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jangofctts · 4 years

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Don’t Push Your Luck (Boba Fett x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k wooF

Warnings: smut, language, handjobs, oral (male receiving), fingering, heavy petting, there is SOFT. I REPEAT SOFT FLUFF. but only SOME

Chapter (1), (2)

a/n: hey y’all...welcome...finally this bITCH IS OUT. thanks to @djxrxn WHOMST HAVE BEEN THE MAIN MOTIVATOR BEHIND THIS. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH 💖🥵🤠

(also lmk if you wanna be tagged or just wanna YELL at me)

It’s impossible not to count down the days, the hours, the seconds leading up to your untimely end. A sleep cycle and half to be exact. A perfect amount of time to finish counting each loose wire and rusty screw holding together this heap of junk—a miracle really, that it’s able to jump to hyperspace, let alone fly.

You’re no expert on the inner workings of a spacecraft, but your familiarity with Imperial grade cruisers gift you the impeccable skill of deducing that the hiss of air every couple minutes out of the hydraulic piping is not ideal. Nor is the solar light overhead that flickers and hums, skirting the precarious line of exploding in your face or simply plunging the cargo hold into murky darkness.

At this point you’d take either.

You sigh, resting the back of your head against the wall as the barbed tendrils of an oncoming headache settles behind your eyes.

Between that, the stupid light, and your boredom; it’s enough to make anyone stir crazy. Stars—even the arduous task of talking to Boba Fett is morphing into something akin to craving. Even if his idea of a conversation runs parallel to the art of smug, male pride and snide words meant to pick and prod—it’s better than whatever this is.

Scoffing, you curl your knees up to your chest and rest your chin over your knee. This is pathetic.

You should despise him—feel like kicking his teeth in—or helmet—whatever. He aided in the killing of you friend—probably took care of all the other poor souls who even dared to breathe your way too. Boba Fett is a despicable, no good bounty hunter who finds far too much fun in the misfortune of others.

And yet…

The task of attaching your hate to the man is proving to be more difficult than you would’ve guessed. You don’t regret what you’ve done with him—far from it in fact—but your tolerance, bordering enjoying his company, is concerning. To say in the least.

Nothing good will come out of the conflicted ball of knots that settle in your chest, ensnaring your heartstrings into that endless monstrosity.

Though none of it stops the way your chest constricts, heart skipping a few vital beats at the familiar sound of his spurs resonate through the ship. They chink against the metal pegs of the ladder, boots settling on the ground with a heavy thump. A moment later Boba steps into your line of sight, tattered cloak and chipped armor in all its battered glory.

He isn’t an immanent threat, but your eyes still track each movement. The rational part of you knows he won’t lash out, but you’re still his quarry and even a wolf with a severed head has the power to bite. No part of you wants to brave the sharp points of his teeth.

Not even a fraction of his attention is thrown your way as he does his routine inspections of your fellow captured quarries, frozen in their carbonite prisons. You just hope none of them spontaneously reanimate—you’re not too keen on another shipmate. Your little corner is crowded as is and forget sharing your blanket. It’s tattered and smells like dust and mothballs and you have a sneaking suspicion it’s just one of Boba’s old cloaks he outgrew—but you’re thankful for it anyhow.

You flinch as he punches in a code, the loud grate of metal on metal piercing your ears as the carbonite slabs swing back into their storage space. With an incline of his head, his weighted gaze settles on your person.

“Still nervous?”

You sniff and shake your head. “You just…startled me is all.”

Boba snorts in disbelief and pads closer. He reaches the toes of your boots and squats, one gloved forearm resting over his knee as the other reaches out to capture a lock of your hair. He twirls it between his fingers and gently tugs, quiet as he studies you behind the visor. The action is familiar—doesn’t scare you as much as it once did, but his closeness still overwhelms.

“I see you’ve found some courage, gentle Rabbit,” he surmises, untangling his fingers from your hair to tap beneath your chin. “While we’re at it…any last favors I can provide?”

It’s whiplash—so stupefying it renders your tongue speechless, a heated blush rushing up your cheeks and to the tip of your ears. He snickers and shakes his head, rocking back onto his heels to stand as you sputter for words.

It’s a joke—a garbage one at your expense. Always at the butt-end of things with no room to snap back. Yet, as he turns on his heel to return to the cockpit—it’s the perfect opportunity. Not the sort of favor he’d be expecting, but a favor nonetheless.

“Can I—“ He pauses and casts a glance over his shoulder as you muster enough bravery to follow through. “Do you think I could—could sit in the cockpit? Just for a little while…”

It’s a long-shot—like launching a flimsy javelin at a target no larger than a thumbtack three thousand clicks away. Not happening—more likely to beat a rancor in a fucking wrestling match then sway the bounty hunter’s opinion. Regardless, the question must stun him—the terse silence drags on for an agonizing amount of time, amping up your anxiety tenfold.

“I’m sorry—I just—I wanted to see the stars one last time,” you mumble, curling into yourself with a wince. “It’s stupid—“

“It’s hyperspace—not much to look at.” He curtly interrupts. “An asteroid if you’re lucky.”

Your spirits plummet further—scraping against the dirt like a crashed speeder geared to the highest velocity and headed straight for a brick wall. Maker this was dumb—

“The second you try anything funny—“

You perk up, your spine straightening as he turns swiftly on his heel and marches back. He leans down at the waist, firmly ensnaring your chin between his forefinger and thumb, straining the muscles in your neck. “—you’ll end up in there.”

He jerks his head over his shoulder at the carbonfreezer. Yeah. No thank you. Absolutely zero interest in becoming a human popsicle.

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” you breathe, holding your stare steady. “Promise.”

Boba hums in thought, releases your chin and pats your cheek. He straightens and taps at his vambraces and with a hiss of air the stasis cuffs around your wrists clatter to the floor. You stand and sigh, rubbing at the angry raised lines, just shy from a dark bruise.

The bounty hunter ushers you towards the ladder, his hand anchored to your shoulder. You stop yourself from scoffing. The action is useless—you’ve got no clever scheme up your sleeve or malicious motive but you can never be too cautious you suppose—not with this line of work.

You try not to snoop once you clamber up into the second level—but Maker—it’s interesting. There’s a small bunk on the other end of the short corridor, messy blankets thrown on top and a deconstructed blaster that’s seen better days. Gray and off-white undershirts hang off the metal rigging on the bunk and the sight of his laundry is undoubtedly jarring. It’s silly not to think he doesn’t do laundry but—imagining the most feared bounty hunter in the Galaxy washing his tidy whities is hilarious.

“Come on,” Boba urges, nudging your shoulder with his own.

Your tiny smile never falters as he leads you into the domed cockpit, the neon blue of hyperspace reflecting across his chipped armor with miniature streaks of light. He gestures at the co-pilot’s seat tucked beside the com board, a litany of buttons blinking and flashing as you gingerly sit.

The hinges squeak as the chair spins, your eye catching the mess of beaded and jeweled necklaces that hang on a tiny hook above the board. You recognize a few—Kashyykian ceremonial beads, the glittering coil of pure, refined diamonds from Pantora and the braided strands of bantha leather common on Tatooine. Your fingers drift up and thumb at the carved wooden Wroshyr beads.

Trophies—

“Don’t touch those.”

You jump and yank your hand back. “So...all I can do is...sit?”

“Isn’t that what you asked for?”

You have to agree—there isn’t much to look at. Hyperspace, as fascinating as it is, looses its charm once the vertigo sets in. To be honest—you weren’t expecting to get this far.

Oh well.

A change in scenery is always nice. Different loose wires and screws to count…

And the seat spins. Score.

Boba however, does not share in your bemused sentiments. Your mopey sighing and the constant squeak of loose bearings on your spinny chair is not pleasant to the ear, apparently.

“If you’re that bored, Rabbit,” he sighs, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. “You could always put those hands to work.”

You pause and swipe a finger through the dust between the toggles on the comm board and absentmindedly respond. “I don’t think I’d be much help. I’m not very technically inclined and oh—“

Your cheeks flush when he tilts his head. “You, uh...didn’t mean that sort of work, did you?”

Boba snorts and crosses his ankle over his knee and rests his helmet on the headrest. The stretched out figure of his body is alluring—fascinating to studying each nick and scratch on his armor without the repercussions of him staring back. His vambraces clink against his cuirass as he laces his fingers together, resting his hands just above his codpiece.

“Do you need something, Rabbit?”

You swallow, your eyes flicking back up to a more respectable place for them to linger. “Um..n-no. I’m fine. Just…”

He rolls his head to the side, the shadows from hyperspace carving out the sharp lines of his helmet into an even deeper dramatic cut. You squirm and focus your eyes on the frayed laces of your boots.

“It’s alright. You can tell me, sweet girl.” His goads, tempting you out onto that slippery slope of desire.

He uncross his legs and uses the tip of his boot to languidly spin himself around, his knees spread wide in a display of mock easiness. Boba’s thumbs drum against his ammo belt, the quiet, rhythmic tap…tap…tap…the only sound filling the charged silence. It’s the Academy all over again; sat down and scrutinized until you crack—spill every secret until they’re satisfied— and Boba Fett is no different…

You scramble for words, wrangling your thoughts into something somewhat comprehensive. “I’m—I—well—“

He cocks his head, light bouncing off the silvery pockmark on his helmet. Boba’s hand idly travels lower, brushes off imaginary dust on his thigh and settles his fingers over the clasps to this codpiece. His thumb flicks it open then closed, all too keen on where your eyes are glued to.

“You want your hands on my cock again? Is that it?” Boba purrs in amusement. You tongue passes over your lip as you wrench your eyes off of him yet again.

“There’s no need to be play coy, girl,” Boba snickers, “Tell me.”

The words jump out of your mouth—no forethought and apparently not an ounce of self control. “Yes—I want...to p-put my hands on you.”

“On me or my cock?”

You mouth goes dry as you mumble out a feeble agreement. “Your…cock.”

Boba huffs in self satisfaction. “Come here then.”

On already shaky legs you stumble out of your seat and plant yourself in front of him. You have no visual confirmation but the hair-raising sensations as his eyes rake down your body sends shivers up your spine.

Your mouth parts, but before you’re even able to ask what he wants—he beats you to it.

“Your choice, Rabbit.”

Not helpful, you think.

Regardless of the lack of direction, you chew on the inside of your cheek and slowly lower yourself onto your knees, sliding easily between his parted legs. The only indication you know he’s aware you’re there is a quick shift of his hips, settling further into the leather cushion.

His leg jumps involuntarily as your fingers skim up his knee. If you weren’t interested in receiving a lovely black eye, you’d have the nerve to accuse him of being ticklish.

Biting the corner of your lip to stave off your coy smile, your hand continues its path up along his inner thigh. There’s a short huff of air that filters through the vocoder as your fingertips reach the codpiece. They brush over the circular dent left by a blaster, curiosity piqued at the strange location.

You want to ask—but—the thought is fleeting, far more interested in finding the tiny clasps on the side that easily pop open, the offending piece of armor going lax in your grip. You toss it to the side with little hesitation, greeted by the firm outline of his cock filling out the front of his trousers.

Boba Fett is not a patient man and your lecherous gawking, enough to notice, irks him. With a grunt he snakes his fingers around your hand and presses it against his cock. He rolls his hips, guiding your hand into applying a firmer touch until you’re palming him without the extra help. You give the hardening flesh a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears.

By the time your hand sweeps up to ease off the heavy ammo belt around his waist, the bulge in his pants is considerable—a fucking pain to maneuver around as you tug down his trousers into a dramatic ‘v’. Boba’s hand, hanging off the arm rest, jerks the moment your fingertips brush along the dark curls, trailing up and taking a hold of his cock with a careful grip.

He’s heavy in your hand, thicker than the circumference of your forefinger and thumb pressed together, and harder than kriffing durasteel. You can feel his watchful gaze carve a burning path over the contours of your face, drifting to where you hold him.

He grumbles an inaudible complaint under his breath, curling his fists by his sides. Despite his obvious irritation with your feathery touches, he lets you continue without so much as a grumpy sigh or snippy redirection. You preen at the small victory, delighted you’re able to explore before the short rope of his patience runs thin and snaps.

A sharp hiss of hair passes through the vocoder as you lightly tug on his cock, mesmerized by the firmness and the searing heat beneath your palm. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the dark flesh, flushed and pulsing as wetness pools at the tip as you pull down the foreskin, exposing the entirety of the wide head.

With your thumb you spread the bead of liquid around, intent on continuing your little exploratory endeavor until Boba shifts and grumbles out an order to stop.

“Not like that,” he huffs, laying his fingers over yours that hold his cock. “Harder.”

A fiery blush licks at your cheeks as he squeezes both sets of fingers into a firm fist, leading your hand into the pace he desires.

It’s rough, much firmer than you’d think would be pleasurable—but you oblige. The wetness that dribbles from the flushed tip lessens the friction but with quick lick over your palm, he glides easily in your hand. Boba’s head rolls back against the headrest, exposing a sliver of brown skin beneath the lip of his helmet.

It’s not long before your wrist aches—just shy of a couple moments. Luckily enough for you and your poor hand musculature, it doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes—rough and with no real discernible technique other than just fucking into your fist. Boba’s knee jerks as he lifts his head and arches his hips, chest heaving with shallow inhales.

“Take it in your—in your mouth,” he orders in a rough rasp. His chest heaves as his hand finds purchase in your hair, jerking your head closer to his cock. It stings—Maker, why does he pull so hard?

With a huff, you listen and part your lips. The tip of his cock slips into your heated mouth, twitching as your tongue rolls against the small slit leaking a near continuous stream of precum. With a couple short tugs and a gentle suck around the head, his fist clenches tight and drags you further down his shaft.

You gag around him, a low grunt rattling through his diaphragm as he cums. It’s warm, thick and fills your mouth, but the heavy weight on the back of your head leaves you no other choice than to swallow. Boba curses, cock still twitching when he lets you up and pulls out of your mouth. You gasp for precious air as you wipe off your lips with your sleeve, sparring a look up at the bounty hunter.

The reclined figure of his body molds into the chair, a strip of dark skin peeking out from beneath the cowl has his head rests back against the seat. His fingers twitch when you shift, squirming as the twisting heat in your lower stomach festers and grows.

You watch his throat bob as he speaks, “If you want something...take it.”

The hard enamel of your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you carefully rock forward, dragging yourself off the ground. It takes a moment to shuck off your pants and perch yourself over his knees after shimming his trousers further down his legs. Boba only bothers to look up with lazy interest once your cunt, soaked and smeared over your inner thighs presses against his upper legs, wetting the muscled limbs.

You steel your nerves against the sharp analytical gaze through the carved lines of his vizor and give your hips a tentative roll along the length of his softening cock. For all you know he could be asleep—yet you have a sneaking suspicion as to what his eyes are glued to. You’re no idiot.

Boba’s gloved fingertips skim up your thigh, tempted to go higher but instead they drop back onto the armrests. You chew the inside of your lip, shooing away the urge to frown. Whatever—dwelling upon the quick movement is best left in the dark.

He sucks in a sharp breath of air as you rock your hips for a second time, your slick folds gliding smoothly along his member. It’s a light pressure, no more than a gentle caress so as not to overwhelm—but nonetheless still pleasurable, sating that untamable fire that burns bright in your belly.

Your eyes drift back to those white gloves, his fists balled and stationary on the armrest. You want them on you. You want to feel his callouses scrape over your skin—one last craving you need to put an end to.

It’s a risk—a big one. Yet, throwing your worries out the window is easier than your indecisiveness.

Both your hands slowly crawl over the white gloves, cautious in pulling them off as if he were some rabid Nexu ready to bite. He is, in a way and your sneaky little ploy certainly does not go unnoticed.

Boba jerks his hands up the arm rests. “What makes you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

His tone is scathing—knocks you so far off that small pedestal of bravery you’ve mustered and leaves you wilting. You should’ve known, stopped while you were ahead. Though knowing in the back your mind that something like this would happen, doesn’t take away from the razor sharp embarrassment that cuts through your chest.

Your forearm shoots up to rub away the burning itch of tears that threaten to fall, your head turning away in a mixture of shame and regret. Stupid—

You’re about to retreat, slide off his lap like a miserable pile of goo, but the delicate touch on your chin, coaxing you to face him startles you. Even more so when he tugs at the offending glove and brushes a bare finger down your cheek, a mere whisper against your skin. “You have a soft heart.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he slips the other glove off, settling one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other tentatively slip between your legs and presses against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him and with a firm hand, he parts your soaking cunt and thrusts two of his fingers inside, grinding the heel of his palm into the little bundle of nerves.

With a chuckle his hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. “Good little Rabbit—cum on my fingers.”

Your body seizes as white hot heat sears through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a long whine filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body after your euphoric high. You’re barely conscious of your actions as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. With a satisfied hum, he slips them out, allowing your head to finally rest against his chest.

His hands are warm around your hips, tracing little patterns into the exposed skin—so light you’re sure you’re imagining it. You chide yourself—there’s no space for these kind of things. Not now.

The beskar is an uncomfortable thing to lay your cheek on—cold too—yet his soft sigh convinces you to stay put. Just for another second, suspended in a strange intimacy that neither of you should be dipping your toes into.

A gentle hush encompasses the cockpit, lulling you into a light doze. Though as your eyes struggle to stay open, the subtle inhale before a sentence is spoken keeps them from shutting. You wonder if he’ll muster the courage to speak or if he’ll let the words settle back into that lake teeming with uncovered mysteries and things better left unsaid.

“What would you do...” The beginning of his words tapers off as if he could pretend you wouldn’t hear it. It’s low, almost...uncertain. Well, as uncertain as Boba Fett could be with a head so full of his arrogance and pride.

His fingers drift higher up your back, ghostlike and teasingly soft.You hate the goosebumps that are left in the wake of his bare fingertips crawling up your spine. Swallowing, your fingernail taps at the chipped paint and circles the little brand on his cuirass. “Do what?”

He doesn’t answer right away—chewing on his words like they’ve stuck to the roof of his mouth and don’t intend to leave. He shifts and you’re afraid he’s about to shove you off his lap and storm away, but all he does is clear his throat and settle a palm on your upper back. “If I...if I let you go. What would you do?”

Your brows furrow, your heart kicking up into a rapid flurry of panic. That’s not fair—that’s not fair of him to say. You look up, your own twisted features staring back at you in the muted spectrum of blacks and grays in his visor. This is a joke—another one of his games to push you over the edge while he gets to bask in his idea of proclaimed hilarity. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

You ball your hand into a fist as a tidal wave of resentment, followed with chilly anguish washes over you. Your head spins and battles with opposing opinions and reasons why he should just go through with delivering you to his employer. Be done with it and get his moneys worth without any consequence.

And yet, there’s a minuscule part of you, sprouting away from the dark cloud of inevitability, that wonders. Wonders if you should fight—convince him you deserve to live, untangle you from the disastrous web the Empire has cast around your limbs with no hope of escape. You sigh and shut your eyes.

“I’d never escape from the Empire even if you did,” you murmur. “The only time I’d be free is if I were dead.”

<><><><><><><><>

He promised himself that this would never happen.

Never let his own desires and emotions interfere with a job.

It’s irresponsible, bad for business and frankly quite stupid. This could cost him his credibility, his credits, his life.

You don’t double cross your employer—it’s the first rule of business that even a child would understand.

Boba Fett is cunning and clever; always one step ahead of his enemies. Always methodical, refusing to leave any loose ends that even hint at coming back around to bite him in the ass. He’s convinced himself that a will of iron is necessary—the only way to survive and to grow stronger than those who’ve hurt him—bested him in the game of life.

Cold, methodical, a legend.

And you…

You are soft. Gentle and too kind for someone to be caught up in this sort of mess. He shouldn’t be delivering you to Death’s doorstep in exchange for credits. You should be off living on some remote planet, far out of the reaches of the Empire. Away from him. Billions of miles from his bloody fingertips that stain your skin like black ink against a white canvas.

But you’ve made your choices and he’s made his.

And none of it soothes the festering storm, with winds more forceful than those on Kamino, that rattle through his ribcage. It tears through his sternum, cuts through the beskar and leaves an open wound—raw and tender that grows tenfold the second your eyes land on him.

You don’t beg when he hoists you up from the floor, no blubbering tears or last minute bargains to spare your life. Not even as you both reach the loading ramp, one mere tap of the button that would reveal you both to the man waiting on the landing platform. One button and he’d be free of you. You’re braver than most.

He’ll give you that.

He shouldn’t have said anything—saved himself from the steady ache that comes with having to look you in the eye. Drives a stake so deep into his chest the second you spare him a precious smile that twinkles like unrefined coaxium and thank him. You’re thanking him for the barest amount of kindness he offered to you on your last days of life.

Boba isn’t sure who he hates more; himself or you.

He must be staring too long—committing each soft slope and contour of your cheeks, the freckles, your softly parted lips, to memory—because the gentle nudge to his arm startles him.

“I’ll be alright,” you grin. You make a poor impression of a blaster with your finger and thumb and mimic the sound of it firing. “One shot to the head and I’m gone.”

“I know how blasters work.”

You shrug and glance at his hand that hovers over the button. “Then why are you hesitating?”

The million credit answer. One that you both know the answer to.

“Because you won’t be dying. Not today and not while I’m still alive.”

<><><><><><><><><><><>

The outfit is garish.

Too white.

Too clean.

A color that deceives his true nature and masks what he truly is— a viper laying in wait for unsuspecting prey and witless victims. The smile that curls along the man’s unshaven face is meant to charm, but all it does is unsettle.

Boba has never once trusted a man who relies solely on the weight of his words rather than his own actions. All that this man has are words. Words, and a flimsy position within the ranks of the Empire. That, and twelve heavily armed Death Troopers that guard him, if you count them as well.

Orson Krennic.

A man that’ll get what’s coming to him. Perhaps not Boba’s own plasma bolt through the middle of his finely pressed uniform—but something equally as satisfying.

Grey hairs that escape his hat glint like shards of metal shrapnel in the midday sun, the Director’s smile steady as he speaks. “Took you long enough, bounty hunter.”

Boba’s teeth clamp onto his tongue, the metallic taste of blood flooding his tastebuds. “Too bad you have to rely on one, Director.”

Krennic snorts, folds his arms behind his back and saunters closer. “And your bounty? What of her?”

“Dead.”

#boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #UH OH CLIFF HANGER KJDKFJ #star wars #boba fett #fanfic #my writing #the last favor series #orson krennic #reader insert #FINALLY THIS HOE DONE

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thetomorrowshow · 3 years

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i will make the sky collapse ch. 3

First - Previous - Read on AO3!

Ok this post is queued bc y’all will not believe how busy I am, so it’ll be on ao3 a little late

CW: referenced violence, food, brief allusion to suicide, spiraling thoughts (from mr. jack kelly himself)

Jack had been here all day. When he ran from the rooftop after the disastrous strike, he’d snuck in through the backdoor of the theater and curled up in a corner, shaking and gasping and barely holding back tears. He’d been so close to just throwing himself off the rooftop, close enough that he knew he couldn’t stay there.

Now he hid behind the various set pieces, trying to not disturb anyone who still might be working around here this late. Not that there should be anyone, now. He’d even completely avoided Miss Medda. The woman liked to believe that she knew everything that went on around the theater, and Jack was content enough to let her. He couldn’t be found right now, though. Not when his nose burned and eyes smarted and knees wouldn’t stop shaking.

He would talk to Medda in the morning. It was late now, and all the lights were out, so it wasn’t like he had much of an option otherwise. Talk to her, maybe paint a background or two . . . maybe she would pay him like she offered . . . then he would be out of here, as soon as he could get Crutchie.

Crutchie. His heart practically split in half, and a tear finally slipped down his nose. They got Crutchie. They took him to the one place Jack had tried to save him from his entire life.

He had plans to head there near dawn tomorrow--after he’d spent another day planning things out. It shouldn’t be too hard to get him--or it wouldn’t, had it been anyone other than Crutchie. Any other boy would figure out how to climb down the wall, but it would be impossible without all working limbs. Crutchie’s bad leg wouldn’t be able to support him at all, especially not after the beating he’d taken in the Square (and definitely not after whatever Snyder and his goons had done so far during his stay, but Jack didn’t like to think about that). Jack could go in the front, the only door . . . but there was no way someone wouldn’t see him. There was always a guard or three hanging around, if not the Spider himself. And how would he get Crutchie down the stairs all by his lonesome?

A tiny voice spoke up in the back of his head, one that he’d been pushing down all evening. You coulds just go, it said. Forget about him, forget about all of them. Just go.

I can’t do that, Jack wanted to cry. He’s my brother, I can’ts just abandon him to Snyder!

People don’t stay in our lives forever, Jack, it reminded him. He’d never make it to Santa Fe, anyhow.

Jack couldn’t deny that. Maybe on a better day, in a better month. Maybe when Crutchie was grown, and his leg had calmed down a bit. Not now though, certainly not tomorrow. If Jack was going to leave soon, he was going to do it on his own. He didn’t want none of the others to come with him, anyhow. Only Crutchie.

Jack drew a hand across his tear-stained face, wincing as he brushed one of his bruises. Maybe in the morning he’d have a clearer head, a better understanding of what on earth he was meant to do. It wasn’t like the strike could continue, after all. They’d all end up in the Refuge for sure, or even worse. He’d seen Romeo get socked by that cop, had no idea how he was doing. If they kept on striking, more police would come, better armed and with no qualms about a bunch of stupid street rats.

None of them, save maybe Les, had escaped with zero injuries. Everyone was bleeding and bruised and crying and Crutchie was in the Refuge, and it was all Jack’s fault for getting the riled up about this in the first place. They were just kids! None of them knew what a union was supposed to be, even if Davey knew a bit about them! They were just children playacting at being adults, thinking that the trolley workers were probably having a good old time with no work while they got arrangements for better conditions, not even caring that there were full grown men dying in that strike. People died in strikes, and Jack couldn’t let it happen to any one of his boys, not before they properly got to be a person yet.

So he would leave--no, sleep on it, but he was fairly certain of his choice. Leaving, having to trust that the others would quit the strike and just deal with the raise in prices. That Crutchie would be out in a few months and be good enough to get right back to business, and maybe smiling that face-splitting smile of his eventually. Jack had to believe that he’d--that they’d all--be okay.

He couldn’t stop the sinking feeling in his stomach as he balled his shirt up into a pillow, nor could he stop a few more tears from wetting his cheeks. This was going to be by far the hardest and worst thing he’d ever done. He just had to hold on to Santa Fe. Everything was going to be fine when he got there.

Medda had given him one of those disapproving looks of hers, which Jack tried to ignore as his face burned. It had turned to blatant concern when he didn’t refuse her offer of payment. She had let it go, thankfully, and now he was waiting for the base white layer of paint to dry so he could start with the reds and oranges of a sunset. He’d already been waiting for what felt like way too long, so he stuck his thumb to the corner of it. It left a print and came back white, so Jack sighed and wiped it on his shirt--his undershirt, he’d taken his blue button-up off as soon as he’d gotten the paint out.

He couldn’t just not do anything--he could feel his feet itching to go, his head clamoring for his conscious attention. He absently flapped a brush back and forth against his palm, wondering if he could start on another while he waited, get the base coat of that one done and drying while he started on the actual painting of the first one. First he ought to sign this one, though, before he forgot.

Jack always signed his work, usually just on the back of the piece. A quickly scrawled ‘Jack K--’ in black paint, something to set it aside from all the other set pieces. He also knew that the boards would get reused countless times, painted over and cut up and redesigned. It was nice to know that under all that change, his name was there.

He spun it around and cracked open the can of black paint, dipping his brush in lightly and placing it on the blank back of the slab of wood. He could do his name big, more noticeable but with a better chance of getting scraped off. Or tiny, in the corner, somewhere it’d probably stay forever. Then he realized that while he’d been considering, he’d begun painting.

A boy, small, but very clearly a newsie, by his bag. An anguished face. A crutch.

Jack nearly dropped the brush. Was his guilt getting that bad, that he was painting Crutchie out of nowhere? Well, he couldn’t leave him there all alone on the canvas, with such a terrible look on his face. So Jack dipped his brush back in the paint and began another boy, not himself--not now that he was leaving--but Davey, as he liked to think that as Crutchie and Davey would become good friends in time. But Davey needed Les, and Les needed other boys, but of course they couldn’t be painted into this. They were too busy being suffocated by Pulitzer--and with that thought, Jack knew what he was painting.

The landscape had started out as any random place, just like all of them did. Mountains, a valley maybe, warm colors and some purple thrown in to capture the magic of a stained-glass sunset, and suddenly it was Santa Fe, exactly as Jack pictured it in his head. This happened with every single backdrop, from meadows to beaches to forests. All of them were Santa Fe, even if they weren’t.

“You ever gonna paint somewhere else, Jack?” a voice asked behind him, as he surveyed his work so far. He chuckled, not turning around, holding his thumb out in front of him the way he’d seen real painters do. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he thought it looked professional-like.

“How could you tell, Miss Medda?”

“Boy, I can tell everything.”

Jack dropped his arm and set his brush down on the floor, wiping his hands on his shirt as he turned around. Medda frowned.

“You are wearing an apron, use it!”

Oh yeah, he was. He moved his hands to it belatedly, smiling a little when Medda laughed at him. She was dressed to leave, not in a costume like Jack had assumed she would be. Were the shows over already?

“I’m heading out for a quick supper,” Medda said, and Jack nodded. One of the shows was over then, the other would be starting soon. He hadn’t lost track of as much time as he thought. “Do you want me to get you somethin’?”

“Aw, don’t worry ya’self over me,” Jack waved off. Sure, he hadn’t had anything to eat all day, but he could grab himself something later. By the look on Medda’s face, she was going to worry herself over him.

“I’ll bring you a sandwich, free of charge,” she said, reaching forward to pat his shoulder. He winced; he hadn’t realized he had a bruise there. Medda gave him another look, then turned to leave. Over her shoulder, she called, “By the way, Jack, there’s someone here to see you. I told him to wait in box five.”

Jack froze. They’d found him. It had to be Davey, didn’t it? The other boys knew that he stopped by the theater every so often, but didn’t know about his paintings. They just thought he knew one of the actors, or was getting food from the back or something. Only Davey and Les knew he worked here on occasion.

Jack put off visiting the box until after Miss Medda returned and told him to get up there before she sent the kid off herself. It was time to confess, he supposed. Let them know he wanted the strike to stop, and was leaving anyhow. At least someone would be able to tell Crutchie where he’d gone. And Katherine, if she cared.

This time he remembered to wipe his hands on his apron, then bundled it up and threw it into a corner. The painting wasn’t done, but he wanted to let it all dry before adding his finishing details. Every time he’d painted before, he hadn’t waited at all and it always came out looking more smudged than he wanted, so he’d decided to experiment a bit. Maybe it would look okay.

He couldn’t put it off any longer, it was time to face the music--or, Davey, rather. Jack knew his way around the theater, so it wasn’t hard to avoid the milling patrons in the lobby completely and skip straight up to box five, ready to talk to--

Specs?

“Specs?”

Specs.

“Specs.”

Specs leaped up from where he’d been perching on the edge of one of the fancy theater chairs, looking guilty as anything. When he saw Jack, though, his face brightened. “You’re all right!”

“Yeah, better than ever,” Jack griped, his eyes caught on the nasty hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Specs’s forearm. “Whaddya need?”

“We’s thought you mighta gotten grabbed by Snyder,” Specs said, looking him up and down, no doubt taking in his relatively few injuries. “The Delanceys been sayin’ you ran. I think some o’ the fellas mighta believed it, but Race thought ya’d be here so I cames by as soon as I could!”

Jack hadn’t counted on telling anyone other than Davey where he was going, but maybe this was for the best. Davey was so new to this, there was no way he could be in charge. Race was the first to come to mind for his replacement, but Race was so stupidly impulsive that Jack wasn’t sure he would be able to keep the boys in line. Specs would do well, though, at least until a better choice came forward. Used to the life, but always a little separate from the others, focusing more on the job than the social aspect. Still, he could have fun, and he was quietly loyal. Yeah, Specs would make a pretty good replacement. Jack opened his mouth to say something along those lines when a dirty scrap of paper was shoved in his face.

“What’s this?” he said instead.

Specs looked nervous and abashed at the same time. “Letter from Crutchie,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I went ta visit last night and he askeds me to give it to ya.”

Jack stared at the paper, taking in none of its details, then shifted his gaze to Specs. His eyes looked honest, if a bit anxious, mouth curved hopefully at the corner. The scrape on his cheek was ugly, but didn’t look infected. Davey must’ve made them all clean up with soap. That was another thing he’d have to tell Specs to remember. If he was going to be in charge, he had to know that Elmer hated the texture of the soap so bad he wouldn’t use it and had to be threatened, that Race sometimes liked to impulsively smear dirt on his wounds to try and get sympathy when it got infected.

Crutchie had written to him.

Jack grabbed the letter so quickly it almost tore, sending Specs stumbling back. Now that he was focused on it, that was definitely Crutchie’s handwriting, starting out relatively neat and just devolving into larger loops and tinier scribbles as it carried on. The paper was dirty, the pencil smudged here and there, and a rusty stain in the middle of the paper that made Jack’s stomach turn as he imagined how it had gotten there.

“I’ll just be headin’ back,” he heard Specs say distantly, but Jack couldn’t look away from the letter. Crutchie had held this, just last night, and he had been alive. Well enough to write a whole letter. Well enough to still have his sense of humor (Jack snorted at his joke about the food, then remembered the sentence preceding it and immediately sobered). Maybe even well enough to escape?

His letter read that he was already coming up with escape plans of his own, which was a good sign for his morale. It also said, though, that he was exhausted and his leg was doing bad.

Well, there was no way Jack couldn’t visit him now. Early in the morning was best--probably when the moon was about halfway done setting--and from there he would see whether or not Crutchie would be coming with him. Then back to the theater to lay low for a bit and finish the backdrop (there was no way Jack would be able to even think about finishing it tonight), then catch a train to Santa Fe and be out of here forever. If Crutchie did come, though, he’d have to do at least two more sets, get enough money for the both of them to make the trip. And of course, he still had to speak to Specs about taking over. Davey would come for him eventually, so he had to come up with something to placate him.

Why did nobody tell him that running away would take so much effort and planning?

The show was starting soon, and that sandwich was still waiting for him in the back room, so Jack ducked out of the box, tucking the letter into his pocket. He had to get ready for a break-in tonight, there was no time to waste.

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the-knights-who-say-book · 4 years

Text

Of a Witch, a Gossip, and a Library

The library on the corner of Oak and Vine was an accident. The crown didn’t bother opening libraries this far out west, so far from any of the major cities—so far that the townspeople joked to each other the king might someday forget to send his tax collectors out there, too. So Feldwidth had never had a library before.

When the local witch died a few years back, nobody quite knew what to do with her narrow corner cottage, with its living space upstairs and walls lined with shelves of witchcraft ingrediants on the single ground floor room. The witch hadn’t any children or relatives to continue living there, and nobody else claimed the space in the months after her death. The downstairs room, shelves on all four walls (even on the inside of the door!), just didn’t invite new inhabitants. No one in Feldwidth, except for the general store owner on Main, practiced a trade which required so many shelves, and no one wanted the tedious task of taking them all down.

It was Margorette Clay, who lived just outside the village and came in once a week supposedly to sell produce but mostly just to gossip, who said they ought to get themselves another witch.

“Not like you find them growing in a road ditch,” Jame Clott said irritably, because Margo was leaning against his fence. As far as he was concerned, no one who hadn’t painted that fence themselves were allowed to lean on it.

“Suppose not. Guess that’s only where you find Clotts,” Margo said, and ducked the dirty sheet that Jame had been beating out on the stone path and was about to beat out on her head. Cawing her distinctive laughter, she ran down the street, apron full of apples jostling and jumping with her loping stride.

Jame leaned over his fence to yell after her, “And they find Clays on the streets after it rains, too dumb to get back into the dirt!”

Margo’s laughter drew Catty Loose to the open doorway of her house as sure as if she’d had a ringing bell to announce new gossip. “What’s got Jame worked up?”

“Cause I said you ought to get yourselves a new witch,” Margo said, barely half-truthful as usual. “Buy an apple? They’re almost as blushing pretty as your kitling.”

Catty’s smallest daughter went red and buried herself deeper in her mother’s skirts.

Another kid, barely older, leaned against Margo’s leg and pulled her hand, nearly spilling all the apples from the apron she was holding up. “Why nother witch? What for?”

“Ah, every place ought to have one,” Margo said vaguely. “It’s the way of things. One apple for each of your kitlings, Catty, and I’ll throw two in free.”

————————

“Margo’s right,” Catty Loose said after temple that Saturday, as the townspeople gathered in the yard to mingle and eat, her arms full of children and another two playing at her feet.

With preternatural hearing, Jame Clott turned from speaking with his husband Willem across the yard to say loudly, “Margorette Clay has never been right once in her life.”

Catty ignored him. “We ought to get a new witch. Sooner or later we’ll want one.”

“That’s crap,” Jame said, coming into the circle that surrounded Catty, which seemed to be half made up of her own children. “What’ll we want a witch for? No one’s been cursed in ages.”

“Aida Macintosh,” someone put in.

“Aida Macintosh ate the red berries by the stream. That’s not a curse so much as a punishment for stupidity.”

No one could really disagree.

“Need one for love shpells,” a tiny Loose kitling named Alfed suggested.

Jame crouched down, his face softening, to look into his small, earnest face. “Love spells are a gross affront against consent and should have been outlawed years ago,” he said gently.

Little Alfed Loose sneezed in his face.

“For getting a baby when you can’t make one yourself,” Mendy Hark said, one hand squeezing her daughter’s shoulder protectively.

Jame, wiping his face, didn’t say anything.

————————

“So how’s one get a witch anyway?” Lukey Keening asked, continuing the conversation from several days ago without preamble, as he tended to do. He and his overly long teenage limbs were sprawled in the grass of the meadow where the families of Oak street gathered once a week for a community meal, conspicuously not helping.

The eldest Loose girl, siblings hoisted on either hip, made a thoughtful sound. “You don’t get one, I think, they get you.”

“I don’t wanna get gotten,” one child on her hip sniffled.

“That’s only bad witches that get you,” Lukey said.

Lettie sighed. “No, I mean, you don’t do something to get a witch, they come to you.”

“That’s right, girly,” Margo Clay said from her perch watching over a pot of stew on the open fire. She had not been invited. Like witches, Margo simply appeared without being fetched. “But I tell you what, you can make them know you want one.”

“How’s that?” Daff Keening asked, arms crossed over his comfortably large belly. His sudden and stout presence made his son scramble up and pretend to be busy helping Lettie wrangle several children, all of whom resembled her as nesting dolls resemble the one they fit inside.

“You make a place ready for her.” Margo’s brash tone, as ever, drew more people from their tasks to pay attention to her. “Like baiting a trap. Can’t expect a mouse to walk into your trap unless you make it look inviting.”

“What do you know about mice?” Sal Hark asked skeptically.

“They’re close relatives of hers,” Jame Clott said, unable to resist. “The better question is, what does she know about witches?”

————————

Margo Clay was an incorrigible gossip, but people who liked gossip liked Margo, so she was listened to anyway.

Catty Loose sent Lettie to sweep the empty store and dust the unnecessary amount of shelves. Lukey Keening tagged along to clean the small windows and help keep three small Looses in hand. The gaggle of children in and around the shop drew Jame Clott to poke his head in and see what was going on.

“Well! It looks clean, but it doesn’t look like a witch’s shop,” he declared.

“He’s right, Mama,” Lettie told her mother that evening. “I tossed out all the shriveled up herbs she had in there when I cleaned the shelves. Some of them had crumbled near into dust. But with the shelves empty it doesn’t look much like a witch’s place.”

Catty relayed this to the Macintoshes, who were eager for a replacement witch, in case anybody got cursed like Aida had last year.

“Mmhmm,” Catty said to that.

“I think the Harks have the magic books the old witch left,” Theo Macintosh said. “We can put those in there.”

—————————

Sal Hark brought the books around the shop a few days later, squinting in the sunshine at the man who was already there. “Hey, Jame. Witch showed up yet?”

Jame Clott startled back from the window he was peering through. “Nah, no witch is coming.”

Sal let out a whistle of agreement, but his smile was amused, like he thought Jame was wrong.

“Not with the shop looking that shoddy, anyway,” Jame said with a sniff. “There isn’t even a sign.”

“Blew down in a storm a few years ago, I think,” Sal said. “We know what shop it is, anyhow. Not like we’ve got shops every which way.”

“The witch wouldn’t know, since she’s new,” Jame said testily. If the whole town was going to take up Margo’s logic, they had better be consistent.

“Tell you what, then, you ought to paint a new sign. You’re the only one here who knows which end of a paintbrush goes where.”

Jame shook his head and waved goodbye. He wasn’t making a sign for an empty shop, a shop that would remain empty.

That night he saw Willem look out their kitchen window at that empty shop, something sad and wistful in his eyes, several times during their quiet dinner. Their dinners were always quiet, though they told each other about their days in detail, and debated if Margo’s pumpkins were any good at length. It was the quiet of something missing, the kind of quiet the Loose’s house down the street, full to the brim, had never known.

“Sal Hark said I should paint a sign for the witch’s shop, to make her want to come,” Jame said, surprising himself.

Willem tore his eyes away from the window and looked at him. After a moment, he smiled. “Face it, Jame, they won’t get her to come without your help.”

————————

Jame put up the new sign next week, his back so stiff-straight that nobody dared tease him about coming round to Margo’s thinking, though several people gathered across the street to watch.

The sign was big and square and sturdy, and painted on both sides was an open tome with stylized curls of magic shooting from it. Willem held the ladder steady while he hung it up, and Jame felt almost hopeful. Through the shining little windows passersby could see the neat shop room and the witch’s small collection of spell books sitting on one of the many shelves, and it looked almost inviting.

————————

Margo, who lived outside town, was the first one to realize someone had come to town overnight.

“Your witch is here!” she crowed, all but dancing down Oak Street in the early morning. “What did I tell you? Make it nice and she’ll come!”

“Quiet your racket,” said an irritable Jame, poking his head out his door. “Witch isn’t the word I’d use for you.”

“Wheel tracks!” she yelled at him. “Fresh wheel tracks down the road before I left my farm! Who brings a cart into town except for me and the tax collector? And the tax collector wouldn’t have set up shop in there!” She pointed one victorious finger at the corner shop where Jame’s sign swayed gently in the breeze. A rickety wooden cart was collapsed on the ground below it.

Jame opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Down the street, Catty Loose stuck her head out the window. “Margo, what are you whooping about? Oh my—Lettie! Lettie, find my shawl!” Her head ducked back inside, and before the last copper curl had followed it out the window, she was rushing out the front door, Lettie close on her heels.

Jame snapped his mouth shut and hurried after Margo, Catty, and Lettie, following them to the corner shop. A sleepy bundle of Loose kitlings, a couple of Keenings, a herd of Macintoshes and even a Hark or two were all heading in the same direction.

Someone had moved into the witch’s shop.

There were muddy shoe prints down the stone path, a new blue-checked curtain drawn over the window, and Margo standing triumphantly in front of the house, hands on her hips. “Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I!”

“So you did,” said Sal Hark, “but quiet, Margo, or you’ll wake her up. She must’ve come in dead of night.”

Margo ignored him. “Well, I hope you all remember this. When I’m right, I’m right!”

Behind her, the witch’s door cracked open.

The girl who opened it was no older than Lettie Loose, and probably younger. Her face was nervous, but as she took in the crowd outside her door, it broke into a shy smile. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t expect... I’m not all set up yet. But I suppose the library can be open now if you want.”

“What?” said Margo.

“Library?” said Catty.

“I knew it,” said Jame. “You didn’t catch yourself a witch. You caught a librarian.”

Margo glared at him, apparently lost for words.

The girl looked back and forth between them. “I’m sorry?”

Margo rounded on her. “A librarian! Is that what you are? Then you have to leave. We’re waiting for a witch.”

The girl’s mouth opened and shut, her eyes big, and then she looked down and sniffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jame snapped, a protectiveness in his voice so fierce that Margo took a step back from both him and the girl. He glared around him, making sure no one else was going to follow Margo’s lead, and then turned back to the girl. All anger dropped out of his face immediately, replaced by a gentle warmth. “Have you got family?”

“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m... I’ve just been taking my library around. That’s my family. I thought we could stay here, maybe, If that’s alright.”

“That’s just fine. We’ve never had a library before, we’re all real grateful you came. Come have breakfast.” He didn’t wait for an answer, already thinking of having a full kitchen, and Willem no longer staring out the window, and needing to find more eggs for breakfast, and who in town might have extra shoes to replace the worn-thin boots on her feet.

A layer of tension seemed to slough off her. She stepped out of her doorway and a few feet onto the path to follow Jame, then paused. Looking back at them, she said, “When you take a book, write the title and your name in the ledger, and return it in two weeks.”

Skipping to catch up with Jame, she grabbed his hand with an easy sort of trust. She turned her face up to him. “If it’s not for a library, why is it full of shelves? Why were there already books there? Why does it have a book sign?”

“Sometimes,” Jame said, “People think they’re waiting for one thing, but they’re really waiting for another.”

“Were you?” she asked.

He saw the moment Willem noticed them through the window, saw hope dawn in his eyes as he watched them come up the path; his husband, and a girl who looked like she needed a home.

“No,” he said. “We were waiting exactly for you.”

#this got out of hand. it was supposed to be a story about the librarian but then i decided to explain how she got there and. well.#original fiction #short story #fantasy #My writing #Of a Witch a Gossip and a Library

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captaincravatthecapricious · 3 years

Text

You’re Scaring Me- Prompt Fill

Jon is out of town somewhere in the nebulous future of a happy ending, and Martin is having a rough time.

cw isolation, guilt, references to child abuse, negative self talk, mentions of the Lonely, panic attacks

I am still accepting bingo prompts! Still have a couple outlined but not written/posted, and a few that still need requests (send me a character and let me know if you want a drawing or a fic (drawings happen much faster)). Have a lovely day!!!!!

Alone.

Martin knows that isn’t true. Not really. He could be talking to Jon in a matter of seconds. He knows. He does. That Jon would pick up the phone without hesitation no matter where he is. Jon is just gone for a few days. Taking in a few museums and bookshops during a short university break. Well deserved, because Jon has been working his ass off, trying to keep up with grading and coaxing students to turn things in on time.

Martin would have gone if he didn’t still have work.

In any case.

Technically Martin is alone. And that should be fine. It is fine.

It’s been years since the Lonely.

He shouldn’t be feeling like this. He shouldn’t need someone with him to feel like a person. He shouldn’t need Tim to drop in and check on him. And, yes he does want to see Tim, but... this feels more like he needs a babysitter. And he doesn’t want to put Tim out.

Martin presses himself into the couch. He should get a blanket. Preferably his heated blanket. But. That feels like cheating.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, afraid of the puff of fog that might escape him. Better he doesn’t see.

He doesn’t really want to see anyone right now. It sounds like a lot more effort than he has energy. Numb limbs heavy on a faded couch.

Faded? Is it really that dull a color? Or has the brightness gone with Jon?

Heh. Jon really is the light of his life, he supposes. What a stupid sappy stereotype.

He disgusts himself.

Why would Jon want to come back to this flat? It’s too cold, anyways.

He doesn’t want Tim to come to dinner. He doesn’t have the energy to shower. He should shower before he goes out. He knows he isn’t smelling the freshest. Is the salt on his skin and his lips from the clammy sweat that clings to him as his anxious thoughts writhe, or is it the salt spray of the Lonely? Either way. He is sticky and salty. And not fit for dinner. Not alone and certainly not with anyone else.

He’ll pull the life out of Tim. The warmth. He shouldn’t subject Tim to his mood and what his mood can do when he’s like this.

He shifts on the warn fabric of the couch. Drawing himself inwards.

Trying to find warmth in his core but just making himself a small, cold lump.

Pluto, abandoned, and frozen, and ignored.

With icy fingers that his phone hardly recognizes, he texts Tim to cancel.

Tim curses when he gets the text. He isn’t surprised to get it. But that doesn’t stop his heart from juddering.

“Sash, I’m going over. You coming?”

“Hurry up, Stoker, I’m already out the door.”

She is, and Tim scrambles to catch up.

He doesn’t want to admit how tightly he holds her hand on the tube.

The apartment door is cool to the touch.

As it should be, Tim’s fire-fighter brain supplies. But this is a little too cold.

A little frosty. The door knob mottled by the cold.

He knocks. Loudly. Shave-and-a-haircut. “Martin?”

Martin knows it’s Tim. Intellectually, he knows it has to be. That’s how Tim always knocks. But it jolts Martin out of the cold ball he has made himself into, and …nowhere.

Part of him is shoved against a wall with Jane Prentiss banging on the door. Part of him is pierced by the guilt that Tim has come all this way just for him and that he is stupid and needy and worthless for needing looking after, just a parade of guilt and isolation because he never learned how to grow up. Part of him is back in his closet hands over his ears as his parents fought, then barged in to give him an apology that never really apologized, just made him feel like he’d done wrong or that no matter how tidy and quiet he was he would never be worthy or clean. And part of him is still on a distant beach. Distant in distance and emotion.

And he can’t breathe.

Memories in his lungs.

Guilt in his throat.

Coughing and choking on the chilly air, too busy drowning to even call out to the Tim shaped life preserver banging on his door. His hands going numb and his muscles spasming.

Useless. Can’t go a weekend without Jon without a panic attack. Stupid. Codependent. Needy. Clingy. Worthless excuse for an adult. Can’t be a person for a single weekend.

Tim unlocks the door without getting a response. Of course he has a key.

He can’t say he’s surprised to find Martin hyperventilating and crying silently on the couch in a slightly foggy flat. He would like to have been surprised by this… but he isn’t.

Martin’s been having a rough go of it recently. Becoming and EMT means less time at home and with Jon. Less time to see his therapist. And Tim knows Martin has talked to Jon about this, and to his therapist, and to Tim and to Sasha, but that doesn’t help the reality of this. Martin is worn thin, and he knows it too, which is why Tim and Sasha were going to visit with him anyhow.

“Hey, buddy?” Tim eases himself closer to Martin.

Sasha is… not the most comfortable getting cried on. She prefers doing things to provide comfort not actually physically being there. She’s done it for Tim a few times, but she prefers showing her love in other ways. Like with a favorite meal. Or pirating a favorite movie. Or buying interesting rocks. Little ways to show love without… getting damp or snotty. Tim knows this, and figures she has slipped off to fetch Martin’s electric blanket, and start the kettle on the hob, and send a text to Jon, saying something to the effect of: please call.

Tim is all for damp hugs. He is all for clinging to someone like they are the last hope in the world, or as if he can hold that person together as the world tries to shake them to pieces. He’s done that with Jon in the distant past… and the very recent past. He’s done that with Sasha a few times, but not as often. And he has done that with Martin… just as he does this time.

Asking permission, of course.

Getting a jerky nod in answer to ‘is touch okay?’

He gathers Martin into his arms. He knows how much pressure Martin likes. He might not be as good a hugger as Martin, but he likes to think he’s a close second (with Sasha coming in third, and Jon in last place. Those noodle arms of his docking points).

“Buddy, can you breathe for me?”

Martin shakes his head, gasping some things that certainly don’t quite count as breaths.

“Martin, you’re scaring me, please take a breath?” Tim keeps murmuring to him for several minutes before it seems like Martin is getting any oxygen to his brain. But, Tim supposes, since he hasn’t passed out, he’s probably managing. “That’s really, really good, bud. Think you can manage some grounding exercises? Either that or I tell Sash to find you a lemon. Not the old school name for sexy time fan fiction, but an actual lemon. I read somewhere that biting one can help stop a panic attack, but I keep forgetting to try it. Do you wanna try that? Or should we stick with the more conventional?”

Martin signs he wants the grounding exercises.

Tim huffs a laugh. Martin isn’t the biggest fan of lemon. “We can try that one another time. Can you name five things you can see?”

Martin signs “Couch, you, my hands, the ceiling, the coffee table.”

Tim presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Good. Now four things you can feel? Or is it four you can hear and three you can feel? Fucked if I know. You’d think I would know this after doing it every few weeks. You’d have to ask Sash or Jon. Just… uh go with the first one. I guess. Buddy, you are doing great.”

Martin’s hands are clumsy and shaky and never were the best at BSL, but Tim can understand him well enough. He names four of each just to be safe. And it does help calm him down…. but Tim is pretty sure he loses Martin to his mind not long after.

Martin staring blankly at the ceiling as Tim runs a hand through his hair. He isn’t as into it as Jon is, but Martin seems to like it.

He’s warmed up enough to start shivering, which Tim is pretty sure is a good thing. Right? When you stop shivering is when you should worry about hypothermia. Plus, he has the electric blanket that Sasha found, and some tea, so he’s probably doing better.

And Sash convinced Jon to start back home. Yeah Martin will probably feel guilty about it, but Jon wouldn’t forgive them if they didn’t keep him posted about Martin’s wellbeing.

Martin must have fallen asleep. Or… did he just go all space cadet on Tim and Sasha? …He shouldn’t have done that. If he hadn’t canceled their plans, they would have all had a nice evening even if they were babysitting a grown man….

Shut up Martin inner monologue!

He takes a few deep breaths before he can spiral again.

He opens his eyes to see Jon curled against his chest. And Martin half on top of Tim, and Sasha curled up against Jon.

Martin is exhausted. Panicking having sucked any life in him away hours ago. He can’t bring himself to move. He can’t even bring himself to pay attention to the movie that he is sure is his favorite that is playing quietly on the television. He breathes deep the smell of Jon’s conditioner. The smell of Tim’s deodorant. The softest hint of Sasha’s lip balm. And he tucks the electric blanket a little tighter around himself, and lets himself rest.

#the magnus archives #tma #fic #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #timothy stoker #jonathan sims #cw guilt #cw panic attack #cw negative self talk #cw isolation #cw the lonely #art #my art #my words #my writing

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altagraye · 3 years

Text

Faith miniseries (part 1)

**T. W.!!: self harm, suicidal thoughts, self doubt, sad reader.

*this is my first xreader ever so i hope it aint sloppy. 💋

There were very few things that scared the Winchesters but tonight their fear was palpable. Most of the time they were passive and observant. Even Dean didn't want to open that can of worms. Ever since that hunt a few weeks ago, the one no one talked about on the 2 day drive home, something with you has been wrong. Like you got your wires crossed and you haven't been the same since. It has been gradual, like watching someone sinking in quicksand or dying of cancer.

You weren't stupid, you could tell that they have been distantly observing you as if you had a ticking time bomb strapped to your torso at all times. You noticed the change of mood in the kitchen when you'd finally gotten yourself out of bed to grab a cup of coffee. It's like your presence sucked the life out of a room, much like a Dementor from Harry Potter. You didn't know which hurt more, the deafening silence, the obvious coaxed smiles from Sam, or the steady stares from Dean when your back was turned. Sometimes when you were awake enough, you heard the brothers arguing about something, you'd tricked yourself to overhear certain words in their heated arguments, and convinced yourself they hadn't been arguing about you. But they clearly were.

Cas, the usual flat faced stoic of the Bunker had twinges of concern in his oceanic orbs. Were you that messed up? That a fuckin' angel was concerned about you? What the hell happened? It started with that hunt. That much you know, right? Maybe it started before that? When it did sink in, you started to spend much more time cooped up in your room. You liked the softness of your bed and the warmth of your bed-covers. Suddenly you didn't want to go...anywhere. You spent your days sleeping and struggling to keep your eyes open enough to hear what Sam had conjured up about a potential case. The nights, those were the worst though. In the night you couldn't get to sleep if you tried. And that was when you felt most alone. You hated being awake, if you were awake you were thinking. And thinking means remembering just how much of a screw up you knew you were.

Team Free Will just came back from a hunt which you had to pull teeth just to get to stay in the confines of the Bunker. It had been a few days. You don't remember the last time you ate. Was it when you ate the second to last slice of apple pie in the middle of the night when your insomnia was at its peak? Or was that this evening when you woke up to a grumbling stomach that you couldn't ignore, so you quelled it with warm chicken broth. You didn't feel deserving enough to eat solid food today. Your lips were cracked and severely chapped even though you knew you kept your lip balm in the bedside table, within reach. Your long hair is disheveled in its bun and you can't stop sneezing because you forgot to take your medicine today, again. What a failure. You can't take care of yourself. It would be so much better if you could just lay down in your bed and sleep. Sleep and dream, forever.

Face it, the Winchesters are so much better without you. Dean doesn't need you burdening him. He would only have to carry your dead weight around on cases. You can't even muster up the courage to walk up to houses and round up info on the local legends, doing door-to-door sweeps. What in all Hell makes you think Dean could be attracted to someone, some frail little girl trapped in the past? You weren't his type anyhow, a plus-sized book worm didn't turn him on. How could it? You saw his porno-mags. Those girls were, perfection. Miles away from what you were. They were tall, sculpted shades of golden skin. They were the definition of success, confidence, beauty. Qualities you'd convinced yourself you weren't. You saw their type in multiple bartenders that you painfully watched Dean flirt with. From your table at the bar, it stung to see Dean's pearly whites brighten in the lights of the illuminated bar. His expression full of child-like glee, effortless and innocent. Sam was next to you for protection, his face buried in his tablet searching diligently through lore and articles of missing peoples.

You shuffle your feet audibly into the kitchen. Even though you don't feel like eating, you need to eat at least a sandwich in Dean's presence. The brothers were sipping beer at the table in the kitchen while you fixed yourself a wimpy pb & j. Sitting down at the very edge of the metal table you stared for a long moment at your sandwich. I hate this, it's making me sick to even look at food, you think to yourself. You take a bite and chew slowly, wanting so hard to spit it out. You're too fat already. Why do you eat in the first place? Those thoughts stew in your head as you notice the Winchester brothers are staring at you. You notice someone is talking to you but it doesn't register. You swallow the bite unwillingly, closing your eyes like you had just done something terrible.

"Y/N? Earth to Y/N?" You recognize the husk in the voice to be Dean's. You flinch and look at him, wishing immediately you hadn't stared into those perfect green orbs. The expression on his face let you know that he knew there was definitely something wrong with you. God you're such a freak. You drag your tongue on your left canine, the one that has always been particularly sharp. Feeling a cold sweat begin to drip down your neck, you start to panic. You drop your sandwich on its plate and rise from your seat. You need the sanctuary of your messy bedroom, the softness of the mattress. You need the coolness of the sheets. Your small feet tap the tile of the floor beneath you but you notice sound behind you that will your body to go faster. They were following after you.

You'd never been more afraid that they'd find out what was in your head. That Dean would find out how you felt about him and about yourself. That can't be an option. You knew what would be next, what was inevitable. The dreaded talk. You finally reach the knob of your bedroom door, your palm slipping as you fumble with it from sweating. Just as they are about to reach you, you open the door and slam it shut behind you, locking it. You heart is racing against your chest. Locking the door isn't enough. So you barricade the door with your dresser. As you do so, you feel yourself breaking and hot tears flow down your face soaking into your hoodie.

"Y/N?! C'mon, open the door." Sam says.

"Whatever it is we can talk about it. Y/N. Please?" Dean's tone is almost unlike him. You'd only ever heard him use this kind of tone with children who were in the midst of trauma from an awry hunt. Is that what he thought of you as? A wounded child in need of coddling? Or maybe even worse, a wounded animal.

You don't answer and there is a long pause. You need relief and release in the only way you know how. You rummage through your bedside table drawer and find a thin hunting knife, the one Dean gave you a few years ago. Your first gift from him. You pull down the fleece-like fabric of your sweatpants to reveal scars, left over from self-inflicted pain, years gone by. They were raised and pink lines. They wouldn't understand. You hear thudding from the other side of your door, that can only mean the brothers are getting more desperate, using their bodyweight to try and get inside.

"Y/N!!" Dean yells for you in between the thudding.

"GO AWAY!" You yell as you drag the sharpness across your skin. Red bubbles up from the cut and for a few seconds you feel relief. But it doesn't stop the pain. You cry more, sobbing uncontrollably. The salty tears blurring your vision until they spill over staining your cheeks. You need more, so you add more cuts, one by one. Oddly you chuckled at your macabre artwork, thinking you just made your thigh look like a piece of lined paper. You start your work on the opposite thigh, digging in a little deeper with each line.

You hear someone suck in a breath sharply. Someone was in the room with you. During your release, you never noticed the dresser move or the door opening. Looking up from your bloodied thighs you see Dean staring back at you. His blade still in your hand, red dripping down your skin and slipping into the pure white sheets.

"Y/N? Hey, that's okay. Put the knife down, alright?" He said to you smiling at you flashing his bright white impeccable teeth, Sam in the background of your bedroom doorway with his hand clasped over his mouth in a blank stare. More tears sear themselves into your eyes and flood over. Your lips are quivering. You drop your knife released from your trembling hand, it thunks itself into the wooden floor below. You don't dare look back at Dean. You curl yourself up as best as possible granted the size of your stomach won't let you pull your knees to your chest.

You collapse onto your bed facing your pillows, you sob into them and hold one tight to your face in a feeble attempt to hide yourself. You feel Dean sit next to you on the bed, and he begins to stroke your back in soothing motions. His effortless acts of kindness make you break more. You feel the onset of a nasty headache forming, from the intensity of your sobbing. You can barely make out Dean telling Sam to bring a first aid kit and water. Dean shushes you and continues to stroke your back and your arm.

"You don't have to tell me anything. Just take deep breaths, 'kay? Here, I'll do it too." He breathes deep in and out, hard enough to be audible. Why was he so nice to me all of a sudden?? You begin to feel numb, and you weren't sure if this was from the emotional break down or the blood loss. Had you cut too deep this time? Sam returns with the first aid kit. You note its metal clink on the bedside table. You unbury your face from your pillow only to get a breath of fresh air. You don't look at Dean or Sam. You couldn't. Dean thanks his younger brother for the glass of water and the kit.

"Can you give us a minute Sammy?" Dean asks.

"Sure. As long as you need." Sam confirms and you hear the heavy footed thuds of his boots exit your room. Dean does something that you don't expect. He lays down on his side, with you. Spooning up against your form. You mentally whack yourself in the head, he's getting his jeans all bloody, that you're sure of. He continues to stroke your arm softly. He hooks his chin into the nook of your shoulder.

"Whenever you're ready. I'm all ears." He tells you, the gentleness in his tone brings you to tears again. You weep silently. Was this really happening? You don't budge or say a word as sleep takes you over and you feel so amazingly content. You melt into the rhythmic breaths that Dean takes. The act soothes you into dreamland. For the first time in a while you think, I want to wake up to him next to me. And you swear you smile in your slumber.

End part 1.

*criticism is taken constructively.

*comments are golden.

#dean x reader #self doubt #mental health issues #plus sized reader #depression #suicidal thoughts #sad reader #fluff

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alloftimeandspacetosee · 3 years

Text

The Deal

So this is... after a pretty pivotal point in the timeline! I need to rewrite the pivotal point quite drastically! It’ll be up at some point, but basically the nightchild is Giratina’s marked, who can rip the world apart and release him from his distortion realm, which would. be bad.

The nightchild is the daughter of Joanna, who’s one of Jay’s oldest friends, and... Jay isn’t really keen on the idea of murdering her, honestly! She’s just been born! She hasn’t done anything!

And this all came to a head when someone else in the village try to kill the child (named Nyx) instead, and Dialga and Palkia possessed Jay when she was trying to save the kid. There was a fight, Joanna almost killed her, but everyone lives.

in this iteration. The night of nyx is where a lot of the AUs diverge from

Anyhow. Jay talks back to legendaries

I sleep badly. And after the night I’ve – we’ve – just had… honestly, I’m not surprised. But at the same time, it’s been about the only night that I’ve wanted to sleep for ages. So I’m tossing and turning, all over the place. Not even sure if I’m sleeping.

I assume I am when the ground shimmers around me into a beautiful silver hall, lightly decorated with pink and blue. It feels like home, so much so that I easily suppress the twinge of unease as I stretch, looking around. Wondering what my subconscious was throwing up now.

“Nah, I reckon I saved you from doing a pretty idiotic one actually,” I reply, unsurprised to see Palkia and Dialga materialise in front of me. After tonight, they’d probably be appearing in my dreams for a while.

“For a human child, yes.” Damn, my subconscious was a stupid thing. “We’ve been over this today, can it just not rest?”

<No. You know nothing>

“Only when you’re making sense.”

“I don’t think I want to comprehend it.”

“With Nyx? Let her live. She has every right to.”

“She is not the NightChild.”

“That isn’t all she is. One mark doesn’t claim a person.”

“Not yours.” I snarl, cutting them off. “And you had no right-”

“Is that why she’s still alive then? Because it’s what you want?”

“No. Because I am a human, and letting her live was not a weakness!” I step towards them, not caring that this was a dream. Wishing it wasn’t, actually, and wanting to give them a piece of my mind in actuality.

Their chilling laugh is hideous and hair raising and not like proper laughter at all. <You think you are human, Little One?>

“What do you mean?”

“I owe her mother more,” I snarl. “You said you’d leave her alone.”

“Then don’t be.” I curl my hands into fists. “I’ll not let her fall. We’ll not let her fall.”

“I’ll no do that by killing her.”

“You will not. It isn’t trouble, to care for a life.” I look up at them, hating that they’re so much bigger.

“Their task – my task – isn’t killing helpless children. It’s making sure Giratina doesn’t break through.”

“If you think we should be killing innocents – then yes. Of course I do.”

“Don’t kill her. Don’t kill any of them without reason. She can be taught, she’s got a good family.”

I reel back. They talk of it so callously.

They rear back, presumably talking amongst themselves. I’m beginning to get the idea that this isn’t just a dream. Maybe they talked of my death like that so easily because I wasn’t exactly being respectful.

Bugger that. They didn’t deserve respect.

They look down at me once more.

It was a lot. And –

“Who says I’m having kids?”

Fucking blackmailers.

But it was the best deal we’d get.

“Fine. We will be the Guardians.”

“But I want something from you, in return.”

“No. Not for this.” And – as if it were as easy as that – I jump, reaching their height so I can stare them in the eyes. “I want it to be our choice.”

Pretty shitty choice, though. “No.” I shake my head. “I want it to be our choice about when we have to fight to protect the world. Your vendetta should not be played out by humans. We will only stop the gates – we will not kill unless necessary. And you will not play with our minds, making it seem different from what it is. I don’t want innocent blood spilt.”

“Swear it. Swear you will do this – or so help me, I will hunt you down in this life and the next and rip you to shreds.” At that point, I mean it. And I know they know I mean it.

“Swear it by the AllFather. By the AllMother.”

“I swear by the SkyLord that we will not let Giratina break through. I swear that we will do what we can to keep the Fyrian line from straying. I swear that we will keep the world safe and its people as free from harm as we can manage. We will be the Guardians the world needs.”

“Don’t let me ever catch you breaking your word.”

<Don’t let us catch you breaking yours>

“Yeah, yeah.” I flap a hand and turn, dropping to the floor. It doesn’t hurt.

And then I blink my eyes and I’m sitting on the roof of the centre of Lavaridge, with no jacket – not that I need it – and not much clue of how I got there.

Ah, shit. That had actually happened, then.

“And you couldn’t just put me back in bed,” I mutter wearily, scrubbing my eyes.

“Jay?”

I twist around. “Jayden. Hi. What are you doing up here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I don’t actually know.”

He laughs softly and moves to sit down beside me. “Restless.”

“Sort of.” I lean my head on his shoulder.

He puts his arm around my shoulders. “Been a long night.”

And I still hadn’t explained things. “Mhm.” I would do. First chance I worked out how to say it.

“Shall we go back in?”

I reach a hand out to catch a piece of ash. “It’s quite nice here.” We are getting covered in the stuff.

He nods and stays quiet.

I think over the conversation I’d just had with the two douchiest legendaries I’d ever known and groan.

“What’s up?”

“I think I might’ve just made a really crappy deal.” I glance at him, seeing his confusion. “I’ll explain it at some point.”

“I’m sure you shall.”

Dammit, he was so trusting. I close my eyes and lean further into his shoulder.

#pokemon #oc #mainverse #1st gen #Jay Nightgale #writing #lavaridge #hoenn #the nightchild

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homogrimoire-archive · 3 years

Text

The Rage of Loneliness and the Wave of Bravery

Summary: Time is meaningless in The Entity's Realm, but David's spent enough time there to develop a routine. Get dumped into a trial, blow of some steam, save a bloke, and survive, then work out for the next trial. Rinse and repeat. It's lonely, but he doesn't care. Though, it's always a bit of a drag when a wrench is thrown into his beloved routine. Sometimes he ends up dead, sometimes he gets yelled at by fellow survivors for doing something they call dumb. It's whatever. But, one day, someone interjects himself into the brawler's routine. It's welcome though, especially when it's their brave leader. He's alright after all. But, David soon realizes that in order to get what he really wants, he must confront it, and he simply can't do that. So, he returns to his lonely routine, embracing it even more. Dwight won't let him just do that to himself though, not for any longer.

AO3 Link

Loneliness is a rage, and rage a fuel. It's what fuels this King. That was good. Rage was all he knew he needed, even if he wasn’t sure where it came from. Rage is good. That’s all that mattered. HIs father taught him that, and life reaffirmed it. From supposed friends to clandestine brawls, loneliness persisted. Thus, so did rage. The only thing that would change was the target of that rage. His father, dauntless drunks, and random, unfortunate fools when it became too much, which was often.

And in the realm of despair where they lived as the playthings of some bloody sick spider thing, rage proved useful as always. Most time outside the trials in his early days in the realm were spent training alone. He quickly found that the rules of the world were different ‘ere. Rage, the rage he had, was meaningless to The Entity and her other set of toys. He should ‘ave been able to right knock half those monsters out cold, make them regret their recent mistake to mess with him and the others. But, that was not so.

Well, that wasn’t going to stop him from trying t’ get strong enough to beat their shit faces in.

This realm wasn’t exactly made for training, only for bloody, sadistic games and small moments of reprieve ‘round a campfire. But, David made do. Pushups, planks, curl ups, squats, and pullups if there was a stong and low enough branch nearby. At least he already had his cardio cut out for him. Ha.

The workouts were something familiar to hold onto. He tried hanging ‘round the campfire with the others, but it proved a waste of time. It was all too easy for them to set him off, for him to snap back at even harmless remarks. There was some familiarity in that too.

He didn’t hate them in the slightest. He’d still risk his bloody life for them every now and then, even if it wasn’t entirely out of kindness. Its just what guys like him did. They stepped up and fought the other guy. Feel the adrenaline, feel the victory. All there was to it.

He’d never ask or expect anything in return for savin' their arses. In fact, he didn’t want any of that. Chances are, it’d end up a phony display like practically all the other times. This was fine by him. More time to be alone, just like he always wants.

But, there was one person who was brave enough to confront him. And who else would that be than their little “leader.” David thought lowly of him at first, Fairfield. What was some mumbling fool like him gonna do in a place like this? Quite a bit, apparently. He was deserving of his role as leader at least. Kept his head on right when the others turned ‘to mumbling fools.

David wasn’t like them though. He didn’t need someone to tell him what to do. Didn’t mean he wouldn't listen to the bloke during trials. Dwight knew how to keep a team alive and working smoothly. It wasn't exactly that though. What they both wanted to do just happened to align a lot.

Of course, there were times he didn’t listen to their little leader. The results of such matches varied. Sometimes his insubordination didn’t work out. He’d get chewed out by Dwight and the other Survivors, and then he’d tell ‘em off and leave. He didn’t need their jabberin'. Other times, it did work out. Got a compliment for it. Still got chewed out just a little, but he’d end up leavin’ to be alone all the same. He didn’t need their half-arsed, phony friendship.

The little guy was persistent though, annoyingly so. He’d follow David out into the woods to continue chewing him out or whatever. It would make him feel a slight pang of guilt. But, he’d try to be understanding of David about it. He’d still let the guy to fuck off though. A little threat was all it took to make him turn around. He didn’t need anyone to understand him.

Yet, despite being the one that miffed him the most, he still didn’t hate the guy either. Couldn't really afford t' hate someone ‘ere. So, when meager Dwight Fairfield came to David out of the blue one day to ask if he could train him, David didn’t say no. In his opinion, the whole lot of ‘em could’ve used some training. Starting with their brave little leader was as good enough a start as any though.

And as expected, guy was a weakling. A few push ups before flopping onto the floor, a pullup that could barely even be called a pullup, and couldn’t hold a plank for twenty seconds. But, he was determined. That’s honestly all anyone needed. It helped that he was good at followin' orders too.

These training sessions were sporadic, happenin' about after every couple a trials. David didn’t mind the company of Dwight. It was a welcome change of pace to liven things up in the dreary and repetitive realm of the Entity. It was interesting to see who Dwight was off the battlefield. He acted as one would expect from a guy of his body language. Not that David paid any particularly special attention to his body. Dwight was an easy guy to read after all. And sure, he did keep a keen eye on Dwight’s form during their training to make sure he was working out properly, but that was it.

During that time, David found himself growing to think of the other man as an… acquaintance. Yes, that was an apt descriptor of their relationship. Not a stranger by any means, not just another body he’d help protect, but not a friend. David King didn’t ‘ave friends, definitely not anymore. Only had one back in the real world, maybe never see the bloke again. Doubted he’d make one ‘ere. Probably for the best.

David was able see the fruits of their labor during a trial they were thrown into together. He was able to vault the empty windows with greater ease and struggled less when throwing the pallets to block this round’s killer, The Huntress. He even stunned her a few times, momentarily silencin' her bloody infernal song. It always was quite the sight to see Dwight in a trial. Quaking as he ran to hide in a locker at one moment, and then starin' down a killer and waiting for the right moment to stun them in the next. And then, once they were all safe and through the exit gate, he’d blush at the praise his fellow survivors gave him.

It was this time that David found himself staying at the campfire without thoughts of wanting to return to the loneliness outside the warm blaze. He sang praises of their leader to the others, givin’ credit where it was due. They too spoke highly of Dwight, bringing out his shyness more, and thanked him for kindly helpin' out their brave leader. For the first time in a long time, it felt genuinely nice to be around others. That feeling persisted for the couple of trials he was in, wherein all four of 'em lived, all thanks to each other.

But, that feeling would not last. It never did. After this particular trial, which saw him sacrificed so the other three could escape, he decided to go and find the campfire. It didn’t take long to find it after waking up in the forest, good as new. And there they were, quick to jump up and mither over him. David was quickly reminded why he preferred to be alone. He didn’t need someone to hug him and ask if he was okay. Of course he was bloody okay.

So, without answering any of them, he stormed off. They called out to him, but he did not listen. He began to run. Dwight’s voice stuck out to him among them. His voice persisted even as he ran. He didn’t look back. He didn’t care.

He didn’t care.

He kept running, holding in an emotion he could not describe. He didn’t notice the darkness that seemed to dance around him in sadistic joy, nor the tears that ran down his face. And eventually, he ran into the next trial. He realized what a state he was in, and knew to get his act straight before anyone saw him.

He still ended up on a hook and dead anyhow. Again, it didn’t matter to the monster in front of him how much rage he felt. He was offed so quickly he didn’t even know who survived, if anyone did. Whatever. What’s done is done.

David didn’t bother moving far from where the Entity dropped him off. All he needed to get back to his training was close by. He couldn't ‘ave a failure like that again. What kind of man would be then if he let that kind of nonsense happen again? Best to be alone, nothin'… effin' stupid, to distract him.

Yet, something stupid managed to find him. The distraction called out to him. It was very obviously one nervous and concerned Dwight Fairfield. Of course. Who else but their brave and caring leader would seek him out. Probably to just make sure he wasn’t gonna cause any more trouble for ‘em in the future.

“David! There you are!” Dwight shouted, hoping the larger man wouldn't run off again. He didn’t. With a resigned sigh, he leaned up against the tree he was punching. Microfractures made for strong knuckles, good for beatin’ ugly mugs in. Plenty of those 'round 'ere.

“What d’you want?” he questioned, already ready for the conversation to be over.

"I- I just want to know if you're alright. Why did you storm off like that? We're worried about you, y'know?"

"Pft. Ain't need t' worry 'bout me. You lot just worry 'bout y'selves. 'M fine. Just leave me alone." David answered, and went back to punching the tree. Blood began to leak from the scrapes that were formin' on his knuckles as the tree shook. Good, maybe scare the bloke off already. Then, a hand on his shoulder.

Instinctively, he punched in that general direction. Dwight dodged the blow. Figures he'd ‘ave good reaction time. Need that as a survivor, and Dwight's a damn good one.

"Leave me the fock 'lone. Won't miss next time." the scrapper threatened, and went back to punching the tree.

Part of him wished the smaller guy would test him. Give him a reason to beat the bloke black and blue. Throw him back to the others after, and they'd all leave the King alone for sure. But, part of him didn't want to do that either. Dwight wasn't a bad guy and David didn't want to hurt him.

"No."

"What?" David demanded, his anger risin'.

"No. I'm not going to leave you alone." Dwight began, gently placing his hands on both the taller man's shoulders as they faced each other. And slowly, Dwight pulled him in for a hug despite the angered look on his face. David didn't resist, didn't know how to react.

"David, you're not okay. I… I don't know what bothers you, but I know something does. And that's fine. I do care about you. I don't want you to be alone. So… just know that at least, alright? … David?" Dwight asked after the other man didn't respond.

He tried to pull away to see what was wrong, but the stronger man quickly pulled him back in closer, holding onto him tighter. Dwight could hear his weak sobs as he tried to keep them in.

"It's alright David, I'm here for you. Let it all out." Dwight comforted, patting and rubbing the larger man's back. He wasn't sure if this was what people were supposed to do, but it worked. David's sobs became less restrained, rattling the smaller man's chest as they were released into the dark night. It almost made Dwight want to cry, but he kept his brave face up. He couldn't cry now, not when David needed him.

"I don't know what's wrong with me…" he eventually confessed, to himself and to Dwight.

This is the sadness of the rage of loneliness. David had felt its power many times. It was an intensity that made one feel like life itself was coursing through 'em. But, he had felt it's sadness sparsely. Without anyone, sadness was all it was. With someone, it was a catharsis.

He wondered why he was so contradictory. Why did he want to feel togetherness yet always push himself into solitude? How could he be so rude to all of 'em yet be willing t’ risk his life for all of 'em. Why did he dislike Dwight the most, yet care for him the most?

He didn't know, but now he cared.

“There’s a lot of things wrong with everyone. So, you’re not alone in that way at least.”

“Even you?” David asked with a weak laugh between sniffling.

“Yeah, even me.” Dwight answered with a small laugh of his own. David pulled away, finding that he wanted the embrace to last longer. He didn’t pull the other man back in though. He just wiped his tears away and stared at the ground, quickly decidin’ to get comfortable and sit down against the tree. Dwight followed, takin’ a seat next to the other man. Silence followed for the next few moments. Just bein’ with someone was enough.

“I think what’s wrong with me is that I think I’m never enough. I could always be something more, but I never am.” Dwight revealed, keeping his head down.

“I think you’re enough. Hell, m’sure the rest of ‘em think that too. Y’do a lot for us, mate. And at least you try t’ be better.” David affirmed.

“Thanks, David. The others tell me that too. I just… still can’t help but feel like I’m not enough.“

“Well, I’ll remind you as many times as y’need. You are a lot more amazin’ than y’think.”

“Really?” Dwight asked, picking up his head.

“Really.” David said, gazing right at the other man. He wanted Dwight to know his words were genuine.

Seeing the smile on Dwight’s face brought a soft smile to his own face. He was quick to turn away though.

“‘M scared.” he said, bringing his knees up to his chest.

“Of what?” Dwight asked, scootin’ over a little t’ be closer.

“Who I might be, who I want to be, what I really want. Who I really am. Stupid, huh?”

“No. I, uh, kinda get what you mean. Coming to terms with who you are is scary. Trying to become who you want to be is scary. Even just being yourself is scary. At least, I’m still scared.”

“What’re you scared of?” David innocently asked.

Well, Dwight was scared of lots of things. For starters, almost everything in this bloody realm. He knew what David was asking about though. What was he scared of about himself? A lot less than one would think. Most of it was rather generic: scared he’d always be a coward, scared he’d let down the people he cared about, scared he’d remain a nobody.

Yet, there was one thing about himself that scared him the most, much more than anything else. Not telling David made him a coward. Telling him might’ve let David down, or worse. So, he didn’t tell David, even though a part of him wanted to tell the other man, thought it was safe to tell him.

“Don’t know if it means a lot comin’ from me, but I think you’re not much of a coward. Takes guts to stare down a killer waiting for the right moment to rattle their lights. Takes a lot to stare me down when I’m angry too.” David joked. He’ll give it to the little guy. He stood his ground when he was ready to take out his anger on him.

Dwight gave a small laugh at it, a little blush on his face.

“Yeah, sorry,-”

“Don’t be, mate. Heart’s in the right place.” David said with a hardy pat on Dwight’s back.

A dark mist swirled, the calling of another trial.

“Great.” Dwight deadpanned as he got up.

“Yeah, bloody fantastic.”

“Hey, I’ll see you there, right?” Dwight asked. Was more so asking if he wasn’t gonna go and fuck off. Luckily for him, King’s not in the habit of losing games.

“Don’t think I’ll be elsewhere.” he said with a smile.

“Oh, yeah, right. Duh.” Dwight said with an easy laugh and an embarrassed blush.

“See ya’ ‘round the fire, and thanks, again.” David told Dwight before he was gone.

He opened his eyes again, back in familiar, dangerous territory. He thought t’ what Dwight oft told ‘em to do at the beginning of a trial. Unfortunately, nothin’ came to mind. Shoulda been there more, hear his… voice.

No mither. Generators were as good a place to start as any. No seekin’ out a killer for a few meaningless blows this time. Dwight put some faith in him despite what an arsehole he’d been. Wasn’t gonna let that faith go to shit. That was something t’ live for, die for if push came t’ shove.

All that mattered in that moment was that he had a friend and a promise to keep. Could figure out the rest later.

#dead by daylight #kingfield #david king #dwight fairfield #dbd #what a joy to write :)#I like David a lot :)#he's definitely a new favorite of mine #2.9 k words #you know #my first fic for a popular pairing in a while #nice change of pace

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toohardtoforgetcth · 4 years

Text

Too Hard To Forget

Chapter Two

Warnings: Swearing, angst, the usual

4,570 words

A/N: I’ve been waiting to post chapter two of this fic until I got some interest in the first bit so here it is! Feedback is so so appreciated since this is the first piece of writing I’ve ever published and I’d love to know what you think!

It had been twelve days since Parker’s awkward exchange with Calum at the record store, and eight days since he had put the fear of God into her outside Grace’s room. She was surprised to discover he hadn’t been in to visit Grace in four days. In the short time she’d known him, she’d come to realize that it was unlike him to go more than a day or two without visiting.

Despite being downright terrified of him, Parker felt drawn to Calum. Every time he knocked her down, she found herself wanting to come running back for more. Parker’s curiosity got the best of her, and she couldn’t stop herself from asking Grace where he’d been.

“Everything okay with your grandson—Calum, right? Haven’t seen him all week,” she asked nonchalantly, but the old woman saw right through her.

She smiled a knowing smile, making Parker blush. “I told you he wasn’t so bad, didn’t I?” she winked.

Parker made a face. She would never say so, but she had to disagree with her on that one. She wondered if Grace really knew the effect her grandson had on people.

“Anyhow, he’s been so busy with work. Poor boy. It’s a terrible job. He could do so much better, he just doesn’t know it.”

Parker pondered this for a moment. Hating his job would explain why he was so moody all the time—she couldn’t imagine having to wake up every morning and work your life away at a place that made you miserable. “If anyone can convince him, it’s you, Grace,” Parker smiled.

» » » » » »

Friday afternoon, Parker still hadn’t seen Calum. She had been hopeful every time the front door opened and disappointed to discover it wasn’t him. She wasn’t sure why she felt that way—Calum scared her, and she should really learn to just let it go. Maybe there was a part of her—a competitive part—that wanted to win his friendship, simply because his cold demeanor made him a kind of challenge.

Calum wasn’t a nice guy—that much was obvious. He had given Parker plenty of reasons to want to stay away from him. He was clearly not interested in her—as friends or otherwise. In fact, he had been nothing but hostile towards her since their first meeting. But still, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man with the chocolate brown eyes. She daydreamed about those eyes, his muscled frame, soft brown curls. He was alluring, and Parker wondered what he was really like, under all the black and tattoos and leather, wondered if he had a soft side that anyone besides Grace was ever privileged enough to see.

• • • • • •

Calum was sick and fucking tired of Tom’s bullshit. He was this fucking close to quitting today and telling him to go fuck himself when he got a call from Gram. No matter what kind of shit Calum got himself into, Gram was always there when he needed her most, saving him when he didn’t even know he needed saving.

“Hi dear,” her shaky voice sounded from the other end.

Calum sighed deeply. He missed her voice. He missed her. He felt like shit for not going to see her, but he’d just been feeling so inexplicably angry and irritable the past week, and honestly, it was draining him. He knew he should visit, wanted to, but Calum couldn’t hide anything from Gram and he didn’t want her to worry. And he had to admit that subconsciously, he’d been avoiding Parker. Calum thought maybe some distance from her would keep his mind from wandering back to her, but so far he had been unsuccessful. He had a pretty good idea why he had been so bitter lately, and it was because of a pretty blonde with grey eyes. Parker was throwing him off—he’d never spent more than one night thinking about the same girl—and he didn’t like it.

“Hi, pretty lady,” he breathed, relaxing a little.

“Everything alright, honey? I haven’t seen you all week,” she sounded sad. It broke Calum’s heart. You piece of shit, he thought to himself. She doesn’t deserve this.

“I know,” he exhaled. “I’m sorry, Gram,” he said sincerely. “I don’t have a good reason. I gotta get back to work, but I’ll come see you tomorrow, okay? I promise.”

• • • • • •

Parker was coming back from her lunch break when she noticed Calum emerging from the double doors of the lobby. Her heart skipped a beat when she locked eyes with him. His dark eyes bore into hers, leaving her feeling strangely exposed. He said nothing, looking away from her as he put a cigarette between his lips, stopping to light it as the door shut behind him.

She hadn’t seen him since he lashed out at her for listening at Grace’s door, but apparently Parker had a death wish.

“Hey,” she greeted quietly with a small smile as she approached the door, more out of politeness than to spark conversation. She knew he wouldn’t stop to chat with her, but Parker wasn’t going to ignore his existence, the way he did with her. Hopefully he didn’t rip her head off for trying to be polite.

Calum caught her by surprise when he responded.

“Hey.”

Progress, Parker thought. A definite improvement from the complete silence or burning hostility that he usually greeted her with. Taking advantage of his sudden mood change, Parker stopped in front of Calum. He watched her with curious eyes, taking a drag from his cigarette and blowing a cloud of smoke to the side.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” she observed casually.

“Been busy,” he replied with a shrug.

God, he made it so difficult to have a normal conversation, but Parker was determined to change his falsely skewed opinion of her.

“Grace has been missing you. She talks about you all the time,” Parker commented, heart picking up as she noticed his eyebrows drawing together and his shoulders tense. Shit, wrong thing to say. Fuck, here we go again.

“Like I said, I’ve been busy,” he pushed off the wall, standing to his full height and looking down at Parker. “Doesn’t really concern you, anyway, does it?” he spat bitterly as he flicked his half-smoked cigarette to the pavement, stalking away.

Parker stared after him, wishing she had kept her mouth shut. What was his problem?

• • • • • •

Later that afternoon, Jenna sat cross-legged on Parker’s bed, painting her nails. Parker lay on her back, Loki curled up between her legs.

“What’s got you all moody today?” Jenna pressed, recognizing the face Parker usually made when she was overthinking.

“Ugh,” she groaned, flipping over onto her stomach. Loki let out a displeased meow at being disrupted, launching off the bed. “Stupid Calum,” Parker rolled her eyes in frustration.

“Ooh, hottie grandma’s boy? Elaborate, please,” Jenna gushed, scooting closer.

“I ran into him at work today. I haven’t seen him all week, and then he showed up out of the blue. He actually said hi to me, so I tried to make conversation since that’s the most he’s said to me, like, ever.” Parker sat up, facing Jenna. “And then he just—snapped at me. I don’t know what I did—why he hates me so much,” she flopped back down on the bed, blowing out a sigh.

Jenna giggled. “Not everyone is going to like you, babe. That’s life. Anyway, he sounds like a total d-bag. Why do you even care what he thinks?”

“I don’t know,” Parker admitted. “He just seems—different. I can’t help but feel like there’s this whole other side to him and I don’t know why but I feel this, like, need to get to know him. He is a d-bag,” she laughed, “but I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Sounds like you need a distraction,” Jenna’s face twisted into a sly grin. “We’re going out tonight.”

• • • • • •

Calum was sitting comfortably on his couch, trying to unwind with a beer and a bad movie after a particularly shitty ending to an otherwise great visit with Gram. He had been avoiding Parker, and after a week of not seeing her, he felt the unwelcome feeling of butterflies in his stomach the second he laid eyes on her. It was a sensation he was wildly unfamiliar with but had grown accustomed to feeling whenever she was around.

And then she had to open her mouth and ruin everything. This girl really knew how to get him going.

To be fair, she hadn’t really said anything wrong. Her comment only pissed Calum off because he had already been feeling guilty for blowing off his visits with Gram and he was mad at himself. His response was harsh—he could tell it hurt her. He wished he didn’t care, but he did. As much as he hated to admit it, Calum was intrigued by Parker, and it was unsettling. He didn’t like feeling captivated by her—it made him feel vulnerable and Calum was not vulnerable. Parker made him feel like he had no control, and he hated it. He was trying and failing to come up with a way to get this girl out of his head when his three best friends burst through the door of his apartment unannounced.

“Put a shirt on, we’re hitting the town tonight,” his friend Michael shouted enthusiastically, heading straight into the kitchen and rooting through Calum’s fridge for a beer. He pulled out three, handing one to Ashton and Luke before opening his own.

Besides Gram, Calum loved only three people in this world; Michael, Ashton and Luke. The four of them had been best friends since high school, and they loved Calum unconditionally, despite his harsh tendencies and his troubled past.

“Boys, I’m relaxing,” Calum stretched his long legs out on the coffee table. “I’m not in the mood for your drunken misadventures tonight.”

Luke launched himself onto the couch, head landing in Calum’s lap. “Too bad, babycakes, we’re going out. So get up, get dressed, get pretty. You got ten minutes.” Luke reached up and pinched his cheek affectionately, taking a long swig of his beer.

Calum rolled his eyes at the tall blonde with the bright blue eyes, but he couldn’t help the grin that graced his lips. He’d been thinking about Parker all day, and truthfully, he could use a night out with his boys.

• • • • • •

Parker was feeling good, having downed several drinks since arriving at the bar with Jenna and a few of her other friends, but she was getting tired of dancing. Deciding she needed a break, she and Jenna wove their way through the crowd of tightly packed bodies before reaching the bar. She ordered a vodka and cranberry for Jenna and a beer for herself. She was sliding her cash across the bar top when she felt Jenna’s hand close around her forearm.

“Oh, my god,” she leaned in. “You’ll never guess who’s here.”

Parker followed her friends’ gaze to the other end of the bar, where Calum was leaning against a pillar, talking with three other ridiculously attractive men. Parker groaned. She came out tonight to think of things other than Calum, and there he was, in all his glory, demanding her attention.

“Why are they all so hot?!” Jenna gaped.

As if on cue, Calum turned his head in their direction, his dark eyes meeting Parker’s. His face fell, clearly not impressed upon seeing her here. She looked away immediately, flushing.

“Oh, Jesus. He saw me staring. Kill me now.”

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Jenna brushed her off with a wave of her hand. “Come on, let’s go back.”

She grabbed Parker’s wrist, dragging her back to the dance floor. Parker threw a subtle glance over her shoulder, where she caught Calum’s eye again. He was still watching her, not a trace of a smile on his lips.

• • • • • •

Calum stood by the bar, unmoving from his spot by the pillar. He’d been nursing a beer for the last hour, no longer in the mood to get drunk. His focus was on the blonde dancing with her friends, hips swaying and body moving in all the right ways. He hadn’t expected Parker to be here tonight, and it killed his vibe. The very thing he had come here to distract himself from was dancing fifty feet from where he stood, and he couldn’t tear his thoughts—or his eyes—away.

Calum was nothing if not experienced when it came to women. He had an attitude and a hard edge that women just seemed drawn to. He would never understand the obsession they had with the bad boy type, but he wasn’t complaining. Calum was not a relationship guy. He had two rules—never stay the night, never bring them home. Their place, quick and dirty, then disappear when they fell asleep—that’s how Calum liked it. He liked to be in control. That’s why Parker unnerved him—he’d never been drawn to anyone the way he was to her. She fascinated him in a way he didn’t understand. He’d been watching her all night, and he was starting to get irritated. He needed something else to occupy his racing thoughts.

“You got your eye on that pretty blonde one, don’t you, pal?” Ashton nudged him, snapping him out of his reverie.

“What?” Calum shook his head as if to shake the image of her out of his mind. “No. I just—I know her.”

“Bullshit. I know that look,” Ashton mused.

Calum scoffed. “I don’t have a look.”

Ashton was the oldest of the four of them, and he knew them better than anyone. There wasn’t a thing he could hide from any of his boys, least of all Ashton.

Ashton’s expression turned sympathetic. “Cal, you can’t tell me you don’t get lonely. All you do is work, and Gram is the only girl you spend more than a day with. Don’t you think it’s time to try sticking with one girl, maybe?”

“Fuck off, mate. It’s none of your business,” Calum snapped.

Ashton’s expression softened. “I’m just worried about you, man. We all are.”

Calum pushed off from the pillar, annoyed. He knew Ashton meant well—it was obvious how much he cared for his boys. Like brothers. He was the glue that kept them all together. He was wise for his age, and he was the one they went to when they needed advice. But Calum wasn’t in the mood for his profound bullshit tonight. He needed a smoke.

Calum pushed through the throngs of people in the bar, earning glares from a few of them as he shoved them out of his way. He felt himself calm down almost immediately once he opened the heavy metal door at the back of the bar, the cool air hitting his face. He stepped out onto the deserted patio, pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He lit it and closed his eyes, leaning back against the brick wall. He let the smoke burn his lungs, but it didn’t clear the fog in his brain like he had hoped it would.

Calum considered what Ashton said to him inside. He was pissed off at Ash for calling him out, but he had a point, though Calum would never admit it. He couldn’t explain why he didn’t want to settle down. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the girls he slept with, it’s just that he couldn’t see himself doing ordinary things with any of them. They were all just nameless faces, there to satisfy a need and that was it. He couldn’t picture himself waking up and making breakfast, staying up late watching movies, grocery shopping, with any of them. The only person he daydreamed about doing those things with was Parker. And that scared the living shit out of him.

Maybe his problem was that Calum didn’t know how to be someone’s boyfriend. He hadn’t grown up with parents, his grandfather died when he was only eight, and Gram never remarried. Calum was good at being alone. He wasn’t happy, but it was all he had ever known. The only girl he ever had somewhat of a relationship with—if you could even call it that—was Kendra, his first year out of high school. The rest of the boys went off to college while he stayed back and worked, and they dated for all of a month until she started sleeping around on him. He never loved her, but after that he decided that would be the first and only time he let himself care about someone.

When he finished his cigarette, he stubbed it out under his boot and headed back inside. He ordered himself another drink, returning to where he left the boys. Parker was still dancing, and Calum used all the strength he had in his body to force himself not to look at her.

A dozen feet away, he locked eyes with a cute brunette in a tight dress, leaving very little to the imagination. She flashed him a sexy smile, raising her drink to him.

Yeah, that’s exactly what he needed right now. A distraction in a tight dress.

He returned her smile with a lazy one of his own, which she took as an invitation to approach him. Good. Calum liked it better when he didn’t have to do all the work.

“Can I buy you a drink, handsome?” she asked in a sultry voice.

“Depends. You gonna take me home?”

• • • • • •

Parker took a break around midnight, her feet aching and her mouth dry from the alcohol. Walking past the bar to the bathroom, she caught sight of Calum sitting on a stool, a beautiful girl with long, dark hair standing between his legs. He was smiling, his hands on her hips, and Parker felt a pang of jealousy hit her in the chest. You have nothing to be jealous of, she scolded herself. He’s an asshole—why do you like him? In that moment, Parker realized that she most certainly had feelings for Calum, even if she didn’t really know anything about him. Even though she was confused about what those feelings were, she knew she didn’t like seeing him with another girl. Parker changed her mind about taking a break. Seeing Calum with someone made her want to down several shots and forget he existed.

• • • • • •

Half an hour later, Calum said his goodbyes to the boys, leaving the bar with his arm slung around the shoulders of the brunette. As they passed the dance floor, he scanned the crowd for Parker. Calum spotted her in the same place she had been earlier, only this time she looked up and their eyes locked. He flashed her a cocky smile and winked, feeling equal parts satisfied and guilty at the expression that crossed her features.

He’d have to be blind not to see that look. It was written there, plain as day, on her face. She was hurt.

• • • • • •

Calum untucked himself from the grip of the sleeping brunette, slipping out of the bed that wasn’t his own. He didn’t even remember her name. She was pretty, but Calum hadn’t really been in the mood tonight. Something didn’t feel right, and a nagging voice in the back of his head told him it was because of a certain grey-eyed girl. He found his clothes on the floor, quickly dressing and shrugging on his leather jacket before finding his boots. He tugged them on as he shut the door silently behind him, leaving the girl with nothing but his first name and a night she wouldn’t forget.

Calum couldn’t say the same.

Calum stepped outside, thankful for the fresh air—the girl’s apartment was stuffy as hell. She didn’t live too far, taking Calum only 20 minutes to make it back to his apartment on foot. Enough time to have a smoke and clear his head. Despite the smoke burning his lungs, he was unable to erase the image of Parker’s face when he left the bar. Why had he taunted her, on purpose? What reason did he have to want to hurt her? When Calum finally settled in his own bed, he found himself wishing he never went out tonight.

» » » » » »

Parker spent most of Sunday morning being lazy in bed, hiding under the covers until the early afternoon, moving from her bed only to be lazy on the couch instead. She was having a great night dancing with her friends and letting loose until a certain moody, tattooed brunette ruined her night by going home with another girl. She wished that it was her going home with Calum, and that thought disturbed her. He was an asshole and Parker knew nothing good could come of her feelings for him, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She had left the bar shortly after he did, her good mood spoiled when she thought about what he was doing.

» » » » » »

Parker awoke on Monday in a foul mood. She spent Sunday sad and stewing over Calum and how she’d never have him, but today she felt downright angry. Calum was a jerk and he was trying to hurt her, and for what reason? She deserved far better. Her sour mood only got worse when she arrived at work and spotted Calum in the hallway. He had his usual scowl on his face and he ignored her as he passed by, yet again.

Normally, she’d let it go and pretend not to let it bother her. Normally, she was a people-pleaser and hated confrontation.

Not today.

No, today there was no holding back. She was going to give him a piece of her mind.

She whirled around as Calum walked in the opposite direction, away from her.

“What is your problem with me? Did I do something to offend you, or are you just an asshole all the time?” she demanded.

Calum stopped, slowly turning around to face her.

“Excuse me?” he replied dangerously, taking a step towards her.

“Since the first time we met, you’ve acted like a complete jackass. Every time I see you, you either ignore me entirely or you try and scare me with that stupid badass attitude,” she paused. When he said nothing, she huffed in annoyance. “Get over yourself, pal. We all go through shit, there’s no need to be a dick about it.”

Parker was surprised at herself for her outburst, which was completely out of character for her. But Calum had pissed her off one too many times—he wasn’t getting away with it again. She placed a hand on her hip, eyebrows raised, waiting for an explanation.

The cocky smirk he wore turned into a menacing glare. He took two more steps towards her, their toes touching. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her face. He smelled incredible, like the woods, and spice, with a hint of smoke. Stop it, dumbass. You shouldn’t be thinking about how good he smells right now. His tall frame forced her to tilt her head back to look at him. His dark eyes glittered, but not in a kind way. He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Watch your mouth, doll,” he said threateningly.

Parker’s spine chilled, goosebumps raising along her arms and the back of her neck. His use of a pet name gave her butterflies, but she knew he didn’t mean it in an adoring way. Calum frightened her—this she already knew. But confronting him was clearly a bad idea, one she hadn’t thought through—she was stupid for getting on his bad side. It was obvious he wasn’t one to be messed with, and he definitely didn’t have any qualms about voicing his opinion.

The rest of her workday she spent thinking about their confrontation. The unsettling feeling Calum’s presence gave her weighed heavily in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know whether her feelings towards him were attraction, fear, or a dangerous mix of both.

• • • • • •

This girl was going to be the death of him. Calum had been stunned when Parker called him out this morning. He hadn’t expected it from her, of all people. She was usually so bright and cheery, going out of her way to be nice to him even when he lashed out at her. And even though her words made him angry, all he could think about was putting that mouth of hers to good use. Calum didn’t know how much longer he was going to be able to keep this up. The more she pissed him off, the stronger the pull was to her. It was beginning to become difficult to deny that he felt things for Parker.

» » » » » »

Parker and Jenna were dancing the night away at a club downtown on Thursday night, much needed after working overtime hours this week. She had had one too many drinks, her head fuzzy and spinning. She had Friday off, and she was looking forward to nursing her hangover on the couch, curled up with her cat and watching Netflix. Parker excused herself to use the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face in an attempt to sober herself up a bit, and when she returned, Jenna was wrapped in the arms of a guy that was exactly Jenna’s type. It was getting late, and Parker was drunk; she wanted to go home.

“Hey, I’m gonna head home. You coming?”

“I think I might stay,” she said, obviously distracted by the handsome blonde dancing in front of her. She turned to Parker. “Unless you want me to come. Do you need me to come with you?” she asked.

Parker appreciated Jenna’s offer, but she knew she didn’t want to go. “No, you stay. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Parker turned to make her way off the dance floor. “Be good,” she added with a smug smile.

• • • • • •

Parker sat on the curb outside waiting for her cab. She should probably have waited inside the bar, but she had hoped the fresh air would sober her up a bit. Her head was still spinning, and she could hardly keep her eyes open. It had been at least fifteen minutes and she was beginning to get tired of waiting. She could probably have walked halfway home by now, so she stood on shaky legs and headed in the direction of her apartment. She silently thanked her sober self for picking sneakers over heels. It was a warm night, typical of August, but she pulled her denim jacket on anyway, not wanting to have to carry it.

Walking through a particularly sketchy area of downtown, Parker got an uneasy feeling in her gut that she was being followed. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder, and her heart started pounding when she realized her suspicions were right. There were two men walking behind her, picking up their pace as she attempted to pick up her own, but her legs were still wobbly from the alcohol buzzing in her veins. She should have stayed and waited for the stupid cab.

“What’s your hurry, sweetheart?” one of the men called out from behind her, his gravelly voice sending a shiver down her spine.

“Where’re you off to? We can take you home, honey,” the other one drawled, turning Parker’s stomach.

Parker all but broke into a run, desperate to make it onto the nearest busy street before they caught up to her. She could hear their footsteps closing in when a black 1970 Charger screeched to a halt at the curb. Parker stopped dead, panic setting in. Her instinct was to run, but her feet were frozen in fear. A hooded figure emerged from the car, slamming the door behind him. This is it, Parker thought. She prepared herself to fight back, but the three against one odds were not in her favour. The streetlights illuminated his face as the stranger approached her and Parker’s chest flooded with relief when she recognized those familiar brown eyes.

Calum.

On second thought, Parker wasn’t sure why she felt relieved to see Calum. She wasn’t sure if she was more afraid of him, or the two men following her. At least, she didn’t think Calum would hurt her. Would he?

“What the hell are you doing, walking around this neighbourhood at night by yourself?” he demanded, pushing his hood back.

“I—” she started, but Parker had to admit she didn’t have a good reason. It had been stupid to leave the club alone. She should have waited inside for the cab. “I don’t know,” she confessed sheepishly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“No shit,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He turned back to the car. “Get in,” he commanded.

Parker looked behind her, but the two men were gone. She was relieved they had seemingly given up when they realized she wasn’t alone, but her heart was still pounding. Whether it was from her close call with them or being close to Calum, she didn’t know. She followed Calum to the car and opened the passenger door. The smell of leather and spice enveloped her when she sat down, and it was oddly comforting.

“What were you doing out there alone?” he repeated once they were in the car.

“I was out with my friend Jenna. I wanted to leave, but she didn’t, so I called a cab—but it never came so I just started walking,” she explained.

“You should know better,” Calum berated, irritated. “Where’s your place?” he asked shortly.

Parker told him her address. She briefly wondered if it was a good idea, him knowing where she lived, but it was too late now. He did just rescue me, she thought. If he wanted to hurt me, he would have left me alone in the street.

She leaned her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes as her drunken state overpowered her ability to stay awake.

Calum pulled the Charger onto Parker’s street and glanced sideways at the blonde passed out in his passenger seat.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered. He got out of the car, opening her door and scooping her easily into his arms. She didn’t stir, but he could feel her breath against the bare skin on his neck. It tickled his skin, giving him goosebumps. She smelled like alcohol, and there was a faint trace of a flowery perfume. He carried Parker up the stairs of the front porch, using her key to unlock the door and stepping inside. He was greeted by a little grey cat meowing at his feet. He followed Calum through the house as he fumbled his way in the dark in search of Parker’s bedroom. He took a guess when he found the only room with a bed, setting her gently down and pulling the duvet over her.

Calum lingered in the doorway for a moment, his eyes scanning over her face, staring at her parted lips and then glancing at the cat that had curled up in a ball on the pillow next to her. She looked peaceful, and she was really kind of beautiful when she wasn’t running her mouth.

He let himself out, locking the door behind him and dropping into his Charger.

What the fuck are you doing, Cal, he thought to himself. He started the engine and peeled away from the curb. He drove for a while, no specific destination in mind, when he found himself parked outside of Ashton’s house. Subconsciously, he must have known he needed to talk things out with someone.

• • • • • •

He knocked sharply on the door, waiting impatiently. A few moments later, a tired-looking Ashton opened it, shirtless and in blue basketball shorts, his black hair in disarray from recent sleep.

“Cal?” he mumbled groggily. “What’s wrong?”

Calum pushed past him, walking to the kitchen to get himself a drink.

“It’s the middle of the night, man,” Ashton groaned. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.”

Ashton sighed in defeat, sinking down onto one of the barstools in his kitchen. Calum leaned against the island, downing his drink in one swallow.

“You were right. The other night, at the bar. The girl I was staring at.”

Ashton remained quiet, prompting him to continue. He couldn’t fathom why this couldn’t wait until the morning, but he didn’t tell Calum that.

“I think I have feelings for her. And I don’t know what the fuck to do about it. She drives me insane and she gets me so riled up that I lash out at her every time I see her, but when she’s not around, I can’t stop thinking about her. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Ashton sighed, raking his hand through his messy hair. “Cut yourself some slack, Cal—this is new territory for you. There’s nothing wrong with you,” Ashton assured him.

“So why do I feel angry? Why do I keep trying to hurt her?”

“Maybe you’re just scared,” Ashton shrugged. “Opening up to someone puts you in a vulnerable position, and you don’t like losing control. You’re pushing her away ‘cause that’s all you’ve ever done, and maybe you’re angry because she’s making you feel unsteady.”

“Then how do I stop?” Calum questioned, feeling a little hopeless. Parker was kind, and gentle, and good, and Calum was none of those things—he didn’t deserve her. She was afraid of him—there was no way she was going to let her guard down around him after the way he’d treated her.

“You just have to let her in, man. You’ll never get a handle on your feelings if you don’t allow yourself to feel.”

» » » » » »

On Friday morning, Parker awoke with a hangover from hell. Her head felt like it had been split open, and her stomach was churning violently. She sat up, slowly, and noticed she was still in her clothes from the bar, minus her shoes. It was unlike her to collapse into bed without changing first. She checked her phone, several missed calls and texts from Jenna to make sure she got home safely. Then, the memories came flooding back to her. Calum brought her here. He must have tucked her into bed. He hates me—why would he do that? For the life of her, Parker could not figure him out.

taglist: @treatallwithkindness

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quidfree · 3 years

Note

For prompts: any OCs, maybe something like fake relationship? Sorry if you don’t have OCs I’m curiois

i have so many ocs for my original projects that narrowing it down for this was a nightmare buuut here we are anyhow- something v short and dumb

“i just don’t see why van and viv couldn’t have done this,” joa says for about the thousandth time when they get there, aware that he’s been stuck on this refrain since two weeks ago and that his partner is near his boiling point but entirely unable to stop complaining. it’s like something in him thinks if he just points it out one more time someone will take notice and put an end to it.

“van and vivienne could have done this,” ezra says, in the voice he uses when he thinks he’s being extremely patient and long-suffering. “but this was your mission, and if you would have preferred to be here with fucking corlett it is not too late for me to trade places.”

“dude,” joa says. ezra shoots him a look.

“you can’t call me dude. we’re madly in love, if you’ll recollect.”

ezra is funny like that; the pissier he gets the more clipped his vowels get, like those rich new england types that had sometimes swung through california on holidays, all east coast condescension. privately joa thinks ezra has more in common with that crowd than he’d care to admit.

“dude, even if we were really-” he waves his hand vaguely “-i’d still call you dude.”

“you call your girlfriends dude?” ezra inquires, shrewdly.

“thought the whole point was the not being a girl thing.”

“corlett,” ezra threatens, so he shuts up. normally ezra wouldn’t do that to him, or at least would never concede defeat, but when ezra’s really angry there’s no scruples to his revenge plans. as much as he feels ready to drink himself sick with nerves and discomfort at the two of them crashing this stupid wedding, having corlett on his arm instead would ensure he died of liver failure before the bride even hit the aisle.

he doesn’t like how antsy this has made him. ezra doesn’t say it but it’s obvious he thinks joa takes some issue with the gay thing, which isn’t true- he’s normally the most adaptable of them to whatever era they get stuck into; he was the first to know about van, and that’s a whole different ballpark. it’s not the couple he cares about, it’s the acting.

all the lying, sneaking bits of the job- subterfuge, vivi would say- he gets it, but he doesn’t like it. even when it’s shit he knows, is good at, like charming strangers or blending into groups, he feels bad for the people he involves. he knows it’s stupid- it’s not like he’s usually hurting anyone, and the whole point is that they’re helping. van finds the whole exercise fun, and vivienne thrives in it; even ezra, who never does anything but play himself, commits to the bit unflinchingly. he’s the only one who gets nauseous each time they make him do some extended charade. he doesn’t know why they couldn’t just go around killing people without lying about it to boot.

normally ezra knows this kind of thing about him, but if ezra has one fault it’s that thing about missing the forest for the trees. when he’s prickly about something he loses his usual invasive-cum-insightful observational skills. that this particular bout of acting is making him more nauseous than usual is neither here nor there.

despite what viv claims, joa is not entirely convinced that ezra can’t read minds, because just as he thinks this, his hand is grabbed with all of the affection of a snake winding around his arm to cut his circulation off.

“c’mon, suck it up.”

he only just manages to turn his wince into a half-assed grimace, which earns him a foul look.

“i can’t feel my hand.”

“shut up and look like you love me, bride number one is heading this way.”

she is, inexplicably, looking delectable in a pearly white gown, blonde hair piled in curls atop her head. once their presence registers she smiles at them distractedly, eyes scanning them without recognition. it kicks him into work-mode, smile blooming wide and familiar as he extricates his hand from ezra’s to clasp hers.

“miriam! i’m joa, elena’s cousin- tia grassi’s son? and this is my partner ezra. it’s so nice to meet you, you look beautiful.”

“oh, joa, of course,” miriam says, warmly, relaxing as she gestures them in. “it’s a pleasure to meet you too.”

“i’m surprised they have you manning the door,” ezra comments, gesturing to the entrance they’re stood under. “thought that was what the guys in suits were for.”

“sure, sure,” miriam laughs, self-effacingly. “i’m not really playing valet. it’s just we’ve been waiting on the last cake delivery and i’m trying to get the guy through to the back before anyone accidentally tells elena. she’s convinced something’s going to go wrong.”

“sounds familiar,” joa says, with a knowing smile towards ezra, who just about curbs his eyeroll. “also sounds like something you shouldn’t be worrying about on your wedding day. where should we direct him?”

miriam’s brows raise in surprise; he tries to broadcast sincere helpfulness her way.

“oh- really? you’d do that?”

“of course. i know how elena gets.”

this sells it; she sighs a little in relief, shakes her head. “you’re a savior. the hall, through the back- it’s just down the ramp and to the left. are you sure?”

“what’s family for?”

only once she’s out of earshot does ezra shoot him a look, eyebrows quirked with amusement.

“what’s family for?”

“fuck you, it worked.”

“your customer service act gives me the hives,” ezra says, although he’s smiling even as he reclaims his hand in an only marginally less painful grip. joa’s stomach re-knots itself.

for all that he hates the lying the job involves, there’s something especially discomfiting about roles like these- ones where they keep their names intact, where the stories they construct keep big chunks of their lives unaltered. to the wedding guests they’re still joa and ezra, longtime friends and constantly travelling free-lancers; they may not be time-travellers and there may be some additional intimacy implied, but this joa and ezra have the same back and forth, the same inside jokes, the same dynamic. it makes the lines even blurrier and the lies even more uncomfortable.

“you look like you’re about to hurl.”

“maybe i am.”

“you’re not. you’re a consummate professional and there’s an agency supervising us and also if you do i’m throwing your mini-fridge out of a window.”

“you wouldn’t like me sober.”

“you wouldn’t like anything sober. i’d tough it out.”

“remind me not to ask you to host my bachelor party.”

“i hate weddings,” ezra says, sourly. joa grins, heartened by his bad mood. viv calls them bad friends for always cheering up at each other’s misery. van calls them disgusting.

“hey, c’mon. this might be fun.”

“oh, sure. i love spending an entire evening pretending to care about two strangers’ impending divorce.”

“oh, c’mon. what about your moms?”

“they’re divorce lawyers. they’re outliers.”

"okay,” joa draws out, just to make him scoff. “themed missions, though. exploding wedding cake? that’s fun.”

“it’s also one of fifteen assassination attempts we’re handling tonight.”

“glass half full, honey.”

ezra flushes an unflattering but extremely charming shade of splotchy red. “half full of arsenic, if case files are to be believed.”

joa sighs, rocking back onto his heels. “talk about cliché, dude. even the cake bomb is more original.”

“messy, though.”

“hey, you love buttercream icing.”

“not mingled with my intestines, i don’t.”

“here comes the truck. are we doing salt lake city sixty five?”

“you read my mind,” ezra agrees, smile curling at the edges of his mouth. “you want the driver?”

so maybe this whole thing won’t entirely suck, joa thinks, smiling back. when ezra’s distracted his hand’s not even that bad to hold.

by the time the afterparty is in full swing, he’s kind of having a good time. foiling assassination attempts always puts him in a good mood, and the service was nice, for what it’s worth- he’d wondered how it would work with two women, but it was sweet in the end, just a couple of tweaks to the sermon and a lot more bridesmaids. he’d cried. ezra had hidden a laugh and complained at length about christianity. dinner had been nice too, although he’d had to eat in quick bursts what with the constant leaving to go thwart ploys to kill the bride. they’d done it under the guise of sneaking out for quickies, an excuse which had earned them surprising amounts of goodwill at their table. gay weddings, and all that.

regardless, they’ve handled attempts numbers one through fourteen and he’s feeling good. the work balances out the awkwardness- sure, he gets queasy when ezra is calmly explaining their meet-cute to strangers, but five minutes later he’s holding a stall door shut while ezra knocks someone’s face into a toilet and it calms his nerves. besides, whoever organised the wedding decided on an open bar for the night, and he’s been downing his fair share of drinks while ezra’s back is turned, which has pushed him into bright magnanimity. ezra will cover for him if he overdoes it, anyways- he still owes him for how coked out he got at that disco in the seventies.

ezra has launched into a spirited debate of twenty-thirties midwestern politics with some elderly relative; he sips his rum and coke, tuning out the familiar fast-paced scratchy speech to gaze around the room. the music is nice, for the era. so are the brides, currently waltzing merrily around the room and blissfully unaware that this night’s happy ending will set into motion a series of events leading to the discovery of the cure for cancer, or that someone with a penchant for theme has employed fifteen different mediocre hitmen to stop that from happening.

the little themed cocktail umbrella would make a sweet addition to his collection of mementos. as he twirls it he thinks that he was expecting this to be harder, or worse, the whole couples pretence. really dating ezra has just been the exact same as not dating ezra, with some additional niceties thrown in for their audience’s sake. he doesn’t mind the niceties- ezra’s hard to be nice to on the regular, so it’s neat to have him cornered, and besides watching him struggle not to break composure throughout is fun. it’s weirder when it’s ezra’s turn, because ezra’s lying is always half true by default, and it makes him wonder which parts are the lies.

he’s a little cold in his linen jacket and his drink is gone, so he follows his thoughts and drifts back towards ezra, drapes himself over his back. ezra stiffens like a corpse but doesn’t miss a beat in his sentence, because of course he doesn’t. he’s warm, though, and besides they’re playing pretend boyfriends, so he thinks he’s entitled to some shared heat without it being weird.

“maybe joa could be of use,” ezra is saying currently, obviously trying to throw him under the bus. “joa, do you remember who it was we saw that time with cousin esther at the thing in santa monica?”

“oh, sure,” joa says amiably, chin now resting on his bony shoulder. “rafael.”

the middle-aged couple make noises of recognition; ezra snorts in silent laughter, the movement making his shoulders jump. it’s a lucky guess primarily founded upon the statistics in his actual family. his cousins have shit luck- three of them with the same name has left them with some abominable nicknames. his previously name-dropped tia grassi is the only person stubborn enough to call them all rafael, just in different registers of disappointed suspicion.

ah, his tia grassi. funny woman. mildly terrifying. her fourth wedding had been an event, though he can hardly remember the second half of it, seeing as she’d refused to cater to the child-havers amongst the family and not left any of the punch alcohol-free. all he really remembers is her wedding dress, the cream-coloured version of her default pantsuit with the horrible bow. it’s funny- from where he’s stood there’s a woman right in his line of vision dressed in an orange abomination that looks exactly like the kind of thing only his tia grassi would subject some distant relative to on the day of their wedding.

wait. fuck.

“corazon, my tia grassi is here.”

"no, she’s not.”

“i’m serious, she’s walking right towards us. lady in the orange. fuck, she must be pushing a hundred.”

“shit,” ezra curses, sparing a nod for the couple he was talking to. “excuse us.”

“she’s following,” joa warns with mild fascination, as they bee-line towards the garden.

“great,” ezra says, glancing disbelievingly over his shoulder. “why the fuck is she following? and why is she even alive in this decade? how old is that woman?”

“ageless, i don’t know, she probably thinks i’m family,” joa mutters, glancing back. “which i am. just deceased family. she’s not gonna let up, you know.”

“you and your fucking bloodhound relatives. look, we can’t leave, they’re still going to try and do the thing with the fireworks.”

“well, we can’t stay either, or i’m getting marty mcfly’d out of existence, and i’m kinda partial to existing.”

“how is she even following us? scent alone?” ezra mutters, just a shade hysterical, as they wind their way past the bar. “we might have to pull a vermont.”

“oh, dude, no way,” joa says, immediately nauseous. “c’mon. it’s a wedding.”

“you were fine with it when you were beating that guy’s face in with the floral arrangement earlier!”

“yeah, and he was trying to ruin the wedding. this would be us, ruining the wedding. we would be the wedding ruiners.”

“we could choose someone neither of the brides like! they’d be grateful!”

“dude, i am not killing any guests at this wedding.”

“the only other option is worse!”

“no option is worse than murder, ‘zra, that’s kind of murder’s whole thing.”

“yeah? you rather kill hitler or fuck him?”

“always with the ultimatu- woah, woah!”

his second woah gets swallowed, which is probably for the best; ezra’s planting one on him with real determination. his brain short-circuits a bit or something; he doesn’t think to push him off, just lets him at it. it’s usually what works best when ezra’s on a mission, and also as it turns out ezra’s pretty good at the whole kissing thing, and also his nerves are singing and his blood is boiling and he is maybe, potentially kissing back, distractedly and then with intent, their bodies slotting together against the tacky fake rosebush as plastic thorns dig into his back and ezra’s sharp-nailed fingers dig into his shoulders. alcohol has made him warm and fuzzy, but there’s nothing drink-sloppy to it- just continuous, almost familiar ease, and his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

ezra pulls off first, with a nasty sound, head whipping around wildly as joa registers absently that the fireworks were going off in real life too.

“i can’t believe that actually worked.”

“three cheers for latent latin homophobia,” joa says, on auto-pilot, because right, his aunt, and time travel rules, and something. maria joseph and jesus, he’s just kissed a man.

“that and you not being violently sick on me,” ezra says, turning back to face him with his usual frown slotting absently into place. he looks awkward and irritated with his awkwardness and also extremely well-kissed. joa is struck with the realisation that he is entirely fucked in the head, because he finds the picture supremely enticing.

“dude,” he starts, because to be honest they have been skirting around this particular issue for a while and it’s hard to find a time and place to discuss it when it’s not weird or a capital offence. ezra is all narrow-eyed suspicion and coquettishly heaving breaths, which is not helping him focus but definitely helping convince him to labour the point. “i think we should probably- oh, shit, wait, the fireworks.”

he’s running before ezra can so much as cuss, and he gets there just in time, tackling the man right into the bushes and out of harm’s way, voice raised to an apologetic, casual slur even as they grapple for the gun.

“oh, my god, i’m so sorry, i must be drunker than i thought-“

the element of surprise wins him the fight; he manages to slam the guy’s forehead onto a marble lion a couple of times, sound drowned out by the fireworks above.

“honestly,” a slightly out of breath ezra is reproaching nearby, all fond reprobation, and then again once he’s shoved through the bushes himself, losing the affect. “honestly.”

“it’s fine, it’s fine,” joa says, wiping bloody knuckles on the guy’s shirt. “that’s fifteen, right?”

“it’s not fine, it’s fifteen minutes early. if coda is going to send us on these chickenshit gigs you’d think they’d get the fucking timings right.”

“it’s fine, he’s out,” joa repeats, shoving upwards and brushing bits of bush off his clothes. “viv’ll be angry about the suit though.”

“right, like she’s in the costume dep’s good books either after that stunt she pulled with the velvet dress,” ezra snorts, abruptly the voice of reason. “i can’t believe he was fifteen minutes early. that’s twice this week they’ve done this to us.”

“maybe we threw it somehow,” joa defends, rolling his shoulder. “you know the timeline warps the calculations.”

“we didn’t throw anything. twice in a week, seriously. what the fuck do we pay fees for if they can’t even get the timings right? this wouldn’t happen if we had a union.”

“‘zra, there are only ten of us. we are the union.”

“isn’t that a depressing thought. what were you saying earlier?”

“oh, that,” joa says, and then feels sick again. “hey, are you thirsty? i’m pretty thirsty actually.”

“don’t be an asshole.”

“i don’t know, honestly.”

“you’re not doing so hot on the non-asshole front.”

“oh, madre de dios, stop channeling your mom.”

“tu puta madre. i’ll give you passive aggressive.”

“fine,” joa breathes, in one big burst, annoyed and queasy and charmed all in one. “are we- like- ugh, dude, you know what-“

“specify.”

he pauses, exhales. “well, it just feels like maybe we should-“

“probably not.”

“right, but you’d like-“

“does it matter?”

“well, yeah, obviously. it’s just with work, it’s like... you know?”

“sure.”

“not that i...”

“sure.”

“although i don’t actually know if...”

“sure.”

“only then it’s like, overall- i think i want to kiss you off-duty.”

“mazel tov.”

“but would you mind?”

“did the tongue-fucking earlier not broadcast that enough?“

“jesus, dude, we’re at a wedding.”

“a lesbian wedding. that’s their expertise.”

he considers this point.

“hey, you wanna...”

“well, the body,” ezra says, albeit reluctantly. he doesn’t like mess.

“oh, sure,” joa says, thinking. “i guess maybe newark ‘02?”

“yeah, whatever,” ezra shrugs, but there’s a suppressed pleasure in the way he clears his throat. “blue’s your color, you know that?”

“my mom used to say. can you take his feet?”

“jesus, the shoes. hey, did you have some of that cocktail thing earlier?”

“yeah, a couple. there wasn’t extra poison again, was there? because last i saw the res-mac the mormons had it and i so do not want to go to their rooms again.”

“watch the stairs. no, and fuck those guys. i could just taste it earlier. the sour cherry’s not bad but the sugar in this decade tastes weird.”

“the rim is the best part, what the hell?”

“your palate is deranged.”

“you eat pickled fish, jackass.”

“fifteen minutes early. what a schlep.”

“kvetch.”

“vete a la chingada.”

“don’t i have you for that now?”

“jesus, dude, we’re at a wedding.”

“funny. so, bar?”

“you have blood all over your cuffs.”

“like anyone’ll notice. dude, you know they do 360s on ice in this decade?”

“no shit.”

“yeah, right?”

“why the hell are we still standing around not drinking?”

“viv is going to be so mad she missed this.”

“good for her. i’m still pissed about the fucking plath thing.”

“oh, my god, dude. you’re such a hypocrite.”

“name one time-”

“seriously? abbie hoffman?”

“fuck you.”

“holy shit, i think i see my aunt again.”

“are you kidding me? is she part-K9?”

“you’re supposed to be cute about it and kiss me again.”

“i’m not going to be cute about it, i hate that woman. you kiss me since you want to be so cute.”

luckily for the both of them, joa has bad taste. he complies.

#qui ecrit #ocs #tt #qui repond #anon

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luveline · 2 years

Note

could we have Peter with an s/o who is very insecure about her body and appearance? maybe he finds her picking at her face in the mirror or comparing herself to other girls they see in the street and he just comforts her a lot - lots of cuddle and reassuring words?? i'm self projecting massively here

thank you! love your work!

thank you for your request!! <3 hope this is okay <3

"I think," Peter says gently, words drawn out and almost melodic, "that there's something we need to talk about."

You raise your eyes to his in the mirror, deep brown and edged in lashes that twitch when he smiles reassuringly. "Nothing bad, sweetness. Promise."

Sharp insecurity like hot pinpricks of a needle in your chest. You return his smile, though you're less convincing, and move from the mirror.

He's leaning in the doorway, hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants, worn shirt wrinkled and soft at the neckline. You're reluctant as he holds out his arms, but he's so warm and pretty that you indulge him anyhow, rewarded by his big hand stretching over your shoulder.

He squeezes. "Your face is bleeding."

"Don't look," you murmur, mildly distressed, staring down at his socks.

"What'd you do?"

"Zit."

"Ahh," he murmurs in suit. "I see."

"Sorry, it's disgusting."

"You're never disgusting," he says sincerely.

You tense up under his hand but say nothing. He sighs and stands at his full height, taller than you, his cologne mixed up with the smell of sleep encapsulating you. He kneads your shoulder until you squirm.

"There. Got you, bub," he says, fingertip pressing into the corner of your smile. "You're pretty all the time, but especially when you smile."

"You're pandering."

"Define pandering."

"You're saying what you think I want to hear."

"Do you want to hear it?"

You frown deeply and skirt around him in the door. "We're gonna be late for the movie," you say. You want to call him something nice, handsome or baby or my love. But sometimes, just sometimes, you worry that he might laugh at you. For staking a claim, thinking that he's yours.

You know that it's stupid. Peter is yours and you're his, evidenced by date night, by his hand pulling you down the street, how he stops to tie your shoe for you. You shift your purse on your shoulder and twirl one of his curls around your finger as he hums something under his breath.

You look across his stooped body into the window of the department store beside you, grimacing at your windblown reflection. Peter stands up and you're too slow in looking away. He mistakes your looking for something else, says, "You want to go in?"

You say yes. Better he thinks you're staring at a dress rather than yourself. He's caught you too many times like this, morose, viewing your reflection in contempt. He must think I'm self-obsessed, you think, following him through the sliding door and around the corner.

He locates the dress you were staring at fast. It's a display. A model wears its twin in a banner across the wall. You stare at her and frown.

Peter picks a dress up in your size deftly and holds it up to your body, turning your gaze from the model to the mirror.

"There," he says, looking at you from behind your shoulder. "It's almost as pretty as you. You'll look beautiful, don't you think?"

You feel the fabric of the skirt between your fingers and your eyes flick against your will to the model on the wall. Peter follows your gaze and you watch his smile fade, then reappear twice as wide.

"You wanna try it on?"

You turn to him and frown, blinking as you confess. "No, Peter. I don't."

"A different dress, then."

"Peter."

"I saw the daintiest little blue thing on the way in that would suit you, baby."

"It won't make a difference."

"But if you-"

"Stop," you say, turning away from him. "Just- don't."

The metal sound of the dress being hung up again. His footsteps. He stands at your side without touching, and you breathe through the upset with him steadfast at your side.

"Maybe we should skip the movie," he suggests.

"Yeah. Okay."

And so you walk home in silence. You can feel his eyes on you as you go, and you feel guilty, but you can't bring yourself to speak even when the door is closed behind you and he's helping you out of your coat and placing kisses in a stretch across your forehead.

You go straight to the bedroom. Peter fusses around with the door lock and the windows, the lights. You listen and dread his approach, hiding under the duvet still fully clothed.

He flops down in the bed at your side. His quiet is unnerving.

"Do you want to hear it?" he asks finally, a copy of his question in the bathroom. "Do you? Because if I'm not telling you enough, I'm sorry. I'm… I'm so sorry, bub."

You peel the sheets off of your face. "What?" you ask, croaky, throat burning with the want to cry.

"You're beautiful. You are."

"It's not you."

"Isn't it?"

You don't know what to say. Peter tugs the covers from underneath his legs and pulls it over his head, tenting the sheet over your heads, dark now in the shield blocking the bedside lamp.

"Can I have a hug? Please?" Peter whispers, like a secret.

You open your arms and he shuffles over, wrapping you up in a hug. You lean your forehead against his chest as he brings his hand up to the back of your head, stroking your hair.

"You're so pretty," he continues his whispering.

"I'm sorry for being sulky," you say back.

"It's okay. Thing is, you're the kind of pretty, even with a frown you look like a dream."

You shake your head into his chest. "Awful. Boo."

"I'm not kidding!"

"You should be. That's corny at best."

"And at worst?"

You grumble and wiggle closer, tilting your head up so your eyes are level with his as he looks down.

"You're everything," he says, hand cupped behind your ear. "Pretty, beautiful, radiant. Look it up in the dictionary, babe. Pretty. Adjective. 1. To look like my love, Y/N. Example: 'Peter Parker is one lucky son of a bitch, his girl is so pretty.'"

You groan aloud and try to steal a kiss before he makes himself laugh too hard.

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8osbabe · 4 years

Text

HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY AND NEVER BE FOUND

unedited : warnings in the tags

THERE was no escape without the key in the left pocket of dallas winston’s tattered blue jeans. it was a lesson your handcuffed wrist, scratched red and raw, knew quite well.

you wanted to retch at the suffocating poison he spewed out with every breath of the cigarette that made its home between his fingers. but your surroundings were poetic in their justice.

you and him, you were this room ; paint chipped sheetrock walls that looked tough and impenetrable, although a determined hand could punch through to the hollow inside. a motel room as neglected on the inside as the building was on the outside. a kind of room that could have been anywhere, but remained damaged and uncared for and crumbling. your chests as tight as the cigarette butts and forgotten bags of weed pressed between the mattress’s headboard and the wall.

an ironic sign sits on the nightstand closest to dallas ; “No Smoking.” a rule they weren’t keen enough on enforcing, as they seemingly hadn’t bothered to install any kind of alarm or detector in the room. a rule meant for faking, for breaking.

you can’t hear any of the ambient sounds you’d expect in tulsa. there was no soundtrack to the middle of nowhere, save for the couple who had checked into a room a few doors down, who were either fighting or rampantly fucking.

nothing absorbs the noise other than your own mind, which was happy to muffle everything except for the words that kept ringing through your brain since he’d said them as he tightened a cuff on your wrist and then on a low hanging ventilation pipe ; “there. just like daddy did to mommy.”

the words wanted to gnaw at your treacherous heart, and you bit the inside of your cheek until the familiar taste of warm copper flooded your mouth to remind your heart exactly who was the boss. dallas didn’t deserve pity, not for what had been done to him, not after all he’d done. you knew it. you wanted to know it.

his smoking addiction was already bad— ‘likely to be dead by his fortieth birthday’ bad. but it flared up like this when he was thinking— deciding — only taking breaks from drags of his cigarette to sneak glances at you, teeth worrying his lips.

he had to know that the sight and the smell of tobacco was torturing you, that you couldn’t stand it. ‘did i ever tell him why?’ you were stupid and naive and in love, so you probably had, along with spilling your guts about all of your feelings, your memories, opening yourself up to being crushed— an opportunity dallas never missed. you push away the picture of your skin bubbling and seething as your uncle set his cigarette into your skin when you were six, and the one of his breath, smelling of jack daniels and tobacco as he spit in your face when you were fourteen.

his sharp inhale pulled you from the memories, as he flicked a still-lit cigarette onto a place on the floor where the sheets of the unmade bed touched the floor, setting alight a small flame.

ice crawls up your spine as you become acutely aware of the heat, a few feet away from where you sit, handcuffed to this room. you subconsciously shuffle away from it, backing into the wall. he notices you move. he chokes the flames under his shoe and the fire dies, leaving only charred cotton as evidence it had once lived. the flickering lamp is once again the only thing lighting up the room, with the bruising horizon offering no help.

your gaze locks with his now, and you wonder who will break the stare first. you should know better, that the two of you could sit like this for centuries, refusing to surrender to one another.

there’s a question sitting on his lips. you wonder if it’s the same as yours.

who are we?

what have we done to each other?

• • • • • •

“WERE you aware of dallas winston’s suicidal tendencies?”

yes.

“he wasn’t,” you answer, bored and disinterested, at least as far as the tulsa county police department was concerned.

even in the assaulting white light of— whatever room you were in— you can see the sheriff’s cheeks flush and his eyes narrow. most of your answers thus far had consisted of non-commital shrugs and vague stares, so he detects that something about dallas’s suicide must have gotten a rise out of you.

nodding at you, he leans down toward the floor near his chair, pulling a file out of a banker’s box that looked like it was full and close to bursting.

you stifle a smile. dallas’s police record. surely there must be more boxes around here somewhere, in a room specifically for dallas’s files. you imagine that the cops occasionally mess around with them, covering the boxes graffiti, ‘banker’s bastard’s box.’

the sound of the manila file sliding across the polished metal table separating you and officer friedman pulls you from your thoughts. your eyes dart up to meet his, which motion you to open it yourself. your cold hand reaches to flip it open, and you become acutely aware of the burning smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol as you see what’s inside.

you hiss, looking away instantly and scolding yourself for giving him a reaction.

he takes the file again, now grabbing the photograph it had contained and holding it out to you.

“this scar was fresh on his body when we first got a look at him. angle and location suggest self infliction, and the entry matches that switchblade he carried.” the picture is sharp and focused, not at all like any photograph there was of dallas winston. this one looks posed, medical as though he hadn’t been moving when it was taken.

he never would have just let them take that picture, not of that scar on his arm, not so easily. he hadn’t been conscious, hadn’t been— alive?

“he wasn’t,” you bark through grit teeth. your nails dig into your palms now, your hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

“he wouldn’t have died like that— not shot to death by pigs he hated, not bleeding out on the asphalt in front of his family.” you think of darry curtis and the gang. of ponyboy. you shudder.

friedman sits back in his chair, glancing through the one way mirror and smiling, as though he was in on a joke with the unseen person behind the glass.

“—and he didn’t. he died of his wounds a few hours later, in a jail cell waiting for transfer. his death certificate was filed two days ago. he bled out nice ‘n slow, “tuff” like he wanted.”

your chair emits an ear-splitting shriek as you stand, and the officer follows suit, instinctively patting his holstered gun in silent warning.

you want to scream, to claw his eyes out, to show him “nice and slow.”

instead you speak through labored breaths. “i’m leaving now. i came here as a favor to a friend, to try to help. this clearly isn’t going anywhere.”

you power towards the door, but his hand is on the doorknob before you can reach it.

“—and why help? to what does this department owe the pleasure of hearing your supposed omniscient knowledge of this case?”

you take a step closer to him and snarl. “good people don’t just suddenly wake up and decide they should kill themselves.”

officer friedman backs away, satisfied. he tugs a key from his belt and reveals the door you were headed for had been locked anyhow. he opens the thick metal door and gestures for you to exit.

“maybe dallas winston wasn’t a good person.”

______________

NOBODY stops you as you head for the door, the small lobby of the station quickly becoming blurry through your glassy eyes.

you don’t want to think that they got what they wanted, that they expected this outcome. the ‘meddling little girlfriend’ scared off from looking any further, threatened by the truth of what she might find. you don’t want to think that they got what they wanted.

you push the front double doors a little too hard, maybe hoping that the sound of the slam might muffle the sound of cops talking about autopsy and bury.

getting onto the sidewalk, you see two-bit leaning on his car— waiting, just as you’d left him.

he was fiddling with his switchblade, something he often did when he was idle, looking up as you approached him with his usual, goofy grin. it fades as quickly as it came, though, when he sees your expression, your labored breathing.

you and two could talk like that, without saying a word. he knows the score, and he’s more like family to you than your real one had ever been.

he’s ready to catch you when you collapse against him, finally allowing yourself a broken sob.

“i knew. i knew! i killed him!”

he pulls you into an embrace, allowing you to dampen his muscle shirt with your cries, all while not letting anyone see.

his eyes dart quickly around the perimeter of the station, making sure nobody was with earshot, before gently ushering you into the car.

you’re already embarrassed by the time he’s shut the driver’s side door and started the car.

“dallas is out there, he can’t be dead. i thought you knew that,” two-bit says matter-of-factly, betrayal thick in his voice.

you press your forehead against the window, not able to keep from wondering if you and two had been lying to yourselves, to each other, this whole time. that the house of cards that manifested from your shared grief was one that was quickly crumbling.

neither of you wanted to feel the pain of dallas winston’s absence, not so soon after johnny’s. your mere implication that it may be time to mourn dallas is not one two-bit takes lightly.

“those crooked cops? they think they’ve got you figured— another dim-witted greasy girl that ain’t worth half the air socs breathe— don’t make them right. you’re supposed to be smarter than that,” he huffs, not caring to let you weigh in on the subject.

not that you would, anyway. greasers never get to cry, and sometimes outbursts like these were the only real ways to grieve. you’d let him have this.

“so don’t give me any of that “he’s dead and it’s my fault” shit, because he ain’t dead, and you’re not to blame.”

it’s silent for a few minutes after that, and his expression softens as he focuses himself back on the road. he only speaks again when you turn to him as he drops you off at buck’s.

“it wouldn’t be your fault,” he says, gently resting a hand on your shoulder. “i mean, even if he was.”

you bite your lip, doubting him for a moment, before you nod, letting him squeeze you shoulder before you get out of the car and go home.

if you could call it that.

kicking your shoes off near the entrance, you take in the familiar aspects of the place. torn carpet under your bare feet, the rough feel of the scratched up balls on the pool table, the red lights reflecting off of liquor bottles on the makeshift bar, buck merill crashing on the couch, and— a lifetime ago— dally snoring in his bed upstairs until at least 2 p.m.

that one had been your favorite.

now, though, you only creep toward buck to take the still-lit joint in his sleeping hand. that kind of smoke didn’t bother you half as much as that of actual cigarettes, and even though you tried to keep your lungs as clean as possible, you’d hate to let good tree go to waste. so you pluck it from buck’s fingertips, nestle it in between your lips, and fumble up the stairs.

it doesn’t hurt to be in here, in his room. lying in his bed and still feeling his scent on the sheets, it’s easier to pretend that he’s still around somewhere, that this is still his room, that he’ll come back to it.

crawling into his bed, you wrap yourself into the sheets, feeling your skin buzz in the kind of comfort that can only be felt when you’re high.

the room begins to dim as the sun goes out, and you let yourself drift off, and relive the memory you see every time you close your eyes.

• • • • •

the boys have never looked more beautiful.

even you managed to clean up a bit, too, borrowing one of sylvia’s longer dresses.

you’re a few paces behind the curtis’s, as ponyboy sobs into darry’s dress shirt, and darry let’s him. he’s stifling tears of his own, ever the strong brother since they got the news.

how could this be possible? darry had been filling out college applications two days ago.

and now he was his brothers’ makeshift parent.

nobody had mentioned the fact that dallas hadn’t made an appearance. you didn’t even think anybody noticed. some sort of dread pools in your stomach at his absence. you couldn’t help worrying about him, even if he hated it.

the sick feeling in your core doesn’t extinguish when you see him, a few yards to the side, away from anyone’s line of sight.

the feeling doesn’t fade because when his eyes, red and raw from— crying? —flit to the coffins, and his fingernails dig deep enough to the skin of his palm to bleed, you know he’s about to do something stupid.

you shadow him, far away enough not to provoke his wrath by letting him see you.

he walks for less than fifteen minutes, and you stop following him as he hesitates in the middle of the bridge next to the highway.

something seems to have newly occupied his mind, and the churning of your stomach quickly turns into gasoline, setting alight as he jumps onto the concrete railing.

you will yourself to move forward, taking slow steps and breathing carefully so as to not startle him.

“dallas?” your voice sounds small when you say it.

he chances a glance at you, but his eyes look empty and his face blanched. he’s drunk, maybe, but he wasn’t carrying any kind of alcohol you could see.

he was grieving. he’d been closer with the curtis parents than anyone had known, you later find out.

“dallas,” you say now, more assertively, while trying to stifle the panicked shouts in your mind.

you only hear yourself shriek when he’s set both feet off the bridge, too late to stop his from plunging into the arkansas river.

you were more matched for dallas than either of you knew, you think as you stand in the same spot seconds later, and jump.

the fall feels more like the gravity is pulling you to dallas, until your body breaks into the surface of the ice cold water, seeping through your dress and into your skin.

beneath the surface, you see him drifting, eyes shut in near unconsciousness. he looks almost at peace, you think as you swim further to reach him.

he’s lighter than you expect when you’re wrapping your arms around his chest, feet kicking gently to propel you toward the surface.

it takes bringing him back up to open air to wake him, his shallow gasp for air his first signs of life. he shakes water out of his hair, his eyes before he can really look at you, his stare fascinated and probing.

you remember feeling shy and embarrassed, like he was seeing you for the first time. he could make you forget what had just happened.

“did you jump?”

“yeah,” your voice comes out rushedly, you hadn’t realized how short of breath you’d been. “yeah i jumped. are you okay?”

in the midst of everything that had just happened, his lips curl into a smile, and he laughs. “you’re fucking crazy!”

you nod, starting to laugh, too, the sound coated in nervous relief.

he leans in closer, his hands holding you steady at the nape of your neck as he touches his forehead to yours.

“i’m so tired,” he breathes.

you only get the chance to hum in response as his head tilts to capture your lips with his. his free hand travels up your thigh, guiding it around his hips before resting his hand on your lower back.

you wind your lips with his like you want to siphon his pain away, to be a vacuum for his pain and hurt. your fingers find a tighter grip on his hair, your slight tug eliciting a low, throaty sound from his lips. your head can’t be still as he teases your lower lip with soft bites.

the moment exists in a universe of its own, one where you aren’t greasers without a red cent to spend, one where his lips taste like fresh water forever.

it doesn’t last long, before you both need to break for air.

you thought this was it. that things could be better now. the world had given you permission to be better now.

you never talked about the incident again, or told anyone about the first time you’d kissed, or how you’d started going together.

but dallas had nearly died. you couldn’t save him forever.

you were both so naive.

you were sixteen.

• • • • •

YOU FIND that your best mornings are not the ones where two-bit wakes you up with a pillow to the face.

“eat,” he says, rather aggressively, throwing a paper bag next to your spot on the bed. “we’ve got a long day.”

sitting up and digging your palms into your eyes, you try your best to look mean and angry, but the breakfast he got you smells really good.

you open the bag to find a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a can of pepsi, the latter of which reminded you of the youngest curtiss

“what’s this,” you gesture to the soda can. “did you jump ponyboy to get this for me?” you giggle at the thought.

two-bit only half smiles. “no, he just picked it out for you. he’s been picking up shifts at the dx every now and again.”

you look sheepishly up at two bit, your mouth already stuffed with half a grilled cheese.

“have you...talked to him? to any of them? i mean, for more than a few minutes.” you’re not really sure why you ask. you already know the answer.

keith inhales sharply. “no. they still don’t take kindly to our “dallas isn’t dead” tirade. i don’t blame them for wanting to move on but..”

you let him keep talking, but you stop listening. you know this story, about how the boys hadn’t really felt up to speaking to you or two-bit lately. if you were being honest, you were mad at them, too. they’d left you alone in your grief.

instead, you pay more attention to the way two speaks. he speaks more carefully, with less slang and hood-talk than he might’ve a few years back. you chalked it up to his new job valeting at an upscale restaurant on the soc side of town. they tipped him far more when he’d learned to shut up if he wasn’t spoken to, and to talk classy when he was.

“—don’t pay it any mind. the car’s running outside, be down in five, ‘you hear?”

he doesn’t wait for you to answer before slipping out of the room as quickly as he came, his footsteps on the stairs echoing through the hallway until he’s out of earshot.

he’s in a rush, and you don’t even know what for. but you try to move through the room as quickly as possible, splashing your face with cold water, then scrambling to find your pants somewhere on the floor, and finally taking one of dallas’s jackets from a hanger as you pick a few stray remnants of ash out of your hair.

when you fall into the passenger seat next to two-bit, you catch sight of yourself in the rear view mirror, and try not to think about how dead you look.

he’s already speeding on the highway when you ask him where you’re going.

“to find dally.” he leaves it at that, and you don’t pry, even if the certainty in his voice is enough to send chills down your spine.

the wind starts to whip your hair in all directions when it pushes in through the open window, and you feel like a bird.

the thought is only pleasant for a moment.

you quickly feel yourself become a vulture, feeling more hunter than hummingbird.

you sink your claws into cold bodies hoping to find some way to keep living inside something that is long dead.

#the outsiders #dallas winston x reader #dallas winston #two bit mathews #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #tw : self harm #tw : suicide mention #tw : death #long post

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queensdivas · 5 years

Text

Bubbles

This is for my boo boo @bonafiderocketqueen because she’s my best friend and I hope she enjoys it!

Enjoy!

@mexifangorl @leah-halliwell92 @i-live-for-queen @its-funny-til-its-not @brianmydear @painkiller80 @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels @mayplantstarrwaters

Masterlist

It had been snowing in non stop since I arrived in England to spend a week with Ben. Dear God it has not stopped since my plane literally touched down on the runway! Yet it hasn’t bothered me except when Ben isn’t around because he’s off reading for another movie. Not that I’m not grateful he’s off getting into more movies for himself and making his career better. Hells yeah for him for wanting to further his career. But when you live across the pond and can only see each other every so often. It kind of bums you out.

Tossing my book down onto the couch as I wrapped myself up in my blanket counting down the minutes till he came home from his read through. Dinner was already made since I wanted tonight to be just relaxing. Homemade chicken and noodles was exactly going to warm us up from all this stupid snow.

His dog Frankie climbed up onto the couch with me as he curled up into the blanket then tucking himself into a large ball. My fingers began scratching the top of his head as I was beginning to fall asleep with his soft breathing and the sound of winter frost blowing outside.

Before I completely passed out on his couch. Ben came bursting through the doorway with a large paper bag in his hand. It scared Frankie and I as we both almost fell off the couch. Frankie ran to him as he jumped all over him as Ben scooped him up in his arms. I shook my head a little so I would wake up and see what he was so excited about.

“Anne you would not believe what just happened!” He was bouncing off the walls with excitement as he placed the paper bag down on the coffee table then sitting next to me. Frankie was still attacking him with kisses then bouncing over to me to give me all kinds of kisses to me!

“I got the role!” He cheered as I put Frankie down on the ground so I wouldn’t hurt him on what was coming next.

“AH BEN!” I jumped on top of him to pecking my lips all over him till we now fell off the couch. Frankie jumped all over us till Ben pulled him into our dog pile laughed as we sat up in front of the couch.

“Told you they would absolutely love you!”

“I knew they would.” He smirked as I scooted closer to him then wrapping myself around him. He had his hands on my hips as his soft lips pressed against mine. Stopping myself to get a hint of his..was he working out?

“Ben why do you smell like a gym?” Dear God he smells like a very sweaty old man! Phew! Dear God he really needs some sort of bath!

“Part of the role was being able to crazy stunts and I ended up climbing up and down ropes. So I got a really great workout today because of it.” God he really stinks!

“Ben dear God you stink! I love you but damn!” Climbing off to walk into the kitchen as he got a grumpy look on his face that quickly turned into a soft smile. Are we having bath time? Dear God his bath is one of the best since it’s got jets across the wall, a small tv that hangs on the wall so we can binge watch Letterkenny while we relax, and enough room for a cheese plate!

“I’ll get the bath ready.” Well I’m hungry so I will be eating while were in the tub. Just not homemade chicken and noodles. For obvious reasons. Getting into the fridge to grab a bunch of cheese slices, grapes, and then the bottle of pink moscato for celebration! We still have two wine glasses from the other night so this is absolutely perfect!

Before I carried the tray into the bathroom. Frankie stood directly under me with his tail wagging waiting for a piece of my cheese! It’s getting close to his dinner time anyhow so I think a little peanut butter will hold him over in the end. Placing the tray down on the counter to grab his small bone from the floor then the peanut butter from the cabinet. Scooping a little of his favorite peanut butter to stuff it in his bone as he began bouncing around in excitement around my feet.

“Ah. Now you sit!” He immediately sat down for me to place his bone right in front of him. He grabbed it to wander off into the living room to start chowing down on his peanut butter bone. Now time for bubble bath!

“SHIT!” Ben yelled as I grabbed the tray of goodies to walk into the bathroom. Oh no what did he do now!? Please tell me we don’t have to buy him another phone! He and Joe once thought it would be a really good fucking idea to go skinny dipping while they were drunk. Problem is that skinny dipping meant just jumping into the closest body of water. So his phone was destroyed.

“What happened?” Asking as I walked into the bathroom to see that the bubbles in the jacuzzi were really getting out of control. Oh my god it looks so beautiful!

“No. I dropped the bubble maker and now the bathtub is going to be extra full. Damn it at this point it’s probably going to flood the entire bathroom.” And? Now our bathroom is going to smell like, what is it honey? Yes honey!

“So? Now instead of nothing, the bathroom is going to be smelling like honey and soap. Is that such a bad thing?” Placing the tray down on top of the sink as I immediately threw off all my clothes on the floor. Ben watched me as I sunk into the bubble covered jacuzzi. The jets were on low as the water was a little hotter than how I usually like it. Ben stripped down until he grabbed the tray of goodies to put right on the large corner.

He climbed down into the water as our feet entwined with each other as he turned up the jets to medium. One of them was hitting my back making me moan a little because god damn these are some wonderful jets. The bubbles kept rising as it hit the bottom of my chin, Jesus how much of the bubble liquid got out? I felt the plastic bottle floating around next to me, lifting it up to Ben as he nodded.

“There it is!” I tossed the bottle out of the tub. Shit he put the tray on his side of the tub! Hope we won't mind if I sneak over to grab some grapes. Moving from my spot in the tub to start moving towards him to we were face to face with each other. Almost about to kiss him as I moved past him to grab a grape and a cheese wedge.

“You’re a brat.” He giggled as he pulled me into his lap as the bubbles bounced around us. Jesus the stupid bubbles are still forming oh my god! Grabbing a bunch to place on the top of his head then snapping it to look like a Hershey’s kiss.

“Wait wait!” I began molding a bubble beard on his face then styling it with a nice mustache. He looked absolutely stunning!

“Ben! Picture perfect!” Looking over the edge to see my phone so I could take a picture of him and all his glory!

“If you think you’re leaving this tub without a beard you’re wrong.” Ben told me before I could even grab my phone. Smirking as I stood still for him to grab a hand full of bubbles. He began placing them all over my face trying to avoid my eyes and lips to form a Santa Claus beard on my face.

“Am I pretty yet?” He shook his head to grab more bubbles from the tub to place on top of my head. Except no Hershey kiss style hair, more like 70s Afro kind of hair.

“Now you’re gorgeous. Wanna watch the office?” I just binged watched season four while he was gone so I’m kind of feeling something a little more stupid. Not saying that the office is stupid because Creed is my spirit animal for as little time he has on screen.

“Letterkenny?” Asking as he grabbed the remote from the corner along with a cheese slice to turn on hulu. Dear God do I love Letterkenny. It’s one of the shows that’s so damn stupid that you have to love. Yes a few of the characters are a little wow but it’s so great.

Turning myself so I could scoot back into him with my back pressing against him so we could cuddle. My hand reached back for a small vine of grapes to chow down on a little. Oh my god it’s the Canadian Goose episodes yes! My absolute favorite episode out of the entire show.

“IF YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH CANADA GOOSES YOU GOT A PROBLEM WITH ME AND I SUGGEST YOU LET THAT MARINATE!” I yelled along with Wayne because dear god I love this show! Ben squeezed me a little to then start kissing the back of my neck which made me giggle.

“Does everyone in Canada feel the same about Canada gooses?”

“Gooses! They’re beautiful majestic birds that must be protected at all cost! Born leaders and heroes!” I think I just watch this show way too much now at this point. Oh well. We went back to start watching the show as he began kissing my neck again then giving me another tight squeeze to make me giggle.

“Anne. You know I love you right?”

“No Ben. I’m naked in a bathtub with you because I consider us friends.” I have very bad sarcasm and I think it gets out of control sometimes.

“Alright smartass. But seriously. I want to ask you something because I know if I don’t I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.” I stopped eating my grape to turn around completely ignoring the show now. Please don’t tell me he’s going to propose because we haven’t discussed this part of our lives yet and I’m not sure if I’m ready!

“Anne you’re my world now and I hate the fact that we live so stupidly far apart. Move in with me. Or I can move over to America with you. I don’t like the fact that we only see each other for one of two weeks out of the month. Your the person I wanna wake up in the morning and go to bed with you at night. When you’re gone. Frankie and I are just an absolute mess without you! Ask Gwil because I do nothing but bug the living hell out of him whenever you go back home! Poor Frankie crawls under my bed until you walk into my apartment and you can’t imagine the sad look on his face when you’re not around!” No I’m not crying you’re crying! But sadly I can’t take him serious with the bubbles on top of his head and around his beard! I started laughing a little in this very serious moment.

“Are you making fun of me?” His voice cracked as I placed my hands through his bubble beard to give him a kiss. My lips continuing to peck him till he stopped waiting for my answer.

“Yes Ben. I’ll be your roommate for life. Only for Frankie because poor Frankie shouldn’t be suffering!” Frankie came running into the bathroom as he began trying to get into the tub with us.

“No Frankie that’s weird!” Ben laughed till he jumped into the empty spot of the tub for water and bubbles to go all over the place! He began splashing around in the tub with the bubbles flying all over the place, in the food, and more on Ben and I! I grabbed Frankie to get him out of the tub so we could get back to our bath time. Once out he stayed right next to the tub staring us down.

“Gonna be honest with you Ben, really don’t feel comfortable with Frankie watching us in the tub.” He turned off the jets as I pulled the plug from the drain.

“Fair enough. Besides. We now have all the time in the world for those pleasantries since you’ll be here for now on. Or they. Where exactly are we going to live now?” Good question.

“We’ll figure that out later. Homemade chicken and noodles tonight for dinner with some carrots?”

“Sounds absolutely delicious.”

#Ben Hardy #Ben Hardy x reader #Ben Hardy x OC #ben hardy fluff #ben hardy x female reader #Joe Mazzello #Gwilym Lee #Rami Malek #Lucy Boynton #Bohrap #Bohrap Boys

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luckyspike · 5 years

Text

An Absolute Menace - A Good Omens fanfiction

behold and lo for i have heard your cries for a sequel to the whole Crowley is a twitch streamer story

and i have written this monstrosity (4k words)

have fun enjoy

(credit to BrownMan and LetsPlay, without whose playthroughs I never would have been able to accomplish this level of detail since i do not own the game or requisite gaming system)

2000 hours GMT: Stream time.

There is only one problem tonight, and that problem is that Crowley, retired demon and part-time Twitch streamer, has lost his voice. Oh, certainly, he could miracle his vocal cords back to health, soothe the inflammation brought on by an entire afternoon screaming at Manchester the day prior, no problem. But that would remove his excuse to look forlorn while Aziraphale brewed yet another pot of honey-infused tea, and more importantly, would negate his entire strategy for the stream tonight.

If asked directly, he would deny that he had intentionally screamed exceptionally loudly the day prior. That would be an outright lie but, well, demon.

“Come on, angel,” he wheedles hoarsely, over the rim of a steaming mug of tea. “Please?”

“I don’t know the first thing about video games, dear boy.” Aziraphale maneuvers the mug away from Crowley for a second, long enough to deposit a dollop of honey into the mug and stir it in. “I don’t understand why you don’t just fix it for yourself. Really, frivolous miracles aren’t exactly something we should be worried about anymore -”

A memory swims to the forefront of Crowley’s brain, and he slumps. Tries to look pathetic. Aziraphale is better at it, always, but Crowley is fairly competent when he needs to be. “It’s not the same,” he manages. He sounds absolutely pathetic, and his voice cracks pitifully at the end. “It doesn’t work the same.” He sips the tea - too much honey for him, it mingles unpleasantly with the ever-present taste of ash, but it does feel good going down. “Come on, angel, I’ll pick a really easy game. Just tonight. Please?”

Aziraphale watches him for a moment. Frowns thoughtfully. Sips his own tea. “You planned this.”

“I did not.” He sets the mug down, sprawls across the counter, and looks up at Aziraphale, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Aziraphale. It’ll be on the Switch, nice and easy, I’ll sit right next to you the whole time in case you need help. I can’t do a three-hour talking thing tonight.”

“Hm.” He purses his lips. Takes another sip of tea. “You’ll owe me.”

“Absolutely. Anything you want. Baked goods, rare books … I’ll even go to the opera, if you want. One whole night, not a word out of me, just respectful and quiet.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” It is an agreement, and the angel sets his own mug down, the better to straighten his bow tie. “You swear it’ll be an easy game, yes?”

“Cross my heart,” says Crowley, solemn. “It’s about animals. You like animals.”

“I do, rather.”

Aziraphale sits, awkwardly, in Crowley’s usual chair in front of the bank of monitors in the den while Crowley fiddles with a few things on the computer. He hands Aziraphale the controller, briefs him on the buttons (“Right, move with that thing, yeah just push it around, you’ll figure it out, and your right hand has all the little letter buttons”), and then, after affirming that they’re both ready for whatever Crowley has in store, starts the stream.

He starts, as he always does, with the introduction: “Hey guys, welcome to the stream, I’m your host AJ, variety streamer and quite possibly the oldest streamer on Twitch*. And this is … uh, Ari Fell, he’s been in a few videos, why don’t you introduce yourself?”

[* He definitely is. By a long shot.]

Aziraphale had been in a few videos by this point, most significantly the infamous Nuzlocke run of Pokemon X, which was thrilling and captivating and ended up with both of them crying over the untimely demise of Blanche Devereux, the plucky little Diggersby that perished in the final conflict with the Elite Four. He’d been in a few others, too, and by now they have a routine down. Crowley has the same standard introduction every time, but when Aziraphale makes an appearance, he likes to mix it up.

“Yes, I’m Mr. Fell. AJ’s best friend, his eternal nemesis and your … ah, local tartan enthusiast.”

Crowley snorted. “Accurate. Anyway, as you all -” all 500 people, and counting, although Aziraphale tries immediately to banish that thought and forget that section of the monitors ever existed “- can probably tell, got a bit of a voice problem right now, not really up to a full stream, so I’ve pulled in the backup to try out a little game that’s gotten a lot of press in the past but I never got around to it. You’ll like it, s’got animals in it.” He taps a few buttons on the computer, and the game screen changes. Soothing piano music begins, and they are both bathed in the blue light of the monitor. “So this is Untitled Goose Game by House House. Now, angel -” Aziraphale ignores the deluge of heart icons that fills the chat “- you have never played this game before, correct?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“Great. So the whole point is to be a goose and complete the items on your checklist. Hit ‘begin’.” He coughs, and takes a swig of tea as the screen loads in an image of a little clearing. “Right, says ‘press Y to honk’ so press the Y button and honk.”

Honk. Aziraphale frowns. “Is this the whole game?” Honk. Honk. Honkhonkhonkhonkhonk.

“Nah, says press B to run.” Aziraphale, a little tentatively, begins to maneuver his goose avatar around the screen. He gets increasingly confident, following the tutorial as it directs him.

“Oh, wings, of course, my wings. Can I fly?”

“Nah. Grounded like the rest of us poor saps.” He grins in the face of Aziraphale’s scowl, and takes a diversionary sip of tea. Honk. “Right, through the gate, there you go, tutorial done.”

“Seems simple enough.” Aziraphale is studying the screen, thoughtful, as his goose paddles across the lake. “Now, you said a to-do list - oh! Oh, where’s the dash button? Ah, there. Yes. Excellent, alright. So first it looks like we need to get into the garden.” Crowley nods, and Aziraphale reads on. “Get the groundskeeper wet? What has the groundskeeper ever done to me?”

“Nothing. When has a goose ever needed justification for its actions?”

“Hm, yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. ‘Steal the groundskeeper’s keys’.” He sighs. “Crowley you picked this game on purpose. You wanted to tempt me into making mayhem.”

Crowley is laughing. “I did,” he confirms. “Oh, definitely, definitely did.”

“Right, well, I suppose it’s just a video game.” He straightens up a little. “And I am a goose. They’re practically agents of chaos in their own right anyhow, so nothing lost.” Crowley is laughing and coughing in the background, curled up in his chair with his free arm around his knees. “Very well. ‘Make the groundskeeper wear his sun hat.’ That one’s not so bad. ‘Rake in a lake’ … well rakes are waterproof so - oh! Have a picnic! How nice.” Crowley does not agree, mostly because he is too busy laughing.

“I suppose I’ll start with the nicer ones.” He leaves the to-do list, and starts wandering around in the game. “Is there a way into the garden? Perhaps if I get on top of these bags. Is that a radio?” Crowley giggles, although it comes out more of a whimper. “I’ll just move that. I say! Bagpipes!”

“I think I need this for the picnic, anyway, don’t I? Where do I go to find the blanket?” He runs around for a minute, radio playing some kind of bagpipe rendition. Honk. “Argh!” The groundskeeper appears from stage right, and begins to pursue the goose. “No, I need this! No, it’s mine now!” The goose swims into the lake. “Hah! Mine. No!” The groundskeeper pursues him, and the goose drops the radio. “No, I took that!” Honk. Honk honk. The goose pursues the groundskeeper now, and snatches the radio back out of his hand, turning and escaping hurriedly into the pond. “Haha! Catch me now!” The goose paddles across the pond, escaping under the bridge. When he crosses under the bridge, the groundskeeper turns back, defeated. “Crow - AJ, look! I got the radio!”

“Yeah.” Crowley is wheezing, curled up in the chair, the tea safely stashed on the nearest plant stand. “Good job, buddy, you got it.”

“Did you see him chase me into the pond? The cheek. I did mark off the ‘get the groundskeeper wet’ item though.” On-screen, the goose is wandering around, tinny music blasting from the radio. “Now if I could only find the blanket …” He looks happily surprised. “Aha, but he opened the garden gate!” The goose waddles toward the gate, when suddenly the groundskeeper appears from the garden, summoned by the siren song of his radio. “No! No, not again!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. The goose, once again, flees into the pond and under the bridge. “Give up already, you stupid man!”

“I’m dying,” Crowley gasps hoarsely in the background. “I’m actually dying.”

“Where’s the blanket?” Aziraphale is coming as close as he ever does to snarling. “I have never in all my years had to work this hard to have a picnic!”

Crowley is clutching his sides. “That makes one of us,” he manages, before lounging back in the chair and coughing, face aching from laughing. “Oh I’m gonna die.”

“When have you had to put in this much effort for a picnic?” Aziraphale grouses, before he brightens when he spots the plaid picnic blanket. “Ha! Got it!”

“Oh, I dunno, basically from ‘You go too fast for me’ until about three years ago.” Honk. The goose freezes because Aziraphale has whipped around in his chair, the better to glare at Crowley.

“Dear boy.”

“You asked,” he says, before he dissolves into giggles again. “Go on, you have to finish the picnic.”

Honk. “We’ll discuss this later.”

“I imagine we will.” Crowley lunges forward, taps a button on the keyboard, and leans in close to Aziraphale, smarmy grin plastered on his face. “Love you, you’re pretty.”

“There’s a microphone -”

“Muted it.”

“... You’re an absolute nightmare.”

“And you’ve got 600 people watching you pretend to be a goose.” He jerks his head toward the computer. “Game on, angel.” The button is tapped again, the microphone live again. “Sorry, technical difficulties, nothing to see here. How’s the picnic going?”

Gradually, the items for the picnic are assembled. Aziraphale, as the groundskeeper goes on chasing him, becomes more antagonistic. “I’m going to steal this crate just because I can.” He gasps. “A goose hole!”

“A goose hole!” Crowley wheezes behind him. “Yes, a goose hole! Get his keys and throw them in the pond!”

By the time the to-do list updates with ‘make the groundskeeper hit his thumb with a hammer’, Aziraphale has fully embraced his bastard side and is more than eager to honk with prejudice. The second phase of the game is worse: the shopkeeper that continuously chases him away with a broom becomes the fully-realized subject of his ire, and Aziraphale pursues her with all the determination of a spiteful avenging angel. When the challenge comes to lock her in the garage, he complies with gusto, even confining her beyond the required instance.

“You stay in there you hateful creature,” he grumbles, as the door once again comes down and entraps her. “Forever.”

“You bastard,” Crowley snickers in the background. “You’re brilliant.”

When he proceeds to the third portion of the game, he waddles straight into the meticulously-kept garden of the older gentleman reading his newspaper. Honk! “This is the next twenty minutes of your life, sir, dreadfully sorry, but I’m sure you’ll do something in the next fifteen seconds to absolve me of guilt.”

The man does not, truthfully, do anything to make Aziraphale feel less guilty about stealing his slippers, his hat, and the rest of his possessions, although the woman next door with the painting is annoying enough with her constant fence repairs that the angel is able to alleviate some of his guilt by mis-directing his frustration with her to the man. After he accomplishes the ‘do the washing’ task, the two of them watch in amused fascination as the man tries to throw the woman’s bra back over the fence and misses, repeatedly.

“I spent eight pounds on this game,” Crowley observes. His voice is barely-audible at this point, between the laughing and the occasional instructions to the angel. “What a spectacular physics engine.”

“Is that a lot for a game?”

“It is a criminally low amount to charge for this game.” The man again fails at throwing the bra at the fence. “Can you imagine if we walked outside one day and saw our neighbors doing this?” His eyes widen. “What if you could possess a goose and instigate all this in real life?”

“Can demons possess geese?” Aziraphale has moved on, and is dragging the woman’s duck statue away so that he can impersonate it and get dressed up with a ribbon.

“Nah. Geese are already demonic - too much evil for one soul, probably explode. Or become a Mega-Goose and destroy the world.” He looks thoughtful. “I hope demons can’t possess geese.”

“Mm.” The woman fastens the bow on his neck, and Aziraphale beams. Honk! The woman falls down. “Look how dapper he looks with the ribbon!” He flees, through the hole in the fence, and into the next zone. Crowley groans, nearly silently. He checks his watch.

“Angel, you’ve been going for three hours. You want to save this for later?” If Aziraphale hears him, he doesn’t acknowledge it, instead studying the to-do list.

“‘Make the old man fall on his bum’ … Mhmm. Let’s do that one first.”

“Oy.” Crowley slouches forward, his hands folded and resting on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You’ve been going three hours. You can call it and finish the game next stream, if you want.”

Aziraphale turns to him, brow furrowed, entirely incredulous. “Dear boy, you can’t possibly be serious. This town is absolutely discriminating against fine, upstanding geese -” Crowley lets his forehead fall onto Aziraphale’s shoulder, his own skinny shoulders once again shaking with laughter, “and I will not rest until I’ve put them all into their place.” Honk. “Now go get yourself some more tea, you sound dreadful.”

“Don’t break the computer.”

“I won’t.”

When the demon returns with a fresh mug, the typical honking of the goose has been replaced by a frantic off-key harmonica. “Serves you right for playing such an appalling instrument! Stop chasing me!” Crowley adds a slug of honey to the tea out of the plastic bear-shaped container, and relaxes back into his chair.

“What’re you doing now?”

“I’m going to make this man fall on his bum,” Aziraphale announces. “Hang on, wait for it …” The old man in the game starts to sit on the little stool, and Aziraphale directs the goose to snatch the seat out from under him. “Take that!” The character drops his harmonica too, and the goose snatches it up, waddling away and tooting through the infernal instrument relentlessly. “Mr. Fell strikes again!”

Crowley puts his face in his hand, although he is grinning from ear-to-ear. “You’re a madman. You’ve gone mad with power.”

“Goose power,” Aziraphale agrees. “Nearly god-like.”

Crowley winces. “Careful,” he rasps. “Not that I don’t love the hubris but … you know.”

“Tell me it’s not.” He drops a bucket onto another man’s head, and then cackles as the man falls into a full box of tomatoes. The back of his trousers are splattered with tomato. “He’ll never get that stain out. It’d take a miracle.” Crowley snorts.

The most thrilling part, by far, is probably supposed to be the end of the game. The stealthy lift of the beautiful golden bell, and the sneaking back to the goose’s den where the bell is to be deposited to join its fellows. Crowley imagines that if he were to be the one playing it, he would be sneaking through, crouching all the while, waiting around corners for people to be distracted before slinking by with the bell, careful not to make a sound.

But Crowley is not playing, and never before, he thinks, has the difference between a celestial soldier and an infernal demon of temptation and subtlety been so stark. Aziraphale seizes the bell, honks triumphantly, actually out loud with his mouth yells the word ‘Honk’, and takes off through the town. “The goose is loose, catch me if you can, suckers!” Crowley has just enough time to put his tea down on the plant stand before he is overcome with laughter once again, doubling over and spilling onto the floor. “It’s my bell now!”

He makes it all the way through the pub and into the garden of the poor neighbors before the first bell-theft occurs. The painter catches up to him as he drops the bell to destroy the desk, and Aziraphale squeaks in indignation. “No! No, I worked hard for that!” He tugs the bell back away from the painter, and makes a bid for the desk. She catches up to him.

“No! No, you won’t - just drop it, I’m taking it, you can’t stop me!” She snatches the bell again, and begins to walk away. “You’ll be the first to fall under my vengeance!” The goose waddles to the larger bell in the garden, and a resounding bong distracts the painter from her task. The goose, once again, grabs the bell from her hand and hurries over the desk, across the fence. “Hah! Thwarted!”

“You showed her,” Crowley wheezes from his place on the floor, where he has resolved himself to watching the finale upside-down. “Go, angel, go!”

“You’ll never take me alive!” His eyes widen. “Oh, no the shopkeeper. We’re going to have to get past the shopkeeper. She’s atrocious.”

“Just run?”

“She’s fast. She’s wily.” He frowns. “Oh, this part would be perfect for you, dear boy - I’m sure you’d slip past her without any trouble.”

“Oh, indubitably, but you’re the one playing. Just try sneaking.”

He tries to sneak. Probably. It’s a terrible attempt, and the shopkeeper is alerted to the goose with the golden bell soon enough, giving chase. Aziraphale flees, straight into a dead-end. “No! No, you abominable woman that’s mine, that’s -” Honkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonkhonk. The woman knocks the bell from the goose’s beak. “Assault! Thief! Stop!” Honkhonkhonkhonk. He nips the bell from her hands and runs. “Later loser!”

The groundskeeper, for all the consternation he caused early in the game, does not present much of a problem. Aziraphale darts past him, bell jangling, honking madly, and swims briskly across the pond to his base in the little glade. Proudly, honkhonkhonk, he proceeds to the gulley where a good five-plus bells are already deposited. He drops the bell. Crowley claps.

“Angel! You beat a video game!”

Aziraphale throws his hands up in victory. “I’m the greatest goose in the world!” He turns to Crowley, who also has thrown his hands in the air in celebration, and slaps him with a high-five hard enough to nearly dislocate the demon’s elbow. “The town surely has been taught the error of their ways.”

“Yep, you showed them. You’re a bloody menace.” The game tinkles out another piano riff, and they glance at the screen. “Oh, there’s more.”

“Is there?” But the angel is already studying the task list. “‘Make the boy fall into a puddle’ - oh, I’m certainly doing these.” Crowley has since slithered back up into his chair, and is sipping at his tea, the better to soothe his voice which, after the laughter Aziraphale induced with his bell escape, is essentially completely gone. Aziraphale pats him on the knee. “I’ll play off-stream, though, Cr - AJ. I wouldn’t want to steal your time.”

Crowley shakes his head, and points to the chat stream. Aziraphale looks, and then smiles. ‘No, on stream!’ seems to be the overwhelming sentiment, accompanied by various pictographs and variations on ‘Nooooo more Fell!! More Fell!’ “Oh, you’re all much too kind.” Hearts explode in the chat. “Oh, my.” He turns to Crowley the better to disguise the flush in his cheeks. “I suppose I did alright, then?”

Crowley nods, encouragingly, and then gestures to the computer. “Sign off and end the stream,” he whispers, with a heavy element of hissing. Aziraphale considers that if they hadn’t known each other for so long, he might not have understood him. Crowley waves a hand again, as if shooing Aziraphale toward the computer screen, and he turns back around, suddenly unsure of what to say in the face of the camera.

“Ah. Very well. I suppose that’s all for tonight. I … I’m afraid I don’t remember what you usually say at the end, dear.” He looks to Crowley, who shrugs. “I suppose I could make up my own. Ah …” He thinks about it, and then smiles, peaceful and content. “Thank you for staying, I hope you had a nice time. Be kind to one another.” He turns, nods to Crowley, and the demon nods back, leans forward, and taps the stream off.

“Did I do alright?” Aziraphale asks, as soon as the screen showing the viewers’ perspective goes dark. Behind him, Crowley tosses his sunglasses onto the plant stand next to his mug.

“You were perfect. Wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, it was … fun.” He looks toward the computer. “What nights do you usually do this?”

Crowley swallows, the better to make his voice at least somewhat audible. “Well, tomorrow’s one, typically. And I doubt I’ll be up to a full stream even in 24 hours …”

“Perfect. Back to Goose Town, then.”

“Back to Goose Town.” He grabs his mug off the plant stand, takes a slow, meditative drink, and watches Aziraphale for a minute, yellow eyes fixed on blue. “You can really be a bastard sometimes, you know it?”

“Yes, but as a goose I am absolved of my actions by virtue of being a goose. It’s just goose-driven mischief.”

“True.” Crowley sighs, and leans into the angel, eyes closing, at peace. “I still like it.”

“You would.” Aziraphale idly runs his fingers through the demon’s hair, and sighs as well, equally content. “So I’ll play again tomorrow. And then …?”

“Well, if you don’t finish, you can take another day, too.” He shrugs. “You want to do another one?”

Aziraphale considers it. “Are there … games for two people?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. Loads.” He coughs. “Bunch of ‘em.”

“Without a lot of murder?”

“Yep.” He is quiet for a long time, and Aziraphale thinks he must have fallen asleep like that, slouched up against Aziraphale’s shoulder, mug of tea nestled loosely between his knees. Aziraphale is considering how he will take him to bed; last time he tried to carry him in a bridal carry, and he tripped over the rug in the hall and dropped the demon, who promptly turned into a snake and hid under the couch for twelve hours. He figures he will start with the tea, and inches his hand toward the mug, before it spills. Unexpectedly, Crowley stirs, and takes another gulp of tea. “You think you might like a game about farming?”

“Farming?” He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. I’m sure if it’s with you, I’ll enjoy it.”

“Maybe we can do that one next, then.” He blinks his eyes open and yawns. “Long as you let me organize the greenhouse. You can have the galaxy sword.”

Aziraphale smiles softly. “Might not be a good idea. I don’t have a great track record with swords.”

“Hm. True.” He shrugs. “Figure it out when we get there, I suppose.”

#good omens #good omens fanfic #good omens fanfiction #in which crowley is a twitch streamer and aziraphale is a good sport #goose omens #mbmbam references #crowley #aziraphale #i wish i didn't enjoy fanfiction so much #untitled goose game

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your-worst-knightmare · 4 years

Text

Red: Pt. 10

Masterlist here

Jason’s whole morning was a mess of bleary-eyed madness. Louis had left the safehouse with Bizarro long before Alfred had arrived in a limo to pick Artemis and Jason up. Both of them didn’t have many belongings save for weapons, which Alfred insisted that they let him take care of.

“Master Jason, it’s wonderful you and Miss Artemis are able to visit this time of year. Your stay will be busy, I must warn you, but everyone will be there.”

“Wait, what’s happening?” Jason asked, trying to shake the weariness from his brain.

“Have you really forgotten, Master Jason? The annual Wayne charity gala is tomorrow.”

“Well it seems that you won’t have to call the rest of your family now,” Artemis remarked.

Jason could only slap his forehead. “Alf, i came for business, not to party. We’re all in danger. I mean, we don’t know for sure, but–”

“Then it seems suitable that you wait until at least the gala is over. Most of the family hasn’t arrived yet anyhow. Oh, and Miss Stephanie has arranged a shopping trip for the two of you. She assumes you both hadn’t brought adequate clothing in advance.”

“Aw, Alfred–” he was swiftly cut off by a jab to the side.

“Thank you Alfred. I’m sure Jason can enjoy some time with his family without any talk of business.” Artemis gave Jason a look, and he knew better than to oppose both her and Alfred.

The old man chuckled to himself as he pulled up to Wayne Manor. A full house was always nice, if not a bit of a handful. “I’m sure he can, Miss Artemis, I’m sure he can. Try to enjoy yourselves for a while. In the meantime, let me show you to your rooms.”

In short, Jason was not enjoying himself in the least. He was hungry and tired, and of course stupid Stephanie Brown made him go shopping. And Replacement would never let Damian hear the end of it if Jason dared complain. He would get his revenge. Somehow.

The one person Jason wouldn’t mind seeing wasn’t even in the city. Yeah, because Damian’s got friends now. Like Jason wasn’t the first friend Damian ever had. The little brat left him a note apologizing for his absence, but its formality only made Jason laugh. The kid should be with his friends, maybe learning how to talk like a normal ten-year-old.

Naturally, Steph wouldn’t make Damian go shopping. It was dreadful, with Steph practically hijacking Artemis and leaving Jason and Replacement (Tim) stranded in high end stores suspended in utter confusion. It wasn’t that Jason didn’t know how to shop, it was that stupid Brown wouldn’t let him touch anything without her approval of the item first. That left very few items in the store left for Jason to choose from.

It was simply maddening. Steph finally brought him a green suit and insisted that it was the one. “It’s viridian. It’s so in Jason,” he mocked when she asked to see it on him. He didn’t even get to see what she had gotten Artemis.

He didn’t have to try it on. And hallelujah, he got to go home. Much to nobody’s surprise, he didn’t get much rest when he got back to Wayne Manor either. Jason had scarcely returned to his room when he was tacked by a ten-year old whirlwind. Damian. The boy greeted him in the formal dialect of the League, a habit not yet broken. “Akhi! You came back!”

“Well that’s obvious, isn’t it? Woah, okay, let me breathe here Damian.” The boy obeyed and sat on the bed. He clearly wasn’t ready to leave anytime soon.

“Where have you been?” he asked, crossing his arms.” You haven't visited most– if any of your safehouses lately. I… I’ve been worried.”

Well the kid had changed then. Jason had to give the little prince some credit. The kid would never have said that in his right mind had he still been with the League.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to not even go on patrol? To not answer any messages? You practically disappeared, Todd.” Damian wasn’t buying it. One thing hadn’t changed, that was for sure. The prince would get the truth out of him one way or another. Honestly, Jason was a little (okay, maybe a lot) embarrassed to tell Damian that he’d been caught and in custody for two months. He hadn’t even tried, really tried to get out.

But, Jason figured it was better to be up front. Especially with a family of detectives with a notorious history of using secrets as blackmail.

Damian only scoffed in response.” Tt’. Really, akhi? You’re getting soft.”

“Speak for yourself, brat. Now let me sleep. I’m tired.” He flopped onto the bed, with no regard for the assassin prince still sitting there.

Instead of leaving, Damian snuggled up into the crook of Jason’s arm and soon fell asleep listening to the rhythmic beating of his brother’s heart.

Jason’s next interruption (named Artemis) came too early into the next morning. Damian was still where he had fallen asleep, dozing softly. At the sound of a knock, Jason regrettably blinked himself awake. “Come in,” he yawned.

“I see you’ve been able to rest. I was going to ask if you wanted to come train with me.” Artemis raised an eyebrow at the scene. “ It seems that you can tolerate at least one of your brothers' presence.”

“It’s a love-hate relationship.”

The Amazon snorted. “So are you going to take me up on my offer or not?”

“Yeah, I’m coming Red.” He carefully shifted Damian off of himself. Thankfully, the kid’s eyes remained closed. “Wait, before you go can you help me with my shoulder?”

“Are you not capable?” she asked, nevertheless sitting down beside him. Jason pulled off his shirt to let her inspect the wound. Most of his torso was covered in bandages as well as his shoulder. Peeling them back to see how the wound healed was a tedious task. Enhanced healing made it even more annoying on account of never knowing what to expect.

“Ow. Easy, Arty.”

“ Oh, be quiet. You should be fine by tomorrow. Just keep the gauze on for compression,” Artemis said, starting to re-wrap the bandages.

Jason closed his eyes with a small sigh, glad to sit there and do nothing. Relaxing was a weird way to put it, but he couldn’t find any other way to describe it. The tips of her hair brushed his face, surrounding him the scent of her shampoo. For the first time in months, he felt… calm.

“I assume you’ll be able to take care of yourself from here. Meet me downstairs in five.”

“Thanks Princess!” he called after her.

As soon as Artemis left, Damian’s eyes flew open. Jason groaned.”You’ve been awake this whole time?”

Damian nodded, grinning devilishly. “You’re getting soft akhi,” he piped, poking his brother in the ribs.

“And I’m going to kill you if another word comes out of your mouth.” Jason pulled on some suitable clothes for training and shooed Damian out before going to join Artemis.

Surprisingly, the training room was empty. That was especially unusual for this time in the morning with the Bats. Then Jason realized that everyone was probably helping out Alfred downstairs for that night. Not that training was easy work either. But he’d go help after.

“Took you long enough.” Artemis said, smirking. “Warm up and then we spar.”

She was going to kick his butt. He knew it. But he wasn’t going to argue. “Yes ma'am.”

Jason had half a mind to say that being an Amazon was plain cheating. Yeah, he held his own, but barely. The strength of the Lazarus wasn’t always on his side. Then again, Jason didn’t always have the privilege of fighting people his own size.

“Another round?”” Artemis asked, helping him up from the floor.

“Yeah, give me a sec,” he huffed, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirt. “Next round, I pick the weapon though.”

By the time Artemis was satisfied with the amount of training done, Jason felt like he was going to drop dead on the spot. Which–in a weird way– reminded him of how much he’d missed training with her. She didn’t let anyone get away with slacking off. Neither did Alfred, for that matter, which was why Jason needed to hurry up in the showers or else face the wrath of an all-powerful butler. A butler much too tired to deal with any kind of nonsense.

The evening came faster than Jason had anticipated. He examined his appearance in the mirror, doing his best at looking presentable. At first, he hadn’t been sure of Steph’s choice of colour, but he was surprised to say that he actually looked… good? Fingering the cuffs of his jacket, he eyed the ‘finishing touch’ that Bruce insisted he wear. A Rolex– one that Bruce had originally got Jason for his sixteenth birthday. He’d never gotten to wear it. Death tended to preoccupy a person.

After staring at the timepiece for at least five minutes, he finally made the decision to put it on. He headed downstairs, where a few of Bruce’s close friends as well as the boys were already present. The girls were soon to arrive, fashionably late, as Alfred had put it.

As if on cue, the doors to the hall were thrown open (a bit dramatically if Jason had anything to say about it). And Jason stopped. Wow. The girls all looked supermodel gorgeous. And Artemis– Just woah.

Her dress was clearly made to match his own outfit. Steph had clearly outdone herself there. It was green, high-necked and sleeveless, which flowed elegantly to her shins. Her red hair was pulled back, keeping the delicate curls out of her face and making the designs etched into her side-shave all the more striking. A gold armband circled her bicep, emphasizing her muscular physique.

“Good evening, Jason,” she said coolly, practically gliding across the floor.”Tell me, when did you decide to fulfill your dreams of being a statue?”

“This? Oh, this is a technique used to evade the reporters. You should try it sometime. Works wonders.”

The Amazon’s lips curled upward in amusement. “I see.” She reached across the table to steal an untouched patry from Jason’s plate.

“Hey! I was going to eat that.”

“It can’t possibly be that hard to get another,” she said, taking a bite. “Besides, you weren’t eating it.”

He gave her a look. Artemis shrugged, mouth full. “Ah, it’s fine. I’ll steal another one from the kitchen. Bruce wants us there for a briefing anyway.”

“Briefing?”

“Yeah, so the press doesn’t find anything fishy with us.” It sounded like a weird thing to do, but even when he was a kid, Jason had pre-gala briefings. What to say to the reporters, how to act (well mostly) what impression to give off. There was a whole science to it. Alfred didn’t teach the Bats drama in vain.

The kitchen, which seemed colossal while empty, slowly shrank as more and more people shuffled inside. Bruce quizzed each of them of their roles, and things they were not to do. Jason, for example, was not to get drunk and cuss out the press. Much to his own chagrin, Jason was expected to actually talk to some of the guests, and give off a good impression.

“Remember, you are all representing the Wayne name, even if you don’t bear it. Please act accordingly.”

On the bright side, Jason was able to sneak another pastry out. Man, he’d missed Alfred’s cooking. For all of his redeemable traits, Louis hadn’t been the best chef. It was a step up from the cooking at the correctional facility, but Alfred’s skillset was simply legendary.

The flash of cameras and clamouring reporters soon arrived to the manor. Limos that looked long enough to fit thirty people pulled up one after the other. He remembered watching them as a kid, in awe of the lavish use of their money. He remembered smiling so much at the cameras that his cheeks hurt. He remembered eating so much food that he felt sick afterwards- thereafter getting to wait the rest of the party out in his room. There was something satisfying about knowing there was a party downstairs and choosing not to be a part of it.

Jason was relieved once the guests settled into the hall and calmed down. Because he spent so little time with his own family, he felt like more of a guest himself. His brothers were busy talking to the elite, making small talk about whatever rich people were interested in. Artemis didn’t have much care to mingle, which was a small comfort to Jason. At least he could talk to her and not seem like a total loner.

“Bruce said I have to talk to some people this time.”

“Do you really plan to?”

“Well I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Oh quit your blather Jason. What’s on your mind?”

He leaned an arm on the table, sighing. There were so many things. Coming back to Wayne Manor made him enough of a trainwreck as it was. Add onto that the threat of lurking Owls and the thought of Biz and Louis by themselves didn’t help. And the gala? All of that was the perfect recipe for something to go wrong. Artemis was the one thing that kept him from losing his mind. Well, partially.

“So many things Arty. Everything just piles up, you know?” She nodded solemnly, silently telling him to continue. “And I just…” he stopped, shaking his head, his entire vocabulary ceasing to exist.

She took his hand and looked him in the eye. “I know. It really does happen at the worst times. Family is a difficult thing, Jason, but it’s better to keep them in your life, despite how much you may want to drop-kick some of them off a roof.”

He laughed dryly. “How are you so perfect with everything Princess?”

“Perfect? I’m far from it. But you may keep believing that if you like,” she smiled.

Oh, he was so glad she was back. Her presence alone was strangely soothing. She could say nothing and deliver a whole conversation. He hoped she understood his mess of a mind. Words alone couldn’t convey his thoughts. Life was hard, feelings more so. He’d have to unwind all of that later. Public settings weren’t the place to get emotional.

“How do you think Biz and Louis are doing?” Jason asked, taking a sip of whatever carbonated drink the waiter had given him.

“I’m sure they’re getting along. Louis seems likable enough.”

“I thought you two didn’t get along?”

“Yes, we may not see eye to eye, but I know a sincere man when I see one. He’s dedicated to doing right, and I respect that.”

Jason gave her a small round of applause, making the Amazon roll her eyes. “So glad to see my favorite people getting along.” He raised his glass. “To the reunion of the Outlaws, and you being friendly,”Jason toasted and drained the rest of his drink without another word. Artemis gave him an exasperated look before following suit.

Tipping his glass to the light, he could’ve sworn he saw something. Was that… an owl? There was too much evidence of the Court following them for it not to be. What did they put in his drink? Upon placing the glass down, he nudged Artemis, motioning to his drink. Thankfully, she got his message.

She swirled her own glass around in her hand, watching the last sips slosh around. Finally, she set it on the table. “We really must ask the waiter what mystery drink he is giving out. I simply must have some more,” Artemis said, throwing a little too much enthusiasm into her last sentence.

The guests started to file to the middle of the hall. What the elite of Gotham had with waltzes, Jason would never know. But it seemed like a good way to pass information around the room discreetly. Jason got up, offering a hand to Artemis. “A dance, m’lady?”

“Sounds wonderful.” The pair glided across the floor, Jason grateful for Alfred’s training in this type of thing. He leaned close to Artemis’ ear, scarcely daring to whisper. “We need to tell someone they’re here.”

“We’ll split up,” she breathed. “Find Barbara. I’ll find Dick.”

“‘Kay.”

Jason was just about to hand her off to another partner when Artemis winced. “You okay?”

“Yes, it’s just… my head.” She brought a hand to her temple, grimacing. “I’ve got to go.”

Jason nodded. He could tell Dick himself. “Go on, I’ll meet you later.” He saw her off, and sat down in the corner, trying to locate Dick. He managed to catch his attention, only– his head started to pound too.

“You okay, Jay? You look terrible.”

Jason sucked in a breath. “Some’n messed with–” his tongue felt like lead. Nope nope nope. He needed to leave. “–drink.” he managed, dashing out the door and to the nearest washroom.

#rhato #red hood #jason todd #artemis grace #batfam #rhato 2016 #fanfic #Red:pt10

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