to practice !! 

He normally drives to practice because he has a super nice car and it’s easier to drive with Kaori instead of public transportation

When they get to the gym, he goes running in with Kaori on his shoulders 

“WE HAVE ARRIVEEEED!!!!!!!!” 

cue Hinata cheering super loudly

Kaori’s giggling and being all cute omg i love her

She was being carried in on her dad’s shoulders so Bo lets her down and she immediately runs (read: waddles quickly) to Hinata

“Hinata-nii!!!!”

Hinata starts crying-- jk, no

He goes “Kaori-chan!” and scoops her up in his beefy arms 

BEEFY HINATA BEEFY HINATA BEEFY HINATA

Sorry

She’s giggling and she like kisses his cheek and everyone’s like “so cute...” ohmyogd babies

Similar to her dad, she’s super friendly!! and a bit simple minded

It’s literally in her blood to not actually hate anyone so she gets along with EVERYONE at practice

She even makes the coach super soft omg

Atsumu’s just watching her and being like “child. want. child-- oh god, i need a kid.” cause she’s just so god damn cute

Lol atsumu having twins cause it’s a gene or smth idk biology

I barely passed bio please spare me <3

I actually got an 80 smth on my final last year don’t listen to me

Sakusa being hesitant at first to be near her but she’s actually super sweet to him!!

CAUSE LIKE HER DAD SHE’S ACTUALLY REALLY EMOTIONALLY INTELLIGENT AND CAN READ PEOPLE REALLY WELL

like she saw Sakusa’s face and was like “oh!! I remember what dad said!!” 

Kou talks about his teammates a lot and somehow Kaori remembered him telling her about how Sakusa’s a germaphobe so she’s like

“Sir!! I washed my hands!! I’m not dirty!!” and he

He just 👁👄👁 

He thinks she’s cute and treasures her now

Suddenly Kaori has a whole team of dads

it’s okay

Bokuto itching to let her play volleyball but at the same time worrying about her if she does

It’s like the angel and the devil on his shoulders

One sides like

let her pLAY!!!!! LET HER PLAY (read it as if it’s the LEt ME INNN meme)

While the other sides like

👁👄👁 (y/n) will kill me if she gets hurt and i’ll kill myself if she gets hurt and hinata will kill me if she gets hurt-

In the end he gives her a volleyball after she asks once and he’s like ‘PFFT KAORI-CHAN IF YOU INSIST’ while she’s like

dude i asked to play once and normally someone disagrees with me tf are you on, sir? 

she tries to pick the ball up but it ends up being half her size and it’s just... such a cute image

Bo takes a picture of it and sends it to you!!

You reply back in seconds lol

Kou-kun ❤💖 [image.jpeg] LOOK AT HER!! FUTURE PRO (Y/N)-CHAN!! (Y/N) MY LOVE ❤💕❤💕💕❤💕❤💕 be careful letting her hold that it’s too big!! but so cute!!! have fun taro <3

He ends up taking the ball away after a bit because she can’t walk while holding it

Eventually practice has to start tho so he asks her to sit on the bench and she’s an obedient angel and does so !!

The whole time she’s like swinging her legs and watching her dad practice

It’s fun for her to see him play 

Okay but like I’ve said, she’s similar to her dad

At one point at practice during a break, she stole Atsumu’s water and was running around the gym with him chasing her

He was ofc not actually chasing her cause he found it cute that she was trying to steal his stuff

Lol Sakusa being like “oh, you can’t catch up to a child? are your knees getting bad, old man?”

Atsumu’s like “bro, we’re the same age”

Sakusa ignores him

She ends up TRIPPInG AND ATSUMU’s LIke “Oh fuck” 

SHE CRIES

omg Bokuto’s like “tsum tsum-- do you want to die 👁👄👁🗡” because she just got hurt because of him

Atsumu picks her up and is apologizing so god damn much

This is the first time anyone’s seen Bokuto remotely irritated

Kaori: WAAAHHHH

Atsumu: please, child... i don’t want to die today... please... shhhhhhh

He lets her down and she walks (read: waddles) over to her dad and is giving him puppy eyes omg

Bokuto stops being mad and scoops her up and he’s like “did Kao-chan get a boo boo” and she nods, sniffling

Ohmygod dad bokuto dad bokuto dad bokuto stop

suddenly I actually want kids

no

Shion ends up getting a first aid kit since Meian asked (woah more black jackals players except I don’t really know how to write for them??? woahhh)

Shion roasts Atsumu with Sakusa for letting her fall and suddenly Atsumu’s the bad guy

lol

By the end of practice tho Kaori’s fine !!!

She’s back to her regular happy self so cute :(

She asks Bo to call you and when you pick up she shows you her bandaid on her knee and is like “Miya-san was chasing me and I fell!!”

Suddenly Atsumu feels a cold chill and knows you found out lol

Hi this is (y/n), and you’re watching disney channel-

good luck, atsumu *stops camera*

Kageyama Tobio

He

sigh

He would be equally as confused as a father as Ushijima

It’s okay, he’s trying his best

You normally work from home so you guys haven’t really hired a nanny! 

And if you needed someone to watch your guys’ son, Sho (which can mean to fly oho see what I did there I’m so smart), you just drop him off at your parents’ house or Miwa’s!

WAIT SHO... SHOYO... WAIT I DIDN’T EVEN DO THIS ON PURPOSE IM LITERALLY

However, today was the only time you had to go in for like the next few months and both your parents and Miwa are busy

So, you enlist in your husbands help

“Tobio... I need you to watch Sho...” 

He spits out his milk “wHAT” cause like,, he’s hardly taken care of Sho by himself and normally had either his sister or you around

He doesn’t actually spit out his milk-- you’d kill him if he did because it would be a pain in the ass to clean up <3

It takes a bit of convincing being he’s really nervous about taking care of Sho!!

Okay but he’s a great dad dw it’s just he’s nervous about having another human being literally rely on him completely

You also just remind him that Romero’s a father so he won’t be completely on his own while taking care of Sho

So he somehow gets to the gym with Sho in one piece but he’s literally so stiff like bro, i need you to relax

Hoshiumi yelling “KAGEYAMA SHO!!!!!!!” and Sho (who has actually met the team like two times) goes like “HOFIUMI-SAN!!!!!” 

Sho’s a bit of an energetic bby-- he’s less emotionally constipated than his dad <3

He’s... he reminded you guys of Shoyo and well, you thought it would be nice to name him after his god father

No this isn’t a kagehina post i swear i love them but this is me saying that i love their friendship sm omg stop im gonna cry 402 really just popped into my head again

Hoshiumi getting mad when he sees that Sho has actually grown even though he’s a grown ass man and the little toddler would not, in fact, be catching up that soon

“KAGEYAMA SHO HAVE YOU GROWN >:0000!!!!!” 

Sir, pls... sit down

The Adlers all love Sho since they’ve come into contact with him like twice at games before 

Ushijima just... doesn’t know how to interact with Sho

He just stares down at him and honestly Sho stares back up without fear

Kageyama Sho: no (0) fears 

I think it’s cause his father gives a similar stare sometimes and he just... got used to it

Ushijima gives him that stare and Sho just goes SIGH this again

Jk he’s a baby

He literally looks up at Ushiwaka and gives him this cute ass grin and Ushijima’s like “oh, children are very cute.”

Thank you, Wakatoshi-kun

Romero does, in fact, give Kags some tips about fathering and ends up showing pictures of Rubens to the team (love that) 

OKAY BUT LIKE OFF TOPIC FROM THE PRACTICE BUT

Sho being such a big fan of Hinata and being like “woAHHH!!! I’M NAMED AFTER HIM!!!” 

Hinata rubs it in Kags face because Sho practically idolizes him

anyways

Practice starts and Sho’s just sitting on the gym floor with a volleyball in his hands cause he

Kags just giving newborn Sho a volleyball and expecting him to become acquainted

It worked

Sho’s used to holding onto volleyballs and even tries to hit it but everytime he did, he’d fall backwards onto his lil bum and would be like :(

Kageyama watching from the other side of the gym and his heart just goes AHHHHHHHHHH

He’s about to cry that is the cutest thing he’s ever seen

Sho making sure he doesn’t interrupt practice!!! and like chasing after the ball to make sure it doesn’t go onto the courts!!!

Cute babs is so good :(

He ends up tripping tho and starts to tear up and Kags is watching during practice and goes “OH GOD”

He’s literally whipping his head from Sho to his coach and has this desperate look on his face 

he’s saying “JUST ONE BREAK!! JUST ONE, SIR!!” with his eyes and his coach just gives in

Kageyama going from one side of the gym to the next at insane speed

Sho: dad :((( i hwurt my knee :(((

Kags just picks him up and cradles him to his chest (he does this after making sure there’s no blood or anything-- it’s literally just a little bit red) 

Kags being a good dad just... WEAK

Only like two minutes later, Sho stops sniffling and is like “!!! go back to practice daddy!!” 

Kags does and he can’t focus on Sho anymore cause his coach would yell at him asldfjlsf

At the end of practice, Sho is like “dad i wanna play voweyball!!!!!!” and Kags heart just CLENCHES

He grabs his heart like that meme or smth 

You call them cause you know when practice normally ends and Sho’s just talking a lot and it’s so cute

He’s super excited and you’re like !!! My CUTE CHILD !!!!

Lol you tease Kags cause he was worrying about nothing

“Maybe I’ll let you take care of him by yourself more often Tobio” “Pls, I lost ten years of my life when I saw him fall pls not yet <3″ 

[aellynera]

Accidental Anniversary (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

ACCIDENTAL ANNIVERSARY

💜💘 Happy Valentine’s Fic Exchange, @samrockweil​ 💘💜

I am your Valentine’s elf (or maybe cupid?) It was an absolute blast writing this for you!! At first I couldn’t decide which guy to write for, but Llewyn spoke to me and I ran with it and I hope you love it even half as half as much as I did writing it. Happy reading and happy beeps!

Also, huge thanks to @sergeantkane​ for putting this fic exchange together! Love you Clarke!

Word Count: around 8k oops look i had a whole MONTH okay i’m not sorry

Summary: You meet Llewyn Davis one night at the Gaslight, and soon find out that the universe has an odd sense of humor and an even weirder sense of timing.

Warnings: A few curses. Nothing else, it’s 99.999999999% fluffy fluff.

March 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a whiskey, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as your boss flips the power on.

You’ve been working there for a couple weeks, a side job to help make your rent and keep you busy on the weekends. It’s not a terrible gig, most of the time; the patrons are pleasant enough, the performers hit or miss, and Pappi, your boss, is okayish, so long as you can mostly steer clear of him.

You begin to wipe down part of the bar while the next performer sets up on the small, dingy stage. You haven’t seen him before, but whispers from the stools at the counter hint he’s semi-popular around these parts. You quirk an eyebrow; he certainly is easy on the eyes, at least.

From the minute he takes the stage, your focus is ninety percent on him (you do need a little brain power to do your job, after all) and you find that he is also very easy on the ears. Dark curls, dark beard, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a surprisingly bright voice singing lovely songs. He finishes his set, comes off the stage, and sidles up to the bar. You hand him the requested bourbon with a soft smile.

And the next thing you know, Pappi is on the ground and this stranger is holding his hand, wincing, flexing his fingers. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “What--”

“Jesus Christ, Llewyn,” Pappi groans from the floor. “I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, doubt that,” this Llewyn person mutters under his breath, taking a seat on the stool closest to him. “Can I bother you for some ice?”

You keep a wary eye on him, and on Pappi as he gets up and wanders to the other side of the room like nothing happened, and wrap some ice cubes in a towel and hand it to him. “You decked him.”

He scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “You hear what he said about you?”

Well, no, you hadn’t actually, but having heard what Pappi has said about others in the club over the past two weeks, you can imagine. “I can handle him,” you say archly.

“I’m sure you can,” a huff of air escapes his lips, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He turns around to look at Pappi, who just glares and shakes his head. The man in front of you flips your boss off.

You refill his glass without him asking and stick out your hand, telling him your name.

He shakes it and says, “Llewyn Davis” with a sheepish smile.

April 14

Llewyn shuffles down the sidewalk towards the Gaslight, really only noticing the early spring chill that hangs in the air. It’s early, before noon, but he wants to run through his set before the night’s performance and the early hour is convenient for him to be able to do so in peace.

He’s about a block away when a sound distracts him. A voice is singing, pure and sweet - if a tiny bit off-key - and if he didn’t know any better - and he certainly does, at least most times - he would call it angelic. No, not angelic. An actual angel. That’s what it sounds like.

Llewyn stops and looks up at an open window on the third floor. He can make out the vague outline of a figure inside, but he’s unable to see any details. But that voice. A few minutes pass as he just listens, staring up at the window, thinking about calling up to get the attention of the mysterious singer. But he doesn’t, and he just stands and listens, until he finds his feet starting to carry him on to his usual destination. 

Three steps into his walk, he realizes he knows the song. It’s one of his songs. Part of him can’t believe it, and the rest of him wants to offer pitch correction. Three more steps into his walk, and his face makes very solid, very resounding contact with the light pole on the corner.

“God dammit,” he shouts.

A few seconds later, the window on the third floor slides open and a head pokes out. “Oh my god. Llewyn?”

Llewyn looks up and groans inwardly as he recognizes your face from that last gig at the Gaslight. “Hey,” he waves awkwardly, leaning on the pole.

“Are you bleeding?” you call down to him.

He reaches up near his eyebrow and realizes he is, in fact, bleeding. Quite a bit, honestly. Before he can answer, you call back down, “Come up the fire escape to the side window!” The window drops shut and he can hear another slide open.

So Llewyn Davis climbs the fire escape steps and meets you at your side window, a first aid kit in your hands as you motion for him to sit. He does and you start to patch up his wound.

“You should be more careful,” you mutter as you worked, stopping briefly to look him right in the eyes.

He holds your gaze. “Sorry, I was...distracted.”

“Mmm,” you return. You fold a gauze pad and hand it to him. “Hold this on that cut. I’m going to get you some ice.” You turn to walk to your kitchen.

He mumbles his thanks and leans his head back against the fire escape railing.

May 14

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and although Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, he takes up a spot at the end of the bar and thanks you as you pass him a drink.

“How have you been?” you ask. You’d seen him a few times over the past couple weeks, here and there in the Village, but it’s been several days. You found Llewyn’s company quite enjoyable. You’d talked a bit and even shared lunch once at the diner a couple blocks away.

His lips turn up, a shy smile lighting his face. He opens his mouth to respond, when another voice breaks in.

“He’s been an asshole.”

Llewyn’s head ships around and you follow his gaze. A slender woman with long, straight brown hair and piercing eyes stands about ten feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Neither of them says anything for a beat, Llewyn turns away from her, and then she’s on him, daggers flying from her lips, going on and on about assholes and responsibility and electrical tape.

Llewyn keeps his eyes down, the bottom of his glass suddenly staring back at him. “Jesus Christ, Jean.”

You bite your lip as you glance between them. You have no idea who this woman - this Jean - is, but it’s clear she is not a fan of Llewyn Davis. In three seconds flat you decide you do not like her either.

“Is there something you needed?” you break in.

Her eyes flare at Llewyn, then at you, then bore into the back of Llewyn’s head. You resist the urge to literally toss a glass of whiskey in her direction.

“I need Llewyn to stop being an asshole,” she seethes. Llewyn rolls his eyes.

You arch an eyebrow and the words are on your tongue - I need you to back off, you crazy weird bit-- you bite your tongue just hard enough to make your mouth behave. Fortunately, she’s distracted by someone else calling her name and her attention drifts to the stage. With a final mutter of “asshole” and a rude hand gesture, she flounces off.

You point over Llewyn’s shoulder. “Um, what was that?”

He snorts. “A night of bad decisions and a lifetime of regret.” A pause. “It’s...a long story.”

You watch as she adjusts the microphone center stage. “Good lord, is she a singer? Tell me she’s not going to just smile and sing after...whatever that was.”

“Yeah. Well,” he offers by way of explanation and doesn’t say anything else. It’s almost like this woman sucked all the fight out of him and you feel your heart give a little twinge.

You toss the rag in the sink and take his glass. “Do you wanna get out of here?” The air around you has a weird vibe now, and you felt a sudden impulse to get out and take this man - your friend - with you, away from this...whatever she was, somewhere safe.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, a grateful glimmer passing through his dark eyes.

“There’s a great cafe down the block.”

“But don’t you have to...you know...work?”

You look around and shrug. “It’s dead in here, and Bobby can handle it,” you hook your thumb at a co-worker behind the bar. “And if Pappi says anything, I know someone who can set him straight.”

Llewyn’s eyes glint and his lips turn up in a real, honest smile this time. “So, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

June 14

The summer - or very last days of spring, technically - is starting to get hot and your open windows are doing the bare minimum to alleviate the warmth. Of course, the third glass of wine you’re drinking probably isn’t helping things either.

Whatever. It’s your day off.

Shoes kicked off, jeans rolled up above your ankles, feet up on the arm of the couch, a record on the turntable and your glass of red as the dusk slowly melts into dark. The night is tranquil and relaxing and perfect. It has been a shitty week, and all you want is to ignore the outside world and do exactly this.

The shrill ring of your phone bursts that bubble..

You close your eyes and tilt your head back on the couch. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away. The phone stops ringing. Deciding to take no further chances, you switch off the ringer, completely, then sigh happily, settling yourself on the couch and sipping your wine.

Perfect.

A resounding, repeated thump echoes through the room. You bit back a shriek. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away - lightning can strike twice, right? It was extremely rude of people to just call you and knock when all you wanted was--

“Hey, are you home?” a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Suddenly alert and somehow much less annoyed, you spring up and cross to your front door. Yanking it open, you find a very disheveled Llewyn Davis on the other side. He doesn’t seem to notice right away that the door was now open, and you had to jump back as his hand, raised to pound on the door again, almost knocks you in the head instead.

You take a deep breath. You catch a waft like the mat under the taps after a long night at the bar.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” You take him by the arm and drag him inside, appraising him quickly. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his curls an absolute mess, and there’s a dark mark under his left eye and a split in his lip. He looks terrible, smells just as bad, but suddenly all your desire for a quiet, no-other-humans night evaporates. “And did you get in a fight?”

“...yes?”

You sigh and point to the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ll make some coffee, and then you’re getting a shower..”

“You’re incredible,” he slurs, smiling, “And you’re so…I tried t’call you, from th’phone on the corner but you dinnt answer. An’ then I realized, hey, I’m on your corner, so decided t’come up and see you. You’re pretty.”

You take him by the elbow and lead him to the couch, only stumbling twice and managing to catch him as he sways, precariously, once. “Uh huh,” you bite your lip to hide a smile. “Sounds like you’ve had a fun night. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” He flops down on the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

By the time you make the promised pot of coffee and get back to the living room, Llewyn is snoring, still face down in the throw pillow. Turning off the music and the lights, you cover him with a blanket and take your glass of wine to your room.

July 14

Ring, ring, ring.

You’d remembered to turn the ringer back on three days after Llewyn slept it off on your couch, but your phone hadn’t actually rung again until just over half an hour ago, and honestly you weren’t sure if that was a blessing or if it was just sad.

You are sure, however, that the sheer desperation in the voice on the other end when you answered is the reason you’re on this train to Queens. Are you doing anything, Llewyn had asked, because I could really, really use some help right now. Please, I’m begging you. And now the echo of your phone ringing just, well, rings in your ears.

The train screeches to a halt and you exit, making your way to the given address. You knock on the door of a smallish, nondescript row house and it swings open almost immediately, revealing a very disheveled, slightly panicked looking Llewyn.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes and grabs you by the arm, dragging you inside.

“Llewyn? What is going on?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says. He’s completely serious.

You’re preparing yourself for blood, broken bones, water damage, collapsed ceilings, possible dismemberment, anything, really, that could explain your friend’s current frazzled condition. What you get is completely, unexpectedly, not anything like that.

There are about ten kids, all around ten years old, running around in the living room, which is also full of balloons and streamers. One giant pinata, shaped like a baseball glove and bat, hangs from the light fixture. To Llewyn’s credit, it is kind of...chaotic, but it’s far from a disaster and you can barely contain the guffaw that escapes your lungs.

“Whose birthday?” you grin at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s not funny.”

You consider this and try to straighten your lips. Nope, not working. “It’s a little funny.”

Llewyn smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and my sister forgot some party thing and made a run to the store. I was stayin’ here last night and she just decided, oh, Llewyn can watch the kids, and she was gone.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?”

“She should be back by now,” his eyes look slightly panicked.

“Maybe she had to go to a couple stores? Maybe she just got delayed by transit?”

“I can’t do…” Llewyn gestures around weakly, shaking his head. “This.”

“Llewyn, they’re kids. They can’t be more than what, ten years old? Just blindfold them and let them whack at the pinata.”

“You’re the people person. I can’t...can you help me, please,” he turns to look at you. Directly at you. You’re fairly certain his eyes cannot get any bigger or shine more pleadingly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Let’s go wrangle some kids.”

The panic slides from his face and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head in his thanks.

And when one kid takes a wild swing at that tacky papier-mache sports equipment, misses completely, and lands a clean hit on Llewyn’s thigh, neither of you talk about it.

You just get him an ice pack.

August 14

“I’m making lasagna. Come over for dinner.”

You worked early that day, and said this to Llewyn as you left the Gaslight for the day. He isn’t playing tonight, and he’s really just here to stay out of the sun, and as much as he doesn’t like to push his luck with others’ hospitality, he has to admit that a home-cooked meal does sound incredible.

He has a feeling your invitation was partly due to Jean showing up, ready to do unnecessary verbal battle because she just can’t let it go, and you’d asked to both deflect her and keep yourself from actual physical battle. But whatever.

So he finds himself at your front door a couple hours later, a bottle of cheapish red wine in hand and an odd tingle in his chest. He dismisses it offhand; he’s probably just hungry.

You open the door and Llewyn’s nose is assaulted by the smell of homemade sauce - he’s half Italian, he knows these things - and cheese and garlic. You smile brightly at him. Yeah, he’s definitely hungry.

“Hey! Come in, it’s almost ready.”

He hands you the bottle. “Brought wine.”

“Excellent,” you lead him to the kitchen table and motion to a seat. He settles himself into it and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table as you grab two wine glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a mouthful of carbs.

The timer dings and you pull the lasagna out of the oven. “No occasion. I just felt like making this and I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“Lucky for you I like to eat,” he chuckles.

Your face suddenly feels warmer. Well, you did just pull a piping hot casserole dish out of the oven, so that does make sense, you suppose. You turn and put the lasagna on the trivet in the middle of the table, then turn and grab two regular glasses for water. There is an outlandish, metallic ka-chunk-ing noise as you turn on the tap, and suddenly water is shooting from under the sink and halfway across the room.

Llewyn jumps up and dives at the faucet, a chunk of bread clutched between his teeth, at the same time you crawl halfway under the sink to try and shut the water off. The stream blasts you in the face and you sputter.

This is not how you imagined tonight. Blasted ancient, rickety building. You make a mental note to have words with the super tomorrow.

You finally get the water shut off, and Llewyn closes the tap and sinks down onto the wet floor next to you. You lean against the cabinets and try to wipe the water out of your eyes.

Llewyn fares a little better; he’s only wet from his waist down. Your head thumps back on the soaked particle board behind you and you turn your head towards him. For a long moment he looks back at you, then rips the butt off the hunk of baguette in his mouth and passes it to you.

You snort. He bites his lip.

“Sorry, I think dinner might be a bit late,” you deadpan, eyes still on him, and take a bite of bread.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “It’s okay. Lasagna is always better the next day.”

Llewyn has to admit, though, it’s still pretty good a couple hours later, after you’re both dry and the lake in the kitchen is mopped up and you settle on the couch with your plates.

And if you use the water glasses for the wine, well, neither of you mentions it.

September 14

It’s pleasantly warm today, the heat of late August dragging itself into the beginning of September, and you find yourself in Washington Square Park, on a checkered blanket, a basket in the middle and a guitar by your feet. Pigeons wander and plot to steal food, but it’s easy enough to shoo them away.

It takes a little convincing, early that morning, to get Llewyn to agree to join you. It didn’t, really; he’s quickly become one of your best friends, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, he just likes to tease you.

But he does accept, and you eat some of the bread and cheese you packed and drink the iced tea you brought, and you get out a container of fruit salad and package of cookies your down-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, made for you that morning.

“For you and your lovely man,” she’d said as she knocked on your door. You feel the warmth in the tips of your ears and you certainly see the color rise in Llewyn’s embarrassed face, but you don’t have the heart to correct her. She’s such a sweet old lady.

Llewyn plays a song or two while you enjoy your lunch, and even asks if you want to hear a new song he’s been working on, which you are more than happy to agree to.

It’s such a pleasant afternoon.

Until a small, brownish-gray blur jumps onto the blanket and grabs a chunk of bread and darts further onto the lawn.

“What the hell!’ Llewyn shouts as you yelp in surprise. The squirrel, for its part, just stops fifty feet away and turns back with a triumphant gaze, then scoots off into the bushes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

He starts to make a comment about the nerve of the wildlife, but you’re not really listening. Your eyes are fixed on the path the squirrel just ran and you tug on Llewyn’s sleeve. He keeps muttering and you tug harder.

“Llewyn.”

He finally looks up and follows your finger. There’s a flock - an honest-to-god flock, not that he has any real idea on the technical makeup of a flock, but there’s more than one so as far as he’s concerned, yeah, it’s a flock - of geese marching directly at the blanket.

Okay, so there’s only three of them. But they look angry.

The leader strides forward deliberately and bites at Llewyn’s shoe. Another yelp leaves your lips and he grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet. He also grabs the remainder of the bread and tosses it in the opposite direction as he takes off running towards the fountain, dragging you behind him.

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“No idea,” he replies. The leader falls for the bread feint, but his loyal minions do not, and they follow behind you, quacking and honking and flapping and Llewyn isn’t sure but he may dislike geese even more than he dislikes pigeons.

He jumps up on the edge of the fountain and pulls you into a protective embrace as the beasts close in. Only Llewyn doesn’t account for, you know, physics, and the force of your bodies colliding sends you both straight into the water.

Spluttering, you try to wipe the water out of your eyes. Llewyn is doing the same when a loud HONK startles you both. The leader is back, flanked by his friends, and they’re all staring at you.

“Um, Llewyn?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“...don’t geese like, love the water?”

His eyes flick to you, then the winged monsters, then you again, then the fountain like he’s seeing it for the first time and all he can do is mutter, “Shit!” and grab your hand as he pulls you to your feet and takes off running again.

You manage to swing by and gather the leavings of your picnic, blanket and basket tucked under your arms and his precious guitar clutched to him, as you beeline out of the park, soaking wet and laughing.

October 14

Llewyn slides the key into the lock and turns it, an odd flutter rolling up his spine as he hears the bolt click open. He’s had a key to your apartment for almost two months now. You gave it to him, insisted really, telling him this way he wouldn’t need to worry about finding somewhere to crash. That your couch is always open.

It still doesn’t feel real and he doesn’t always use it, but tonight he really, really doesn’t feel like making the rounds. You’ve been spending more time together recently anyway, and he feels mostly comfortable around you.

He’s greeted by the sight of you wearing a catcher’s mask and knee high rubber boots, and you’re wielding a tennis racquet. He doesn’t know what to say for a full minute.

“What are you...why are you wearing...what the hell.”

“There’s a bat,” is your whispered response.

Llewyn’s nose scrunches and he isn’t any less confused than he was a second ago. “What?”

“There’s a bat,’ you repeat. Your voice is slightly on the edge of hysteria because, well, “there is a bat. In the bathroom.”

“...okay?”

You jab your finger at the closed door. “I was just going to wash my face and brush my teeth and I went in there and it was just...in the corner, by the shelves. It was staring at me.”

He bites his lip, trying his hardest to suppress the smile tugging on his face. It isn’t working. He drops to a whisper himself and asks, “Baby, why are you whispering?”

Your head jerks towards the bathroom, and your shrug nearly sends the tennis racquet into his shoulder. “Because that’s how they...they’re...how they do the...the bat hearing thing!”

Llewyn laughs fully. He can’t help it; you’re ridiculous and his face heats a bit as he realizes it’s entirely endearing. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says, his voice sliding back to a whisper. He avoids your death glare as he makes his way to the bathroom door. “But sit tight, slugger, I’ll get rid of it.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and considers this. “Just gonna encourage it to go home? I dunno.”

Your grip tightens on the racquet. “How will that work?!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a fucking bat!” he hisses at you. “Just, make sure a window is open.” He opens the bathroom door.

Several things happen at once. Llewyn doesn’t so much open the door as he flings it wide and it slams into the wall. The bat makes a squeaky-shrieky noise (you were entirely unaware, until now, that they could even do that) and swoops out, recklessly streaking through Llewyn’s mess of curls. You make an actual shriek and fling the side window open as wide as possible. Llewyn makes a sound he can’t describe and you’re honestly not sure if it was Llewyn or the bat. The bat decides to take a few laps around the living room and you duck under the window sill just before it mercifully decides that outside is the place to be. Llewyn slams the window shut and you spring back to your feet, crash into his chest and his arms wrap around you.

Neither of you say anything, and Llewyn isn’t sure how much time passes, but he’s very aware of your hand running through his hair, and your soft words catching as you say you’re just trying to smooth out the bat damage.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll keep watch out here, make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” he jokes. “You okay?”

You finally - finally, he cheers internally - take off the catcher’s mask and nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m...good. Thanks for...thanks.”

Llewyn lets you go and takes the tennis racquet out of your hands, placing it next to the couch. He throws you a soft smile. “Just in case.”

November 14

It’s been a long night at work, a lot longer than it has any right to be and infinitely insufferable. The Gaslight is packed, patrons nearly crawling the walls and not an empty seat to be found. Drink orders stack up and you try to keep up. It’s so crazy that even Pappi doesn’t have a chance to be a smartass like usual.

Apparently it always gets like this, closer to a holiday.

Note to self - skip holidays.

There are two acts tonight. Llewyn is first, and it’s clear much of the crowd is here to catch him. It cheers you slightly, and it would certainly cheer you more if you had the time to pay more attention to him, but the constant call for whiskey and gin takes most of your focus. But for the time he’s on stage, your heart feels lighter.

Then the second act takes the stage, and Jean launches eye missiles at Llewyn from behind the microphone, and your mood sours instantly.

Yeah, it’s a very long night.

Everything is blurry for the rest of the evening, until last call mercifully rolls around and you can finally get to straightening out the mess the bar has become. You notice Llewyn still sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Don’t even say it,” you point at him sternly. “When will you stop fussing about this?” Ridiculous man. He has a key to your apartment, and still he worries that he’s an inconvenience.

You toss an orange slice at him, and he allows you a sweet grin.

Finally - finally - you’re home and Llewyn follows you inside, locking the door behind you. He heads for the couch and you head for your room, a mumbled g’night the only word that passes between you. You’re far too exhausted to deal with anything higher level.

It could be minutes or it could be hours later - your alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor and the darkish sky outside giving nothing away, and when did it start raining anyway - when a loud SPRONG and then a yelp and a THUMP from the living room jolts you awake.

It takes a few seconds to regain your senses. “Llewyn?”

“Fuck.”

You stumble out to the living room to find him half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, the quilt he normally uses tangled around his knees and ankles. He rubs a spot on his lower back and winces.

“Llewyn! What happened?” you cry.

He points to the middle cushion and you see something sticking up from the padding.

“Oh, Llewyn, jesus. I’m so sorry,” you apologize. You really do feel terrible; your couch hasn’t been in the best shape for ages, and it looks like the squeaky spring you noticed a few weeks ago finally gave up and poked it way through. And stabbed Llewyn in the back as he slept. Damn it. 

“It’s...it’s fine,” he tells you, still wincing. “I can turn the other way, or sleep on the floor. Not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “Yes big deal. My couch just stabbed you, and it’s cold outside, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“S’fine. Not the first time I ended up on the floor.”

You make up your mind before you even think about it and reach your hand out to him. “Come on,” you wiggle your fingers. “Come to bed.”

Llewyn’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to protest, but your look is so firm that he relents with a soft sigh and extricates himself from the blanket. He follows you to the bedroom and asks, no less than seven times, if you’re sure this is okay and says he really has no problem sleeping on the floor. You eventually tell him to shut the hell up and get under the covers.

You both lay on your sides, facing each other, but keep a space between you. Llewyn still looks mildly uneasy but relaxes as you smile at him and the warmth of your duvet and the softness of your pillows pull him under.

“Good night again, Llewyn,” you whisper.

“Good night again,” he replies with a soft yawn.

The rain steadily patters on your window and the sky slowly lightens as morning breaks and you languidly wake, curled into Llewyn’s chest, his arms secure around you.

December 14

Snow falls lightly outside, coats the grass and sticks to Llewyn’s curls, and his breath swirls and makes curlicues in the chill winter air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and you decide to put up a tree, a real tree, and you tell him he’s going to help decorate it.

You also tell him that a bunch of your light strings have stopped working, and before you can ask him to run to the shop down the block that sells replacements, he volunteers and is out the door.

He can’t remember the last time he was anywhere with a real tree. It was usually those cheap-looking fake ones, the green plastic branches a color that would never exist naturally, if there were any tree at all.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little excited. He comes up the steps to the apartment, a bag perched in the crook of his elbow as he unlocks the door.

“So I got the lights, like you asked,” he says cheerfully, and sets the bag down on the table by the door.

“Help.” That’s...not the response he’s expecting.

It’s two weeks since the entire living room has been rearranged. The new, non-back-stabbing couch is on the opposite wall. You rearranged all your shelves, got a new armchair, and much to Llewyn’s wary delight and bewilderment, a new side table. The side table has blank sheet music and pens and there’s a guitar stand next to it and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You just smile and tell him he needs a space to be himself, whatever that means.

The newly-opened space under the window is where the tree is going. Or, should be going. Llewyn looks down at the toppled fir and sees a foot sticking out near the trunk.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Your voice answers from beneath the branches. “Can you just help get this off me, please?”

Llewyn rights the tree and turns his head to check on you. He’s more concerned about you than the tree, of course, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t take you out again so he secures it to the stand as he takes you in. Thankfully you look fine, a few needles stuck to your sweater and a tiny scratch on your cheek, but otherwise…

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re looking very festive.”

Your eyes narrow. “Go ahead and ask,” you bite out, “because I know you’re going to ask.”

“I already did ask, before I had to be your lumberjack.”

You refrain from telling him that lumberjacks fell trees, not upright them. Whatever. You motion your head to the shiny silver tinsel wrapped around your torso. You can’t use your hands, really, and you’re not sure how they got tied up in this mess, exactly, but here you are, sitting on your living room floor in a pile of pine needles, trussed like a Christmas goose in sparking silver twine.

And your best friend is laughing at you. Jerk.

“I was trying to get this around the top part, and I lost my balance. Then like an idiot I tried to catch myself on the tree, and the whole damn thing went down with me,” you sigh. “I don’t even know how the rest of this tangled mess happened.”

He does laugh now, full and rich. “I was only gone for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, can you maybe...untie me?”

“Oh! Wait, here, I got something else,” Llewyn jumps to his feet. He ignores your request and pokes around in the shopping bag.

“If it’s not chocolate, I don’t want to hear about it,” your grumbled response brings another laugh.

Llewyn’s back in front of you seconds later, holding a small white cluster above your head. The grin on his face is equally charming and infuriating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you blink at him.

“I mean, I was just gonna, y’know, hang it above the door later and let it happen, but now seems like a better time for some Christmas cheer.”

“I think you’re pretty satisfyingly cheerful right now, idiot.”

He waves the mistletoe over your heads. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

One day, maybe you’ll be able to stop sighing in his presence, but today is not that day. You sigh again, roll your eyes, and lean in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and delighting in the shade of crimson he turns in response. He clears his throat and places the mistletoe to the side.

“Now will you untie me?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

He does, and helps you get the tinsel where it’s supposed to go and you spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree and drinking hot cider.

Llewyn sings you more than one Christmas song to make up for all the teasing.

January 14

It seems like a good idea at the time. One of your friends at your actual day-to-day job offers to set you up with another coworker, and it’s been ages since you went on a date and you figure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out the answer is, a lot. A lot can go wrong. So much that you don’t even want to think about it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is no chemistry, no spark, just an hours-long recitation of how your date is god’s gift to pretty much everything under the sun and possibly also the moon. The name-drops are just the cherry on top.

Maybe your first impression isn’t wrong after all.

You trudge up to your apartment, the bag of your favorite takeout under your arm filled to nearly bursting, and get the door open. All you want to do is stuff your face and maybe take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The melody of a strumming guitar stops as you place the bag on the side table and shimmy out of your coat. The lamp in the corner is the only illumination and you tilt your head towards the armchair’s occupant. You’re surprised that he’s there, but only because he was supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Knowing he wouldn’t be around was at least...half the reason you agreed to this stupid date in the first place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?” Llewyn asks in a low voice through the dim light.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at the Gaslight tonight?” you retort, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Might have had a few too many an’ said some things. Might’ve gotten thrown out.”

“Mmm,” you appraise him. He just looks the same way you feel; ridiculously tired. Exhausted. “Might’ve told my date I had to use the restroom but… maybe didn’t mention I meant the one at my house.”

“That bad?” Despite his snort, Llewyn sounds genuinely curious.

You sigh as you flop down on the couch and hold up the takeout bag. “I’d rather not talk about it. You wanna help me eat this?”

In an instant he’s on the couch next to you and you hand him some plastic utensils and a napkin. You get up and grab two beers. For a while you just focus on eating, passing containers back and forth with occasional comments about the food. Your knees bump sometimes as you each reach for different containers or your drinks.

“So what happened?”

You stab a piece of chicken a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid idea to go on a blind date.”

“Kind of a stupid idea to go on a date at all,” Llewyn replies softly.

“What.” It’s not really a question. You definitely don’t mean it as a question and you vaguely think about throwing an egg roll at him but that would be an honest waste of decent takeout.

“I know what the problem is,” he continues in a normal voice. “It’s the fourteenth.”

You look at him with a raised brow. He has an odd look on his face and you wait a beat before asking, “Okay? And?”

Llewyn also waits a beat before replying and points at you with his fork, a green bean stabbed on the end. You lean forward and pluck it off with your teeth. He needs a moment to clear his throat before he can go on. “It’s the fourteenth,” he repeats. “Don’t know if you noticed, but...well..weird things seem to keep happening. On the fourteenth. Of every month.”

“Huh.” He’s right, now that you think about it. You stab your food again. “What do you think that means?”

Llewyn looks like he wants to say something, like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shrugs. You put the container down and lean back on the couch, swinging your feet into Llewyn’s lap. 

He idly strokes your ankles as his expression grows serious. “I think it means we should not go out on any fourteenths, ever. Just to be safe.”

You poke him with your big toe. “You’re an idiot. There are things that can happen inside. There are things that have happened inside.”

A smirk creeps through his beard. “Shit, you’re right. One-a your crappy novels might fall off the shelf and crack me on the skull.” He pauses. “More run-ins with wildlife? Oh! I know. Squirrels, but this time, in the walls.”

“That’s not funny!” you try to poke him again and dissolve into giggles as he tickles your foot. Your combined laughter ricochets off the living room walls before dissipating back into silence.

This time, you’re clearing your throat before being able to continue. “It’s been a day. I’m gonna go take a hot bath.” You get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Please don’t fall asleep in the tub!” he calls after you. “Don’t forget what day it is.”

Idiot.

After your bath, you head to the bedroom and find Llewyn passed out on top of the covers. He has a key, and he stays over far more often than not nowadays, and even though he’s been told numerous times since the broken couch that it’s okay if he’d rather sleep in a bed, you don’t mind sharing, he rarely takes you up on that offer. Okay, so this is the first time since the broken couch that he’s even sort of taken up the offer.

It’s been a weird day.

You grab a quilt and curl up on the other side of the bed, pulling it over both of you and snuggling down into your pillow. 

“I wonder what happens on the next fourteenth,” you yawn mutter into the darkness of the room.

You’re asleep, so you can’t notice that Llewyn isn’t, really, and he rolls to face away from you and whispers, “Yeah, me too.”

February 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a straight bourbon, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as Pappi flips the power on.

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, and he hasn’t shown up yet, which is strange.

Another thing that’s strange? This weird feeling of déjà vu.  Whatever, you’ve been working more nights at the club recently, and they’re all starting to blend together.

“Your friend’s out back,” Pappi’s voice breaks into your thoughts as he sidles up to the bar and leans back on it.

“My friend?” you ask, confused.

Pappi shrugs. “Said he was a friend of yours. Dark curly hair, worn corduroy jacket, always looks tired or pissed off or both.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Wait, why is...did he get the crap kicked out of him again?”

“Nah,” Pappi shakes his head. “At least, maybe not yet. Anyway, I dunno, he just asked me to tell you he was outside. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to.” He nods his head towards the back exit and turns to tend to the bar.

Strange.

You duck your head out the door and glance up and down the alley. You see nothing except the usual debris; trash containers, the dumpster, the rusty drain pipes that run down from the gutters, weathered fire escapes. Something skitters off at the far end and disappears between the buildings. Was that a raccoon?

You snort a laugh as you recall Llewyn’s jab about wildlife run-ins. It would be something that happens, in a dark alley behind a basket house in Greenwich Village on the fourteenth of…

Oh. It is the fourteenth.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the head of the alley.

Llewyn stands there, leaning against the brick, dark curls and worn corduroy and all. He holds a single yellow rose in his hands. He looks incredibly nervous, enough to match you looking incredibly confused.

You step fully outside and the door clicks shut behind you. “Hi?”

“Uhm, this is for you,” he says, awkwardly holding the rose out. “Saw a guy selling ‘em a few blocks down, thought you might like it.”

“Thank you? But what’s the occasion?” Why is everything coming out as a question? Even that.

He bites his lip. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s the four---” Oh. Oh. 

“You wanna get out of here? Have dinner with me, maybe?” Llewyn rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen him done countless times, usually when he’s thinking about something serious and… Oh.

You twirl the rose in your fingertips and don’t quite meet his eyes. “I thought you said maybe we shouldn’t go out any fourteenths.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Um, I don’t know if you also noticed, along with this whole fourteenth business, but I...I really like spending time with you, just hanging out with you, and...I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought maybe we could, y’know, have a non-weird fourteenth day of the month for a change.”

He’s rambling and it’s adorable. You hum softly. “...on Valentine’s Day.”

Llewyn’s hands twitch in his pockets. “Well...yeah. I mean, I like spending time with you, but...I also like you. So why not?”

He has a point. And really, now that one of you has said it out loud, you really can’t deny it. All the time spent together, all the shared meals and drinks and late-night talks on the couch and letting him basically move into your apartment...it’s no secret, you realize, it never really was, how close you’ve become over the past many months. How easy it is with him. How natural it is.

All the times he helped you. All the times you helped him. All the times you were together, just being.

The fourteenth of the month be damned.

You pretend to think about it for a little longer than necessary as Llewyn watches you anxiously. “Well, I do have to work, you know.”

“I already asked your boss,” he shakes his head, “and he was more than willing to agree. Something about not getting a black eye on your behalf tonight.”

Your laugh rings out into the street. “But it is the fourteenth. What if one of us gets food poisoning or chokes on dessert or something?”

“Vomit doesn’t bother me and I know the Heimlich,” he smirks. “And I’m already asking you out in a dark alley in the Village, how much weirder can it get?”

“You make a fair point, Llewyn Davis.”

He extends an elbow and a hopeful smile.

If he notices, as he brushes his lips on your knuckles as you take his offered arm, that your breath catches and your heart rate increases, he doesn’t let on.

But later that night, as he trails kisses along your jaw and down your neck and asks you what you want to do on the next fourteenth, well, Llewyn Davis definitely notices then.

~end~