Do you ever think about how crazy it is that we’re only 18?“
Shawn was running his callused finger tip up and down my arm as we laid in bed, wearing only our underwear and laying above the sheets in the blue darkness. I was laying just under his arm, avoiding contact with him because of the heat but wanting to stay as close as I could. His finger on my arm was the only place our skin met. I looked up to him with his words, then back to the ceiling fan whirring in nearly invisible circles.
"What do you mean?” I asked, wanting to hear his thoughts. Shawn paused.
“I don’t know. Besides you, I’m surrounded by people older than me, you know? I just feel like a baby sometimes.” He said softly. I spent a minute to take in what he was saying.
“I know what you mean. We’re only 18, out of- what, probably 85 years? That’s barely any time at all. There’s so much left.” I replied.
“But at the same time, around Aaliyah, I feel so old, you know? Thinking back to when I was her age feels like forever ago. I used to think 18 year olds had everything figured out, their whole lives. They were grown-ups to me.” Shawn said, “And now I’m 18, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve got a steady career, but it’s a crazy career, you know? It’s unreliable. Pop singers don’t stay successful forever. They fade and then pop up again in twenty years on Oprah’s ‘Where are They Now’… I don’t even know if I want all of this forever anyway. I mean- I love it and I don’t want to seem ungrateful, and I’ll definitely be playing music all my life, but… I don’t know.”
“I understand, Shawn. I know what you mean.” I replied. Shawn shifted and turned on his side to face me.
“You do? You don’t think I’m being ungrateful?” He asked. I smiled and turned to face him, too.
“You’re not ungrateful, Shawn. You’re human, and you worry about things from time to time.” I said honestly. Shawn chewed his lip.
“I don’t like having such an uncertain future. Popular music could shift like the wind, and maybe everyone will just dump me, you know? I’ll be out of work.” He said. I ran my thumb across his bottom lip.
“Shawn, your fans adore you. And I understand where you’re coming from. Popular music used to be the Beatles or Elvis and now it’s so different. But that took 40 years to change, Shawn. And Paul McCartney is still working and people still love him, right?” Shawn nodded faintly. “I know in my heart that wherever life takes you, you will be successful. I know it.” I insisted. Shawn closed his eyes briefly.
“My parents were 26 when they got married.” He said, changing the topic. “That’s so young. But at the same time, 26 is so far away, you know? If 26 is young, then being 18 is even younger.” He said, his eyes slowly studying every inch of my face as I watched his eyes. “And I know that we’re going to get married. Undoubtedly. I know that if you let me, I will love you for the rest of my life. But we’re only 18. I feel like I have feelings for you that 18 year olds are too young to have, you know?” I closed my eyes for a moment as my chest swelled. I loved this boy.
“I do know, Shawn.” I told him sincerely. The flicker of a smile crossed his face.
“But what if I’m wrong, and we’re just kids in love?” He asked nervously searching my eyes. I smiled and kissed him.
“Shawn, if we’re just kids in love, then I don’t ever want to grow up. I’m so deeply and wholeheartedly wrapped in love for you.” I told him once we parted. Shawn smiled, keeping his eyes closed.
Buttery sunlight filtered in from the windows of Pan’s treehouse, and you ignored the stirring of his body behind you in bed. He nudged you, urging you to awaken.
“(Y/N),” he cooed. You simply nestled your head into the pillow as you lay swaddled in stolen blankets. He chuckled, softly shaking you again. “(Y/N),” he tried again.
“Piss off,” you grumbled, and Pan laughed softly at that, a smirk slowly forming on his lips. If only you had been able to see the sly thoughts running through his head. Maybe then you would have been saved from what was to come next.
“One more shot, (Y/N),” he warned, and you didn’t care. You simply let yourself bask in the bliss between sleep and consciousness. When you didn’t stir, the boy sighed, and continued on to do what had to be done. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” he said, and his hand came over your sleeping form, fingers splayed like a spider.
The spider attacked.
“Peter!” You shrieked at the violation, as his hands ran up and down your body, fingers tickling each and every spot they could reach. “S-stop! N-no more!” You were wide awake now, laughing uncontrollably as Pan continued his assault, one of his hands discovering a particularly ticklish spot and honing in on that area. “Please! P-please! I’m up! I’M UP!” The giggles continued, and you were losing breath. Thankfully, he halted his motions, and your giggles took their time subsiding as your chest heaved, lungs swallowing sweet air. Peter smiled devilishly down at you, and you promised yourself you’d kick his ass later for this. Maybe even give him a taste of his own medicine.
“Perhaps you’ll think next time before ignoring me,” Peter laughed, and you stuck your tongue out at him. He raised his hand menacingly as he wiggled his fingers, and your eyes widened at the implication. You sat up in the bed, and he chuckled again. “Good morning,” he cooed, and you pursed your lips at him. He swiftly pecked your lips, and he was immediately forgiven.
We'll See About That (Warren Worthington III x Reader)
You woke up to bright beams of sunlight seeping through the blinds & angry grumbles coming from the large, warm body beside you. His curls brushed against your chin as he moved, his head pressing into your collarbone. His wings were splayed out lazily over 75% of the bed, still hanging off the edge greatly as well. You were quite literally shoved to the edge, & one small move would send you falling straight onto the cold ground below.
You slowly let your eyes open all the way, peering around the room before they settled onto the man on top of you, who was still grumbling, “Warren? What’s wrong?”
He sighed, his nostrils flaring a bit & his eyes closing as he gravely whispered, “I hate mornings.”
You laughed into his messy, blonde halo of curls, “Well, maybe I can change that,” you gently ran your hand that was already wrapped around him up & down his back, letting your nails drag across his skin every other stroke. He instantly relaxed, his warm body practically melting into you. You smiled against his hair & continued to rub his back in slow, soothing motions.
His skin was incredibly hot, scars scattered along his back from the many fights he had been a part of. When you found him, he had reached his breaking point, having injured one of his beautiful wings in a fight. You remembered how angry he was when you first met, how he hated you because all you did was care about him when he didn’t deserve it, & how he refused to let you in & see the real Warren underneath all the black leather, wings, & scars.
You couldn’t help but smile, relishing in how far the both of you had come since then. Both of you had your own fair share of baggage, but you managed to help each other carry your loads. The baggage may never truly be gone, especially not Warren’s, but with each other, you’d both be able to manage, & maybe some day, even live happily, with few interferences from your pasts.
“Warren,” you called softly, but he didn’t respond. You smiled when you heard his soft snores, his body completely & utterly relaxed above you. You cautiously slid out from underneath him, careful not to wake him, & pulled the blanket upto his chest, giving his forehead a soft & faint kiss.
Padding quietly down the hall & into the kitchen, you poured yourself a glass of water & scoured the fridge hungrily. There wasn’t much food left, even though you had just went to the store a few days ago. Warren ate a lot, needing a ton of energy in order to fly & keep his healing factor was upto par. Warren despised to shop for food; however, because he hated the attention brought to him. You knew how uncomfortable it was for him, but sometimes, you wished you could do more domestic things with him, to hep remind him that he’s still human & doesn’t need to hide himself away from the world because of his wings.
You settled on an omelette & grabbed the few remaining eggs & whatever vegetables were available. Warren loved omelettes, especially the way you made them. Back when he was fighting, he never had good food, but he also didn’t have any eggs whatsoever. When he had one of your omelletes for the first time, it was as if a part of him he had lost when he began fighting came back, an innocent, soft side of him that he had entirely forgot about. Since then, you made him omelettes quite often, even though he hated when you cooked for him. He didn’t like having you do anything for him, but for some reason, he especially disliked you cooking for him. Regardless, you woke up before him regularly, so you tended to make him breakfast a lot, which he always grumbled about, but was incredibly thankful for. Although he would never admit it, it was nice to be taken care of sometimes & he loved how you took care of him.
When you finished his omelette, you set it on the counter for him as you devoured your own. It wasn’t long after you finished yours that a very tired & beautiful Warren came into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes & yawning, “Morning.”
You smiled at him, “Morning, Sleepyhead,” he snorted softly at the childish nom de plume & sat down on the counter, resting his face in his hands tiredly. As soon as he smelled the omelette, his eyes shot open & he instantly woke up, eager to devour his breakfast. You laughed at his excited expression as he happily ate, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you love omelettes more than me.”
“You’re a close second,” he teased with a wink, finishing his breakfast. You rolled your eyes as he set his dishes in the sink, rinsing them quickly before he turned back to you. He engulfed you in his large arms & warmth, squeezing you to his chest, “You’re an egg-cellent cook,” he whisperef huskily into your ear.
You laughed, “I think you’ve been hanging around Peter too much.”
He pressed a kiss to your neck, “You’re right; I’ve cleary been neglecting you, if you think you can get away with your sharp tongue,” he breathed, his hot breath fanning onto your throat & making you shiver.
“Oh,” you said simply, your breaths uneven.
He smirked, “Why don’t I take you upstairs & spoil you?”
You swallowed, “Alright,” you leaned into his ear, “but if it’s not as egg-cellent as my cooking, I’m making you go grocery shopping with me later.”
He laughed, picking you up by your thighs & gripping them harshly from underneath as he pressed you flush against him, “We’ll see about that.”
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.
With his head bent over the smooth comforter on his bed and tears slipping down his cheeks, Eric prayed. His hands were clasped so tight that his knuckles had whitened, and no matter how hard he tried to stop it they shook. “..so please, God, if you’re out there, please help me. Tell me what I did to deserve losing your love. Tell me why I’m made broken and unclean. Please, help me.”
***Christmas Eve 2010***
After the third question about a nonexistent girlfriend from his uncle, (“There isn’t one from your little figure skating group? Have you even looked for one?” “No, Uncle Billy, I was focusin’ more on winning.” An answer he hoped his uncle would be happy with.) Eric excused himself to the bathroom, locking the door behind himself and sliding down against it, head in his hands. He sniffled and rubbed vigorously at his face, pushing away the tears that came to his eyes. No, uncle, I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m not looking for one either, and not because I’m trying too hard to win. Uncle Billy, Mama, Coach, everyone else, I don’t want a girlfriend. I’m gay.
He wished he’d had the courage to say that to his family, he wished he could have ended all the questions right then and there, but no. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even say it to himself. He couldn’t accept it.
Eric pulled himself up from the ground and braced himself against the counter, staring at himself in the mirror. His red rimmed eyes glimmered with tears and his hair looked like he’d just gotten out of bed, a stark contrast with the combed back look he’d achieved before the Christmas Eve celebration had begun.
“I, I’m- I like, good lord, Eric, if you can’t even say it to yourself you could never hope to tell your family,” Eric whispered harshly to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “Eric Richard Bittle, you are… broken. You’re broken, aren’t you?” He sighed, quietly bringing a fist down on the bathroom counter.