#[ answered asks — he’ll scalp me alive if i tell you more. ]

[backandimbamon]

Bonnie playing with Damon's hair and he all sleepy 😊

this really took a while because… i was going to stop at the first half but i wanted to consider Bonnie’s perspective (: and then it got a lil spicy and i was like *sigh* why must you always take it there? but i mean- 👁- i always take it there because we were robbed!!! Damon is practically a self proclaimed sex god and i hate how they separated Bonnie from her sexuality, or really any form of intimacy for sooo long. and the scraps we got were NEVER enough. okay anyways yeah i’m finally done, like let’s get into it.

Damon notices that Bonnie touches him sparingly and really not because she wants to but because it happens accidentally every now and then, one of the perks about frequently invading her space.

Being stuck on the other side, there is less room for her and more for him, she’s in his world now which means it’s his duty to make her feel as uncomfortably comfortable as possible.

He notices everything; how her cheeks turn red when their knuckles brush against one another’s, how she takes in an exasperated little breath when their shoulders touch, how she rolls her eyes when he stands entirely too close. Damon hangs on to these moments because this may be his only form of female contact he’ll receive for a very, very, long time.

That is the only reason he hangs on.

Anytime she touches him intentionally, he feels a pride swell deep in his chest that he’s liked by Bonnie after a rocky road of ups and downs, fussing and fighting, he is finally deemed worthy enough for her to care about him even if it’s brief, even if it’s the smallest skin to skin contact imaginable.

And yes, he cares because if he has to spend the rest of eternity with one person, they might as well get along.

Movie night comes around so he rests his head in her lap, testing the waters, to see how she will respond to him. He senses her tense up a bit as predicted, but then she relaxes into it breath by breath like she’s doing a tricky yoga pose.

Bonnie’s body lotion makes her skin smell edible- cocoa and honey- she’ll never know but that’s why he nicknames her Bon Bon, she always smells good enough to eat. At this point, Damon can’t recall the VHS movie on the block of a television, his focus has been robbed by Bonnie and this new form of contact she allows him to try. Half of his smile sinks into the cotton of her leggings.

Her eyes never leave the screen when she laces her fingers through his hair, nails surfing through tufts of raven-black and the gesture is so shocking and embarrassingly arousing that a strangled groan gets trapped in his throat.

She panics, and he can tell by the change in her heart rate before saying. “Did I hurt you?” He has to clear his throat to speak.

“Hmmm mm, feels good,” he mumbles feigning casual so she can’t realize how he needs this so so bad that he’s fearful of it being taken away. In his mind he thinks about what if.

What if she wakes up and decides she doesn’t want to tap dance on the line between what is and isn’t acceptable for two best friends. What if she remembers that he’s actually a terrible person who has done horrendous things to her and everyone she’s ever loved.

She shouldn’t like him or try not to laugh at his jokes. Not at all. Bonnie should’ve killed him a long, long time ago because if anyone could do it, it’d be her. He can see her now, all badass and angry with a wooden stake in her hand, vengeance in her eyes, the very last thing he’d see before his lights went out forever.

Bonnie, the giver and the taker.

Bonnie, the only god he knew.

Damon finds himself thinking so intensely lately that he checks the mirror more often than not to make sure he has no brooding lines like his little brother. Stefan’s expansive forehead has the room for it, his perfectly shaped forehead does not.

She laces her fingers back through his hair again and his eyes flutter, that’s how good it feels. It’s sensational. And while he’s had his hair pulled in and out of the bedroom, the innocence of her touch makes him want to melt. He finds his lids growing heavier, like how they used to do a century-and-a-half ago when he was human.

Running through dandelion fields in the overbearing Virginia heat, the sun up above sending heavy gusts of sunshine beams, a moment he considers to be oppressive now, used to be magical then- miraculous -and despite sweating through his britches and overcoat he never cared enough to stop running through the fields. The sun was the greatest thing all those years ago, back when white was his favorite color.

And after drawing a long, hot bath, he’d sink deep into the water while the bubbles floated to the top. Damon would close his eyes, hold his breath, see if he could break his prior record. Then he’d get out and the sleep would welcome him like any drowsy being, with open arms. And there he’d fall.

Bonnie has that affect on him. She makes him think of home, his past, when times were simpler and he was human.

He feels that exhausted sometimes, a boy who’s never stopped running through dandelion fields, whether it snows or rains or burns him alive. Her fingernails rake through his scalp- orange leaves on browning grass. Ruining Stefan’s piles for the fun of it. His lids droop. Tired of being consumed by himself, by Bonnie, he admits defeat this time. When he finally drifts off, he remembers that the Virginia heat gave him this same warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

“You really don’t know how good this feels,” his final words are hoarse before he drifts off but the last thing he sees is Bonnie.

The giver and the taker, the only god he knows.

.

Bonnie refuses to relish in the magic of the moment, the fact that it’s so rare Damon ever completely lets his guard down around her. She can always feel his eyes on her, constantly watching because Damon has a presence that’s inescapable.

Being so close to him when he’s extremely vulnerable makes her realize that in all facets, he’s stunning. A stunning that’s almost suffocating but with the dynamic they possess, he only needs to know that he’s not that much of an eye sore.

Now, she stares with wide eyes while she can, memorizes the smooth expanse of skin, every strand of dark hair. Relishes in the feel of his arms around her waist, the weight of his head in her lap. It’s been a long time since she’s felt a body besides her own and as much as she likes to ignore the fact, she has needs, needs that have swelled from being in the presence of Damon for too long.

He’s sexy without any effort, she examines. His dark t-shirt has risen and his pants are low enough that she observes the waistline of (silk?) boxers, taut muscle, navel, happy trail, yeah. Bonnie drinks him in like a cool glass of milk before bedtime- never has this much pretty been in her lap before. Her hands find their way in his head again, tousles through and he nuzzles up against her in his sleep. It’s difficult to pull her eyes away from him, but when she does, the credits are rolling on the screen.

This is Damon she’s thinking about like this, her best friend and also her first best friend’s boyfriend. She repeats it again, not satisfied that the guilt isn’t drowning her like it sometimes does when she catches herself lingering on his attractiveness for too long but Mystic Falls, the real Mystic Falls seems so far away. Elena, Caroline, Matt, Alaric, her old life just seems unattainable, no bigger than a memory she occasionally mistakes for a bad dream.

There’s no denying that being away from it all, here with Damon as the only other person in the world, she feels…safe. Maybe even protected, it’s a stark contrast from the real Mystic Falls where her life is always on the line.

Bonnie starts to get up when she feels his hold on her tighten to prevent her from moving away. They play tug of war for a bit but she eventually stops fighting because Damon is a vampire after all, physical strength is going to get her nowhere. “Fine,” she grumbles, then plops down which causes the end of her top to ride up enough that she can feel the press of Damon’s nose on the curve of her waist. Despite trying to inch her shirt back down, she has no luck. Naturally Damon doesn’t mind.

He inhales her skin deeply, makes a sound of approval before groggily muttering, “Going topless now, are we Judgey?”

She grabs his hair again, yanks his head back as a rebuttal, and Damon bites his tongue so hard that it bleeds. He has to ensure that all of the blood in his body isn’t rushing south too fast but unfortunately, he would have to sever both his arms completely off to stop the blood flow.

Bonnie realizes the dazed look in his eyes isn’t one of pain nor is it from sleep, “Not the reaction you expected, huh?” He asks, gesturing for her to look down but she doesn’t, she can’t. She’s embarrassed, and to make matters worse, a teensy bit turned on.

“You scared, Bon Bon? I thought you were big and bad,” Damon mocks, pulling between his legs to make more room in his jeans, “it’s okay. I know Jeremy left much to be desired.” He sits up with swirls of longing still in his eyes, then grabs a pillow to place in his lap.

“Scared?” She guffaws. “Of what exactly?”

“Me…You.”

“And that means?”

“You’re a smart girl, Bon, figure it out.” Damon taunts, holding her eyes with his. “It’s awfully lonely here.”

She says nothing for a while, refusing to break eye contact first. “So.”

“Soooo, I won’t tell if you won’t.” It’s almost a joke, almost because she has a feeling if she says yes to whatever sort of ambiguous proposal he’s thrown up in the air, there won’t be any laughter. If she says no, it’s no different from his usual innuendos but boy, will she wonder.

“Wanna take a walk on the wild side?” He asks in a singsong tone, eyes dropping to her lips then back up to her eyes.

There are no alarms, no cell phones, no one here that can interrupt this moment. She has to answer, though she has no idea what will come out of her mouth. Bonnie shuts her eyes to make the moment less real, as if it will change the fact that she whispers, “Just one kiss,”

They’re nose to nose when Damon whispers back, “a peck.”

She swallows his breath. “Mhmm,”

“It’s nothing,”

“Nothing.”

“As light as air,” he presses his lips to hers for a brief moment then pulls back again. “See.” He peppers more kisses on her lips, down her jaw, the side of her neck, but they’re heavier. They have a density now. His tongue is on the flesh of her shoulder, teasing up her neck. She feels the light imprint of sharp canines, arousal surges through her like a power circuit, so intense that she moans. When he makes his way back up, their mouths both open in a feral kiss that robs them of air.

Bonnie holds his face in place though he makes no attempt to move away. The pillow falls out from between them when he grabs Bonnie’s leg to straddle him.

It’s nothing.

Nothing separating them from attacking each other’s mouths, nothing stopping Damon from gripping his best friend’s hips, nothing saving Bonnie from discarding his shirt.

His skin is cool enough that she can stream together some thought in between relentless kisses. “Damon,” she tries her best to sound admonishing.

“Please, not right now.” Damon cuffs both her wrists behind her with one hand and plants a hickey just above her cleavage. She sees stars. He already knows what the inflection in her voice means- the timing couldn’t be worse.“Let’s save the guilt for tomorrow morning.” His tone is octaves lower, almost as low as his lids. He drags his eyes up to hers, and they’re so shiny she can see her reflection. “I need this, Bonnie. Don’t you?”

He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just continues on with his ministrations, hypnotized by the pheromones seeping off of her in waves, wanting to memorize the scent with his tongue. She whines his name, like actually whines his name, and the feeling that sits in the pit of his stomach scares him. Bonnie is so oblivious to the appeal she carries but if she sat in his skin for a day, hell, for a moment, she would realize just how long she’s been driving him insane.

“We can’t,” she groans weakly. “We can’t.”

Damon tries to breathe easier, but that feeling is lurking in his gut. She’s right. The things he’d do to her, he’d break her in half. He removes Bonnie from his lap, separates from her warmth, her scent. Backs away until the tv threatens to fall off the stand. Everything in him tells him to go back, to reenter the magnetic pull, to poke at her forcefield.

He backs away even further if possible. Her breath catches at the distance.

Bonnie’s cheeks are flushed, warm and red like fruit. If she was an apple, she would have already been eaten down to the core. If she was a peach, it would be easier to explain why he ate her. He thinks to himself that he’s officially off the rails, comparing Bonnie to fruit like he is, but he’s trying to rationalize his irrationality. Because if Bonnie never stopped him, he’d definitely be eating something by now.

“Nothing happened.” She says, ignoring his expression and the silent plea in his eyes.

“Nothing.” He deadpans, throwing his shirt back over his head.

Damon thinks of how different things would be if he had his way. Bonnie, spent, drunk, high off of him. Bleeding and wild, pretty and dangerous, yelling for God. He would plunge Jeremy right out of her, help her find her magic again. Give her everything she could dream of. He gulps.

She doesn’t sleep with him tonight, not in the same bed. She’s on the opposite end of the boarding house when he hears her slide under the covers.

The next morning, he thinks to himself, if she even utters a word about last night, he’ll pick up from where he left off. But she doesn’t, her eyes are far away again, and the only proof he has of their adventures is the wonderful, purple hickey.

When movie night comes back around, his head is in her lap and her hand is back in his hair, running to and fro like him in his lavender fields.

That’s all he gets.

Every now and then, it’s enough.

Bonnie gives and takes, then takes away some more.

She’s the closest thing to God he’ll probably ever know.

[winterscaptain]

ready for bear.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: part iii to derek! i hope it has lived up to your expectations :) we will continue with the season 11 arc with the adjusted timeline! 

words: 2.8k content advisories:  language, pregnancy, canon-typical discussions of violence, death, and torture, food mention

summary: “what is that you express in your eyes? it seems to me more than all the print i have read in my life.” ― walt whitman. october 18-20, 2015.

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next?

You and Savannah wait outside the bullpen, huddled together. You’ve got a coat of Aaron’s draped over your shoulders and Savannah has one of Derek’s academy hoodies on over her sweater. 

Penelope totters out of the dungeon and joins you. Savannah takes her under her arm and Penelope returns the embrace, reaching past Savannah’s waist to hold on to your coat sleeve. 

The innocuous ding of the elevator feels at odds with the extraordinarily loud emotions running from your scalp to your toes. 

Aaron steps out first, still in his tactical blacks. His hair is mussed from his ear protection and his flight gloves are shoved in his front pocket. 

You’re so relieved you can hardly move. Savannah, on the other hand, throws herself forward and Aaron catches her easily, holding her close. You can hear her professions of thanks, almost like a chanted prayer. 

He looks over her head and meets your eyes. It hits you a little and you realize you’ve forgotten to breathe. With a little gasp, slow, hot tears spring into your eyes, but Aaron holds steady. 

After what feels like a long time, he breaks your gaze and takes stock of Savannah, ducking his head down to meet her eyes. He tells her that Derek’s in bad shape, but alive. He assigns Spencer and Penelope to keep her company on the way to the hospital, and two additional agents for their protection. 

As soon as Savannah is out of arm's reach, Aaron takes three massive steps toward you and takes you in his arms. He smells like jet fuel and leather and something that reminds you of nighttime. 

“How bad?” 

You can feel him swallow, taking a breath. “He coded in the ambulance, but he made it to surgery.” 

“Where is he?” 

“Walter Reed. He’s in good hands.” Aaron leans back, his hands resting briefly on your shoulders before cupping your face. His eyes roam freely, almost hungry, as they take you in. You know it’s mostly relief and panic at war. He’s just happy to see you in one piece, even though you didn’t go anywhere at all. 

It’s kind of a wonder, really, that your separation anxiety isn’t worse given everything you’ve been through. 

You place your hands on his wrists, your thumbs running over the back of his knuckles. There must be something on your face that asks a question. 

Aaron, as always, answers. “We’re gonna be fine.” 

+++

Emily practically forced you and Aaron home after the ordeal, but you’re eager to see Derek and confirm he’s in one piece. It’s all Aaron can do to wrestle you into your pajamas and tuck you into bed. You suddenly have more sympathy for Jack’s resistance at bedtime. 

“He’ll be there in the morning. Penelope and Savannah are watching him in shifts, and his mom is flying in tomorrow afternoon.” Aaron sits beside you on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on your hip. “He’s well-taken care of.”

You hum, only marginally satisfied, and roll over. 

With a small sigh, Aaron stands and gets ready for bed, eventually turning the lights off and settling in beside you. He faces you, watching your eyes shift under your eyelids in the dark. He knows you’re still awake, but he’s not going to fight you on it. You’ll fall asleep eventually. 

And you do.

+++

When you arrive at the hospital in the morning, you find Savannah snoozing at Derek’s bedside, a medical journal on her chest and her feet up, ankles crossed right by Derek’s knee. 

He’s technically in recovery and you’re technically not even supposed to be here until he’s released to the floor, but you needed to see him. 

Instead of waking Savannah, you find another chair on the other side of his bed, taking a seat and settling in to relax. You brought your tablet. Given the fact that Derek has yet to regain consciousness at all, you figured before you left the house that it would be a quiet morning. 

Aaron’s home with Jack, keeping him company and answering any questions that come up. He knows you both got home late last night and that Uncle Derek isn’t feeling well but, at this point, there’s very little that alarms him about a member of his family in the hospital. 

There’s part of you that feels a little bad about that, but at least Aaron’s out of the field. Any hospital visits on his part will likely be due to his rapidly-aging body. 

Kidding. 

The thought pulls a little smile from you and a huff tumbles down your nose. 

Keep cracking yourself up. You’re gonna need humor this week. 

Savannah wakes, stretching her arms above her head with a little squeak. 

You set your tablet down in your lap. “Hey.” 

“Hey yourself.” She offers you a little smile. “Sleep okay last night?” 

“Pretty well. It was nice to be home.” 

Savannah snorts good-naturedly. “I cannot relate, I’m afraid.” She gestures to the chair under her and the little cot off to the side. “I’m about to be very familiar with this room.” 

“Been there.” You think back to all the times someone on the team has landed in the hospital, not to mention Aaron’s extended stays over the years. “You can go home, you know.” 

“I know.” she says, looking over at Derek. She brushes a thumb over one of his eyebrows, correcting some wayward little hairs. “Can’t sleep, though.” 

There’s silence for a couple of seconds before she asks you a question. 

“Do you ever get used to it?” 

Your brow crinkles. “Get used to what?” 

“This.” She looks pointedly at Derek, the IV in his forearm, the wrapping on his hand. “I’m not used to being on the other side.” 

You shake your head. “Not really. You learn the routine, but it’s one of the few things that doesn’t get easier with time.” 

She hums, looking down. “You don’t have to answer this, but -” 

You have a feeling you know exactly what she’s going to ask. 

“- Has Aaron ever…” She trails off. “Been injured in the field.” 

With a sardonic little smile, you ask, “Do you mean nearly killed and also tortured, specifically?” 

Savannah shrugs. 

“Yes, actually.” You take a breath, thinking of those voicemails you left on his phone six years prior. 

“Hey, it’s me. I know I’m not supposed to be worried about you, but we were called in a half hour ago and you’re still not here...so...give me a call when you get this. Bye.”

You shake it off. “There was this unsub that… fixated on Aaron.”

“Kind of like these people you’re trying to find now?” 

“Kind of. This one was a particularly dangerous individual that had no interest in being subtle or covert. He was… determined to make Aaron suffer in every facet of his life.” 

Savannah is quiet, so you continue, skipping over some of the finer points.

“When we found Aaron,  he was in the hospital. He’d been tortured the night before - probably for hours.” You shrug. “I’m not sure.” 

With a swallow, you continue. “We couldn’t catch the unsub that time and we paid for it. Dearly.” You meet Savannah’s eyes. “We learned. And we got better. And we won’t pay the same price again.” 

You don’t know how much she knows, how much Derek told her about Foyet, if anything at all. 

“By price, you mean… You lost someone.” 

You nod. “Yes. Two someones, in truth.” Sam's death is usually overlooked in the Foyet story. You wish it wasn't. Savannah holds steady, her eyes altogether warm, curious, anxious, and concerned. You’ll tell her the story, eventually, from start to finish. But for now, “I’ve been where you are. And it fucking sucks.” 

Savannah’s eyes fall from yours as she thinks, mulling over your words. You have no doubt she takes them seriously. 

“We will find these people, Savannah. We will find who sent them and we will make sure they can’t hurt anyone ever again.” 

She meets your eyes again. “I believe you.” 

+++

“C’mon, Aaron, we’re gonna miss visiting!” You throw a shirt at him in the middle of tying one of your shoes. The other one is nowhere to be found. With baby brain in open season, you’ve been losing your belongings left and right. Thank God for Jack, who always seems to find them at the right time. 

It’s been two days since you’ve been able to visit Derek at the hospital and it’s driving you insane. 

“Sweetheart,” Aaron says, catching the shirt, “we’re not going to miss anything. Derek will be at Bethesda for a while and it’s not even ten yet.” 

You huff, finding the shoe you were looking for right beside you. 

Has it been there the whole time? 

Whatever. 

You grab it, tying it without thinking too much. Aaron’s hand appears in front of you and you take it, letting him help you to your feet. 

“Did you mean to wear a brown boot and a black one? I mean, I like it. I just wanted to check.” 

When you look at him, you find humor in his eyes. Even then, between the stress of Derek and the frustration of your brain leaving your head every time you turn it (and probably some other chemical factors), tears jump into your eyes. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Aaron wraps you in his arms. “I’m sorry. I was just teasing.” 

“I know.” You take a breath and hold it, letting it out slowly through pursed lips. “It’s just a lot.” You take another breath. “And I wanted the black boots.” 

“The ones with the flat laces?” 

You nod. 

He steps back, placing his hands on your shoulders, his touch smoothing down your arms until he reaches your hands. “Do you want some help?” 

You nod. “That would be nice.” 

He kisses your cheek and disappears, crouching to check under the bed and the dresser. You take a seat again, grabbing a tissue from your bedside table. You’ve been doing a lot of crying lately - so much so that you feel perpetually damp. 

JJ tells you it’ll pass, but you’re not so sure.

“Found it!” Aaron’s voice, muffled by fabric, comes from the closet. 

You turn. “Where was it?” 

“Still in the rack.” He reappears with the boot in hand. “It was probably dark when you pulled them out and they’re right next to each other.” He shrugs, crossing the room and kneeling at your feet. 

With gentle fingers, he unties your laces and unhooks them from their stays, pulling on the remaining lace to get it loose enough to pull it from your foot. He replaces the brown boot with the black one, lacing it with perfect tension. When he’s done with the bow, he taps the top of your foot and takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. 

“Alright. Shoes are on. I’ll put the brown ones away so the black ones can go by the door, alright?” 

You nod. “Thanks.” 

You hear a little laugh and look over your shoulder again. He throws his left hand behind him, displaying his ring. “I signed up for it, remember?” 

+++

“Thanks for taking him, Will.” You step out of the hug, looking over Will’s shoulder to where Jack and Henry have settled around a puzzle on the floor. “Are you sure you’ll be okay for a couple of hours?”

Will nods. “The boys are the least of my worries - it’s the baby that really keeps me on my toes these days.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he replies. “But you’ll do jus’ fine. Takes some getting used to, 's all.” 

You glance over your shoulder, where Hotch sits behind the wheel of his SUV, checking his phone. Given the crease between his eyebrows, he’s probably checking his email. 

“Well, bes’ not keep you. People forget how to drive after the firs’ frost, you know.” 

“Right.” 

You reach out and Will accepts your embrace, holding you tight around the waist. “Let me know how he’s doin’, would you?” He asks. 

“Of course.” 

+++

You and Aaron run into Savannah in the hallway. She passes the coffee cup in her hands - more than likely on its way to Emily, who's sitting just inside the door - to Aaron so she can hug you. 

The two of you rest on each other for a moment, glad for the company and the contact. She takes a breath and you let go of her, studying her face as she collects herself. 

She looks remarkably well, considering the circumstances. She is, however, also a doctor. It would be more than a little unexpected if she looked out of place at the hospital. 

“How are you holding up?” You ask. Aaron brushes your shoulder as he slips past you. 

Savannah shrugs. “Better than yesterday, that’s for sure.” She looks over her shoulder, where Derek is sleeping, his head lolling off to the side. “He’s a little more lucid when he’s awake and he’s keeping some food down, but the real danger is the possibility of infection with that wound, I mean -” 

“Savannah.” 

She looks at you but doesn’t finish her thought. 

“You’re not his doctor.” 

“I know. It’s… It’s hard to turn it off.” 

“I know.” You reach for her again, wrapping her up in your arms. “How’s little one?” You ask quietly. 

“Good. I’m not nauseated this morning, but that probably has something to do with the fact that I’m finishing all of Derek’s bland-ass food.” Her mouth twists. “He tends to fall asleep before he can finish everything.” 

You shrug with a little smile. “Hey, that’s convenient. Saves you a trip to the cafeteria.” 

“I guess so.” She mirrors your smile and almost startles. “Oh my God, I forgot to tell you.” 

“Tell me what?”

Her expression transforms into something shy, almost. “Derek asked me to marry him.” 

You can’t help it. Your mouth drops open. 

“I know,” Savannah says with a laugh. “He even guessed that I was pregnant and promised to do right by both of us.” 

“Wow.” There’s not much more you can say. You suspected such a thing was coming, given your own assertion that Derek would be stupid as hell to give up someone as amazing as Savannah, but you still can’t shake the shock. “I’m so happy for you both.” 

She shakes her head. “He didn’t have a ring, so we’ll go shopping when he’s well enough.” She looks over her shoulder at him. “I’m just glad he’s alive.” 

You offer her an elbow. “Me too.” 

She takes your arm and the two of you turn to head into the room, finding a little spot by the window. 

Aaron and Emily sit together, not really talking but still somehow communicating. Penelope is out cold - you suspect her shift ended a while ago, but you know her well enough to understand her unwillingness to move. Spencer sits at the window seat, some manner of massive book in his lap. 

Derek stirs, finding five people on their feet ready to fuss over him. 

“C’mon, guys. I’m fine.” 

You snort quietly, mindful of Penelope, who is still asleep. “You are not fine.” 

Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue. He does, however, look markedly better than he did a couple of days ago. 

“Where’s Mama Morgan?” You ask, looking pointedly at Fran’s purse, sitting open on Derek’s bedside table. 

“She went to grab some coffee that doesn’t taste like shit,” Emily replies. She sits back down, tucking one foot under her. “We’ve been tortured for too long.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “Tortured? By the coffee?” You’re trying to figure out if her rhetoric was purposeful. 

“What?” Emily asks. “Too soon for the torture jokes, or…?” She looks at Hotch. “How soon is too soon?” 

Definitely purposeful. 

“Prentiss, I think we need to call HR,” Dave says, strolling into Derek’s private room with two cups of red jello. You’re not sure there are many more places for people to fit. How you were all cleared to be in here in the first place is a mystery in and of itself. 

Emily’s brow wrinkles. “Why?” The last thing she wants is another horrible all-staff meeting about sexual harassment. She reaches for one of the jello cups and Dave hands it over, passing the other one to Spencer. 

“Is there some contractual clause that obligates all of us to get engaged whilst in the hospital?” His tone takes on a crisp, legal quality like he’s a union bargaining chair or something. 

Emily snorts, rolling her eyes. She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. 

“This room is getting crowded,” Derek says, his eyes still closed. “Y’all talk too much.” 

You let out a little laugh. 

“It’s a shame you’re so loved, Morgan,” Emily quips. “A real burden.” 

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, infidelity, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning, this part is full of angst and built up tension,

part: 3/6

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Being Sebastian Stan is not a simple thing. Some days it makes him feel like he is only a porcelain face on screen. Nothing more than photographs and rumors. He had once told an interviewer he was scared people would never know the real Sebastian. What he meant was that he was worried he’d wake up one day and the real him would be vanished.

The world would have eaten him alive.

Walking you home, in empty streets in a small country makes it all easier. His mind is clear of dazzling thoughts and his heart is not racing up. He can smile and no one will be there to take a picture of him.

Somehow that makes him smile more.

And when he does, it feels like Christmas. And you are certain there will come a day where you’ll be so close to oblivion and unable to remember what mint tastes like or what your favorite color is, but you’ll still have the turned up corners of his mouth painted in your head.

He stops walking. You look at him confused. He’s fidgeting with his fingers.

“Back at the party,” he takes a long breath as if trying to slow down his heartbeat, “You were talking with that tall guy.”

He sounds terrified. You don’t understand why. He thinks it’s better that way.

“Yeah I was.” There’s a flicker of surprise in your voice.

“Do you know him well?” You realize you have stopped in front of a pharmacy, the halogen light above you, turning your skin a sick green color.

“I know he’s an actor.” You take a step, finding the courage to walk away from him. “He’s kinda famous here.”

You can hear him move close behind you.

“Do you want me to ask Argyris if he’s single?”

There’s mockery in his voice. It makes you feel intoxicated. It’s your turn to stop walking. Your gaze falls on his face and Sebastian can feel his eyes sting but he keeps them open; wide and pale blue.

Almost green, under this light.

“No.”

“Oh don’t be sh-“

“No, I mean it. I would never date a famous guy.”

“Why?” A hasted breath escapes his trembling lips. And for a moment you think of kissing him right there; in the middle of the street, but you never do.

His world moves too fast for people like us.

That’s what you want to yell back at him, but then you remember;

The evening Sebastian fell asleep in your couch, he was more than a famous guy. He was clutching on your pillow like a kid and he was humming to himself like your father used to.

And he smiled as he fell asleep.

There is no argument left in you. He’s just a boy.

“I’m scared.” Your words slowly suffocate him. He feels the weight of your heart pulling him down.

He nods.

/

The next two days pass in a blur. You can hear him laugh with people as they walk up the stairs to Argyris’ flat. You’re not used to him not stopping at your door. It makes your cheeks red and your eyes filled with salty tears.

You haven’t realized until now, but you’ve become dependent on his presence.

So when you open your eyes at 4am with your phone buzzing with an Instagram message, you bite your cheeks.

Are you awake?

You stare at the screen to make sure you read it all correct, until it turns black and then lights up once again.

Why are you scared?

You don’t have to be scared with me.

I’m trying. You want to answer. Help me. You want to answer. Please.

You put your phone away until the words turn blurry.

/

He’s back at your door the following night. He’s wearing a white tank top and his rings. He must have just finished shooting.

You keep staring at each other, both tongue-tied with the words you’ll never say. He looks worried and desperate. You look tired and desperate. Taylor Swift is playing in the background.

“No more AC/DC?” He laughs and your eyes smile.

“Do you want to talk?” He asks.

You shake your head like you’re at war with yourself.

“Do you want to just stay here?” Your voice is too silent but it’s almost deafening him.

Sebastian thinks that he wants tons of things. He wants to hold you. And he wants to touch you. Everywhere. And he wants to know why there’s sorrow surrounding you. And he wants to take it all away.

And he wants you.

But he knows that he can’t tell you that. These words are too heavy for you to carry on your shoulders. At least for now.

“I’ll stay.” He says with a breath.

You give him an almost smile and all you can feel is gratitude.

/

You lay in your bed together. You’ve slept with other guys in that bed before. And it’s been nude and sloppy and brutal. But this is different. This is intimacy in its purest form. You’re both fully clothed but you both feel naked. And so close. So close.

All Sebastian can hear is the sound of your breathing and every bone inside him is breaking. He is afraid he’s turning paralyzed.

And then you move your body and bring your forehead next to his. Sebastian inhales deeply. You smell of faded vanilla body cream.

You look at him and you know then you can get used to that. You bury your fingers in the hem of his shirt. You want him to come closer. He knows.

“I’ll stay love,” his voice is steady and sincere “Anytime.”

He calls you love because there’s nothing else to call you. He calls you love because you both need him too.

“I don’t think that’s possible.” Sebastian thinks you’re always too sensible. It’s something you keep between the hollows of your body. “But it’s okay.”

His hand is in your hair. It soothes you.

“What happened? What broke you?” he whispers.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how everything started. It's hard to remember but there is one image in the back of your eyes that crawls through your skin and makes you shiver. You try to ignore it.

“I don’t know.” He turns his gaze at you but you look at the cold ceiling. It’s so much easier this way.

He doesn’t answer. He just draws circles in the back of your palm and places his lips against the scalp of your head. And while you’ve never been much of a science person, you’re certain this is how a nuclear attack emerges.

/

When the sun rises and you wake up, he’s not there. Earth moves slowly as the cold sheets press against your skin.

It’s early, there is a soft breeze coming in from your open window. A man is bickering with this wife across the street.

You can hear her call him a liar.

I’ll stay love.

You can hear him yell his apologies.

Anytime.

Why do people lie? Why do we lie?

You don’t try to search for him. You take a shower and drink some chocolate milk. You pay attention to the silence in the room. You almost forget your heart is still beating.

/

You bump into Argyris’ girlfriend while taking out the garbage. You like her a lot. She’s strong and pretty and smart. You wonder sometimes, how exactly that feels.

You pray she doesn’t mention him. It doesn’t work.

“He must be flying right now.” Suddenly you feel as if there is something rotten inside your chest. It makes you want to graze your skin and throw away everything that's inside.

You look at her slightly confused.

“He’s flying to Toronto; he has to attend a festival there.” She smiles. You’ve noticed she always smiles.

You just nod and step out of the building. Her voice stops you.

“He’s coming back in some days.”

“I don’t care.” Now she laughs.

“There’s no need to lie.” You take a sharp breath. “He cares too.”

You want to believe her words but they seem like choke chains.

You throw your garbage away.

You keep your rotten chest.

/

Sebastian sits back at his seat and orders a hundred and one drinks. The airplane is chasing the sun. He’s chasing his thoughts. Neither will ever catch up.

He used to like travelling. Airports, suitcases and foreign hotel rooms made him feel free. Now they make him feel the opposite.

The material on his seat is rugged. He wants to go back to your soft sheets. He can’t.

And then he imagines a place and a time where he could just kiss you without any possible consequences. He imagines a place where you could rest your bodies together for a long time without worries weighing you down. He imagines a place where he gets what he wants. A place where that thing between you two is more than enough.

The sun blinds him. He closes the small window and then his eyes.

Being Sebastian Stan is not a simple thing.

Some days he can’t take it.

/

You’re sitting on the floor and it’s almost 9 in the morning. You’ve calculated the time difference and it’s 2 in the morning where he is. That sounds wrong. Almost scary.

He left three days ago but he’s everywhere. There are photos of him wearing stupid floral shirts and posing in a sophisticated way. And there’s Nicole Kidman next to him.

God. I’ve become infatuated with a man who plays in movies with Nicole Kidman and Robert Downey Jr.

That’s what you think and you know you’re doomed.

You expect him to send you a message or a picture at first, but he doesn’t. You wonder if your time together was only a blurry puzzle of disconnected memories that somehow fits in his past.

He’ll simply forget all of it.

You try not to think about him but then you meet Argyris in the lobby and you have to bite the inside of your mouth so his name doesn’t jump out from your lips.

You go to bed early that day. You hold onto your pillow and you count the hours that separate you.

(13 hours with a plane)

(25 days with a boat)

You count and you fall asleep.

And you fall in love.

/

It’s not uncommon to rain in Toronto. But today rain feels heavier on Sebastian’s skin. He remembers the day he met you; it was hot and the sun made the window glass look like it was about to melt. That memory is the cause of his shivering.

Once upon a time he was in love. He was in love with a girl who had ethereal written all over her body. He was in love with a girl who was destined for divinity.

But those were the old days; they are dead and gone now. Your skin glistening under the Athenian sun changed it all.

It’s not easy to feel this way. The sky understands so it opens up and pours down on his dark hair. He presses his eyes closed with his fingers. And he tries to imagine a version of himself that doesn’t think about you that often.

He can’t.

Not even when he has a deity as his girlfriend.

/

The next time you see him, his hair is a little longer and much messier than you remember. And you have to devour all the sense that’s left inside you as not to touch it with your bare hand.

He has a cigarette in his fingers and a dark jacket thrown around his shoulders and everyone’s asking him about the festival. You just sit on the corner of your neighbor’s flat and listen to laughter and glasses clicking against each other. And you smile.

Smile; because he’s here.

And then he notices you and you’re pretty sure his eyes linger on your face a little longer than it's normal for humans. And his gaze is so brilliantly blank and loony that you don’t know how to respond. And then he starts to cough. And he never looks at you for the rest of the night.

You want to believe it’s better this way.

But it makes you so angry; you want to clench your teeth hard.

/

It goes like this; you don’t exchange any words for the next two days and it feels like your lips will start to bleed.

And you don’t know but his head feels like battlefield.

“When do you know you can’t stop it?” He asks Argyris. He feels ashamed.

“When you don’t want to stop it.”

He grabs the beer can and drinks his confusion away. He hopes alcohol will send his thoughts to sleep but instead it sends him to your door.

He rests his head against the wooden material. He can hear water running down and he can hear you humming a song.

And the foreign words make no sense to him but somehow they sound like lyrical poetry.

He waits for the water to stop and then he knocks.

/

Your hair is wet and sticks to your blue shirt. Your eyes grow wide when you see him standing there.

“I thought you’d never come at my door again.”

He looks at the floor.

“I shouldn’t.”

He sounds defeated; defeated by his own self. And you can smell the flammable liquid on his breath. And you can see that he has his nails pressed against his palm. You take his hand in yours and he closes his eyes. You caress the little cuts with your fingers. There are no scars but the skin is still red and painted with fear. You understand and it makes you feel dirty and obscene.

You look thoughtful for a moment and then you decide you can’t go on like this. It will split your souls.

“How’s Canada?” His eyes fill with surprise and he laughs. It gives you pride.

“Never been?”

He takes a step inside your place and his eyes fall on the empty bottle of pills at the kitchen table.

He doesn’t say a word about it.

You love him for that.

“I’ve never been anywhere.” Your cheeks are flushed with a soft raspberry color.

Sebastian realizes then that he wants to show you the entire world. Every corner of it. He wants to hold your hand as you walk beneath the Corsican stars. And he wants to memorize the Northern lights with you by his side. And he wants to see you laugh as he falls off his surf board in New Zealand. And he wants every cliché thing there is to do.

His heart stretches at the thought of it.

“Canada is beautiful in its own way.” He looks out of your window.

You wonder if he’s trying to find some more constellations in the sky, but then he turns around and walks towards you.

“I’ve been there a lot of times.”

Of course you have, you think.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ears. It’s still damp and cold.

“Have you been to a lot of places?” He smiles and nods.

And then you can sense it; the sharp feeling of heartbreak crawling under your skin. You try to ignore it.

“I used to be grateful I travel all the time.”

You place your hand on his chest. The beating makes you calm.

“You’re not grateful anymore?”

He rubs his palm over his face.

“I am,” he inhales “But sometimes I just want to stay where I am.”

Yeah, I know.

He leaves an hour later, still drunk.

Still in love.

/

On Sunday, he takes you out for dinner. You tell him you don’t like dates. He promises it’s not a date.

You know you’re both lying.

He orders some red wine and he drinks as he watches you eat. It all feels natural to him. Somewhere at the back of his head though, there’s still some rationality left, that makes him think, this can’t be wrong, when it feels so natural.

He doesn’t drink any more.

/

You’re playing with the maraschino cherry on your dessert when his phone rings and your world comes crashing down.

You don’t intend to but you see the caller ID.

Love.

He had called you love one night.

He feels too guilty to look at you so he grabs the device and gets out of the place.

You want to throw the ice cream on the floor.

And then you want to hit the wall; with your head. But you can’t. So you just bite down at the cherry and wait for him to come back.

And when he does, things are different.

He doesn’t to try to make jokes and you don’t laugh. His eyes are everywhere but on you and your hand stays away from his.

You tell him you’re done with dessert so you can leave.

He has never felt more relieved.

/

Your pace is fast, but he catches up. You can’t outrun him.

His breath quickens as he comes closer. It’s almost innocent and childlike, the look he gives you.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers and it makes you laugh. You laugh and you shake your head and it’s not enough.

“Why?” He can taste the bitterness all over you. “This wasn’t date. So why are you sorry?”

You keep walking and his breath keeps echoing in your ears. You find the entrance of your building.

You’ve seen the place a hundred times but only now you notice how old it looks. It makes you disgusted. It makes you want to vomit.

It starts with him saying he doesn’t want to hurt anyone.

And then you rest your body at the soiled wall, trying to remind yourself you’ve had your heart broken before. And your eyes are not dry anymore. And you can taste salt in your lips. And he comes closer and he holds you.

You swear you see tears in his cheeks too, but he’s too fast to wipe them away.

“Have you ever done anything only to regret it a second later?”

You’re not certain which one of you asks but you can hear your bones breaking as you throw your head around and he arches his back.

His hands touch the dried tears on your face and it stings like sewing needles. And his lips touch yours. And for a brief moment you feel like you’re stealing from life.

And he can taste all of you; raw.

And it feels like fists that punch him.

And when you pull away you both have already regretted everything.

“Now you have something to be sorry for.”

You wonder if perhaps a broken dignity is better than a broken heart.

/

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :)

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[pa-panda-heroes]

heya! how about a scenario where shiggy accidentally hurts the reader with his quirk and like, freak tf out? angsts with lots and lots of fluff, please! ty! ♥︎

Okokok imma do my best for my first angst!! Also I added Dabi because I got a request for him a while back and I’ve wanted to write him for a bit, now <3 hope that’s okay!

I think this was a bit longer for a scenario but... I enjoyed writing it so :>

Warnings: language, mentions of violence(? Eh...)

Tomura/Dabi accidentally hurt reader with their quirks!

Tomura:

It happened accidentally. You knew that. Right? It wasn’t his fault, but his damn quirk’s fault, the one that he never asked for and the one that never allowed anyone to get close. Rather, he never let anyone get close because of it. He’ll admit he was always proud of its destructive capability as a villain, but now that it had hurt you, he wish he’d never boasted to a soul.

Twenty-three times. He had called you twenty-three times. And twenty-three times you didn’t answer. What was he to do, now? There was no stopping the decay borne from his fingertips once it had set in, and considering you wouldn’t answer your phone... it didn’t look good. Kurogiri had whisked you away before Tomura could even utter an apology, which looked to him as though Kurogiri did so in order for him not to witness your death. Kurogiri told him something about a doctor, but Tomura figured him a liar.

He couldn’t breathe. You shouldn’t have been hurt. Literally. Tomura hadn’t so much as touched you with a single finger; if anything, he was trying to protect you from the stranger grabbing you. It happened so fast, all he remembered was his quirk activating and the stranger vanishing before he heard your cry of pain and saw the skin of your arm drying out, much like he had done to that hero at U.S.J. He couldn’t tell, but it somewhat looked as though the decay was limited to just your bicep. That could’ve been hopeful thinking, of course, and he knew it.

So he sat there, all alone and hunched over on the couch in the bar, with misery and dread coursing his veins, accelerating his blood pressure to concerning levels. He had nothing to look at but his shaking palms and red shoes as he tried to even out his breathing - to no avail. Then, he felt the weight of someone sitting next to him, and instantly recognized how far the cushion next to him sunk in. And yet, he couldn’t look at you.

“Thanks for that back there,” you say quietly, afraid to startle him, but you recieve no response. “Y’know, I’m not sure what would’ve happened if my knight in shining armor hadn’t showed up!” You knew he felt guilty. Why wouldn’t he? But he shouldn’t. You wanted to convince him of that.

“Didn’t go far, huh,” you hear him mumble, nodding his head to your bandaged left arm next to him. There was no life to his voice and before you can say anything, he speaks again. “It won’t happen again. You’re not coming around anymore.”

“Hey, wait! That’s not your-“

“I’m the leader, and I say so! You can stay in the League, but you can’t... be close to me. You’ll get hurt.”

You stand up in defiance and put your hands on your hips in defense. “I’m not leaving you! First of all, I can take care of myself. Second, look at the League. We have a bloodthirsty serial killer and a cynical pyromaniac constantly lounging about, and you’re worried about some one-in-a-million freak accident happening again?” Patience was key with Tomura, and you knew that, but he could be stubborn and unreasonable, and when it came to you, stubbornly, unreasonably protective. “Besides, with the world as it is, I could get hurt doing something as mundane as taking out the trash, like I was when I was attacked!”

He finally looked at you, the look of a whipped pup on his face and while you knew he wasn’t doing it on purpose, you felt guilty for raising your voice at him. You sigh quietly and sit back down next to him, reaching for his hand and settling for his knee when he yanked it away. You snuck your arm around his shoulders and plopped your cheek on his shoulder, knowing all too well he would welcome it despite his standoffishness - and he did. Tomura didn’t pull away or push you off. But he hid his face. Your fingers on his left shoulder rubbed at it, his clavicle prominent enough you almost cringed at how thin he was. Your other hand on his leg idly toyed with the seam of his jeans, not having anything better to do.

“I’m sorry.” It was unclear as to whether he was apologizing for hurting you, or for demanding you keep your distance from him. Either way, it was undoubtedly genuine and soft.

You sat up straight and hugged your leader and lover from the side, gliding your fingers through his hair as you gently guided it to you. He hesitated slightly before burying his head into your chest and latching onto your ribcage for dear life, muttering the weakest “Don’t go, please,” anyone has ever heard. The desperation and vulnerability in his voice elicited your arms to wrap around him in a tight, warm embrace, your chin digging into his hair when you peck it, again and again and again. You stifled a giggle at how soft and ticklish his hair felt, electing to gently shush him.

“I just told you, didn’t I? I’m not going anywhere, even if you tell me to. I love you, silly.”

Dabi:

Dabi let out every curse known to mankind - and then some - as he rushed over to you, the bastard thugs the two of you had been after now burning alive and falling to the street. He would have sworn on his life you were not within range of his flames, and yet here you were, on the ground clutching your burnt leg and cringing away the searing tears of pain. Maybe you didn’t see him readying the attack and charged in? Maybe one of those thugs diverted his attack? He wasn’t sure.

“Y/n-“

What little color he had in his face drains completely, and his fingertips are already trembling.

“Dabi, I’m fine,” you tried to assure him. “It’s not that bad! I’ll just need a little first aid.” It hurt like hell, a white-hot, pulsating pain, you couldn’t lie. You just weren’t going to tell him that. It stretched from just below your knee to a hand’s length above your ankle and covered only the side of your leg, thankfully. The affected area was an awfully dark pink and honestly, it was hard to look at.

He practically scoffed at you. “Y/n, you’re fucking burnt. Don’t tell me that shit.” From the look on his face, it seemed bad.

That was the most cross he’d ever been with you, despite his brash and vulgar nature, and you couldn’t help but retreat a little as he knelt down to you and pulled his phone out of his pocket to make a call. “Y/n’s hurt, get us to the bar or something.” He grabbed your leg - surprisingly gently - and seemed to examine it. He paused as if to listen to the other end. “She’s burnt, does it matter? Just get us the hell out of here.” He must’ve called Kurogiri, as the next thing you know there’s a warp tunnel summoned next to you.

You tried standing on your own to leave, but the burn decided it didn’t want you to do so, and so you dropped back to the ground and bit your lip at the shockwaves of pain crawling up your leg. Dabi said nothing and helped you up himself, grabbing your arm and side to help you walk through the warp. Once through, he set you down on the couch, still eerily quiet, and left you there. The pain was so bad at this point, you began to think you’d faint, your head feeling fuzzy as tears run down your cheeks.

The stapeled villain returns with a bucket of ice water, towels, and what looks to be a first aid kit. But he stops for a second when he sees you hunched over with a death grip on your knee and the seat beneath you, and it takes all he has to hold it the fuck together. He’s unreasonably angry, and he’s not sure why. He wants to tell and scream, maybe at you, maybe not, he’s not sure. His quirk’s only quality was destructiveness. It was damaging not only to his enemies but also to his own body - and now, you.

He hurt you. Accident or not, he hurt you. The lump in his throat was suffocating.

Dabi knelt down and soaked a towel in the cold water before wringing it wordlessly, then gently tapping it to your leg and pulling back when you hiss. He seemed to notice it but didn’t outwardly acknowledge it and contintued to use the cold towel on your burn. As more time passed, the more convinced he became that it was a second-degree burn, meaning the second layer of your skin, the dermis, was badly burnt. He had no doubt it would scar, and at the thought the breath was pulled from his lungs. Dabi muttered a curse and suddenly rested his forehead against your knee, his right hand holding the cool towel to your leg.

“I’m sorry. It’s all my fault, fuck.” His voice was low, and if you looked hard enough, you could hear that it was forced out through a tense throat. He was nearly in tears, wasn’t he? He wasn’t an overly emotional person by any means, but the fact that his quirk hurt you, with its history, it hurt worse than if you would’ve left him for a hero. He hated himself. His quirk didn’t have a single redeeming quality, and he began to think the same of himself.

“Dabi, don’t, okay? I’ll be fine, really.” You can’t help how weak your voice sounds, being in so much pain, but you nonetheless plant a hand in his hair and rub his scalp.

Dabi lifts his head to look at you, and the look in his eyes isn’t something you’ve seen before. His free hand comes up to rest on your thigh, and you can feel it shaking. “It might scar, y/n. Don’t you get that?”

You huff. “So? If it does, I’d be pretty cool with that, all puns intended,” you try to giggle at your own pun and can practically feel him rolling his eyes, “Besides, I’d kinda match you, wouldn’t I? It’ll be like a couple’s tattoo sort of thing!”

He rests his chin atop your knee and a look that only be described as a pout crosses his features, but he says nothing and you can only smile. Dabi deadpans when you say nothing, forcing yourself to beam at him with bright eyes and a smile. “You’re a weird one, ya know that?” he muttered.

“You’re even weird for falling in love with me,” you teased after he began to work on your leg again.

“Pfft.”

[howtosingit]

Fic: The Nightmare That I Call Myself

His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.

He just wants to feel something. 

But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing. 

Because he was dead. 

+

Or, five times TK wakes up disoriented and confused, and one time he wakes up knowing he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Mature | 5.1K | Also on AO3

A/N: Haven’t written a word in two months, got this idea when I woke up this morning and now here we are, 10 hours later. The muse does what the muse wants. Hope you like it!

------

Someone’s screaming.

TK’s eyes fly open, the red and blue lights from his lamp in the corner adding to the confusion that he’s currently feeling. It feels like there’s an elephant sitting on his chest, and when he closes his eyes again to try to make it all disappear, all he sees is smoke and dust and collapsing buildings on fire.

It’s the same thing he’s been seeing on TV for the past few days, even though his mom changes the channel as quickly as possible whenever he’s in the room.

“TK!”

His eyes open again, finally focusing on his mom as rushes into his bedroom, the sudden lights causing him to blink against their harsh brightness. Before he knows it, there are arms wrapped around him, firm hands on his back, and a soft voice in his ear.

“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. You’re okay, it’s gonna be okay.”

That’s when he finally realizes that the screams are coming from his own mouth.

He stops instantly, his throat raw, but he can’t quiet the sob rising in his chest. He buries his face in his mom’s shirt, pressing against her, kind of hoping that he can disappear into her, where he knows he’ll be safe. 

He closes his eyes again, and a new image appears behind his eyelids:

His dad. Covered in dirt and dust and blood, his firefighter’s helmet falling from his head, his eyes dark and empty and so different from their normal blue.

“Dad,” he croaks, his voice weak and full of pain. His heart hammers in his chest, thud thud thud. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

“Oh, honey, he’s okay,” his mom says, her fingers running through his hair and scratching his scalp gently, a shiver running through him. It helps to pull him out of his head, the fear disappearing at her touch. “He’s just in the other room, he’s okay.”

“Can I go see him?” he cries, the words getting lost in another sob. She understands him, though, like she always does. She’s his mom, so she always understands him.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, holding him closer. “Let’s calm down a little bit though, before we go see him. We don’t want to scare him, do we?”

TK shakes his head, following along as she shows him how to breathe deeper. He can still feel his heart pounding in his chest, but it doesn’t feel as heavy now. The elephant has been replaced by something smaller. A gorilla, maybe, or something like that. He gets so distracted thinking about all the different animals that he’s seen at the zoo, that he almost doesn’t notice when a different pair of arms find their way around him. 

He does recognize the smell, though. His dad’s soap has a really special smell.

“Daddy,” he cries, more tears finding their way to his eyes as he pulls his head back to see those familiar blue ones. They aren’t as bright as they were before, but they’re more alive than they were in his nightmare. His dad gives him a small smile, pulling him into his arms and against his chest. 

“I got you, buddy. I got you. I’m right here.”

He focuses on the sound of his dad’s heartbeat, hears the way the soft words rumble through his chest. His mom is still there, too, her own fingers crawling up and down his back. 

Eventually, they all lay back down, his body tucked between the two of them. He reaches out, grabbing on to each of them, pulling them even closer. 

He hears them whispering above him, but their voices sound like they’re at the far end of the big, long tunnel, so he doesn’t really know what they’re saying. He watches the lights from his lamp slowly dance across his ceiling, watches as they catch on the corner of the twin-sized firetruck bed that surrounds them on all sides.

The next morning when he wakes up, he tells his dad that he wants to change his room. There’s a sad look in his eyes, but he just gives him a hug and helps him pack some things away.

-----

Someone’s knocking on the door.

TK lets out a groan, his stomach rolling. Even through his eyelids, he can see that the sun is up and pouring in through his bedroom windows, his mother’s sheer curtains doing little to keep the daylight at bay. The air around him is stale, sweaty, and smells like sex and weed. He scrunches his face, trying to stave off the nausea. 

The knocking gets louder, and that’s when he realizes that it’s not at his bedroom door, but further away. Probably on his mom’s front door. Fuck. He’s going to have to get up and answer it before the neighbors complain. He really doesn’t want to have to deal with his mother when she gets home. 

He throws the thin sheet off of himself, the blast of cool air making him aware of his nakedness. The back of his hand comes in contact with something solid to his left and he opens one eye to see tanned skin covered in various back tattoos under a head of shoulder-length dirty blonde hair. His gaze moves lower to take in the bare ass resting on top of his mother’s 800-thread count sheets, the outline of a handprint barely visible on one cheek. With a disgusted scoff, he pushes himself up to sit at the edge of his bed, the stranger now behind him and out of sight.

He instantly realizes his mistake as his stomach somersaults and he barely has time to notice the empty vodka bottle on his nightstand next to a little bag of white pills before he empties it onto his rug-covered floor.

He’s stumbling naked down the hallway towards the bathroom to stand under the water for the next hour or so when his brain refocuses on the knocking on the door. Now that he’s out of his room, he can hear his phone vibrating incessantly from the pocket of his jeans where they lay on the floor by the couch. He can now also hear a familiar voice yelling through the door to accompany the knocking. 

“TK! I know you’re in there, I tracked your phone,” his dad yells, his knocking turning into an intense pounding. “Open the damn door!”

With a “Calm the fuck down, Dad,” TK stomps towards the door, throwing it open. He can’t help the satisfaction that crawls through him at his dad’s shocked face as he takes him in. TK doesn’t know why he’s so surprised; it’s not like this beats the time his dad accidentally walked in on him having sex with his high school boyfriend a few years ago. 

“Jesus Christ, TK,” his dad huffs, pushing him back into the apartment and slamming the door behind him, obviously trying to maintain some sense of privacy. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

TK doesn’t reply, just stands before him with his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed in front of his chest.

“Well? You gonna say something?”

“What are you doing here, Dad?” TK scoffs, rolling his eyes. He immediately regrets it, as the action causes a sharp pain to flare up behind his eyes. Remembering his previous goal of drowning himself in the shower, he turns to walk back down the hallway. “Mom’s out of town, you don’t have to pretend like you give a fuck about me. There’s no one around to impress.”

“Yeah, I know your mom’s out of town, that’s why I’m here,” his dad says, and TK can tell from the consistent volume of his voice that he’s following him towards the bathroom. “You obviously can’t be trusted by yourself for more than a day.”

“Oh, fuck off,” TK yells, rounding on him. “I’m right here, aren’t I? It’s not like I’ve gone missing and you’ve found me dead in an alley or something.”

His dad glares at him for a moment. Then, with a raise of his eyebrow, he points a finger at TK’s face. “You’ve got some vomit on your chin.”

TK feels a blush crawl up his neck, but before he can say anything, his dad turns towards his room, pushing open the door and walking in like he’s been invited to do so.

“Dad, wait!” 

It’s too late. His dad has already stepped inside, taking in the scene. TK cringes as the smell of vomit hits his nostrils. 

“This a new boyfriend of yours?” his dad asks, gesturing to the naked guy still passed out in his bed. TK says nothing, having no desire to share that he has no idea who the guy is, or that he can’t even remember his name. 

His dad circles around the bed, his hand coming up to cover his nose as he spies the puddle of puke on the floor. 

“You’re paying to have that rug cleaned,” he says, turning towards the large bay window and throwing it open. 

“Where do you get off telling me what to do? This isn’t your house anymore, Dad,” TK spits out, but it comes out with less fire than he had hoped. The smell is really strong here, and the room has started to spin again. He starts backing away towards the bathroom, knowing he’s going to need the toilet in just a minute.

“Not a boyfriend then,” his dad says, ignoring his question. He’s made it over to the TK’s side table, where the evidence of his drug-induced evening sits. He watches as his dad grabs the bag of Oxy, waving it around before pocketing it. “Your mother is going to kill you when she finds out you brought your drug dealer into her house.”

“That’s mine, I paid for that,” TK says weakly, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want to be here right now, he doesn’t want to be anywhere right now. He wants the room to stop spinning, he wants the stranger in his bed - the one he let touch him in ways that make him suddenly feel incredibly unclean - to disappear, and he wants his dad to stop looking at him like he’s regretting the day he was born.

(But hey, TK thinks, the familiar nasty voice in his head taking center stage, at least you finally got his attention.)

His dad is across the room and standing in front of him by the time he mentally checks back into the present moment. Before TK can say another word, he’s shoving a pair of clean boxers into his hands, a look of intense disappointment on his face.

“Take a shower, son. You stink.”

And with that, he steps out of the room, leaving TK to stare at his vomit-soaked carpet, his unwanted hookup, and every other regret he doesn’t have it in him to name.

------

Someone’s pounding on the wall behind his bed.

He comes to with a gasp, lurching forward in his bed. His breathing is out of control and he claws at his chest, trying to get a grip on his lungs, to squeeze them until they burst. It’s not like they’re working correctly anyway, he thinks as he struggles to breathe through an airway that he swears can’t be any wider than a coffee stirrer, so what’s the point of having them at all.

His t-shirt is sweat-soaked and twisted around him, refusing to allow his chest to fully expand the way he desperately needs it to. He tears away at it, trying to get it off, and a sob climbs up his throat and out of his mouth when it starts to feel hopeless. Finally, after an hour or a day or maybe even a year, it comes off. TK throws it across the room with a yell before he wraps his arms around himself, his fingernails digging into his sides.

He just wants to feel something. 

But that’s not really his problem right now. He’s feeling too much, all at once. It’s a stark contrast from the nightmare that he found himself trapped in moments ago; a nightmare where he felt absolutely nothing. Because he was absolutely nothing. 

Because he was dead. 

The image of his prone body on the floor, unmoving, just a mass of useless limbs and wasted potential, flashes through his mind, unbidden. He chokes out another sob, reaching up to fist his hands in his short hair, his nails scratching at his scalp. He recalls a time in his life when his mother would run her fingers through his hair, grounding him with love-laced scratches. How it would settle him, how it would focus him, how it would remind him that he wasn’t alone.

He’s alone now. She’s not here. It’s just him, and the addict screaming and pounding on the wall in the room next door. 

Her face comes to him, the one she wore the last time she saw him, the lines of graceful aging marred by fear and hurt and hopelessness. All for him. All because of him. All because he couldn’t get his shit together. All because he couldn’t handle his cushy, privileged existence, with his middle-to-upper class accepting parents. 

All because he didn’t want to do it anymore. 

Except, he does. He really fucking does. He’s felt that high of life, the one that he can get without the help of pills. He’s loved before, he’s given his all to love, and sure, it didn’t last, but it was good. It was freeing. It was worth it. 

He wants to find that again. Find the people that make it worth it again. Find his purpose. He knows it’s out there, he knows it’s waiting for him to get his shit together. 

He’s twenty years old and he’s nearly killed himself, but he’s not dead yet. He’s not done yet. 

He’s not fucking done yet.

So, yes, he’s here and he’s alone, with only thin walls and an uncomfortable mattress to call his own. But, if this is what he needs, if this is what is going to help him find out where he goes next, then it’s worth it. It’s all going to be worth it. 

He cries himself back to sleep, back into the darkness, back into the moments that will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

This time, though, as he gives himself over to rest, his lungs expand to fill his entire chest, his airways now clear and fulfilling their purpose, reminding him just how alive he is.

------

Someone’s shouting.

There are a lot of voices, but they all sound muddled and confused. There are hands on him, pressing down hard against his chest, and now that he’s noticed them, he also notices the most intense fucking pain that he’s ever felt in his life, right below his collarbone. It hurts so bad that he wants to scream, he even goes as far as opening his mouth to do so, but he’s not sure if anyone hears him; he’s not even sure he hears himself.

His eyes flutter open when he’s suddenly lifted into the air, the pain spiking to new heights. He sees shadows crawling across his vision, shapes that amount to nothing more than blobs of mass. There are so many of them, and they’re all moving so fast. Too fast for him to really pinpoint. 

“TK!”

Those two letters - the two letters he knows better than any others - swim through the molasses to punch him in the eardrum, and he instinctively looks towards the sound. He finds his father there, his face pinched and sweaty and terrified. It’s a familiar face, one he saw just a few months ago actually, one that he never, ever wanted to see again.

Fuck. Another overdose. 

But even that doesn’t explain the sharp pain in his shoulder. He looks around, trying to figure out his surroundings, trying to make sense of all of this. He’s clean, he knows he is. It’s been hard, but he’s in a better place now. He’s with better people now. He’s truly felt like he’s finding himself, finally, after all of these years.

There’s no way he threw that away. There’s no way.

He forces himself to focus, to figure out what the fuck is going on. He turns to see Captain Blake on his left - well, his left, her right, maybe, he doesn’t know. She’s barking orders, and he follows her arms down to find her hands pressed to his chest. He wants to shout at her, tell her that she doesn’t need to push so hard, that she’s really fucking hurting him, but he can’t speak. Just like his scream before, his voice is trapped inside of him.

He looks up to see Marjan above him, lines of tears running down her face. She doesn’t bother to wipe them away, just lets them fall as her bottom lip trembles. He focuses on it, wants to tell her that it’s going to be okay, wants to reach out and rub her shoulder gently. But, as hard as he tries, he can’t seem to do that either. 

He’s stuck in a world where he can’t do a single damn thing.

Suddenly, the blurry ceiling above him gives way to what looks like a wood-covered porch, which quickly gives way to the night sky. It’s all fuzzy, but he swears he can see stars up there; he never really got to see stars before moving to Austin, save for the inconsistent trips he would take outside of the city. 

He likes seeing the stars. He likes the open vastness of it all. It makes him feel equally too large and too small, which is honestly a really freeing, confusing feeling.

There are blue and red lights painting the trees overhead, and he’s reminded of his childhood room, with his firetruck bed and his color-changing lamp that would soothingly move from red to blue, just the way he liked. It feels so long ago, but he remembers it so clearly. It’s the only clear thing he can see right now.

He can tell he’s fading away again, his short reprieve to the land of the living coming to an end. The voices are still both loud and muted, but he no longer cares what they’re saying. The pain is reaching his maximum capacity, the edges of his vision turning white. 

It’s okay, he thinks. It’s all going to be okay.

He feels his head drift to the right, and he swears he sees a familiar face, proud nose and perfect lips under a head of soft brown curls and soulful eyes that have seen deep into the very heart of him. 

He smiles, perfectly content with Carlos being his final thought before he goes. 

------

Someone’s coughing.

It takes him no time at all to realize that it’s him, that he’s the one hacking up a lung. He feels like his chest is on fire and he can’t take a full breath. There’s heat all around him, flames painting his surroundings an unrecognizable, hazy orange. The bed is gone, the dresser is gone. It’s all vanishing, lost to the fire. 

But that’s not what causes him to panic, that’s not what stops his breath. That’s not what threatens to shatter him completely.

Carlos is among the flames.

They’re crawling up his body, latching on to his blue shirt, the one that TK thinks makes him look completely unreal. Well, truly that’s anything he wears, but blue always makes Carlos look soft. 

It makes him look like home. The greatest one that TK has ever known.

And now, TK watches as his home catches on fire, unable to move, to step forward, to pull Carlos to safety. His boyfriend watches him as the flames rise up between them, his eyes wide and full of fear, his chest heaving from the breaths that he just can’t seem to catch. TK wants to yell out, tell Carlos to come to him, that they can get out of this together if they just hurry, but every time he goes to speak, a cough climbs up his throat, burying the words inside of him. 

He knows he’d be crying if he could, but the flames have stolen his tears from him, too. The flames are going to take everything from him. Everything that matters, packaged inside one wonderful, miraculous, unexpected person.

And before he can even blink, Carlos is gone, swallowed whole, no trace of the man that TK chose to give his entire heart to. He’s gone, and TK desperately wants to follow him. 

There’s a creak above him and he has just enough time to look up before the entire ceiling comes down on top of him, granting him his final wish.

He jerks awake, the coughs relentless as he folds himself in half, trying to remove the smoke and ash from his body. It’s dark in the room now, the fire finally extinguished. Except, no, that’s not right, because as he looks around, he sees that everything is intact. Nothing burnt, nothing broken. 

He reaches out blindly, trying to find Carlos in the dark, but he’s met with only air. He turns, taking in the empty space on the mattress beside him, the untouched pillow.

“No,” he gasps, shaking his head, and finally the tears come, no longer frightened of the untamable heat. “No, Carlos, no,” he sobs, pulling at the sheets, hoping that he can find him hiding somewhere in their depths. He claws at them, desperate, unhinged. 

“TK!”

The voice is salvation, the timbre unmatched in its miraculousness. TK whips around, searching and scanning for the source. He lets out a cry when he finds him, standing in the doorway, dressed in nothing but athletic shorts, a bright white towel pressed to his curls, water still trailing down his bare chest.

Whole, untouched, safe. His home.

And TK just loses it.

In seconds, he’s in Carlos’s arms, his firm hands pressed against his back as his shoulders close around him, encasing him. His lips press to the shell of TK’s ear, his voice pouring into him like lava, filling all of his cavities and crevices left behind by the nightmare that took Carlos away from him.

“I’m right here, baby, I’m right here, it’s okay.”

TK sobs, clinging to him, his voice piercing in the quiet of his dad’s guest room. “You were there and you were surrounded by the fire and I couldn’t get to you, I couldn’t move, and I had to watch you, I just had to watch you go and then you weren’t there anymore, and it was like you were never there at all, but I couldn’t do anything, I just--”

“Hey, hey, Ty, breathe,” Carlos says, drowning out his voice with his own, pressing closer. “It was just a nightmare, we both made it out, we’re both here and we’re both okay. We’re both okay.”

“I… I can’t… I just…” 

“Baby, you’re shaking, you’ve gotta calm down, okay.”

“I don’t… I can’t…”

“Here, lay back down,” Carlos says, loosening his grip a bit. TK shrieks, holding tighter. “It’s okay, trust me. TK, I need you to trust me.”

It takes him a moment, but finally TK lets him go. He closes his eyes, feeling the way Carlos lowers him back down onto the mattress. TK can still feel himself shaking, but before he can really start to panic again, he feels a weight on him, one that presses him firmly down, grounding him, holding him steady, from head-to-toe.

His eyes flutter open to take in Carlos above him where his face is pressed into his neck. He breathes, taking stock of their bodies, the way their hips rest against each other, the way Carlos firm thighs bracket his own. He brings his arms up around him, wrapping them around Carlos’s wide back before dragging one hand to the back of his neck and burying them in the soft curls there. 

It’s a position he’s intimately familiar with, though unlike other times there is nothing remotely sexual about this situation. Carlos turns his head just enough to press his lips under TK’s jaw, dragging his nose along the light stubble there. 

All he feels, all he sees, all he hears, is Carlos.

“Just breathe, baby. I’m right here. I’m all around you. I’ll keep you safe. Just like you kept me safe in the fire, just like you kept me grounded, just like you brought me back down when I felt scared and hurt and lost. I’m here for you now. It’s you and me, keeping each other safe, just you and me.”

He nods, letting Carlos drown him in his own form of a sermon, allowing the words to wash over him like a verse. He lets each syllable piece him back together again, remade in the image of the man he’s deemed worthy of loving him. The only man he will ever trust to do so.

He doesn’t need anything else, doesn’t want anything else. This is all he needs. This is all he will ever need.

Just him and Carlos, like this, forever.

-----

Someone’s snoring.

He comes to slowly, letting the world reintroduce itself to him. He hears music first, though it sounds tinny and, if he’s being honest, kind of grating. He shifts his hips a bit, feeling how the movement pulls against some tension in his lower back. He realizes he’s on a very hard surface and not at all on the very expensive mattress that he and Carlos splurged for a few years ago, when his husband started having his own fair share of lower back problems.

He opens his eyes, watching blue and red lights dance across the ceiling from the TV in the corner. A smile pulls at his lips as he shakes his head slightly, amused for no specific reason. Blue and red, he thinks. He’ll never escape them.

He lifts his head just enough to see the children’s TV show currently playing to an audience of none. He remembers when Carlos, fully offended at Netflix asking if he was still watching the same show after a few hours, finally figured out a way to turn that setting off. TK will have to tease him about not turning off the autoplay function tomorrow morning.

He finally focuses on the snoring off to his right, a sound so familiar that he hadn’t really registered it before, his brain just accepting that it was there. He turns his head, his smile growing as he finds his husband asleep next to him, his head resting on TK’s outstretched (and now very painfully numb) arm. 

Carlos’s face is so soft, so serene, his brows slightly furrowed, his crease between his eyes just a little more pronounced. His lips are parted just barely, allowing his shallow breaths to escape and fill the living room around them. TK stares at him, overwhelmed by his beauty, overwhelmed by the feelings that are spreading throughout his chest at the sight of the man before him. 

Even in sleep, Carlos is mesmerizing.

TK glances down, his heart leaping at the sight of their little boy asleep between them, his face buried in Carlos’s shirt, his light brown curls resting against the pillow beneath him. Carlos has an arm draped over him, his fingers grazing TK’s arm. 

A memory flashes in his mind, one from when he was much younger, of his parents surrounding him in much the same way as they all lay together on his firetruck bed. He remembers how safe he felt between them; how between their bodies, he knew he could never be hurt.

He’s surprised to find that he feels that way even now, even as a father himself. He knows it’s because of the man before him; Carlos’s presence has always meant safety to him. He doesn’t see that ever stopping. He wouldn’t ever want it to.

He scoots just a little bit closer, groaning slightly at the numbness in his arm. He holds his breath as his husband shifts, his eyelids fluttering open. Brown eyes meet green, and TK feels the entire world shift into focus in that single moment.

“Hey,” Carlos whispers, dragging his fingers gently along TK’s side.

“We fell asleep on the living room floor,” TK whispers, scrunching his face as he shifts again, feeling the strain on his hips.

“Actually, you fell asleep on the floor, in the middle of Paw Patrol,” Carlos corrects, his hand leaving TK’s side to boop his nose. “We just decided that we would rather stay with you than sleep in our incredibly comfy beds.”

“Your back is going to kill you in the morning, you know that, right?”

“I could say the same thing about your hips,” Carlos replies, raising an eyebrow. TK says nothing, just nods his head and rolls his eyes. 

“Grace is taking him tomorrow night, so we can run a bath, work out each other's kinks.”

“The fact that you are saying that and it’s not about sex makes me feel so incredibly old.”

“I never said it couldn’t be about sex.”

TK feels his jaw drop, watching as Carlos’s eyes twinkle in the blue light from the TV. He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his husband’s lips. 

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”

“I’d be offended if you weren’t, Mr. Strand-Reyes.”

TK drags the tip of his nose along the ridge of Carlos’s before letting out a sigh. “Now that we’re awake, should we move to our beds, save ourselves from total regret and bodily mutilation?”

Carlos hums, looking down at the bundle of limbs between them. “It’s up to you. I just want to sleep next to you, wherever you are.”

TK takes him in for a moment, the way his long lashes brush against his cheeks, the peaceful smile that pulls at his lips as he looks down at their son. It’s a stunning image, powerful in its perfection.

“No, I think we can handle one night,” he says, scooting closer. He does remove his arm from under Carlos’s head, replacing it with the throw pillow laying on the ground next to them. “Besides, I think this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Carlos hums in agreement, wiggling a little closer and smacking his lips softly as he drifts off to sleep.

TK stays awake until Carlos’s soft snores drown out all possible distractions, the feeling of absolute love and certainty filling him with a heaviness that drags him back into the darkness of sleep, all nightmares kept at bay for now.

[lucycola]

Spock being kind of betrayed by his love interest but after a bit of angst, everything falls into place and fluff is baaaack :>

Spock x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Language, sexual situations, daddy kink if you squint

Spock is a bit of a stubborn asshole in this one. He doesn’t like being lied to and will not stop at getting the truth, especially when he knows it’s about him. Spock may be a little too personal in front of Bones, but it’s an emotional situation. 

The buzz from your monitor diffused through the air, ringing in Spock’s ears. As low as it was it still brought him to groggily open his eyes. The whole room was wrapped in a soft blue glow. He sat up, hand immediately feeling the empty spot next to him.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not exactly sure how long,” you whispered, hunched over the screen.

“T’hy’la,” he said into the glow, tone sharper than he intended.

You hurriedly flipped off the monitor.

“Spock,” you said, “I’m sorry I woke you.” You tip-toed carefully across the room and crawled back under the thermal blankets. Your boyfriend have better been thankful that you were extremely cold natured otherwise the mere temperature of his cabin would drive you out of the room.

“What were you-”

“I was finishing up some work for the lab. I dreamed of it and woke and immediately I had to do it before it slipped my mind.”

He could sense your deceit in the way your voice wavered, but it also did that when you were grieving. He moved to find your hand in the dark, but failed as you began to massage his scalp.

Were you avoiding his touch? he wondered.

“Sleep, Sa-mekh,” you gently teased him with the only word that could make his scowl at you, other than ‘papa’ itself. He did like it in bed, however, as much as he denied it.

You paused, thinking of the word critically, a surge of panic leaving your hands. He could feel it, “Tell me what ails you. Who were you talking to a moment ago?”

“Myself,” you quickly yanked your hands away. “I really am sorry for waking you.”

He didn’t bother turning to face you or to further question you. It would come out eventually at the test of his impatience or yours. Something was upsetting you-he felt the raw emotion even through the follicles of his scalp. He would take more time to ponder-more time to investigate.

“I shall return to  sleep - as should you. You should participate in your work on the alpha shift singularly as your sleep cycles will continue to be disrupted therefore lowering you work efficiency-”

“And yours?” you finished for him, half joking. “Whatever you say, Commander.”

x

“I wish everyone would stop treating us like we’re married, honestly,” you said, crossing your arms in front of Doctor McCoy.

“All I know is that I’ve got an irritated Vulcan asking me to scan you. He thinks you're hiding something from me and he’s doing whatever he can to figure it out before actually asking you. Something about not letting him touch you. I tried to tell him it was normal once a month-”

You gave him a playful swat.

“Forgive me, I jest.”

“How ridiculous,” you replied and then sighed.

“That’s a man’s pride for you. It escapes no species,” Nurse Chapel said handing you back the report.

“And as you are hiding something, I’m guessing, I suggest you go on out with it. He’ll tear the ship apart finding an answer.”

“And how I think he used to indulge in smothering me in rapid fire questions. That was before our first meld,” you said, fingering the edge of the padd not having fully looked at it yet.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t tried that yet,” McCoy said, “He’s already hunted me down once. I’m not allowed to say anything, but as a favor to me-”

“Bones-”

“Keep him out of my hair and tell him whatever it is you’re lying about-”

You turned the padd to face him and his eyes enlarged, first with shock and then with mirth. He let out a hearty laugh.

“Good luck with that one. I’d say he’s gonna turn green, but that’s normal for him.”

“Have you  talked to your mother yet, honey?” Nurse Chapel asked.

x

Why would you have spoken with your mother so late an hour? Was it purposeful because he had been sleeping? Was it an emergency? Surely you would have told Spock.

He had already extracted the call log from his comm, even though the data had been private and locked under your information. You would fuss at him later he already knew, but this little inkling in the back of his mind reminded him. That raw feeling he felt through your hands. It terrified you. You were scared of something.

You were lying to him. You had lied to him. You had not been speaking to yourself. You had been speaking to your mother. He supposed he could contact your mother, but you two had never formally been introduced and some parties might find that offensive.

You were eating less and less and sleeping with him less and less. You weren’t being as intimate as you usually were either and that was most alarming. Not because it was a requirement to Spock, but because it was a deviation of your behavior. Spock didn’t usually adopt Terran colloquialisms, but once after sucking him off in the lab in the middle of a gamma shift he called you a ‘dirty bird’. He always made you blush when using Terran phrases and slang.

Was it something he did? It seemed he was always doing something, but Spock could honestly not place something accidentally offensive or insulting he might have said. You were pretty good at pointing out when he was too candid or too critical. He was good at pointing out when you were too emotional and too...well too human.

Yet he relished in every bit of that-and so did you, or so he thought you had.

So what was it?

Spock didn’t chew on his nails, but found himself letting the edge of his thumb rest in his teeth.

A familiar warm hand clapped him on the shoulder.

“Look alive, Spock,” the captain playfully chided.

“I assure you captain I am in no way deceased.”

x

You were pregnant. It was that simple. Yet, it didn’t feel simple at all. You wouldn’t hardly let Spock even touch you for fear of finding out. You were terrified of his response.

You were puking in the bathroom and had called your mother immediately. It was the second week in a row and Christine’s labs proved it.

You had a bun in your oven. You could see Spock giving you the quizzical brow at the use of the expression. You could see yourself fussing a little, telling him you knew that he knew exactly what that phrase meant and to stop acting like he didn’t.

It was true what you had said to Bones.

You two weren’t married. It was perfectly normal to have a child out of wedlock- that was, on Earth. You hadn’t even met his parents. What would they say? It would only be a fourth Vulcan. He didn’t speak fondly of his father and whenever prompted you could practically read how sour their relationship was. His father had to be fond of humans to some extent-his wife was human after all.

Would other Vulcans shame Spock? Would they shame your baby?

You heard a buzz from the comm. You got up out of bed and walked over.

“McCoy to Yeoman L/N.”

“Yes, doctor?”

“I’ve got a green-blooded devil down here demanding your presence.”

You groaned into your fist.

“You can’t make me.”

“Please.”

It was the first time you ever heard Spock say that. The tone was nearly pitiful as it was on edge.

x

“You can’t make anyone get a scan, Spock. She doesn’t even work in your division,” Bones said once you arrived.

“She has not been eating, sleeping, nor participating in the normal intimate recreations. Her behavior is off and her pallor has changed considerably,” Spock argued.

“That’s not of anyone’s business, Spock,” you said, appalled. He was being...so unlike himself. It was even weirder that it was in front of Bones. Spock would rather eat his hat than be any kind of vulnerable in front of...well anyone. 

“He’s...he’s just worried about you,” Nurse Chapel offered politely from afar.

You groaned, “I wish everyone would just stay out of it. I’m not ready for this.”

“Well you should’ve thought about that before you...uh” Bones started but immediately stopped when you shot him daggers, “Spock, why don’t you just ask her?’

“She has deceived me once before. I do not trust her again to be candid. She is either emotionally upset with a matter and does not want to tell me because it concerns me or she is ill and is emotional about such and does not want to tell me. Either way I am...most concerned.”

It seemed Spock would be eating his own hat later. You could feel the heat rise in your cheeks. Was he really this worried? 

“Spock...”

He turned to you, “I apologize for involving the doctor but I do not like it when you lie. Especially when I can be of assistance.”

You could feel water brimming at your lashes. “You’re so smart, Spock. Just so damn smart I hate it.”

You sat on the edge of one of the stretchers, tears dribbling down your face.

“Now, look what you’ve done, you ass!” Bones said angrily, “Out of my bay this instant.”

Spock ignored him and knelt down in front of you.

“I can help. And if I can’t we will find a way, ashayam.”

You looked up at him. “I am upset with something...and I am sick and it does have to do with you. Both of your guesses were right.”

You held out a hand. He assumed it was to meld, but it wasn’t so as you only placed his hand palm down on your still flat abdomen.

His eyes widened. “Y/N...”

“I know I lied about talking to my mother. I was just afraid you would find out and I wasn’t... I just don’t think we’re ready. I want to be ready, but I don’t know if you’re ready. We’re not married and I don’t want to cause trouble for you on Vulcan.”

He stared at your stomach for a long time, hand unmoving.

“I do not care what others think of me on Vulcan. I do not care what they think of my t’hy’la or my child,” he said with a tone of finality, “I only care what you think. If you are not ready I will not force you to beget my children.”

“Are you ready?” you asked.

“I do not think a parent ever truly is. My mother once spoke those words to me,” he admitted, “But it is not my say in the matter whether you choose to carry out the pregnancy. Do you wish to terminate the pregnancy?”

“No, Spock.”

He rubbed your stomach gingerly, “I am sorry for my behavior, ashayam. It was most ill-mannered of me. The mother of my child deserves better treatment.”

You placed your hand over his while it was still on your stomach, “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t lie to you.”

“Well, well,” the doctor spoke up from the awkward silence beside his nurse, “I guess we ought to pass around cigars now?”

It seemed you both had forgot that Bones and Christine were still even there, witnessing the sappy moment between you two. 

Spock repaired that easily. 

“I will not allow my t’hy’la to engage in such a habit or for those surrounding her to do so. Certainly, doctor, you do not permit such unhealthy behaviors to pregnant persons.”

You laughed and Bones rolled his eyes.

Another day on the Enterprise, you thought. Another day.

tagged: @groovyfluxie @dontgivedeath @lumar014 @pringtella @moonchildlonan @superninjapervert420 @love-wanderlust15 @ischysiaclark​@imyourspacegirlfriend @hiddlestonme @fandoms4ever97 @mywellspringoflife​ @rebelchild93 @nilalunis16​

[polaroid15]

Febuwhump day 20 - Betrayal

Summary: “How bad?” Tony asks.

“Not bad.”

“Pete-”

“I’m serious! I’ve gotten ten times worse as Spider-Man.”

When Tony looks at him, it’s gentle, and it nearly brings him to tears. “But you weren’t Spider-Man, buddy.”

Or, Peter just wanted a coffee.

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138196/chapters/72739866

------

It’s not everyday that Peter is pistol whipped in the face by a Starbucks customer.

Today, however, is that day.

He’s at the front of the line, finally, and just as the cashier hands him his change a man wearing a crudely cut ski mask shoots two bullets into the ceiling. Everyone screams, ducks, and through the mass panic Peter hears his handful of change roll across the floor.

“Are you kidding me-”

“EVERYONE ON THE GROUND!”

Peter listens, trying his best to keep calm as he assesses his surroundings. The store has six customers and two employees. Another masked individual joins the first, also holding a gun.

That they’re not afraid to use, apparently.

Slowly and praying not to draw attention, Peter’s fingers close around the watch Tony had given him for his birthday and presses the side button three times. He’s only used the distress signal once before, and Tony had been at his side to help within a matter of minutes.

These idiots won’t even know what hit them.

The first man crosses behind the counter and shoves his gun into the barista’s face. “Open the register.”

For a minute, Peter thinks she’s going to refuse, her eyes set with anger and fear. As if getting the same sense, the man with the gun presses the barrel hard against her cheek and she whimpers. “Now,” he repeats, and she obeys with shaking hands.

Even though she complies, the man steps closer, his trigger finger tensing as the first inch of the barrel practically disappears into her face. Spidey sense screaming, Peter stands carefully, hands outstretched, “hey, hey. Come on man. Ease up. She’s doing what you asked-”

“On the ground,” the second criminal yells at him, spit flying from his mask. Peter freezes on the spot, eyes glued on the trembling barista. For one terrible moment, he’s brought back to a dark alley, his hands pressing down desperately on Ben’s chest.

“The register’s open,” Peter reasons, “let her go.”

“Looks like someone’s trying to play hero,” the first robber sneers. He pushes the barista aside and she falls onto the floor with a strangled yelp. “Grab him.”

Peter doesn’t flinch as the man’s accomplice obeys, digging strong fingers into his bicep and dragging him out of line. His back is brought against the man’s chest and the gun is pressed into his throat. He swallows at the pressure and keeps his eyes trained on the first man, who’s stuffing a duffel with cash.

Outside, there’s sirens.

“Damn it!”

The first man slams the empty drawer closed, throwing his gun out widely, “which one of you called the police?”

Peter almost laughs. Almost. “Are you kidding? You would’ve heard it if someone called. It’s a small room, buddy-”

A sharp pain in his face nearly sends him crashing to his knees. Blood pools onto his tongue but he keeps it there, not wanting to scare the other customers. Through the aching pulse in his head he hears a couple of them gasp.

“Not the time to be smart, kid.”

“Well you’re the ones who decided to rob a Starbucks of all places.”

Before Peter can even suck in a breath, he’s hit three more times, all where the first blow had landed. This time he does fall, and the man kicks him in the ribs for good measure when he’s down. The force of it has him gasping and somewhere in the distance Peter hears a kid crying.

Don’t think about Ben, don’t think about Ben.

“Police are here. Damn it. What do we do?”

Peter hears shuffling as he tries to reorient himself, his head spinning like a top. He only makes it to his elbows before his jacket is grabbed at its shoulder and he’s manhandled to his feet. He sways but stands his ground, wiping the blood off his chin with his sleeve.

“We take him with us.”

Peter doesn’t have the energy to argue as he’s dragged to the entrance by his neck. Through the glass and a rapidly swelling eye, Peter sees a semi circle of police, completely closing off an escape. He thinks he sees a flash of red and gold, too, but he can’t be sure.

“Walk, kid. No funny business.”

And he does, grateful, above everything else, that no one got hurt.

With a forceful shove, Peter is thrown out of the store, the grip on his neck still strong. He knows it’ll bruise in the shape of fingers, that he’ll stare at it in the mirror later and shudder at the memory of the touch.

“Drop your weapons!”

Peter yelps as the back of his knee is kicked in, forcing him to the ground. One of the men grabs his hair, forcing his head back, and sticks his gun underneath his chin. “Make another move and the kid gets it!”

It’s only now that Peter realizes his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him. Tony is here, standing on the sidelines of officers, his eyes blown wide with panic before his expression is cut off by his helmet.

He feels too dazed to be relieved.

“Let the kid go!” he hears one of the officers yell.

“Let us go!”

Peter chuckles again, and he’s not sure why. He feels warm blood dribble down his chin, and the grip tightens in his hair until he’s sure it’s going to be pulled right out of his scalp.

Whatever the men holding him had thought this was going to go, it must not be working, because one of the hisses a “get up” in his ear. Peter tries to listen, but he feels shaky and weak, and mostly just lets himself be dragged. He ends up back against the man’s chest, the gun pressed so forcefully into his temple that the opposite side of his head nearly touches his shoulder.

Only now does he let himself be afraid.

He could die.

Not as Spider-Man, not as a hero, but as himself. Right now. At Starbucks, of all places.

In front of Tony.

His mentor would never forgive himself.

“Walk,” the man hisses in his ear, and Peter stumbles obediently along with them as they step away from the door. The police follow them with their guns but otherwise don’t move.

“Where are you going to run?” Peter chokes. “It’s already too late.”

“Shut up.”

“There’s no way out of this.”

“I said shut up!”

Peter gasps when his head is hit again, his vision whitening at its edges. He must slump because the man struggles to keep him vertical. Somewhere in his fall Peter hears a familiar blast of repulsors and the hostile touch leaves him instantly. He falls to the cement, barely managing to catch himself on his elbows.

There’s a sudden rush of movement and Peter winces at the sheer loudness of it all. He hears muffled curses, boots hitting the pavement, the hostages inside the store cheering-

“Peter?”

And then there’s Iron Man, crouched down beside him and lifting up his chin gently with a metal-clad hand. Peter blinks away his double vision and musters a weak smile. “Hey man,” he wheezes, “coffee break?”

Tony doesn’t laugh like Peter hoped he would. Instead, he feels the armour shift under his arms and he’s lifted up, up and away. He jams his eyes closed at the sudden vertigo and lets out a tense breath when they land together on a nearby rooftop. In a second Tony is out of the suit and sitting beside Peter, his hands ghosting over the blood and bruises on his face.

“Concussion?”

“Look at my face. What do you think?”

“Cut that sass, kid. I have enough for the both of us. Anything else hurt?”

“Uh, my pride?”

“Ha. Funny. Now tell me the real answer.”

Peter sighs, and somewhere in the middle chokes on the blood in his throat. It makes his ribs flare and the wince he makes must be enough for Tony to piece two and two together.

“How bad?” he asks.

“Not bad.”

“Pete-”

“I’m serious! I’ve gotten ten times worse as Spider-Man.”

When Tony looks at him, it’s gentle, and it nearly brings him to tears. “But you weren’t Spider-Man, buddy.”

He sighs again and this time it’s easier. He lays down against the pavement in hopes it’ll stop the world from spinning while Tony hovers beside him like a worried mother hen. “Didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“So let me guess,” Tony says, “you smart mouthed them.”

“Yep.”

“Course you did.”

Peter groans, poking gingerly at his swelling eye. He can barely see out of it anymore, which is highly unfortunate. “I lost my change. And I didn’t even get my drink.”

“Well, you’re alive, so that’s something.”

“Starbucks is expensive, Tony. I was treating myself.”

“I’ll buy you the whole damn Starbucks company if it’ll stop you from getting your face smashed in.”

Peter laughs at this. It makes his ribs burn. “Deal.”

Tony is quiet for a minute. “Feel up for a flight back home?”

Home.

He smiles.

“Only if we can pick up a coffee on the way.”

“Good God, kid. Look at these grey hairs. No seriously, I want you to look at them.”

Peter huffs out a laugh, head lolling slightly as Tony pulls him back up by his arms. Before they lift off, Peter is surprised when Tony wraps him in a hug. He blinks, then relaxes into it. It feels as if some of his pain is leaking into Tony.

He feels better.

“Thanks for coming,” he whispers.

Tony pulls away, ruffling his hair softly, his scalp still sore. “How couldn’t I? You were smart for once in your life and actually used the panic button I gave you-”

“Smart enough for a coffee?” Peter smirks, a cut on his lip stinging.

Tony looks at him solemnly and shakes his head.

“Grey hairs, Pete. Grey hairs.”

[feferipeixes]

Still Alive

After Dipper learns that this whole "being a demon" thing means he's going to live forever, he and Mabel talk about the future, and what he's going to do when everyone he knows dies. It's not until much later that he starts to realize that they'll never truly die -- just like he'll never truly get sick of ice cream.

Thanks to @toothpastecanyon for beta reading!

(See the most updated version on AO3!)

===

“If you could choose one project to do and be guaranteed that you’d finish it eventually, no matter how long it took, what would you do?”

“Hmm....” Mabel replied, itching her scalp with a plastic hand clapping toy. “Oh! I’d get my hands on the Ultimate Magical Shimmering Rainbow-splosion Fluffykins doll! There’s only five hundred in existence -- they’re super duper rare!”

“No no no,” Dipper countered. “That’s too easy, and too short. All you’d need to do is set up some eBay alerts, bribe a few people, maybe sneak into the FluffCorp factory building. Not even -- you could just snap your fingers -” (he snapped his fingers for effect, causing a puff of blue flame to momentarily appear) “and conjure it.”

“I can’t -” Mabel started, but Dipper kept talking over her.

“I’m talking about something really unprecedented. Something that would take a long time, something you wouldn’t ordinarily be able to do. Something that would change the world.”

“Oh, I get it now!” Mabel tossed the toy aside and flipped over, letting her head dangle off the end of her bed. “I’d call you a dork a million times.”

Her brother scowled at her and jumped out of his chair and into the air. “Hey!” he yelped over Mabel’s laughter. “I'̼͚̻͓͎̲m̡̖̰̘̣͎ ̖͇̕n̛̻ơ̰t̷̟͇̱ ̝̺̻a̳̦ ̪̟̮͖ḑor̞͓̭k̟̤̖!̛͍ And even if I was, that wouldn’t take you very long! At, uh, a rate of, let’s see, you could probably say ‘you’re a dork’ at least 30 times per minute, and if you didn’t ever sleep…”

Mabel watched the red tinge fade away from his features as he paced around in mid air, doing math in his head. “Yeah. You’re totally not a dork, Sir Maths-a-lot. You sure showed me.”

“- It wouldn’t even take you a month,” Dipper finished. “Besides, how would that change the world?”

“Hmm, well if I call you a dork enough times,” Mabel answered, “maybe my big scary demon brother would decide he doesn’t want to be a dork and instead he’d do something with his cool magic powers that ends up making the world a better place!”

“Mabel?”

“Yeah bro-bro?”

Dipper frowned at her. “Your face is turning purple.”

“Touche,” she replied, rubbing her chin very seriously. She slid the rest of the way off the bed and clutched her throbbing head. “Owww…”

“That's what you get for giving me dumb answers,” Dipper quipped, arms crossed.

“You mean for giving you fun answers,” Mabel corrected, and then winced at another sting of pain. “Why are you asking me these weird questions anyway?”

A panicked look flickered across Dipper's face, and his feet touched the ground. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Mabel, still massaging her temples, pushed herself semi-upright to give her brother a look. “Come on. ‘What would you do if you had all the time in the world?’ ’What movie could you watch a million times and never get sick of it?’ ’Do you think Stancakes have a shelf life longer than 100 years?’ Something is clearly up.”

Dipper giggled awkwardly (was there any other way he could giggle?) and stared at the ceiling. “Nothing. It's nothing!”

“What, are you really not gonna tell me?” Mabel pushed. ”What if I tickle you?”

Her brother recoiled in horror. “You wouldn't.”

There was a tense silence as the two twins considered whose was the stronger will: the expert fighter with a plethora of torture tactics at hand, or the demon. Mabel narrowed her eyes. Dipper sharpened his claws. No words were exchanged. The room was perfectly still.

Mabel jolted forward half a foot and Dipper shrieked.

“Okay, you win, just don't tickle me!” he begged, throwing his hands up. “I'll tell you!”

“Good,” Mabel replied. “Things were about to get ugly. Spill it, bro-bro.”

Dipper sighed. He dusted himself off -- a habit he'd gotten into lately even though he was pretty sure nothing he could do would make his orange shirt and vest look any less weird with his new body.

“Remember… Remember the thing I told you the other day, when I had that infodump and learned more about my powers?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “You found out that your omniscience tells you whenever anyone farts.”

“No!” he squeaked. “Although, you are right, it does do that and it's annoying, especially because now I can smell it from like a mile away.”

He wrinkled his nose, staring off into space for a minute before shaking his head. “But that's not what I mean. I'm talking about… how I'm never going to die.”

It had been about a week since Mabel had walked into the living room to find Dipper writhing and sobbing on the floor. She remembered the way he’d looked right through her, how he hadn’t seemed to even notice her presence when she sat him upright, how he kept muttering “still alive, still alive” over and over again, and it hadn’t made any sense to her then, but when he finally snapped out of it and was able to vocalize what he’d seen…

She shuddered at the memory of it.

“Since then,” Dipper continued, “I’ve been thinking about how I’m going to deal with it. And I had this idea that I could come up with things to do to fill the time.”

“What, so you’re going to plan out your whole life?” Mabel asked, incredulous. “Let me guess -- you’re making a checklist? Hah! Can you imagine?”

She giggled, and then he reached into his vest and pulled out oh sweet Moses.

“I’ve already got some good stuff on here,” Dipper said, ignoring or not noticing his sister’s flabbergasted expression. “I’m gonna learn how to make a sword by hand. I’m gonna watch all of Tiger Fist backwards to see if there are any hidden messages. And there’s this spa getaway weekend that the Multibear invited me on -- shoot, wait, he’s gonna be dead by then, umm…”

Mabel raised an eyebrow as her brother started scribbling on the checklist. “Dipper. This is obsessive even for you.”

“What would you know?” he shot back. “You’re not the one who’s immortal.”

“I know how to have this thing called ‘fun’,” she replied. “Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

He grumbled at her, eyes locked on his checklist. He couldn’t believe he forgot that the Multibear spa trip thing was a limited time offer. That kind of stuff was slipping his mind more and more these days, like the time Mabel asked him to play cards with her and he was so busy alphabetizing his Sibling Brothers books that he neglected to respond to her for three days.

Although, now that he thought about it, that might’ve been before he became a demon.

Something damp and cold hit Dipper in the face, and he spluttered in surprise. “What was that?” he shouted. One of his flailing hands happened to close on the object as it fell, and he held it up to the light.

“It’s a popsicle, doofus!” Mabel said. She’d fetched two from the minifridge in their room while he was distracted, and was busy licking away at her own, which was chocolate. “Remember those?”

He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t have ti-”

“I’ll throw another one at you,” Mabel interrupted.

“- I guess I could have some ice cream,” Dipper finished.

He floated over and sat on the floor next to his sister. He removed the paper from the popsicle and gave the object a sniff. The aroma of orange and vanilla caressed his sensitive nose, and he realized how long it’d been since he had any sugar. Without a second moment’s thought, he threw his head back, stretching both his neck and jaw further than they were supposed to go, and placed the entire popsicle -- stick and all -- into his gaping maw.

“See, what’d I tell you?” Mabel said, smirking at the satisfaction on her brother’s face. She reached up with her popsicle to scratch an itch on her nose, and then went right back to eating it. “I always know what to do with my time. I wonder what it’d be like if I lived forever…”

Dipper eyed the glob of chocolate ice cream on the bridge of her nose. “The world would probably be a much more chaotic place.”

“You mean a much BETTER place!” she declared. “Everyone would have fun and ice cream all the time!”

He grinned. “You’re right. It would be a much better place. Because my best friend would be there.” Mabel looked at him, a twinkle in her eye and ice cream all over her face, and his grin fell away. “I guess this is what you felt like when I said I was going to be Grunkle Ford’s apprentice, huh. I’m such a shitty bro-”

Mabel at once had her hands on his face, squishing his cheeks together so he’d stop talking. “Nuh-uh. Bro-bro you’re gonna stop hating on yourself Right. Now.” She was still smiling, but her tone had twisted into something harsh. “Okay, sure, I’m gonna die someday and then you’re gonna have to figure out what to do on your own. But I’m not ready to think about that and neither are you! We’re hecking 13 years old! We should act like it, while we’ve still got the chance. Please don’t make me think about dying yet.”

Dipper winced, and she let go of him. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“S’okay.” She patted him on the back, harder than he’d been expecting, and he was so surprised that he coughed up the popsicle stick he’d eaten earlier.

For a minute, neither of them said a word. Dipper lifted a hand to his face, where he felt something sticky.

“You got chocolate on my face.”

“Yeah. On your vest, too.” She stuck her tongue out at him. “What are you going to do about it?”

He looked at his hands, still small and smooth like a child. With a thought, he bathed both hands in a blue flame, searing away the chocolate and leaving them clean, just the way he liked them. Then he cleared his throat.

“I’m gonna chase you around the house,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Smiling ear-to-ear, Mabel jumped up and ran to the wall. “You’re nuts if you think you can catch me, even with demon powers!” Cackling, she threw the door open, which bathed her in a blinding white light.

Dipper thought about his infodump from the other day, thought about the part he hadn’t told Mabel, the tiny glimpse he’d gotten of his sister when she’d been old, pale, and still -- too horribly, horribly still. It was just a glimpse, but it haunted him -- the thought that one day there wouldn’t be a single trace left of Mabel Pines anywhere in the world. She was right -- as always -- that he was obsessing, that he was letting a thought hurt him when it didn’t have to.

He wasn’t ready to think about growing up yet, either. No matter how strong the pull to obsess was, he had to find a way to fight it.

“You can’t get away from me!” Dipper roared, and flew after his sister into the future.

---

"Wahoo! That was a great idea -- getting ice cream -- Dipper! I feel so much better! You always know how to cheer me up."

Dipper, clad in his usual human disguise, collapsed onto the bench with a grunt. "I dunno, this stuff tastes off. You’d think with all the technological advancements since the Transcendence that they’d have found a way to perfect ice cream."

His friend Arin, who was somehow managing to carry five popsicles in two hands, nodded with a serious look on her face. "Yeah. Oh sure a lot of old timey diseases were eradicated and we've got flying cars and stuff. But not one of these ice pops actually tastes like orange!"

She stared at him for a beat longer, then finally broke into snickers. One of the popsicles fell out of her hand, and a stubby arm immediately shot out from under the bench to catch it.

His face twisting in confusion, Dipper bent over to look under the bench. There were two gnomes right beneath him -- one of them hissed when they saw him, making him jump and making Arin laugh even harder.

"Ha-ha, okay," Dipper said, hand on his chest like his heart was racing. Despite this, he couldn't keep a small smile from creeping onto his face.

So much had changed in the last five hundred years, and yet so much else had stayed the same. Wars were fought, societies had formed and collapsed, but people were still people, and Dipper was still Dipper. Even though he’d had more than a few incidents where his demonic nature overcame his humanity, he always seemed to land back on his feet again eventually. Sometimes all it took was a friend.

Right now, his friend was a girl named Arin who he’d saved when someone else had tried to sacrifice her to him. He remembered how grateful she’d been, how she gave him a hug despite him being a void black monster splattered with blood, and how she then spent 20 minutes chatting with him about dragons even though she’d just had a very traumatic experience. She seemed, in other words, cool. So he later presented himself to her as fellow undergraduate student Dipper, without revealing that it was him who’d saved her that night, and they’d been good friends ever since.

Arin sat next to him and started taking bites out of her ice pops. "Yknow, the Transcendence-era wasn't that great," she said, although with her mouth busy it sounded like she was drowning.

Dipper's brow creased. "What do you mean?"

She gulped down the hunk of ice in her mouth. "No offense -- I know you're totally obsessed with Transcendence history stuff -- but that was soooo long ago. There's no one left who was alive back then, except like vampires I guess. But vampires don't eat ice cream so it doesn't matter."

Dipper bit back the urge to say "I know a vampire who loves ice cream as long as there's blood in it". What came out instead was "So?"

"So!" Arin shoved an entire popsicle into her mouth, and then had to take a minute to cough up the stick. "S-so," she continued amid gasps, "no one knows for sure what ice cream tasted like in the year 2012. And that includes you, Mr. Argues-With-The-Teacher! For all we know, old timey ice cream tasted like sawdust!"

Dipper considered his chocolate popsicle, which he's barely looked at since the first taste. "I guess you're right." He gave it another wary lick.

It didn't taste like chocolate the way he remembered it, but it was close enough.

"Do you ever think," he asked, unable to meet his friend's eyes, "about all the stuff that used to exist but doesn't anymore? All the ideas and food and... people?"

Arin groaned. "Is that what this is about? My best friend of the past 2 years -- secretly one of those 'I was born in the wrong century' people?"

"No!" he shot back, before taking another lick of the popsicle. "I just think it's sad that stuff goes away and no one's there to remember it."

"Well, maybe no one remembers that stuff, but that doesn't mean it's forgotten."

Dipper looked up. "Huh?"

Arin scarfed down her remaining two popsicles, which had begun melting onto her hand. "People die and ideas change and the world moves on. It happens constantly! But those people influenced their friends and their family and their coworkers. Who in turn influenced other people. Those people might be dead, but they live forever in the words and actions of everyone who came after."

Dipper just stared at her, jaw dropped. "Where did that come from?" he managed to get out. "Five seconds ago you were gagging on frozen sugar! You're not allowed to be this insightful!"

"Sugar rushes always make me super thoughtful," Arin said, patting him on the back. "It's 'cause I'm a genius. I'm probably gonna crash hard later though. Also by the way your ice cream is totally melting."

"Ah, shoot." Dipper hurriedly tried to catch the melting ice cream with his tongue, and Arin giggled again.

"The point is," she said, "if you've always got your head stuck in a history textbook, you're gonna miss out on the present. If you're always thinking about the dead guy who invented ice cream, you won't be around to eat any with me."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said. He felt an itch on his nose, so he wiggled it. "Thanks, Arin. I feel better- why are you looking at me like that?"

Arin was indeed staring at him with a perplexed look on her face as if she was not the one who'd just swallowed a metric ton of ice cream. "Why do you do that?"

Dipper frowned. "Do what? AGH-"

He yelped as Arin whipped out her phone and snapped a photo of him, blinding him with the flash even though it was a bright, sunny day out. "What was that for?"

She didn't say anything, simply handed him her phone. It certainly was not the best photo ever taken of him. It was blurry, his hair was a mess, and his mouth was contorted in shock.

On the bridge of his nose was a dollop of chocolate ice cream.

"You do it every time we get ice cream," Arin said, taking her phone back. "I mean, you call me weird, but I'm not the one always itching my nose with an ice pop."

"Oh," Dipper said. He paused and looked at his fingers, which were all chocolate-y too now. "I didn't even notice I was doing it."

"Suuure, weirdo," Arin chuckled. She stood up, wobbling a bit as she did so, and steadied herself on the back of the bench. "Listen dude, this was fun but I think the sugar's starting to hit me. I'm gonna head back to the dorm before I collapse. Wanna hang out later?"

"Definitely!" Dipper replied. "You should get some rest! Try not to give psychological counseling to anyone on the way -- you're gonna burn out your brain!"

He waved at his friend as she staggered away, and watched her until she turned a corner around a building. Then he sighed, and wiped his nose with his finger.

"Hey Mabel," he whispered, looking at the chocolate he'd collected. "It’s me, Dipper.”

A passing jogger sent a pointed look at the young man who was talking to his finger, but Dipper ignored them.

“I seem to remember you saying something to me about living forever. You said that one day you’d be gone, and I’d have to find a way to carry on alone.” He thought about Arin’s words, and felt something swell in his chest. “But I guess you’re still alive after all.”

He sniffed, and looked up at the sun as it started to bathe the sky in the pinks and purples of evening. He saw people in flying cars, people rushing through pneumatic tubes, people high fiving on jetpack because it was a wonderful day to be out. And he thought about what Arin said; thought about all of the sicknesses he'd seen friends and family afflicted by that no one ever had to suffer from again. He thought about all the preters he saw walking freely and happily on the campus, without worrying that they'd be attacked.

"And you were right," he said. "The world is a better place."

Dipper licked the remaining chocolate off his fingers, and got up. As he headed back toward his dorm room, he wondered what other legacies his loved ones had left in him.

(AO3 link)

[thestyleswritings]

Restoration of Faith

REQUEST: (this may be triggering, so i'd understand if you chose not to write it). first-time consensual sex. Y/N lost her virginity in a sexual assault but has been to therapy. It took her a while to be comfortable with sex, but now she decides she's finally ready to have sex with Harry for the first time. He know what happened wants to make it a positive experience for her so he's super gentle and attentive.

  "I'm... Nervous," she admits, biting her lower lip once again and truly testing his resolve. Her lips were always a key part in his fantasies. Contrary to her words, she rocks herself onto his growing length, making the pair of them shiver.

 "You don't need to be nervous, princess. This is all you. We can do whatever you want and nothing more. The ball is in your court." Harry tells her softly, though now his voice has a gruffness to it that she's only heard early in the morning.

Or

Harry meets a girl who’s been through something awful and falls deeply in love with her.

Warnings: Smut, TW // Mentions of abuse and self-harm

4k+ 

  Therapy had saved her life. She was ready and willing to admit that. After her attack, she stopped texting, calling, going out. She wouldn't make contact with anyone for anything, even her professors had thought she'd dropped off the face of the planet. She wasn't eating, she wasn't sleeping, and she wasn't showering. She also had a very nasty habit of hurting herself, even if only a little bit, just to feel something. The sting of a cut, the scorch of a lighter. It took her somewhere close to 3 months to even get out of her head and call a therapist.

 It had been another 6 months into therapy that she'd met Harry. Before he arrived in her life, she always kept the same routine to feel as if she had more control over her life, never failing to tick every box to the letter on her list of daily activities. It helped her feel like she was really in charge of her life, an exercise her therapist taught her, and consistently praised her for continuing on her own.

 The day she met Harry, everything she had structured in place for herself shifted. It started when she missed the bus she normally took to her weekly appointment, kicking herself for snoozing her alarm one too many times. She typically didn't even take advantage of the function on her phone, only she'd been feeling hazy for a few days prior and figured a moments peace couldn't hurt anyone. With a scowl on her face, she decided she'd just hoof it there and apologise profusely for her tardiness once she arrived.

 Only she never made it that day. One blasted thing after another got in her way, making it nearly impossible to get to her destination. Pavements were closed on one road, traffic being directed in a never-ending stream on another. It was maddening. She could almost feel herself unravelling towards a breakdown when a man spoke to her left, nearly causing her to jump from her skin.

 "Sorry love, was only asking if you knew another way 'round this intersection. I've got an appointment at a quarter til, and it's just about half-past now. I didn't mean to give you such a scare," the man sounded sincere, honest, apologetic. She felt the very corner of her lips raise at the notion. An honest man? Unfathomable.

 "S'alright, I'm just a bit caught up in my mind, innit?" She offered, tone teetering on cheekiness.

 "I must be too, s'why I'm on my way to therapy. Though it seems like every bloody traffic cop in London would rather I didn't make it there." The man scoffed lightheartedly, dramatically rolling his eyes for her amusement.

 "Oh, that's actually where I was headed." She offers, not exactly sure why. She didn't owe him any further explanation of her presence on the street, but here she was, still giving one. It felt nice. She hadn't so much as double taken a man since what had happened to her, but there was something so welcoming about him. So she dared to ask his name, creating an inevitable conversation. She made a note to let her therapist in on this major break in her recovery realisation.

 "'M Harry. You?" He said, glittering eyes gazing into hers.

--

 Another 6 months down the road, she felt her throat close up as her heart sank to her stomach. She and Harry had laid down a sturdy foundation together in the time leading up to then, strong as mountains. They'd quickly become the best of friends, laughing at all the same corny puns and jokes and learning every little quirk that made the other up. She knew things like how he took his coffee, and what kind of jam was his favourite. She knew where he'd grown up, who he was friends with in another life, strange dreams he had, what sort of dumb things he and his sister fought over when they were young. But she also had more intimate knowledge, things like his deepest fears regarding his family, his future, if he'll have a family of his own, his regrets. And he knew those same things about her. She trusted him by showing him what she'd done to herself when she needed to bring herself back to reality. She told him what she was ashamed of, both things she had done and what had been done to her. She spoke openly about how her purity had been snatched from her grasp, although kicking and screaming. She cried to him when she felt small. They had even told the other they were in love.

 That's what scared her half to death. She knew she loved him with the entirety of her soul, but she was afraid, almost petrified, to take her clothes off in front of him. She had a few unwelcomed touch-memories when he'd come up behind her and laid a hand on her hip innocently, or when he'd spontaneously kissed her neck and she nearly lost her mind.

 And he understood that. He couldn't imagine the kinds of trauma buried beneath her skin, the levels of paranoia that were bestowed upon her. From the nights she spent at his flat, he knew she sometimes would even jump in her sleep. It made him upset. Not because she was subconsciously jumping from his touch, but because someone made it that way. He would never forgive himself, even if the thought was beyond irrational, for not meeting her sooner. He wished more than anything to take that pain off her shoulders. To erase the searing memory she was still so harshly burdened with. Of course, he desired her physically, but he would never be able to live with himself if he made her feel pressured or uncomfortable. What kind of monster couldn't wait to be intimate with her? It kept him up some nights, but he'd never tell her that. She felt guilty enough as it was during their waking hours, he couldn't add to her burden by telling her he couldn't sleep sometimes while thinking of the horror she went through, cuddling her to his side deeper as she slept soundlessly.

 So when she went to Harry and sat on his lap, curled up like a kitten, he was a bit taken aback. He loved a cuddle and was one of the snuggliest creatures she had ever had the pleasure of meeting, but they usually only cuddled once they were in bed, where she felt the safest. He didn't dare protest, silently complying and raising a hand to get lost in her hair, petting his fingers against her scalp lightly.

 "What's on your mind, pet?" Harry rasped quietly, voice tired from the full day he'd had at work. She had been home all day, thinking of ways to break the conversation, fibbing and telling him she was skipping the day's class to stay at his flat and complete her essay, bringing her one step closer to her master's degree.

 "Just thinking. I love you, I've just been thinking about you all day." She admits softly, pressing a kiss to his neck just below his ear.  

 He feels a blush run over his cheeks, feels himself inflate with affection and giddiness, much like a puppy getting its belly scratched. He couldn't help the goofy smirk adorning his lips, he just felt too good not to.

 "Yeah, baby? I love you. I'm so crazy about you. You're always on my mind." He tells her, not caring how utterly lovesick he comes across at times.

 She flushes, though it comes with a tingle that travels from the top of her head to the tips of her fingertips and toes. It's almost like she can physically feel his soul in hers and she feels alive. She truly can't help but give his neck another kiss, wetter this time, and joined by several others. He shudders and she feels it, making her blood sing in her veins. She couldn't remember a time where she felt so in love, so safe and so free. She felt like she and Harry could soar the greatest heights together, the pair of them unstoppable when they were together. It was an incredible feeling.

 "What are you after, baby?" He questioned, not wanting her to stop but also wanting to see where her head was at. He didn't want her to make a rash decision if she would end up regretting it later down the line.

 Instead of answering outright, she removes her face from his throat with one last kiss. Her eyes are doe-like and Harry's heart stutters. She'd never looked more radiant or confident than in that moment. Taking her lip between her teeth, she looks down between them to catch his big hand in her smaller ones. The air thickened instantly, the pair of them seemingly holding their breath.

 "Just.. wanna be close to you. Wanna love on you, if you let me," she purrs, causing the hairs on Harry's neck to come to a stand and his tummy to flutter. She can't be implying what I think she is? He thinks to himself. It's not that she's never shown her attraction to him, he just can't believe today could be the day he's finally allowed to touch her. He's thought about it countless times, dreamt of it even, and it nearly brings a tear to his eye that she finally, finally feels comfortable and safe enough to physically show him love.

"Yeah? Show me how you wanna love on me, princess." Harry breathes, light filling his green eyes. He wants her to show him exactly what she wants, willing to go to the ends of the earth for his girl to be whatever she wanted.

 She's back to feeling shy, not really knowing how to initiate this. She knows he'd take the ropes if she were to hand them over, but they both know how important it is that she takes control at this moment. This is her choice.

She looks into his eyes and her breath stalls at the look of love he's sending her. She dives back in, kissing Harry with a fervour he's never felt from her. He can practically taste the lust dripping from her tongue onto his. Gingerly, she presses herself against his lap where he's already sporting a mainly solidly stiff prick. As silly as she feels for it, the presence of it shocks her, ripping a gasp from her puffy lips. The feeling sends her into a frenzy, pulling back with wide eyes and a rapidly rising and falling chest to meet his gaze once more.

 "Mhm, you feel it? 'S for you. Always is," Harry admits with a blush. He's no stranger to dirty talk, but he wants to take precautions with her. He doesn't know how filthy he can be without sending her back into her shell.

 "I'm... Nervous," she admits, biting her lower lip once again and truly testing his resolve. Her lips were always a key part in his fantasies. Contrary to her words, she rocks herself onto his growing length, making the pair of them shiver.

 "You don't need to be nervous, princess. This is all you. We can do whatever you want and nothing more. The ball is in your court." Harry tells her softly, though now his voice has a gruffness to it that she's only heard early in the morning.

 "I want you, in every way. Stayed home to pluck up the courage to do summat about it. And to take a very, very thorough shower that involved a lot of bending and twisting to get everything shaved." She tells him, a raspberry blush appearing beneath the skin of her cheeks. He's in awe again, of his darling girl.

 "Cheeky thing. Lied to me about why you stayed home just so you could strategise how to jump m' bones?" Harry chuckles, grabbing her waist delicately before making the motion to stand.

 "Gonna bring me to bed?" She asks breathlessly, nerves still getting the better of her. But she won't let her fears and self-doubt get in the way of another night she could've spent wrapped up in her love. Not anymore.

 The moment she feels the plush mattress beneath her, she can breathe a bit steadier. Even if they hadn't used the bed for its extra-curricular purpose, it was still a major staple in their relationship. She knew this place, and she felt safe here.

 "Take off your clothes." She instructs simply. If she were to get through to the rewarding bit of this, she had to hurry and get to it already. The build-up was the worst part. His lip curls at the command as he does what she asks. He leaves himself in nothing but his tight black boxer-briefs, kneeling on the bed before advancing. Watching and waiting to see if she would ask him to do something else.

 "Come here, please," she begs of him, reaching an arm out to grasp the back of his neck. He's awfully careful as he crawls up the bed, hovering over her much smaller body, not putting an ounce of pressure on her.

 "I love you. I love you so much. I-I wish you could've actually been my first," she begins, but he stops her.

 "I will be." He assures her, "If you didn't say yes, it wasn't your first, princess. I know I've told y'that. This is what you'll think about when you think about your first. I promise you I won't let any other thought come up." His voice breaks as he cradles her face, finally dropping his body to rest against hers. The kiss he lands to her lips shatters her and mends her at once, feeling the love and healing he put into it.

 "Please, I don't know what I'm doing yet," she mumbles against his lips, grazing her hand along his length. He draws back to look at her once before he's moving down the bed again, placing kisses to her neck and gripping the bottom of her shirt. She can faintly hear him asking to undress her through the blood rushing to her ears and she nods. She may be inexperienced, but she isn't naive. She knows exactly what he's headed down to do, and more than anything, she's excited.

 "Aw, princess, s'this all for me?" Harry coos his rhetorical question softly upon seeing how incredibly aroused she'd become, kissing the softest and squidgiest bit of her thigh; right up top.

 "You know it is," she whimpers, threading her fingers through his thick strands. Before she's even finished her sentence, her panties were pulled from her hips. She ignores the unpleasantly familiar sensation of someone that isn't her taking them off. Harry. It's Harry.

 "God princess, might be down here a while..." Harry breathes, voice drunk. She peers up at him quickly enough to catch the strong drag of his tongue against her slippery lips. The noise she makes would've made him laugh in other circumstances, a squeak, instead he grunts and grinds his hips into the mattress. He might not even make it inside her before he's tapped out.

 The movement of his tongue picks up each time she squeezes the handful of hair in her grasp, which is quite often, and he's loving it. He doesn't think he'll ever get enough of her sweet peach now that he's had his tongue inside her. She can't describe the feeling, she just knows that she would be asking him to replicate his actions often. She tenses up as her clit makes its way into his mouth, hearing the filthy slurps and moans coming from his lips. She could finish just from the sound of him. She thrashes when she feels a finger tease the rim of her opening, subconsciously kicking at Harry's shoulder before he grabs her ankle and kisses it.

 "I's me, princess. S' just me. Let me make you feel good, sweet girl." His voice calms her immensely, shaking her head and focusing back on him. He's so good to her, it feels like karma's personal apology to her.

 "Sorry," she says sheepishly. She knew it would happen, she just hoped she hadn't ruined the mood. As if she ever could.

 No more words are spoken as she feels his finger back at her hole, lips leaving kisses to her lower tummy. He slides it in further than the rim this time, sucking her clit into his mouth to alleviate any discomfort she may have felt. He thrusts his finger in steadily, not too hard but definitely not as soft as he'd been at first. She appreciates him attempting to keep some normalcy.

 "Wait- Oh! Feels good, really good. Wanna feel you now, please-Please!" She nearly surrenders to her pleasure when he adds another finger, curling them right up against her spongy wall.

 "Gonna make you come first, princess." He tells her, not bothering to break away from her clit. The vibrations in combination with his unrelenting fingers send her spiralling over that edge she'd wanted to fall over with him. Her moans are strangled as she reaches her orgasm, the sound bringing Harry to a pile of mush below her, still working her through it.

 "Mmm," she tries to form words as he hovers back over her, but she can't seem to find any. She's overcome with a multitude of emotions that she suddenly can't convey. She feels loved, she feels proud, she feels safe and she feels clean.

 "Can pick this back up tomorrow, my love. You seem sedated." He jokes, kissing her lips and leaving behind a lingering taste of herself. She shakes her head, grabbing at his hips and pulling them down to her own.

 "Want it now," she breathes, kissing his neck where she knows he's the most sensitive. And who is he to argue with that? He's about to stand to get an emergency condom he keeps in his closet before she clears her throat. His attention is back on her immediately, looking for any signs of hesitation.

 "M' on the pill," she mutters shyly and Harry's jaw drops. He gets to have her and she'll be bare? This day could not get any better.

 "God, you're perfect. I love you," he reminds her, peppering kisses to every inch of her face possible before reaching down to take her hands and guide them to his pants. "You do this bit. You've waited long enough," Harry encourages her, slipping both their fingers into the band before letting go of hers.

 When she yanks them down, she's floored. That's what I've been missing? She thinks. It's thick and tall, standing between them with a certain strength and glory. He doesn't miss the look in her eye, but he doesn't call her out on it. He has all the time in the world to tease her about her awe of his cock another day.

  "Sure you want to do this?" Harry checks for the hundredth time. She kisses his nose and nods before taking a deep breath.

 "I'd never regret this. I'd regret if we didn't." She assures him, gripping his torso in one hand as to brace herself. He nods, knowing her word is final.

 He's gentle as he strokes himself and even gentler as he lines his cock up with her delicate little hole. He cannot believe he's about to have sex with the love of his life. He can't believe how lucky he is to be her first. Her real first. The first lover to have her this way, the only man who gets to say she's his.

 The initial push causes a sting to shoot through her lower half, throwing her mind to the last time she'd felt it, but she powers through. It's Harry. It's her lover. The man she trusts with her entire life. She hears his breath hitch instantly, only having pushed the tip and a bit more in. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, indulging in the feel of his girl before opening them to check on her.

 "You okay, beloved?" He asks, voice beyond strained. When she gives him a nod, he pushes more of himself into her until she's hitting his side. His head snaps to the side, expecting a look of fear or pain, but to his utter surprise, he sees a look of pure bliss. He knows he's up against her spot, feeling the rough patch massage his tip. He uses this knowledge to his advantage, bottoming out at this angle, catching the spot the entire time he glides in and sending her into a frenzy of sorts. Her legs instantly locking onto his hips, giving him little leeway to do much else but fuck into her right onto her spot. She clenches around him as he pulls back, almost like she didn't want him to move his hips away from hers for even a moment.

 "Feels, god! Feel so good, angel. My sweet baby, yeah? Feel good for you?" Harry rambles, nipping the skin of her neck to distract himself from blowing his load right then.

 She's a mess, physically unable to stay put for more than one thrust. She never thought she'd be doing this, never thought she'd even make it through the year last year. The fact that it's her Harry just pushing her further and further into space.

 "Mhm, so good. What, what are you doing? S' really nice. Does it always-?" She's a moaning mess as she replies, feeling a particularly solid strike at her beloved spot that she didn't know existed until now. He chuckles at the unintended compliment to his performance.

 "Feel this good? Nah, s' because we're in love," Harry begins, but the feeling was too overwhelming, causing the word 'love' to come out as if he'd been hit in the stomach with a steel baseball bat. As if the spoken emotional intimacy turned him on to a point he couldn't stop himself from coming. He couldn't help it as the feeling travelled from deep in his belly, shooting out all the love he could produce, spilling into his princess.

 "Mm, fuck Harry, I'm about to-" She moans at the feeling of his warmth spreading inside her and he cuts her off with the rapid movement of his nimble fingers down to her clit, still pistoning his hips into her, prick softening but still effective as she came.

 Harry collapsed on top of her, wrapping an arm around her back to press their bodies even closer. He was still inside of her and she could feel the spurts still going as she came down.

 "I'm so sorry... I literally couldn't stop myself from-" Harry begins, but she laughs. Laughs like she hadn't laughed in a year. A genuine laugh that drew tears from her eyes and an ache to form in her belly. His cheeks and ears grew red as she continued to laugh, thinking she was laughing at his premature end.

 "Hey, it happens to a lot of guys! And I got you off again, don't make fun of me," he pouts, beginning to retract his arm from around her before she grabs a hold of it.

 "Not laughing at you, doughnut. I love you so much, and you did get me off again. I'm laughing because I feel, I don't know. Clean." She admits, kissing his temple.

 "After that? Should feel right sticky, I know I do," Harry gests, leaving her a kiss to her own temple before pulling out slowly. She gasps at the hollow feeling, but she has an inkling he may not mind filling her right back up whenever she wanted.

 "You know what I mean." She rolls her eyes, allowing his arms to encompass her.

 "I know, baby. I'm glad you found the strength in yourself to do this. And not just because you let me shag ya." Harry hums, kissing the crown of her head.

 "You're an idiot," she teases. She couldn't be more in love if she tried.

"'M your idiot."

 And yeah, maybe the idiot had a point.

-- 

Thank you for reading! This was a little difficult to write for personal reasons, but I hope this piece was alright! Please share your feedback/thoughts!

[sylvain-writes]

She Knew Your Devils and Your Deeds (Vera x Hamish)

Fandom: The Order (Netflix TV) Pairing: Vera Stone/Hamish Duke Rated: T Dominant Vera, submissive Hamish, gentle dom, light Dom/sub, hurt/comfort, bathing/washing, recovered memories, werewolf transformation, angst and feels, sexual tension, pining, mild blood (~2k words)

Vera can't go on lying to Hamish any longer. She restores his lost memories, understanding she may lose him, may be unleashing a deadly adversary. But when he returns to her, it's not for revenge. 

⁂

There's no sound but their footsteps along the forest floor, the wind through the trees under the moon. There should be animals scurrying about. But there are none.

Hamish looks up through the canopy of spring leaves. "Shouldn't we have waited for a full moon?" He wears a wry smile to mask his nerves. Vera sees right through it.

She tried to prepare him. He knows magic is real, how far of a leap is it really, for him to believe in werewolves?

"It won't matter," she says pushing them further. His transformation isn't ruled by the phases of the moon.

"What's in the bag?"

Vera's hand goes to her side, instinctively clutching the purse of enchantments, hoping she'll not need to use the dagger on him. Wondering if, this time, the chain would be enough.

Her home isn't far. She has protection spells and glamours at the ready, to distract and evade. To escape. To try.

Part of her thinks it won't matter. Once he knows the truth, he'll hate her. Or he'll kill her.  Either way, she'll lose him.

When Vera stops walking, Hamish stops with her.

They stand face to face, and as the light of the moon touches his features, his mask of bravado falls away. What’s left is a lost man eagerly awaiting a promised map.

“You’ll hate me,” Vera says, not to be pitied, but so he’ll know she knows.

His response is silence.

Hamish looks down at her as she prepares the spell, his head cocked to the side like a loyal dog confused as to why his master would cast him aside. Like there is nothing he could learn that would change his opinion of her.

But Vera knows that at his core he's scared to learn the truth. Just as she knows he doesn't understand her fears.

There’s a puff of smoke from the ritual bowl and the blue potion is poured into a chalice. Vera stands.

She meets his eyes and knows she's never seen a pair so blue. Want surges within her. The desire to keep him in the dark, to keep him safe, to keep him…

Her hand caresses his cheek.

To keep him.

But he's not hers. And he can't be. Not while he's ignorant to all he is, all she's done.

His hand comes up to hold hers in place as it rests upon his cheek. She grants him her touch, selfishly steals the warmth of his blush just a moment longer.

He takes the chalice when she presses it into his hands. He meets her gaze with innocence one last time.

"It would be your right," she insists, "to hate me."

He looks into the chalice, brow furrowed, as if just looking into the potion will give him the answers he needs. Then he brings the cup to his lips.

He stumbles back against the thick trunk of an ancient red cedar, and his memories return to him in a rush.

Vera watches. She should go. She should run. She should cast something before he learns enough to turn on her, but she remains rooted in place.

His steely blue eyes lock on hers as they change, and his teeth grow long.

Vera sucks in a breath as Hamish's body breaks, twists, and turns. Tundra surfaces and Vera can no longer breathe.

The werewolf reaches her in two long strides. He towers over her, leaning into her neck. He breathes her in.

His muzzle presses against her skin. Each exhale hot and wet. He growls deep in his chest and Vera holds herself stock still.

Her hand stays at her side, itching to reach out to him. A dangerous curiosity firing like sparks through her veins.

Devour me . The thought comes unbidden. And how easy it would be for him to reach into her chest and tear out her heart. She wonders if he already knows he holds it in the palm of his hand.

The far off snap of a twig draws his attention to the woods. With a huff, Tundra turns from her. His ears perked, hackles raised. He disappears into the forest at a bound.

Shaking, Vera gathers her supplies.

She doesn’t remember the walk home, only that the moon seemed to hang lower than it should.

At home she finds her armchair by the fire. And a bourbon waiting for her. One she hadn't poured for herself. Her finger circles the rim of the glass and she looks around the room as if Hamish would be there, waiting for her as well.

Vera sits. She ignites the fire and stares into the flames. Without Hamish, her home feels empty and cold. She takes a sip from her glass and tells herself the burn is supposed to feel good.

When her hand would have gone to Hamish's head resting upon her lap, Vera bunches her skirt in her fist and closes her eyes. She brings her drink to her lips again. And when the glass is empty, she pours herself another.

*

With his memories returned, Tundra rages through the forest. All at once, everything is too clear.

He makes it to the House where he’d lived for decades. It's empty, of course. The Champions living on campus. Living lies. But they're safe. Safer than they would have been out in the open.

The pain of the truth echoes hollow in his chest: Vera protected his pack in a way he couldn't have.

Another memory surfaces, one more closely guarded, better hidden than the others. Lilith-and-Timber . They're not here. Hamish-and-Tundra's heart twists in agony as they recall news of her loss. But there's another memory sidled with it, a promise from Vera, an oath to help get them back.

Still, Tundra has been trapped and drugged on and off for months. He needs to let loose. When an old buck dares to cross the field, he thrills at the chase.

*

The warding on Vera's property alerts her to Hamish's arrival before he reaches her door. She meets him unarmed and swallows hard at the sight.

There’s a wide smear of blood across his jaw, down his chest. She won't allow her gaze to travel lower. She knows she'll find more of the same. There's no doubt from the state of him, he's been hunting. She bites her tongue to keep from asking what - or who.

She faces him in the doorway, ready to take his judgement upon herself.

His gaze is sharp. His expression is hard. He breathes heavily, but the longer he stands at her door - watching her, smelling her, listening to the beating of her heart - the more his resolve threatens to break.

He presses his lips together to stop his chin from trembling. His eyes burn with angry, unshed tears. But he isn’t lashing out at her. He won't. Not ehen she's the reason he's alive. His fists uncurl at his sides and Vera moves aside.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, keeping her voice steady even as her heart thunders in her chest. She knows he can hear it.

Hamish follows her to the bathroom and takes a seat on the lip of the tub. His hands hang loose between his thighs as Vera leans forward for the shower knob. Now that he’s seated, Vera notices just how much his knees are trembling. How short and uneven his breaths.

She switches to run the bath.

As it fills, she takes a wet cloth to his skin. Hamish looks up at her with an exhaustion that runs deep. Deeper than the physical toll transformation took on his body.

She tips up his face and brings the damp cloth to his mouth. He holds her gaze as she wipes blood from his chin and neck. She wishes she could read his thoughts.  

“The Council wanted you executed. I didn't see another way.”

Hamish can feel the truth of her words. Her sincerity rings clear as crystal in his ear. He can taste it, crisp and sweet on his tongue. He wonders if he always could.

Vera drags the cloth over his shoulders, angles his head to the side with a hand on his cheek. He can feel her pulse in her fingertips, can feel the way it quickens when he leans into her touch.

“You want me to apologize,” she says. But he knows she only did what she thought was best for the Order, for the Knights, and magic. He knows her, knows that if circumstances were the same, she’d make the choice to hide the truth from him all over again.

He says nothing.

She sniffs and holds herself taller. Rolls her lips and rinses the cloth at the sink to continue her work. His hands are just as filthy as his mouth. They ache with the memory of the things they've done.

When the cloth is stained a deep pink and all that's left of his hunt is the bit of wild still lingering in the edges of his gaze, Vera steps in front of him.

Hamish loops his arms around her waist and pulls her in, pressing his face against her until he's surrounded by her scent.

His bare skin makes his connection to her more complete. Her hand on the back of his neck, her thumb kneading the muscle, grounds him better than his bare feet on the tile.

His hands slide up her back, clawing at her shoulder blades to bring her impossibly closer. And her mind goes to the blood she'd just scrubbed from under his nails.

She cups his face and tilts his head so he has to look at her. Her heart flutters when his eyes look straight into hers. Her gaze travels down to his mouth and her lips tingle.

She has to distract herself with something else. The bath is waiting. "In you get."

First one foot, then the other. He sinks into the tub, letting the scalding water soak him shoulder-deep. The aches of transformation seep out from his bones as Vera adds a spoon of herbs to the water.

He hasn't said a word since he returned from the forest, but when Vera stands to leave, a whine escapes his throat.

His eyes open and he drops his hand from the edge of the tub to make room for her to sit.

Vera takes her time washing his hair, picking little twigs and needles out and running her nails over his scalp. He listens obediently when she instructs him to duck under. And she doesn't mind the way he drips soapy water onto her dress.

She hums a soft tune as her wash becomes a massage. He leans his head against her to feel the low melody rumble through her chest. It's deep and comfortable and calm.

He looks up at her as her hand lingers in his hair. He slides a hot, wet hand up her side, steading himself as he sits up. He turns to press his lips against her wrist.

Vera's soft song cracks as Hamish's large hand curls around her waist. As he rises to bring his face her neck. So much like Tundra it thrills her in the same and different ways.

"How much do you remember?" she asks, her voice broken by the way she shivers under his touch. He nuzzles her throat again, pausing at the pulse point, and she knows he's clocking her racing heart.

She grabs him by the hair, gently pulls him back to look him in the eye, and asks again.

"How much do you-"

"Everything," Hamish answers gravelly, the shine of angry tears returning to his eyes. But he swallows hard and his gaze drops to Vera's lips. He whispers- "Everything" -again and rises up to make his desire known.

Vera draws him up by the fist in his hair and her lips tingle in the pause. She brings him close enough to share his breath. And then they're closer than even that.

Hamish's lips are hot, from the bath or maybe werewolves always run warm. When Vera feels the press of his tongue asking permission to deepen the kiss, she parts her lips. The sharp taste of copper lingers on his teeth. A reminder of what he is, what he’s capable of.

She freezes against his kiss and pulls him back. “Not like this.”

Hamish recoils, but with no where to go his movements slosh bathwater up the sides of the tub. “I’m sorry, I-”

Vera stands, makes sure toiletries are displayed on the vanity, and heads for the door. She takes care not to look at him, avoiding the pain reflected in his eyes.

“Vera,” he says, and her name from his lips is like her sky falling.

“Yes,” she whispers, because she doesn't trust herself to say more.

“I forgive you.”

Vera clenches her jaw, and for a second Hamish thinks she'll turn around. He thinks it'll be like it was, but more. That she'll accept him for the monster he is now that he knows. Because Tundra is part of him until death and he wouldn't change that if he could. And surely she, of all people, could understand.

Instead, she straightens up and gives a small shake of her head. “I didn’t ask you to."

The door closes behind her, trapping the steam and his questions in the room.

Hamish remains in the bath until the water is cold. He finds clothes waiting for him, but Vera is gone.

[ad1thi]

Bruised, Not Broken - CHP 1

i just realised that i never posted this here?? so here’s my kinda weird Assassin!Bucky x Toni modern AU that came to me in the shower and im still figuring out as a i go along. the first two chapters are done (and out on ao3) so i’ll be posting chapter 2 in like a day or two, but after that - updates will sync up here and on ao3

//

chapter 1/? || also on ao3

//

James is just about to fall asleep, can feel his eyelids getting heavier and his body slowing down, when his phone starts ringing on his chest, startling him back to wakefulness. He fumbles for it a couple of times, swiping his thumb over the half-shattered screen and bringing it to his ear.

 “Barnes,” he grunts through the phone, and the voice he hears trinkle through the static makes him sit upright. He wasn’t ever accepting to hear from him again.

 “James,” the man on the other end of the line says, “I need you to do something for me, and I need you to not ask any questions.”

 “I wasn’t aware we were on speaking terms,” James replies carefully, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice, “This must be a pretty big favour.”

 “This one isn’t for me,” the man says shortly, “There’s a truck parked in the alley on the corner of 5th and Main. There’s precious cargo inside. I need you to get to the truck and drive it the hell out of town. Don’t look back, and don’t stop for anything.”

 “You expect me to uproot my life, and I’m not even allowed to ask what’s going on?” James demands, even though he already knows he’s going to say yes. He wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important, if there wasn’t anybody else who could do this except for James.

 “You trusted me once,” the man says, after a pregnant silence, “There was a time when I would tell you to jump, and you would say ‘how high?’. Someone’s life is at stake, so can I count on you or not?”

 James surveys his apartment. He doesn’t have a lot of clothes, they could probably all be stuffed in a large duffel bag if he tries hard enough. His plates are all plastic, and there’s some leftover take out in the fridge.

 Rent’s due in a couple of days, but somehow, James doesn’t think his landlord will be all that upset if he sees an empty apartment. Or that surprised. 

 “I can be there in 30 minutes,” James concedes, “I just need to get some stuff together.”

 “Bring your guns,” the man says, “and don’t be late.” He ends the call before James can come up with something smart to say in response. He manfully resists the urge to throw his phone against the wall, if only because there are people who still need to be able to contact him; and pushes himself to his feet.

 The duffel bag is stuffed under his bed, right next to where the guns are taped, and it’s quick work to get them both out. James takes a couple of seconds to check the magazine in the handgun before stuffing it in the crook of the back of his jeans; and then feels around for the extra clips he knows he has stashed somewhere.

His clothes are strewn all over the one-bedroom apartment, and while James would love to just stuff them into the duffel bag and call it a day - he takes the time to fold each other, smoothing out the wrinkles as best he can. He’s not particularly vain, not anymore anyway - but his Ma drilled into him the need to keep decent clothes, and the Army hammered it home.

Before he steps out of the apartment, he takes a second to look at his reflection in the mirror, rubbing an absent hand over the beard that’s grown over the past couple of months. He debates taking the time to shave but decides against it. He’s going to an alley; appearances don’t matter.

 He grabs his toothbrush and places it on top of his clothes, before zipping up the duffel bag and swinging it over his shoulders. He taps on his phone screen to check the time, and he’s got about 15 minutes before he’ll be late. If he walks quickly, he can be there in 10.

 James is at the threshold when he takes one last look at his apartment. It’s easily one of the most decrepit places he’s ever lived, even counting his days in the barracks in Afghanistan; but it’s been home for the past four months and he’s oddly loath to leave it.

 With a sigh, he pulls the door and jimmies the key into the lock; clicking it shut. He slips the key into the fake plant pot poised outside that Natasha gave him as a housewarming gift, because she thought it would make the apartment homely; and then swings over the railings, bracing himself with his hands when he hits the ground.

 His apartment was only two floors from the ground floor, and it’s late enough that there’s nobody around to watch his stunts. Besides, he’s on a clock.

//

He sees the truck the minute he turns into the alley, but there doesn’t appear to be anybody waiting for him next to it. On instinct, James’ hand rests on his gun, while the other fishes out his phone to make sure he isn’t late. 

 It’s dark, almost impossibly so, but James’ eyes are used to darker, and they adjust quickly. A quick sweep of the alley confirms his suspicions - that he’s the only one here, and he resists swearing out loud, if only because it will draw unnecessary attention to himself.

 Letting go of his gun, he makes his way over to the truck, peering at the back to see if he can make out what the precious cargo is. There’s a bundled-up duvet stuffed into the back of the truck, placed in a way that you wouldn’t even notice it was there unless you were looking for it.

 James braces his hands onto the edge of the truck and hauls himself up so that he can get a closer look, walking softly so as to not jostle the cargo. He crouches down when he’s close enough; and with the steady fingers, pulls at the duvet to reveal whatever’s inside.

 There’s a girl, no, a woman, who can’t be older than 20, covered in bruises and contorted in an impossible position. James is going to kill him the next time they run into each other; their past relationship be damned. Hesitantly, James brings his fingers to her neck, relaxing slightly when he feels a weak pulse. He checks her eyes next, finger catching on the underside and pulling it down to reveal glazed pupils; almost vacant.

 There’s a distinct possibility that if James looks closer at her neck; he’s going to find a tiny puncture wound that resembles a needle. He’s definitely going to kill him the next time he sees him. James might even hunt him down just for the pleasure of the kill.

 He pulls his phone out of his pocket and redials the last incoming number, shoving it between his shoulder and crooking his neck - leaving his hands free to peel back more of the duvet while he assesses the woman’s injuries.

 He picks up after two rings.

 “I don’t do this stuff anymore,” James barks, not even giving him a chance to get a word in edgewise, “I don’t take people out. What the fuck have you gotten me into? She looks like she was the punching bag for an overly enthusiastic MMA fighter. You’re going to tell me what’s going on right now, or I promise you, I will hunt you down.”

 “So, you opened the cargo,” the man says in a calm tone, so calm that it infuriates James.

 “Yeah, I fucking opened the cargo, and I’m telling you right now - I’m not killing this woman. I don’t care who she is, or what she’s done, I’m done with that life. You’ve got some nerve giving me this kind of job.”

 “James,” his voice doesn’t waver in the slightest, “James you’re not there to kill her. You’re there to save her.”

 James pauses at that, hands stilling from where they were inspecting the cuts around her thighs, “What do you mean, save her?”

 “Look I can’t tell you much, because it’s classified; but we’ve had her and her husband on surveillance for months. You have to believe me when I say if I knew what he was doing to her, that he was beating her; that I would’ve put an end to the op. I only found out two weeks ago though, because she’s good at hiding it. Almost too good.”

 “So why is she drugged and in the back of a truck instead of at the police station giving her statement?”

 The man sighs, the only indication that he is bothered by this, “I was told that the op was too deep, and she was collateral damage. If he killed her, I was allowed to call the police - but anything short of that, I was just supposed to look the other way; and file it for when he was officially charged. They said that if they started him now, that the rest of the case would fall apart, and it wasn’t worth the risk. Not when we were so close.”

 “So, you smuggled her out instead,” James surmised.

 “If it makes you feel any better, she asked to be drugged. I explained who you are to her as best I could, but she said that she was in a shit-load of pain, and it was more than likely that she would lash out at you on instinct alone; so, drugging her was the best option.”

 “Why didn’t she go to the police?” James asks, even though he already knows the answer, “Why do it like this?”

 “She said that he had all the local police in his pocket, and if she went - they’d probably just send her back home with a couple of new bruises.’

//

‘I need her alive,’ he’d said, ‘I need her alive, and well enough to testify when we finally bring down the hammer on her piece of shit husband. Whatever you need to do to keep her alive James, do it.’

 He’s been driving for close to six hours now. New York is long gone, and there’s a fair chance that James has crossed state lines. New Jersey was a distinct possibility for a half mile, because nobody worth their salt from New York considers New Jersey a place; but James has more connections in Massachusetts; more people to count on if things go south.

 On his lap, the woman stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake. Her head is pillowed on one of his thighs; the duvet covering her up till her shoulders, and she sniffles and moves closer to him; as if chasing his body warmth. Almost on instinct, James reaches out and soothes a hand through her hair, running his fingers against her scalp ever so gently.

 She leans into the movement, imperceptibly, and after a couple of minutes of movement; stills again, going limp. Whatever sedatives she’s on must be strong, but it’s clear that if they don’t stop soon; she’s going to wake up and that’s not good for her, or for him.

 They’re about an hour out from a motel that James trusts; with an owner who looks the other way for the right kind of money, but he’s worried that she won’t make it that long. When he was moving her from the back of the van, he jostled the duvet, and he knows that she’s got nothing more than a threadbare shirt and her undergarments on. Whatever her situation was, clearly it was bad enough that trousers were too much of a waste; and sedated or not - her body is feeling the effects of the frigid winter air.

 “Fuck,” James murmers into the open air, and pulls up on the side of the road. As gentle as possible, he cups his hands under the woman’s arms and brings up to a sitting position; her back resting against his chest. He shifts slightly in the tight spot, shrugging off his jacket and slipping it onto her shoulders.

 It isn’t easy tucking her hands into the arms of the jacket without jostling her wounds, but James manages; even though every new bruise makes him want to break something in frustration. His earlier assessment that she was a punching bag isn’t inaccurate, and just from touching her hands, James can estimate multiple fractures around her wrist all the way up to her elbow.

She’s startling beautiful; long brown hair that flows past her shoulders and curls ever so slightly at the end, eyelashes that frame her cheeks and chapped lips with slight teeth indentations; like she bites them a lot. James can’t imagine even raising his voice at her; let alone marking her up the way her husband has - and not for the first time, he curses the fact that he can’t take her to a hospital, or to the proper authorities; who’ll do right by her.

But he can’t, because his job isn’t to get her to the authorities, it’s to keep her alive - and James is going to do it even if it kills him.

tbc

[shotsbyshae]

Unforgettable

Warnings: Language, Fluff, Angsty, Smut-ish  

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem!Reader, Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: Sequel to Angel on Fire. It’s been a year and Steve reaches out with news. There shouldn’t be enough of your soul left to care, but the thought of him and a deep dive into the past, proves otherwise.

Song: Unforgettable by Sia

A/N: After a few requests on a continuation of this story, I finally have a little inspiration with @cake-writes​ 1940′s challenge, which will explore more of the dynamic between the reader and Bucky. 

Also combining this with @ne-gans Christmas writing challenge with Steve. My prompt for it: “If you throw that snowball you’re declaring war.”

How the thought of you does things to me.

2014

Buzz. Buzz.

You glance at the unknown number on your phone’s screen for a moment before answering it.

“Hello.”

“Don’t hang up,” Steve says quickly. “Please.”

Just hearing his voice takes you back.

It’s been over a year, but you can still feel him. Taste his lips on yours. You’ve gone so long without feeling anything at all, then one phone call from him and bam. What’s left of your soul feels as if it’s trying to flutter back to life – you still love him.

He shouldn’t contact you.

It’s not fair – he knows how your story ends.

“You can’t call –” you begin quietly, but he interrupts you.

“Bucky’s alive.”

Everything stops.

The numbness starts at your scalp and runs the entire length of your body.

You grasp the edge of the counter as your knees buckle, “Wh – What?

“He’s alive, but he’s not himself,” Steve responds. “Hydra brainwashed him, turned him into a weapon.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line before he continues. “He remembered me though.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“He needs help,” he says softly. “And if he can remember me – I know he’ll remember you.”

You take a deep breath, “And you think I can find him?”

“I know you can.”

“Steve – I don’t know,” you swallow the lump in your throat.

“He was happiest when he was with you,” there’s an underlying sadness in his voice. “I know you loved him too – still do – if it’s not too late.” He waits for you to respond, but you don’t, so he asks. “Is it too late?”

“Send me what you have,” you respond quietly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When you hang up with Steve you move across to the shelf beside your flat screen TV, carefully grabbing the small light blue storage box that sits there.

These thoughts – feelings – that a simple phone call with Steve can incite confuses you. You’ve gone so long now without any empathy.

It should be no different with him.

Or with the thought of Bucky.

Why is it?

Sitting back down on the edge of your coffee table you place the box on your knees, pulling the lid off gently. The box contains important things such as documents, photographs, an old pocket watch. Mementos of the many lives you’ve lived.

You gather the aging photographs – all black and white – to look through them. One is of Bucky and Steve, both of them are smiling. They look so young and innocent – just boys really. There’s one of Bucky sitting against a tree, his legs outstretched on either side of you as you lean back against his chest. His arms firmly wrapped around your waist as you read from the book in your hands – Robert Frost.

Steve had taken that photo.

It’s one of your favorites.

The next photo you had almost forgotten about, Morita had taken it.

There had been so much snow that day.

Bucky is standing on one side of the army jeep, arm reared back, ready to launch the snowball in his hand. On the other side of the jeep, Steve stands tall, pointing his finger across at Barnes, a smirk on his face. You’re slung over his shoulder like a rag doll, his arm across the back of your legs as your small gloved fists pound against his back.

Winter, 1944

“If you throw that snowball,” Steve glares at you across the hood of the jeep, “you’re declaring war.”

You narrow your eyes at him mischievously as you pack the wad of snow tighter between your gloved hands. “No need to be dramatic Captain, it’s just a little snow.”

Rearing your arm back, you watch Steve’s eyebrows raise, “I’m warning you – don’t you dare –”

Splat.

The snow pelts him in the head from behind and a wide smile spreads across your face. Steve recognizes the laughter as he slowly turns to see the person responsible. Bucky clutches his chest laughing relentlessly at Steve’s look of betrayal.

“Really,” Rogers shakes his head. “You wanna do this?”

Splat.

Another snowball pelts him from behind and Bucky smirks, “She does.” The look on his face changing slowly to a warm smile as his gaze focuses on you. “And I’m with her, pal.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Rogers remarks, glancing back to see you packing together another snowball as you move in front of the jeep. A boyish grin crosses his face, “You two want to play – let’s play.”

He rushes you, and the squeal that escapes is almost embarrassing as you try to run, throwing the snowball at him. It barely hits the top of his shoulder, exploding upon impact, but it doesn’t faze him as he leans down, scooping you up and over his shoulder.

“Steve,” you laugh as you hit his back with your fists. “Put me down.”

“Hey,” Bucky stares at Steve warningly, as he stops on the other side of the jeep. “Give her back.”

“Nope,” Rogers responds playfully, pointing at him as Barnes rears back with another snowball. “Two against one isn’t a fair fight.” He grabs a handful of snow, packing it easily, as if your weight across his shoulder is nothing. “Now, it’s a fair fight.”

The two of them stare at one another for a moment, before they both throw almost simultaneously. Bucky tries to dodge, but the snowball hits his shoulder, as Steve attempts to sidestep the assault to no avail.

“Hey!” you protest, as the other snowball explodes against the backside of your left thigh.

“Sorry doll,” Bucky’s apology can barely be heard through everyone’s laughter.

***

Later that night, you’re slowly pulled from peaceful sleep as his arm tightens around your waist. A slow smile crosses your face, thinking he’s up for round three until his body jerks against yours, followed by a small whimper.

It’s not the first time this has happened.

Your body always hyperaware of his.

It’s nightmares again.

You sit up, turning to him, hands gently touching his face, “Hey – Buck.” His eyes jerk open – pain stricken – filled with terror. “It’s okay.” You say quietly as he sits up, eyes darting around frantically before settling on yours.

“Hey,” voice dazed from sleep.

You give him a small smile, hand cupping the side of his face, “Hey soldier.”

Those two simple words are a reminder that he’s here with you – safe – no longer a prisoner of Hydra’s. Some days he’s certain you’re a figment of his imagination, that no one could love him the way you do. To know him almost better than he knows himself, but then he remembers that Steve sees you – so you must be real.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, brushing your hair back with his fingers, wrapping them firmly around the back of your neck. “But I’m never letting you go.” Pulling you to him, he presses his lips to yours tenderly, his hand gripping you tightly as if you’ll slip through his fingers.

***

It’s been a few weeks since you’ve seen him, but you know exactly which joint they’ll be at to celebrate their latest victory. You’d packed the dress for just such an occasion. The green chiffon one you were wearing all those months ago when you met.

The familiar boisterous laughter reaches your ears before you get through the doors. Once inside, you spot Bucky standing at the bar as Dugan whistles, turning everyone’s attention at the table towards you. To you, there isn’t anyone else in the room as you make your way across to the dark-haired man. The smile on his face is warm – enamored by the sight of you.

“God I’ve missed you,” he says quietly as you approach. All the noise in his head instantly silenced by your presence.

“Hey soldier,” you croon, brushing your fingers across the front of his lapel.

He takes in your appearance, “You look – gorgeous.”

The band in the back of the room begins to play and a wicked grin crosses your face as you raise one brow, “You going to ask me to dance?”

“If I ask you to dance then, you know they’re all going to ask you,” he nods toward the table of commandos.

“Well, that’s the sacrifice you’ll have to make,” he can’t resist the smirk on your face as you bite the inside of your bottom lip. “I guess the real question is – am I worth it?”

There’s no hesitation as he slips his arm around your waist, pulling you close, the grin on his face infectious, “Always doll – always.”

Dugan allows the two of you to dance for a full song before stepping in. You steal glances at the table, watching as Steve and Bucky laugh with the other men. Dancing first with Dugan then Jones, and now Falsworth.

“Okay,” you’re laughing after the last dance at something Falsworth said as the two of you reach the table. You run your fingers through Barnes’ short hair. “Who’s up?”

Bucky grabs your hand in his, kissing the back of it as a thought strikes him, “Steve.” He glances past you at his friend who chokes on his drink.

“What?”

You’re too happy in this moment with Bucky to be worried about consequence or fate right now. “Come on Rogers.” You smile at him.

“Oh, I – I don’t –” Steve tries to protest as you grab his arm, pulling him from his chair.

“Go on,” Bucky urges. “Careful though, he’s got two left feet.”

The tension in his body is almost comical to you as you go through the motions of where his hands go, “You okay, Captain?”

He takes a deep breath, licking his lips nervously, “Yea.”

Still awkward with girls, Bucky thinks to himself as he watches the two of you, slowly sipping the whiskey in his glass.

“How’s he been?” you question Steve quietly, glancing over at Barnes.

“Good,” Steve responds with a nod, comfortable with this change of conversation. “He hasn’t slept much.”

“Nightmares,” you look up at Rogers.

He nods his agreement, then gives a small smile, “It’s good you’re here. He needs you.”

I need him too, you think to yourself as you look back over to the table.

“You look really nice by the way,” he comments, and you look back up, brow furrowed, causing him to stammer. “I – I mean you always look nice – just tonight is a different kind of nice.”

“You’re really bad at this,” you smirk with a shake of your head, causing him to laugh at himself. “But, thank you.”

He gives you a smile, blue eyes shining, and you don’t catch, but Steve does.

A moment.

He feels guilty immediately, but he knows why his friend had fallen for you so hard, because he’s finding it hard not to fall too.  

Once the song ends, the two of you make your way back over to the table where a conversation is already underway.

“Well, if I don’t make it back,” Falsworth says. “Then yes Dugan, you can have my entire record collection.” The burly man grins as he slaps his hands together.

“All I have are baseball cards,” Jones comments.

“I like baseball,” Morita raises his hand. “I’ll take ‘em.”

“What’s happening here?” you question, raising an eyebrow.

“Well sweetheart,” Dugan replies. “You take your most prized possession and pick someone to leave it to in case – well – you know.”

“That’s morbid,” you glance around at the men who all shrug their shoulders.

“Barnes,” Morita says. “What do you have?”

The dark-haired man takes another sip before glancing up to where you and Steve are still standing, “Just those two.”

“I call Cap,” Dugan jokes. “Or do they come as a pair?”

“I’m fairly sure Captain Rogers would be left watching over her,” Falsworth remarks and Steve begins to shake his head in protest.

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Steve says.

“I don’t need to be watched over,” you laugh as Bucky takes your hand, pulling you into his lap.

“I know that doll,” he says, kissing your cheek. “But he does.”

A few laughs erupt at Rogers’ expense and you smile, “So, I’m in charge?” Bucky nods and you glance back over to Steve who is less than thrilled with this conversation. “Would that make me Captain?”

“You could be co-Captain,” Dugan smiles and Steve gives him an unimpressed glare as you clap your hands.

Nearly a year ago you had planned to kill the man standing beside you.

One day he’s going to kill you.

Because one day you’ll be a monster.

You’re a Phoenix – it’s how this works.

You weren’t supposed to let your guard down and fall in love.  

Being a Phoenix is complicated.

Falling in love with Bucky Barnes wasn’t.

It was easy.

Bucharest, 2014

You don’t how he’ll react to seeing you.

If he’s still the brainwashed assassin Hydra created.

Worst case scenario – he kills you.

Which means you shouldn’t feel anything when you come back this time.

You’ll be soulless.

Much like him.

The Winter Soldier.

Or maybe Steve’s right, maybe he will remember you.

What then?

Explain to him what you are? Explain that after all these years you and Steve found each other – that you had watched out for his friend – that somehow you fell in love with him.

How are you supposed to explain to him that his best friend is destined to kill you?

Your mind is running in circles with questions as you make your way down the street. Every worry you have fades away as you spot him up ahead in the crowd of people. Your heart begins to race as he turns slightly.

Barnes isn’t quite the same man you once knew. He was strong, but never strong like Rogers was after the serum. Now he’s six foot of solid muscle – a weapon – lethal. His hair is longer, a dark ball cap is pulled low on top of it, but his eyes are still the same intense blue.

The look on his face as sirens wail in the distance is one you’ve seen before.

He’s nervous.

Panicked.

Just like he was after Hydra had their hands on him the first time. You can’t imagine what he’s been through, what he’s carrying with him. Seeing him with that almost terrified expression, it pains you and that’s something you haven’t felt since walking out of Steve’s apartment that day.

There might not be any hope for your own soul, but maybe you could help save his.  

He senses your presence as you approach and he turns carefully, eyes widening as his gaze meets yours. The realization apparent on his face as his mouth opens slightly, unsure what to say. All the noise in his mind fading away as you move closer toward him.

Visions of you flash through his mind – another life.

Before Hydra, before he became an assassin.

A ghost.

The green dress you were wearing when he bumped into you.

Dancing. The feel of your body pressing against his as you spin around in circles with him.

The taste of your lips. Hair falling around your shoulders, your skin glistening with sweat, and the catch in your breath as you moan his name. He remembers what it feels like to be inside you, the way you taste, how soft and warm your mouth is. Every line and curve of your body comes rushing back to him.

An overwhelming surge of emotion.

He loves you – always has – even when he didn’t know himself.

Part of him wants to reach for you – to feel you again.

You see it in his eyes.

He recognizes you.

Amongst the pain and regret.

He knows you.

There’s no hesitation as you place your hand on his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat through the red material of his shirt. He holds your gaze, not flinching or backing away from your touch. You give him a small, reassuring smile even though your heart is breaking.

All this time he’s been alone.

Hurting.

If you had only known, maybe you could have saved him.

Somewhere deep in his memory – untouched by Hydra – there’s a part of him longing for the words.

Your voice is soft as a tear slips down your cheek.

But it sounds just as he remembers it.

Those two words falling from your lips.

The ones that let him know he’s safe – that he’s home.

“Hey soldier.”

[starryknight09]

Concrete Wall 1, Peter Parker 0 - Part 2

Febuwhump Day 12: "please come back”

Read on AO3.

________________________________________________________

He floated in the ether of nothingness.  Noises slipped through, but they went in one ear and out the other, their meaning dissolving away like candy floss.

“Why isn’t he waking up?  It’s been three days.”

“It’s a miracle he’s even alive.  Anyone without his enhancement would be dead.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we’re in uncharted territory.”

“But he’s going to be ok?”

“I don’t know.”

“When will you know?”

“Only time will tell.”

“I think his finger moved.”

“Probably just a reflex.”

“Or maybe he’s waking up.”

“Maybe, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“How much longer do you want to wait?”

“As long as it takes.”

“He might never be coming back Tones.  Cho didn’t see any activity on the tests yesterday.”

“Shut up.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it but—"

“Get out.”

“It’s been three weeks.  We need to start talking about our options.”

“No.  He’s going to wake up.”

“Or he might not.  Tony, we need to be realistic.  It’s not looking promising at this point.”

“You said we needed to give him time.”

“Yes, but if he was going to get better, we should’ve started seeing some progress by now.”

“Or not.  You said yourself this is uncharted territory.”

“I did.  But we might have to face the fact that this injury is too much for even Peter to come back from.”

“No.  He’ll come back.  Trust me.  He just needs a little more time.  Can’t we just give him a little more time?”

“…Ok.”

“I’m not giving up on you Underoos.  I know you’re in there.  But now it’s time to come back.  Pepper and Morgan miss you.  I miss you.”

“Come back to me kid.”

“Please come back.”

“Please.”

He had no sense of time.  He just existed.  There was nothing.

And then there was something.

“’Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.'” A voice said.  Voice…  What was a voice?  People had voices.  A voice meant someone was speaking.

“’Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.  'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'” The voice continued on.  It soothed him, but he didn’t know why.  He tried to focus on it, but as soon he tried, he became aware of pain…somewhere.  His…head.  He remembered he had a head.  Everyone did.  And his hurt.

“I like this part Daddy.” A different voice said and he felt something in his chest warm.  Why?

“Me too pumpkin.” The voice from before answered before going back to talking in a different tone.  “’Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'”

The voice was doing something.  He should know this.  Trying to remember hurt his head, but he didn’t stop.  He needed to figure it out.  It came to him in the next second.  Reading.  The voice was reading.  Reading meant books.  And he loved books.

“'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.’”

And the lines of this book were familiar.  What was it?  It was…  It was…  Oh right.  The Velveteen Rabbit.  One of his favorite books as a child.  He’d read it to Morgan the week after he’d returned from the snap.  And he’d cried because May used to read it to him and it’d made him miss her.  And now it was one of Morgan’s favorite books.  Morgan.  The image of her flashed in his mind.  Chestnut hair and warm brown eyes coupled with a mischievous smile.  She was his sister.  Because Tony had adopted him after the snap when he’d found out May was gone.  Tony.  The voice was Tony’s.

“’Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.’” Tony read.

As the memories came back, so did an increased awareness.  He felt like a newborn trying to make sense of the world around him.  To keep from getting overwhelmed, he tried to focus on one thing at a time.  He could sense the fluorescent lighting behind his closed eyelids and the air had a characteristic antiseptic smell.  The medbay.  That made sense.  Something had definitely happened to him, but he couldn’t remember what.  

“’But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.’”

He cataloged his body from head to toe.  His limbs felt heavy and weighted down but they were all there.  He wiggled his toes.  Next, his fingers.  He could feel the stiff cotton sheets underneath them.

“Daddy!”

“I know, that’s a good line.” Tony said, clearly amused.

“No Daddy, he moved!  Peter moved.  His fingers moved.”

“Sometimes that happens sweetheart.  It’s from a reflex.  Sort of like when you hit your knee and your leg jerks.”

Peter could sense Morgan’s skepticism even with his eyes closed.  He licked his lips.

“Look!  His tongue moved.  That’s not a reflex, is it Daddy?”

“What?” Tony sounded shaken.

Peter frowned.

The next second he heard a thud.

“Daddy you dropped me.”

“Peter?!” Peter could feel Tony’s hand grip his shoulder and squeeze.  “Buddy, can you hear me?  Can you open your eyes?”

His eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, but he managed to pry them open with a herculean effort to meet Tony’s shocked expression.

“Oh my god.” Tony whispered.  “Peter.  Are you…  Can you talk?”

“Daddy I want to see Peter.” Morgan whined from behind him.

“Just a second honey.  Daddy needs to talk to him first.  Pete?”

Peter swallowed but his mouth felt like a desert.

“Wha—” He tried but the words got caught in his throat and he coughed weakly.

“Here.  Take it slow.” Tony guided a straw into his mouth and he took a few gulps of water to moisten his throat.

Tony took the glass away once he’d finished and Peter tried to remember how to move his mouth the right way to form words.  He cleared his throat before trying again, “What happened?”  The words came out barely above a whisper.

Tony let out a laugh of delighted disbelief, a wide grin breaking out across his face as he bent forward to kiss his forehead before gathering him in a gentle hug.  “You’re ok.” Tony said in elation, breathing deeply into his hair.  It unnerved Peter to see him so rattled.

When Tony finally let go and settled on the edge of the bed, Peter could see unshed tears in his eyes.

“I’m ok.” He whispered, not liking to see Tony so upset.  “But…what happened?”

“Jesus kiddo.  I don’t even know where to start…” Tony rubbed his eyes, acting like it was because he was exasperated and not because he was trying to hide the moisture collecting there.  

“I do.” Morgan chimed in, finally pushing past Tony.  “You hit your head really really hard.”

“Careful honey.” Tony warned as Morgan climbed up on his bed.

“It’s all right.” He said.  The jostling made his head pound, but it was tolerable and worth it when Morgan flopped forward to hug him.  He hugged her right back, unable to keep the smile off his face.  “Hey little miss, I’m ok.”

“I missed you.” She sighed into his neck.

He frowned.  “How long was I out for?”

“A long time.” Morgan answered, which wasn’t a very specific answer.  He glanced up at Tony, unsure how to read the expression on his face.

When Tony didn’t answer, Peter asked again with an insistent edge to his voice, “How long?”

“It’s been almost two months.” Tony said quickly, glancing away like the answer hurt.

“What?” The word erupted from his mouth in shock.  Two months?  How was that possible?

Tony ran a hand through his hair before settling it on Peter’s shoulder.  “Do you remember the mission we were on?”

He closed his eyes and tried to, but nothing came to him but a worsening headache.  “No.”

“We were off world helping Captain Marvel and you got on the wrong side of one of the Kree.”

None of that rang any bells.  At all.  In fact…  “What’s a Kree?”

Tony shook his head.  “That’s not important right now.  Anyway, we were on a mission and you got a bad knock on the noggin so we had to rush you back here.  You were—” Tony glanced at Morgan and cut himself off, likely realizing he needed to censor the gory details.  “Uh, there was some bleeding in your head so Cho had to do surgery, but even afterward there was so much swelling that…  Well, we didn’t know if you’d ever wake up.”

“But I did.” He stated and didn’t know why it came out with a hint of uncertainty.

“Obviously.” Tony tried to smirk, but it fell flat.  “And you’re feeling ok, right?”

“Yeah.  Um, my head kind of hurts but…”  Peter reached up to feel his head and let out a little gasp when he felt the short buzz cut of his hair.  “My hair.”

“It’ll grow back.” Tony said, finally managing a genuine smile as he reached out and rubbed the short stubble over his scalp.

“Yeah Petey, don’t worry it’ll grow back, and it doesn’t look so bad.” Morgan tried to reassure him as she held him a little tighter.  “I’m just glad you’re awake.”

“Me too.” He mumbled into her hair.  He still wanted to know all the details of what had happened, but he could ask Tony later.  He knew the man wouldn’t want to go into the nitty gritty of it in front of Morgan anyway, so for now he just tried to relax, and enjoy the fact that he’d apparently cheated death again as he soaked up all the love being offered by Tony and Morgan.

[untakenbeepun]

I hereby pledge all of my days to prove it so 

Summary  In the quiet privacy of their bedroom, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian talk about each other’s scars. 

Waking up to Wei Wuxian is a gift that Lan Wangji does not take for granted, nor something that he will ever get used to. He moves in his sleep, whispering nonsense against Lan Wangji’s neck, rolling over and digging his elbows into soft skin. He is as wriggly as an eel and almost as restless, he is never still, and sometimes, he will wake Lan Wangji up just to chatter about some new idea that he’s got into his head, one that he’ll forget about by morning if he doesn’t relay it out loud, right this second. Lan Wangji has never had so little sleep in his life.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Just having Wei Wuxian here, warm and present and so, so alive, is worth more to Lan Wangji to anything in the world. His fingers drift through Wei Wuxian’s hair, sliding down through the soft dark strands, scratching at the scalp. Wei Wuxian purrs, stretches out like a cat and curls over to brush kisses against Lan Wangji’s jawline, dipping down to press his lips against the soft skin of his neck. Lan Wangji can’t help the hitch in his breath, and instantly feels the curl of Wei Wuxian’s smile against his skin.  

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian mumbles against his neck, his voice raw from sleep.

Lan Wangji’s heart still flutters every time Wei Wuxian calls him Lan Zhan, no matter how many times he hears it.

“Wei Ying.” Lan Wangji presses a kiss into Wei Wuxian’s hair.  

After so many years of thinking about Wei Wuxian like this, of wanting to touch Wei Wuxian like this, Lan Wangji still can’t quite believe that he’s allowed to do this every morning. He gets to wake up like this every day for the rest of his life. The thought nearly makes his heart cave in from happiness.

Still sleepy, Wei Wuxian heaves his body right over Lan Wangji’s, his arms sliding across him and holding him there, as if to say: no getting out of bed today.

His eyes flicker upwards to meet Lan Wangji’s, twinkling even in the dim light of the Jingshi, a curve of a smile across his face, as if challenging him to get up.

For Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji would happily stay right here forever and damn all his responsibilities. He lifts a hand to stroke through Wei Wuxian’s hair again and another big smile curls across his face. Lan Wangji thinks he might pay any price just to see Wei Wuxian smile like this every day for the rest of his life.

He had decided long ago that his life belonged, in part, to Wei Wuxian. He’d devoted himself to protecting Wei Wuxian, to loving him, and Lan Wangji didn’t believe in doing anything in half-measures. He was going to make sure his life’s debt had been paid, and if that means he gets to wake up every day to Wei Wuxian’s lips on his skin from this day until oblivion, well, then that’s just how it’s going to be.

He stirs in Lan Wangji’s arms, pressing his chin against his chest. His hand snakes up to tug at Lan Wangji’s hair, fingers playing with the strands.

“I can feel you thinking,” Wei Wuxian mumbled, mouth hot against Lan Wangji’s neck. “What are you thinking about?”

Lan Wangji says nothing, he just tips Wei Wuxian over onto his back, fingers trailing down his bare chest. They wander across Wei Wuxian’s body, and he takes in a breath, eyes searching Lan Wangji for an answer, but Lan Wangji says nothing. The scars from Wei Wuxian’s old life aren’t there anymore, but he’s taken on new ones since. Lan Wangji’s other hand brushes across the deep red scar across Wei Wuxian’s neck, and he feels a hot flash of anger at the thought of Jin Guangyao, holding that wire across his throat, that drip of blood that fell down Wei Wuxian’s neck. Those eyes of his begging him not to drop his sword, Lan Wangji letting Bichen fall into the dirt anyway.  

His hand moves down, tracing over the space on Wei Wuxian’s pectoral, where there should have been the scar of the Wen brand. He remembers sitting in the dirt, back pressed against the rocky wall of the cave, leg screaming out in pain, seeing Wei Wuxian stripped down to his underclothes and thinking, I want to kiss him, so desperately, a desire so strong he thought he might burn up from it, just as soon as he might die from the heart stopping fear of having feelings like this at all.

You shouldn’t flirt with people when you don’t mean it, he had said.

Wei Wuxian’s nose had wrinkled, and he had said, I wasn’t flirting with you, anyway, and there had been such a sharp flash of white hot anger as well as one ongoing, terrifying thought: I want to kiss him, I want to kiss him, I want to kiss him.

Lan Wangji’s hands travel down, and Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath when his fingers brush across the scar at the side of his body, from where Jin Ling had thrust his sword, identical to the scar that had come before his death, from Jiang Cheng. Lan Wangji can’t help the clench of his jaw at the feel of the jagged scar under his fingertips, but he says nothing. Wei Wuxian’s hands drift into Lan Wangji’s hair, knowingly, stopping anything he might have had to say in its tracks.

His fingers continue their journey down Wei Wuxian’s body, and another huff comes from Wei Wuxian as they travel down his ribs towards his lower abdomen. His fingers hover at his navel. Is this where, if this were Wei Wuxian’s original body, he would find the scar from where Wei Wuxian’s golden core had been ripped away, a gift given to someone who wasn’t in the least bit grateful?

His fingers still, and he must be staring very intently, because Wei Wuxian’s hand covers Lan Wangji’s.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks.

“Did it hurt?”

The words are rough, and they slip from him before he can give them permission. He already knows the answer, of course. He still remembers Wen Ning’s face as he’d gravely recounted the whole affair.

Wei Wuxian’s lips press together, and Lan Wangji can tell by the look in his eyes that he doesn’t have to clarify what he means.

Wei Wuxian’s arms wrap around Lan Wangji’s back, tracing the scars that criss-cross his shoulder blades. “Did these?” he says.

They have a history, the pair of them, of shouldering pain and hiding it from the other. How many times during those awful Wei Wuxian-less thirteen years had he played his guqin until his fingers had bled, or had sleepless night after sleepless night thinking about his lost Wei Ying? How many times had Wei Wuxian spent the whole night working on a talisman or a spell and forgotten to eat, or suffered so that someone else could be comfortable?

Lan Wangji doesn’t answer his question, just traces the imaginary line across Wei Wuxian’s abdomen.

Wei Wuxian sighs. “It was—” he huffs out a breath— “necessary.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Lan Wangji says.

There’s a long pause. Lan Wangji watches as Wei Wuxian’s mouth opens and then closes.

“Yes,” he admits, eventually. “It hurt.”

He knew the answer already, but that doesn’t mean that Lan Wangji’s chest doesn’t constrict at the thought. He doesn’t want to think about Wei Wuxian, awake and writhing in pain as his golden core was surgically removed from him, but ever since Wen Ning had told him what had happened, the image had never been far from his thoughts.

Wei Wuxian’s hand cups Lan Wangji’s cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing across skin. “I don’t regret it,” he says. “I’d do it again. For Jiang Cheng, I’d do it again.”

Lan Wangji does his best not to exhale loudly. The words Jiang Cheng doesn’t deserve you dangle on his lips, as does, Jiang Cheng isn’t even a quarter of the man you are, as does, you should never have had to go through all this pain.

Wei Wuxian’s looking up at him so intently, staring him right down.

“What about these?” he says, his fingers running along Lan Wangji’s back.

“Necessary,” Lan Wangji huffs, and Wei Wuxian frowns.

“That’s not what I asked,” Wei Wuxian says.

“It hurt,” Lan Wangji says, “and I would do it again, every time.”

I’d stand with you, every time. I’d stay by your side, every time.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, cupping his cheek. “You don’t have to feel responsible for my scars. None of them were your fault. None of them were your responsibility. Everything that happened to me was brought on either by myself or misfortune. You can’t blame yourself for any of them.”

Lan Zhan’s heart clenches at that. He’ll never quite get over the thought that he could have done more to keep Wei Wuxian safe, to ensure that no harm came to him. Wasn’t he in part responsible? Could he not have protected him better?

He says none of this, instead searching Wei Wuxian’s eyes, feeling his fingers on his back, tracing the lines of the scars.

“And what about you?” he asks instead.

Wei Wuxian’s fingers freeze. “That’s different,” he says, “I was directly responsible for those scars. They’re there because of me. You’ll have those marks forever because of me.”

Lan Zhan dips down and catches Wei Wuxian’s mouth in his, partly to stop him from talking and partly just because he desperately needs this. Wei Wuxian hums under Lan Zhan’s lips and pulls himself up to wrap his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, his hands burying in his hair.

Their lips part for a second. “Not your fault,” Lan Wangji says, firmly.

He watches the way Wei Wuxian’s eyes waver.  

“No,” Lan Wangji says, tucking a finger under Wei Wuxian’s chin and guiding his face back towards him. “Wei Ying. It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t the one with a whip in your hands.”

“You got them for standing with me, though,” Wei Wuxian says. His voice wobbles a little, his eyes still dotting away from Lan Wangji.

“No,” Lan Wangji says again, pulling Wei Wuxian’s face back towards him and kissing him fast. “Not you,” he says, and kisses him again. “Not your fault.” Another kiss. “They were the price I paid for siding with you, but that says a lot more about everyone else than it does about you. My only regret is that I did not stand by your side sooner.”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whispers in that slightly dazed voice he always does when Lan Wangji says a lot, especially about him.  

I should have done more. I should have saved you. I should have stopped you falling.

“Would do it again the same way,” Lan Wangji says, stubbornly. “For Wei Ying.”

For Wei Ying, I would endure anything. For Wei Ying, I would take any scar. For Wei Ying, I would turn against the whole cultivation world.

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Wuxian’s voice is full of wonder, and he stares up at Lan Wangji, eyes glossy. He leans up and wraps his arms around Lan Wangji, holding him so tight, as if to anchor him to the world with him. Lan Wangji understands the urge. He’s spent night after night holding Wei Wuxian tight in his arms, hoping that, if he held hard enough, nobody could take Wei Wuxian from this world and from Lan Wangji again.

Wei Wuxian’s forehead buries itself into Lan Zhan’s shoulder, and Lan Wangji can feel him shaking a little as he clings onto him. Lan Wangji holds him tight, presses kiss after kiss into Wei Wuxian’s hair.

“I’m here, Wei Ying,” he says. “I’m here.”

Wei Wuxian squeezes a little tighter at that, and Lan Wangji hears a sniff.

He briefly remembers all the times that Wei Wuxian shook off getting a wife. No one would want me, he’d said, almost cheerfully, but Lan Wangji had seen the way the spark had gone out of his eyes as he’d said it. Who’d want me as a husband?

How lonely this wonderful man was deep down in his heart. How unlovable he believed himself to be.

Who’d want me? Wei Ying asked with a heavy smile.

I would. The thought had burned in Lan Wangji’s chest, loud and insistent. He’d been terrified of it back then, terrified of how much he loved Wei Ying, of how much his heart had become a compass, pointing in one direction, always towards Wei Ying, always.

I want you; his heart had burned when they were trapped together in the cave with the Xuanwu.

I want you; his chest had screamed when he’d stood in the rain and watched him disappear away with the remains of the Wens.

I want you, he’d all but whimpered when he’d visited Yiling, A-Yuan’s arms around his leg, Wei Wuxian walking towards him with a smile that could have set his soul afire.

He’d wanted him in the Cloud Recesses, this infuriating boy who was filled with bright determination to break almost every rule. He’d wanted him when they were held hostage with Wen Chao, Wei Wuxian cheeky and arrogant as he parroted the Lan rules without a care. He’d wanted him with a furious and heart-breaking tragedy when he’d watched him fall from the cliff in the Nightless City, a soft resigned smile on his face as he accepted the death that Lan Wangji never would.  

“I’m here, Wei Ying,” he says again, lips pressed against Wei Wuxian’s ear. “For as long as I breathe.”  

Wei Wuxian shudders beneath him, choking on a sob, turning over to pull himself into Lan Wangji’s chest, burying his face into Lan Wangji’s heartbeat. Lan Wangji wraps his arms around Wei Wuxian and pulls him tight against him, pressing kisses into his hair.

“Who’d want me?” Wei Wuxian had said.

I do, Wei Ying, Lan Wangji thinks.

I do.

[howtosingit]

Fic: under haunted skies i see you

In the eye of a solar storm, Carlos and TK share a quiet moment. 

*

A missing moment from 1x10.

1.7K | Also on AO3 | Full Series

- - - - - 

When it comes to TK Strand, Carlos is starting to wonder if maybe he doesn’t really mind being the one doing the chasing.

Certainly, after the firefighter walked out on his carefully prepared dinner, Carlos’s ego had been bruised. But, then, he found a literally bruised TK sitting at his desk, green eyes wide and apologetic. It didn’t make him want to chase after him, but it certainly made him want to know more. To help him through whatever he was facing.

So, they’d gone on a date, with mixed results, but they’d formed a firm friendship in the aftermath. It’s a relationship that has come to mean so much to Carlos; he might not know a lot about TK’s past, of who he was before he came to Texas, but he knows enough to paint a picture of the man that he’s spent so much time with the past few months. It’s a beautiful image, one that he would like to keep studying and learning. 

Following the unexpected kiss, TK certainly hadn’t chased after Carlos, but he hadn’t walked away either. Instead, he’d given Carlos the space that he needed, making it clear that he was around whenever Carlos was ready for him. 

Then, of course, following the shooting, Carlos had done the same for TK, giving him the space that he needed to process his trauma, to find his way out. Sure, Carlos would’ve loved to be at his side, holding his hand, helping him remain upright; but that’s not what TK had wanted from him, so he’d stayed away. And eventually, TK came to him.

When they show up to the juice bar, Carlos doesn’t feel like he’s there because he chased TK down. No, instead it feels like they’ve each put in the work, taken their space, reflected on their relationship, and reached a mutual decision to come to this point. 

It feels balanced, in a way.

Or, at least, it does until TK avoids anything serious. Carlos, too anxious to figure out where they stand together, pushes a bit, chasing an answer he desperately needs.

It doesn’t end up being the answer that he wants. 

It shatters him, but he feels like his conversation with Owen a few days ago prepared him for the possibility. Being equals in their friendship means they each have a voice and a choice. 

And, at least this time, they make different ones.

Which is honesty why he has no idea why exactly he’s walking through the all too familiar doors of St. David’s North Medical Center - the very same doors that led him towards a room with an unconscious TK and an uncertain outcome just a little over two weeks ago. 

He’s not in his uniform this time, but he still gets some looks from the trauma ward nurses. Carlos throws them an innocent smile, trying to look like he knows exactly where he’s going, even as he scans every bed that he passes, looking for a familiar head of short brown hair.

He finds him in a room at the far end of the ward, TK sitting up in bed as a nurse sutures his skin back together. Carlos stops in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat at how small the man looks, pale-faced and hunched over. 

On his drive over to the hospital, Carlos had told himself that all he needed was to make sure TK was still alive, and then they could go their separate ways. The other man had made it clear at the juice bar that he needed more space, possibly even a state or two away, and Carlos wanted to respect that decision. 

Now that he’s seen him, Carlos can leave. The chase is over, the book is finished.

Except, before he can move, the nurse looks away from TK’s shoulder and notices him. “Can I help you, sir?” she asks, her voice kind but professional. 

TK looks up at her words, their eyes locking. He sees surprise in the man’s green eyes, but all Carlos can do is silently stare back. He didn’t really have a plan for what he was going to say when he saw TK, very much feeling like their relationship had already come to the close. 

This was merely the epilogue, and the right words escape him now.

The nurse glances between them, taking in the tense set of TK’s body. “Sir,” she says, her voice stern now, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“No!” TK all but shouts, his eyes widening as he looks between the two of them. “Please, ma’am, he’s with me. He’s supposed to be here.”

He turns back to Carlos as he says the final line, his jaw locked and his expression certain. Carlos feels his breath catch in his throat; there’s no way that TK had been expecting him to come looking for him, and yet, he doesn’t mind that he’s here. 

Surprising him even further, TK holds out his right hand to Carlos, his gaze softening as he wiggles his fingers.

Carlos doesn’t even hesitate before gliding across the room and taking his hand, linking their fingers together tightly. He raises them up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against TK’s knuckles as a smile threatens to rearrange his entire face. Next to him, he hears TK let out a breath, leaning over to rest his head against Carlos’s chest.

“Okay, sir,” the nurse says, and Carlos sees that a small smile has taken over her own face, even though she’s trying to mask it. “I have a few more sutures to finish and he’s not on any pain meds, so try to keep him distracted.”

“Carlos has never had a problem distracting me,” TK mumbles into his shirt, his voice soft. Carlos feels a blush rise up the back of his neck at his claim, an embarrassed laugh escaping him.

There’s silence as the nurse continues her work, but Carlos finds that it speaks volumes. He brings his free hand up to TK’s scalp, running his fingers through his hair the way he knows he likes. TK relaxes into him, as much as he can while keeping his shoulder held still for the nurse to finish stitching him up. 

When she’s all done, she reminds TK that he needs to take it easy for a few weeks, then leaves to begin working on his discharge papers, closing the door behind her. 

As soon as they’re alone, TK lets out a groan, pulling away from Carlos to lie back against the pillow. Carlos steps closer, shifting to continue to run his hand through TK’s hair. He watches as the other man’s eyebrows relax, the creases in his forehead disappearing as he breathes deeply. 

“Might be good of you to get out of Texas for a while,” Carlos says after a few minutes, his voice cracking at the reminder that TK is going to be leaving him soon. “I think this state makes you a bit of a danger magnet.”

TK opens his eyes slowly, looking up at Carlos with an unreadable expression on his face. The joke dies between them, neither of them finding it possible to force a laugh. He doesn’t really know what to do now, so he stands quietly next to the bed, waiting. 

TK pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, staring down at their joined hands currently resting against his stomach. His thumb rubs gently against Carlos’s skin, a billion bolts of energy coursing through him at the minor touch. 

“Carlos, there’s something I really, really need you to know about me,” TK says, taking a deep breath. Carlos feels his heart jump in his chest, a lethal mix of joy and fear flying through him. TK looks up at him, open and honest. “Sometimes, I am a massive idiot.”

It’s not at all the revelation that Carlos was expecting. Before he can reign it in, a laugh rolls out of him, the tension from before flying through the room. TK laughs with him, his face breaking into a giant grin as they push through this wall that has kept them apart for weeks, if not months. 

TK shifts to the far side of the bed, tugging at Carlos’s hand until he understands the other man’s meaning. As delicately as possible, Carlos slides up onto the bed, pressing himself against TK’s side. When he feels TK’s chin resting on his left shoulder, he turns towards him, his breath catching at their proximity and youthful, happy look that the firefighter gives him.

“I belong here, Carlos,” TK says, his voice light and relieved, practically dancing over the words. “With my dad, with the 126, and…”

“And?” Carlos hedges when TK trails off.

“And with you,” TK finishes, his tone hesitant.

Carlos can’t stand to hear the doubt in his voice, so he leans forward a few inches to close the distance between them. It’s less of a kiss and more just lips pressing against lips, but he thinks it tells TK everything that he needs to know.

“And with me,” Carlos confirms, squeezing TK’s fingers tightly to reassure him.

TK lets out another breath, pushing forward for a real kiss, his lips moving against Carlos’s own as if it’s what they were made to do.

Carlos can’t help but to think that maybe they were.

In a few moments, TK will be discharged, and Carlos will drive him to the fire station. He’ll stay with him while he showers and changes, finally getting out of his soaked and bloody clothes. Then, he’ll send Carlos home, telling him to come back when the 126’s shift ends.

And Carlos will. They’ll have dinner together, sharing all of their secrets. Carlos will tell TK all about Iris, and TK will tell Carlos all about Alex. They’ll lay their pasts out for both of them to see before finally letting them go, the haunted skies hovering over Austin and their hearts clearing just in time for a kaleidoscope of colors to paint them anew. 

On top of the hood of his Camaro, they’ll laugh and kiss and talk and make decisions. They’ll make plans and they’ll share dreams. They’ll think back to that night where they first met, under much different circumstances, when they were very different people. They’ll talk about how far they’ve both come since then, and how much further they have still have to go. 

But, above all else, they’ll talk about how they can’t wait to do it all together. 

As a team.

[amelialincoln]

Prompt: Can you please do a fic with Meredith and Maggie meeting the baby? Plz don’t forget to like and repost my fics if you enjoy, it makes all the difference! Also, please keep sending prompts and any questions. They make my day! Hope this lived up to expectations!💕

Guaranteed

Amelia was in awe of the tiny baby lying on her bare chest, his little head peeking through the neckline of her thin hospital gown. This baby was alive and breathing and not going to live for only forty-three minutes. She didn’t know whether she was relieved by this idea or even more scared, knowing that this baby would be a product of her own parenting.

“Hey, Mommy,” Link said softy, his forehead resting on the doorway as if he’d been standing there awhile. “You okay?”

“We’re good,” she answered before shrugging. “I can’t seem to get him to latch.”

“The nurse came?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled. “He was good for a bit but then stopped the minute that she left. I haven't been able to get him on since.”

“He’s sleeping?” Link asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, gazing down at the little resting infant on her chest. “He seems alright.”

“Maybe, he’s just not hungry.”

“Maybe.” Link moved to the bed, kissing her forehead and reaching behind her ear to tug at the elastic holding her hair in place. The chocolate curls came tumbling down from the loose bun.

“There we go.” He smiled. “I’m a lucky guy.” He met her deep blue eyes with a lopsided grin.

“I’ve never felt better in my life, sweaty and exhausted. Not to mention the horror movie scene going on below the covers.”

“They stitched you up?”

“While you were gone. Nothing like getting your vagina sutured without pain meds.”

“Amelia—” Link winced.

“Yeah, just you finally think the pain is over they inform you that they have to suture up all the perineal lacerations caused by your six foot two boyfriend’s baby coming out of your five foot three girlfriend’s vagina.” Link chucked, pulling Amelia’s hospital gown neckline towards him as he peeked at the little baby sleeping on her chest. “He wouldn’t fall sleep unless it was skin to skin contact. I had to take him out of his onesie and everything. You missed a lot of crying.”

“My kinda guy. Doesn’t settle for anything less than the skin to skin stuff.”

“Link.” Amelia rolled her eyes, stifling a yawn.

“You tired, babe? Want me to take him?” Link offered.

“Sure, but if he has a meltdown I’m leaving.”

“Oh so every time our baby cries, from now on, you’re just walking out?” He teased. “Don’t worry he knows his daddy.” As Link rolled up her gown and lifted the baby into his arms Amelia was shocked to see that he didn’t even stir. Instead, he only burrowed into Link’s chest further and babbled sleepily. “See? Daddy’s boy.” To which Amelia rolled her eyes. “Meredith and Maggie we’re asking about you and the baby. I told them I’d ask to see if you were up for a visit.”

Amelia’s eyes widened. “I completely forgot. Of course they can come meet him. It’s probably a good time since he seems so relaxed now.” She reached for her phone and sent a quick text to their sister group chat. “I’ll just get changed and maybe take a shower. Are they still at the hospital?”

“I’m not sure. They were in the attending lounge when I saw them. They could’ve gone home but I’m not sure.”

“Okay, well tell them I’m showering if they come and will be right out.” She leaned over to give their little boy a kiss on the forehead and Link a quick one on the lips. She entered the small bathroom attached to their room. Happy to get out of the thin and uncomfortable material of the hospital gown, she undressed quickly before stealing a look at herself in the mirror. She frowned as she studied her reflection. Her chest was enlarged, swollen and tender to the touch. Most likely from the failed attempts to get Jake to nurse. She ignored her stomach and was surprised to find her vaginal area discoloured with bruising. With Christopher her labor had been debatably easier and had experienced bruising but nothing like she was witnessing at that moment. Shrugging she turned on the shower and stepped in. She wasn’t shocked to find bleeding, which was minimal and normal.

She soothed her greasy scalp with the fragranceless shampoo and conditioner in the shower before washing the rest of her body cautiously and stepping out of the shower. She used the pathetically small towel hung up on the ring beside her before pulling on the pyjamas that Link had packed her. They’d decided on Jake Derek Lincoln after not only Addison’s husband, but the man who helped Amelia through her first pregnancy. Derek after the obvious. They’d talked about hyphenating their last names but it just seemed like too much of a mouthful and Amelia had made him promise that if he ever hurt her that she’d force him to sign off for it to be Shepherd immediately. To which he’d laughed before shrugging and saying that it didn’t matter that much to him anyways. When she opened the bathroom door she was surprised to find Meredith and Maggie in the hospital bed. Link glanced up at her from his chair.

“Still doing okay, babe?”

“All good,” she sighed, moving to the edge of the bed.

“Sorry, we couldn’t go home before seeing the baby. Maggie’s been complaining all day,” Meredith grumbled, a hint of joy, however, behind her eyes.

“I would’ve said you could come earlier—”

“It was worth it,” Maggie interrupted softy, her eyes not moving from the little bundle in her arms. “Hi baby. Have you guys decided on a name?”

“Jake Derek Lincoln, for now.” Amelia answered, narrowing her eyes at Link who chuckled.

“Until I screw up apparently,” Link teased, patting his lap for Amelia to come sit.

“Are you guys staying the night?” Meredith asked, eyeing the neurosurgeon’s obvious discomfort as she lowered herself slowly onto his lap. “Sorry, Amelia, come sit on the bed.” Amelia put a hand up and shook her head before leaning comfortably onto Link’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her legs up carefully.

“I’m trying to get Carina to let me go home. I feel almost safer in the presence of all of you than here,” she joked. “I just want to sleep in my own bed and we already have the crib set up and everything. Though, I doubt he’ll be leaving our arms for at least tonight.”

“Fair enough. You’re lucky your room is still yours. Since you’ve been at Link’s apartment so often Zola’s been begging for your room.” Meredith smiled before lifting the baby from Maggie’s arms and into hers.

“Hey...” Maggie whined. “I can go talk to Carina and then we could all leave together. We’re off until tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” Amelia nodded thankfully.

Prying the baby out of Maggie and Meredith’s grasp was almost impossible. Amelia had finally fallen asleep on the couch and Link has been attempting to convince them to give the baby up for the last half hour.

“You are the perfect baby,” Maggie cooed. She wasn’t wrong. Jake had hardly stirred other than to open his big blue eyes and gurgle happily, maybe grasping a finger before falling back into a motionless sleep. Although, to Amelia’s disappointment, was still having trouble relieving her of her swollen and sore chest.

“He has been pretty great today,” Link chuckled, running a hand distractedly through Amelia’s hair and wishing they could be upstairs so that he could be holding her and their newborn son. “I think they’re both pretty tired so we should probably head up now.”

“I could do this all night,” Meredith smiled, recalling on her days with Ellis curled up in her arms as Jake was now. “It’s weird to think these days are over...but probably for the best,” she laughed softy before handing Link his little boy.

“Thank you guys. Jake is really lucky to have a family like this to grow up in.” He was reminded of how little love had been shared between his parents during his childhood and promised silently to never raise his child the same way. As he glanced over at Amelia, sleeping soundlessly in his lap, he knew that it wouldn’t be difficult. “Hey babe,” Amelia yawned, her eyes opening into slivers. “Time to go upstairs. I’d carry you up but I don’t think I could manage you and the baby.”

“I guess those days are over,” Amelia mumbled tiredly.

“Goodnight, Amelia,” Maggie said as her and Meredith watched the two make their way out of the living room.”

“I can’t promise the kids won’t be all over the both of you tomorrow,” Meredith called. “They’ve been asking me about their new cousin constantly for the last couple of weeks. I’ll try to keep them at bay so that you can get some rest.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Amelia sleepily answered.

Once they were upstairs it took all of Amelia’s effort not to crawl into bed. She left Link to change Jake’s diaper and get him into pyjamas and walked into the bathroom. She changed into a loose pair of black shorts and an oversized t shirt. After washing her face, she examined the blood situation and returned to the room to find Link fast asleep with Jake babbling happily on his chest, playing with his father’s hair. “Oh so now you’re awake.” Amelia sighed. She lifted the baby into her arms and winced as Jake applied direct pressure on her chest.

“Usually when you complain about being sore a message helps,” Link teased, woken up by her groan.

“You’re not coming anywhere near my boobs for a very long time if this guy can’t get it together,” Amelia sighed.

“Well in that case let’s figure this out,” He smiled, pulling Amelia in between his legs and resting her back on his stomach. “I asked the nurse for some tips before leaving and she said you just have to try and cup it like this.” He wrapped an arm around her helping to guide Jake. “There we go buddy. Now here, Amelia, give me your hand. Like this, babe.”

“Oh,” she murmured as Jake finally latched on. “Why did you let me suffer through hours before telling me this.”

“Meredith and Maggie—”

“Could’ve waited!” Amelia exclaimed. Link laughed, burrowing his face in her neck apologetically and breathing in the sweetness of her perfume. Amelia relaxed into him. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” It wasn’t long before Amelia nodded off. Link removed the satisfied baby from her arms. Careful to not wake Amelia, he set Jake down, removing his scrubs and changing into a new pair boxers before crawling into bed. Not wanting to put Jake in his crib just yet, he placed the sleeping baby on Amelia, who cradled him in her sleep and wrapped his arms around her. Completely content with watching the both of them resting, he knew, that for himself, it would be a sleepless night.