#I ended up crying for like a solid hour jesus christ

[thisfuckingdork]

Just played through Since November. its.... really fucking good jesus christ. I haven't straight up sobbed to media like that in a long while. catharsis. Stories that hit hard as a climate scientist I guess

[bumpkinspice0]

Parallels Chapter 16: Empty

Miguel O'Hara x Spider!FemReader

No use of y/n

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: A month in and neither of you have worked up the courage to take the cure. The days seeming go longer as you prolong the inevitable.

Warnings: Jesus Christ the Angst, heartbreak, longing, sexual frustration, unhealthy coping mechanisms, obsessive/ possessive behavior, like WFT am I doing??

A/N:  An update in just over a week?! Yeah, I'm surprised too. This is going to make everything worse and I'm so sorry.

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Series Masterlist

AO3

_______________

Chapter 16

Empty

There’s a deep aching in your chest that won’t go away. Something physical just to remind you how much life sucked right now. You used to think the term heartbreak was completely metaphorical. Turns out there’s some truth behind it. How can a heart break? Maybe not break completely, but you think it can crack. It can fracture and bleed. I vital part of your being was working at half capacity with no time to fix it.

Maybe that’s what you were feeling, you were bleeding out. Eventually, there’d be nothing left. 

It’d been a month since you’d seen him, but seemingly not a moment goes by that you don’t think of him. It felt stupid. Dramatic like in the movies. You and your lover can’t be together so now you spend your days wallowing, fighting, and eating too many cheeze itz. This is what the pinnacle of a hero’s sacrifice looks like, ladies and gentlemen. All done for the greater good of the universe. 

Your chest ached since you got home and your ears started ringing yesterday and haven’t stopped. The spider-sense won’t let you forget how miserable you are either. The buzzing is almost deafening, the carnal urges unsatiated by your own hands. You cry out his name whenever another unfulfilling orgasm shakes you, only precious seconds of faint relief. 

You could have put a stop to this weeks ago. The key to your salvation sat idly on your kitchen counter, waiting to be used. 

The cure. 

You’d pick it up every night thinking tonight will be the night, then as you hold the needle to your skin dread overtakes you. Like you’re going to burst into the flames if a drop of that poison gets into your body. It felt… wrong. Like cutting out a perfectly healthy organ. You just couldn’t do it. Not yet. 

Or maybe you were just trying to cling to some part of him— grasping at whatever pieces of Miguel you had left. 

You couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

Is he suffering as much as you are? A spiteful part of you hopes so, if it would only mean you’re not suffering alone. Misery loves company after all. Not that you really had company lately… 

You’d stopped yourself from calling him a few times when the urges got too painful. It would be so easy. Just seeing him would be enough, you’re sure of it. Would he even come? The tugging on the other end of your invisible chain tells you yes. Then you open the watch to see Lyla hoving there, disappointment tugging at her artificial features, and you instantly feel like a scolded child.

You’d barely been to the citadel because of it, worming your way out of any missions you can. Just being in the same building as him was borderline unbearable. Jess and Peter asked you a few times if you were okay. Apparently, you weren’t hiding it well. 

So instead you bury yourself in your work here, in your dimension where things made sense— and somewhere Miguel O’Hara was far, far away from. 

If you kept yourself busy with hero work then what time would there be left to grieve? An absolutely rock-solid plan that always worked when someone is in crisis. And the very thing you’d scolded Gwen for when she’d first come. Much harder to stop in practice, it turns out. 

Your late/ early hours in the city didn’t go unnoticed, Jack was checking up on you near constantly. It was sweet of him to be worried but there was nothing he could do. Even if he tried to be a voice of reason, you wouldn’t listen anyway. Maybe you just wanted to brood. Stew in your misery until it eats you up completely. It was so much easier to do that than to move on. Moving on required work. It required you to finally let go.

So dramatic. That’s your life now, you suppose. 

You lie awake in your bed, another sleepless night. The buzzing too powerful to ignore— because it was never supposed to be ignored. That’s what a spider-sense is for! To tell you something is wrong. He wasn’t here and it was wrong. 

You kick the sweat-soaked sheets off with a frustrated groan. You can't keep going on like this. It had to end. You march down to the kitchen, for the millionth time, with every intention in the world to end this cycle. 

The plastic of the injector gun groans in protest under your grasp as you hold it over your left wrist. It was right there. It was right there. You notice the pale liquid in the vial shaking. Your hand was trembling. 

“Come on!” you scream at yourself, “Just do it! Just do it!” 

You slide the gun away and bury your face in your hands.

Coward. 

The sun is coming up. Jack will be here in a few hours to use the studio. This house was more his than yours now, anyway. You’ll be gone when he gets here, not wanting to sit through another lecture about self-love and moving on. 

You slide your suit on and leave for the city that awaits outside. At least that still made sense to you. 

___________________

Miguel had found anger was a good substitution for feeling nothing. Not that it was really a continuous decision. He’d always been quick to anger, but now it was just easier. 

“You know you're supposed to bring them in alive, right?” Gabe had scolded him a few weeks ago when he brought in another Kraven anomaly, bloodied and battered with two broken arms. Not dead though. He seemingly couldn’t help himself, the hunter's face reminding him of that final mission he had with you all those weeks ago.

“He is alive,” Miguel mumbled back before disappearing into another portal. He spends more time in realities other than his own these days.

He wasn’t a killer, but he also didn’t have any pity for those who chose evil as a career path. Villains are no more than a distraction lately. Normally he’d bury himself in his science work when moods like this popped up. Countless engineering projects gather dust, just waiting for his skillful touch. He’d barely been in his lab the last month.

He could still smell you there. In his sheets, on his suit— your taste still lingering on his lips. You followed him everywhere and he couldn’t outrun it. Still, it didn’t stop him from trying. He’d cleared a record number of anomalies this month. 

He was burying himself in his work… in a way. 

Seemingly endless nights lying awake with the sense ringing in his ears. Hollow feeling jerk-offs in the shower, just to get any inkling of relief. They never did. He thinks he feels you too, sometimes— through the link. Doing the same shameful things as he did. It didn’t help to know you were suffering too. Suffering because of him. 

He hadn’t even touched it— the cure. 

You were right to be afraid of it, he was too. Every instinct in his mind was begging him to dump it down the drain. To get rid of it and never think about it again. He knew he couldn’t. It had to be done… eventually. 

He’d seen you only once. Passing by from a distance in the tower. You were exiting the lobby with Jess and Peter and he was on a walkway at least 5 stories up. He felt the tug and spotted you instantly. Sometimes advanced senses were a curse. That familiar urge stirred in him at just the sight of you, his cock instantly shamefully bulging in his pants. 

He saw you pause, undoubtedly feeling the desire too— the unbearable longing. If you felt him, then you hadn’t taken the cure either. A part of him wanted to rejoice and the other part wanted to scream. Neither of you could do it. But if just one of you broke that barrier then it surely would be easier for the other, right? To end this suffering. So far, it seems like neither of you were brave enough.

You didn’t seem to come to the tower much anymore. He can’t blame you. Still, it didn’t stop him from checking in on you any way he could. Channeling in on your dimensions news, watching you fight from across the vast multiverse. It felt dirty, spying on you this way. Yet by the time the disgust and guilt for his actions registered, a screen with you on it had already been playing for hours. 

You never seemed to stop, constantly on the prowl day and night. Either your city was under such a criminal siege that you had no time to rest… or you were distracting yourself just like he was.

Why did he torture himself this way? He tried to justify it by convincing himself it was for your safety. To make sure you were alright, ignoring the fact that you were just as capable of a spider as he was. You weren’t some damsel that needed saving or a lover that could be used as leverage. You were strong. A hero. Just like him. 

So why did he really keep up this dangerous game? Why didn’t he just bite the bullet and take the cure, making yet another ultimate sacrifice like he had so many times before?

Because Miguel was completely in love with you. 

He was in love again and he simply could not let that go so easily. Even just thinking beyond the spider-sense, he’s sure he’d loved you for months. He couldn’t even say it started out innocent because it definitely didn’t. Two spiders acting on their most primal of urges, devouring one another until they found the person on the other side of this desire. A beautiful, perfect, captivating person. A bond turned to an agreement out of necessity— now ending in the greatest heartbreak. 

Another thing he couldn’t have dangled in front of him and swiftly ripped away. Fuck the universe and all its cruelty. Fuck this job. Fuck you for even having the audacity to exist. Just fuck… everything.

Miguel rips through a portal into his lab, dragging a caged Sandman behind him. 

“From universe-694, take him down to Byte,” he commands into the ambient space. Instantly the ever diligent spider-bots emerge from the shadows, taking the caged villain down to sector two to be shipped back home. A constant ritual. Constant work. 

“Lyla,” he commands again, “Find me another one.”

“There isn’t another one,” the AI illuminates in front of him, “Everything’s being handled.”

“By who?” He bites out.

“I don’t know, the countless other spiders you hired to do this job exactly.” She glitches closer to him, doing her best to properly scold the seemingly emotionless Spider-man. 

“There’s always more.”

“Take. A. Break.”

He growls in frustration, swatting away her pixelated form. Fine, he could take a breather, just for a little bit. 

He jumps up to his desk, the various monitors illuminating in an instant. He wanted to see you, just for a little bit. He types in the coordinates to your universe, Earth-727.  The video feed illuminates for just a moment before it’s zapped back to black. 

“Lyla!” he barks, “Turn it on.”

She blips to the desk in front of him, “No. This isn’t healthy, Miguel.”

He rages, clawing through the projected monitors and pushing the mess off his desk. He’s not proud of it, but it doesn’t stop him from throwing a tantrum anyway. 

He takes a moment to gather himself, to just calm down, “Lyla please.”

Her yellow form stands there unmoving, sympathy drooping her artificial features.

“I… don’t think you should.”

Her tone makes him perk up. There was something to it. Something more than just pity.

“Why?” he asks cautiously. 

“I… told you, it’s not health—”

“You never tried to stop me before though. Not with her, not with my family.” He steps closer to the AI, as if he could actually intimidate her, “Why now?”

“Miguel—”

“You’re hiding something,” the acquisition is fueled by paranoia, yet he sees a shift in the small projections demeanor that shows truth behind it. She was made to mimic human mannerisms almost exactly. For all intents and purposes, Lyla basically was human—in the ways that mattered. Even she couldn’t hide things from him. 

She sighs, turning her gaze away from him. 

“I was overlooking some cannon and I came across something,” she starts, “Something in Earth-727.”

Your universe. He feels his heart clench in anticipation. 

“And?”

Though Lyla could show the entire range of human emotions he’d never seen her look so… sad. 

“Miguel… She's going to die. She’s going to be killed. Tonight.”

________

Taglist:

@ineedgarlicbread @pinkiemme @thesilenthill @bontensbabygirl @fallenangelsongwolf @raerorigel @littlefreakymunson @viriexo

@w33ni3 @del-ightfulling

Taglist post here!!!

[the-firebird69]

Anakin vs Darth Maul? | Extra footage

He kicked him into the lightsaber and he missed his hands and didn't do anything and they fought on and the guy lost and Darth maul 1 and it was real and it was at Comic-Con and it's not San Diego or New York and it was in Miami so we have to maintain order here but it is not bja meaning it's not Anakin it was one of his men and he's missing

Thor Freya

I knew you'd find it while I'm trying to place it there and somebody was filming it and they ran like hell and he thought it was our friend here cuz they went about 50 and it might have been Ken nobody else has known to be able to run that fast and he said the figure was not real huge and he said to have a cyst and a cyst and he was saying it's not assisted it could have been a close Jager or iron Man suit and he said I didn't have gear but it sounds like a person running and I didn't hear anything else and so he's mad at Ken so we're worried about him he knows about blasters and we need the technology in case of huge blasters are not built even if they are

This person here is an expert and he is a Jedi and I'm going to deem it and he says you can't call me when but you can call me to your people and I understand what he's saying his people have to say he is and there's a time and place for it probably a Comic-Con so I'm doing a great job he says whatever that thing is and whatever that thing is you have to get them off and we need that motorcycle and I'm not saying you should build it because we are trying and it's just not going anywhere if you build it in Miami everybody's going to try and take it which might tie it up I thought about that and it might work and it's a great idea and VGA doesn't want to do it and it's his place and it is a really hot idea that is a great idea and to use the tube steel because you don't have to bend it and warp it and it takes forever it takes a day to make one frame your system takes about a total of an hour even if you have tons of people cutting they take a while to cut and the new one might take a little bit more but not much and you set the Angles and have jigs and you don't need to use a plate it really works better and for crying out loud this is going to be an awesome bike I've never heard of anything so simple so quick and then the suspension on it's going to rule it really has not been anything that's this effective for a long time you saddles and things you use on buildings and it makes sense buildings have huge amounts of stresses on small members and I started to think about it and I said wow there's a ton of weight on those things and on a motorcycle is not really that much and the talking stuff is usually in line and it's just pushing horizontally against a solid member created when you're jumping and falling and things like that there's a lot of weight but it's only you and your body and most people don't jump like crazy and we did and we've been frames that that frame of the Buell was terrible and he didn't say to build it like that no we're going ahead and we're going to try it it's going to be awesome this this bike looks real cool it's based on his brother Evel Knievel can you believe all the stuff people going to wear and he said I should start making it and they will come and you know it might be why I made that on the door this makes a lot of sense now and I'll say it's not about the rebel flag and you're saying about motorcycles and they said we know about that and they start talking about it and it never stopped I have to do this now it's going to be so much fun to be able to ride when he says I get a trailer and they'll ride it over and he might have BG ride in the ball of death of the circus and we might reopen it and we know where to put it he says at the airport and we said no

Qui Gon

Olympus

Jesus Christ that blows but he thinks it was me and I was moving this little fat guy running 50 miles an hour no the fact kind of goes away and I look kind of chunky I had stuff on but I guess he could tell and I run a little weird yeah I'm in trouble so bja and now he's not going to help so I get that and my group is in trouble they think they had me do it and we're going to probably end up fighting them to get the ships out so I see that

Ken AKA Frankie lupena

I'm going to get going on the stuff this is awesome

Hera yeah your Comic-Con stuff if our people are going to make you a Jedi I have to be there and be one of the same time glad you asked you're saying stop it taking advice for my uncle is going to ruin us I'm just kidding but geez cover cover everywhere to drink so I'm going to go to college and I know a character you want to be and you say what is that I'm laughing you don't know which one so I'm going to keep looking

You know what character he is and no he can't be that one and it can't be that one and there's a couple more you can't be being is not that great at this time it might be how you get there though after the fact is not too late and it's actually good timing and they will get you money and we do see that they're a bunch of nutcases and by then you should be at least 5 ft 11 and it says bigger than most people and that's true

Thor Freya

It would be bigger than most people at Comic-Con but we do understand here decent sized you probably need the shirt it'll be more fun and you'd be harder than hell hotter and maybe it would still be winter hopefully there's a couple more reasons they might do it people want to see the interaction between different groups there's a lot of heinous stuff going on and we want to see that mostly that we want to see it but other groups want to see how to get at each other most of them are kind of chickenshit to do it and they just sit you here well these people are so we want to get you out to try and do things like that and we want to try and get you out pretty quick meaning the next comic Con is coming up and if you don't have money we know you can't go

Olympus

[soobadnoonecanstopher]

Touch it for Real, Part 2

Genre: Humor / Fluff / Eventual Smut

Warnings: OMG they were roommates / slice of life / slow burn / mutual pining / crude humor / cursing / virgin!baek / enemies to lovers

Characters: Baekhyun X You/Female Reader

Description: You teach Baekhyun how to date. (Basically the Get You Alone M/V)

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

What you didn't know — what you couldn’t have known was that it wasn’t real. The flush you felt in your skin was real. The sticky sweat that spread over your bed sheets when you tossed and turned was real. The heat of it; the perceptible and tactile fire that spread through your veins felt so physical and solid, you had no way of knowing that this wasn’t real.

Slim fingers.

Fleshy thighs.

Hip bones beneath well worn denim.

Buttons popping with the barest of effort.

And the lips. Oh God, the softness of those lips as they traveled over your very hot skin. You could feel it all.

You never saw his face; you hadn’t needed to. You could smell him everywhere. You knew who this was. You’d know him with your eyes blinded; you’d know him anywhere.

At first you turned away. At first you resisted, but as the fire spread through you, you found yourself turning into him, searching for him, seeking out that connection to fuel the heat.

Why was this happening? Why did you rejoice in it? The longing and the desire had simply become too much for you to deny and now you were the one pulling him into you. You were the one who wrapped your legs around that slim waist and constricted and those sounds from his chest they were...they were…

Those sounds from his mouth, they were—

Screaming.

Laughing.

‘AH HA HA HA AH — YES!’ Rough staccato laughter; so, so loud — so damn loud, it ripped and it tore at your mind and it yanked you up so roughly; up so fast you felt your entire body shaking if not completely falling apart with the speed at which you were pulled.

You opened your eyes into pitch blackness. Your vision took only a second to adjust and you could make out the sliver of dim light from the street lamp outside that peeked through the very top of your curtains.

On your nightstand, pale yellow squared numbers taunted you with 03:42 AM and covering your entire body where you laid on your once so welcoming bed was your bunched up and sweaty comforter. It was heavy. It was everywhere. You felt suffocated by it. Why was it so hard to breathe?

Your comforter. You purchased it because it was pretty. It fit in perfectly with your room decor and it was pale in color enough that the brightly colored stuffed animals you set atop stood out and complimented the subtle pattern. It made you feel at home.

It used to make you feel at home. Now it was making you feel a very different sort of way. Hot and sweaty and flushed all over and now, very mad about all of it.

You could still feel that shaking deep inside your chest and you laid your palm over your forehead to feel for a fever. You swear you could feel the tremble happening inside, though it was fading now, you were sure you still felt that shaking inside of your body.

It was beginning to settle.

You felt another rumble, paired with a loud booming sound that vibrated and shook your wall. The glass of your window quaked and the pale yellow numbers on your nightstand danced in your vision.

‘HAHAHA! I got you asshole!’

03:44 AM

Speakers. Surround sound. Heavy bass. An impressive system at any other time of the day when the sun was out. But right now? When you had been peacefully asleep; when you had been dreaming? Earth shattering booms. Deafening shouts of victory from the idiot with every new explosion that rattled your bones.

You sat up and the comforter stuck to your sweaty skin. It wasn’t even hot in this room, yet this thing clung to you like it was coated in glue. Nearly four in the fucking morning.

You had to work tomorrow. It was the one day a month when you were required to report to the office in person for the staff meeting. And here you were being ripped awake by such a disturbing commotion and goddammit this blanket was hot.

This … thing.

This thing that brought with it images of him and images of, oh god, images of his fingertips and his lips and his, oh god, oh no. No, please not that. Anything but that. Of all the things that were absolutely off limits. Of all the situations that could never happen. Horror. An overwhelming horror; it tasted of shame.

No, no, no, no.

How could this have happened? How could those images be burning into the backs of your eyes? The more your overtired mind tried to make sense of it, the less sense this made. You looked down at the blanket, searching for answers.

Had something about this blanket been ruined?

Was it’s once comforting and innocent essence somehow completely changed on a molecular level and was it now….tainted forever? Because of him? Because of what he brought into your room and depravedly rubbed all over it?

You pushed it away with both hands reaching you pushed and pushed until it sunk down off the foot of your bed and the cool air blew over your hot bare legs. Even the cool air did little to calm the irritation you felt all over your body. It did nothing to cool you off. Your legs were made of pure fire.

He did this. You were sure of it. He brought this evil on you. And now with his room shaking howling laughter you were wide awake and angry at almost 4 am when you had work in the morning; you had to be worth a damn in the morning.

You were up on angry legs with rage pushing you forward and you reached down for the blanket that you didn't even want in your room anymore for all it represented. You hauled it with both hands and took two steps forward toward your closed bedroom door when your forward progress took a quick and southward dive and you fell, tripped up by the wretched blanket when you stepped on a corner instead of on your soft rug.

You could feel the burn on your kneecaps where you collided with the hard floor. You could feel a sting on your left knee that hit the hardest but burned into the carpet and you grunted through the pain to quickly lift yourself back up and gather every other bit of hanging blanket securely inside your arms.

The trek through the living room at such an ungodly hour when every living breathing cell in your body would have rather been asleep felt absolutely crazed. You reached his door, turned the knob just enough for the latch to disengage and with your entire being hurled that motherfucker open and sent it flying.

Oh and it flew. It hit the wall and bounced back hard, bouncing back quickly against your arms that held on securely to the blanket. The noise was shocking. It was a vindicating battle cry.

The commotion startled him. His hands were on the keyboard and a pair of headphones atop of his head and for WHAT, you could hear every single thing happening on his screen in mind deafening stereo surround sound filling up the whole room. You could hear it clearly from your own room and from inside this room it sounded like you were living inside of the subwoofers themselves.

Your rage was somehow louder and it made him spin toward the motion and sound of you at his doorway with a shriek of surprise. His eyes were saucers and his mouth flew open; an unchewed bite of some pink sausage fell out and bounced off his knee onto the floor below his sock covered feet and he was only screaming for a second before he was cursing.

“Shit. Jesus. Fuck. Ohh my God, Fucking Hell, oh my heart. Oh it hurts. Oh Christ I’m dying.”  He was clutching at his chest. His headphones, the useless things slipped off his head and toppled down his shoulder following the sausage chunk and you could see them fall all the way down to the floor. The cord, which had not been plugged in quickly followed and pooled into a puddle at his feet.

“Do you have any idea ... what time it is?” Your voice sounded foreign to your ears. Had you always sounded so burly? You felt like an angry mountain lion ready to go in for the kill.

His eyes were closed up tight and he inhaled a deep breath before cracking them open to look at you through the heavy panicked breaths.

“Ohhh,” he moaned as his breathing calmed and the shock faded with each slow breath he took. “Ohhhhh,” he repeated softer, to himself.

“Ohhh…” this time he was looking at you and his eyebrows furrowed together as he did it. “Oh—whoa, whoa, whoa, you look….super fucking crazy right now. What is happening?”

His hands were up in confusion; in defense, and you were moving forward taking the stupid blanket and roughly shoving it toward him you hurled it right at his face and watched it hit as hard as a soft cottony blanket could manage to hit — it was more of a gentle nudge really, and then it fell down, taking his stupid glasses off his face and burrying them somewhere within the fluff where the blanket fell.

He was too confused to catch it. He had absolutely no idea what he had done to defile and destroy the sacred sanctity of your sleep.

He had no idea.

“What are you doing with this? Why are you doing this? Why are you giving me your blanket? Where are your pants? Is your leg bleeding? Tell me what is happening!”

“You!” You hurled a finger up and pointed it in his face. His eyes widened, crossed to look at the finger that clearly accused him of something just off the end of his nose and then looked back into your face in utter confusion.

“You—“ you inhaled to survive and your mouth hung open as the words, the accusations you had for him, the truth of what he had done to you, what he really hadn’t done, but what you were certain you felt happening in your sleep, in that dream, those words they stopped entirely as you looked at his face. His very real face, the very real pink cheeks and confused eyes of your roommate Byun Baekhyun who had absolutely no idea that you had just been disturbed during and then disturbed by a vivid and confusing sex dream about him.

Oh god.

You couldn’t say that.

You would rather be dead right here than say those words with your own mouth.

This had never happened before. He was a real person, you had never experienced a dream like that involving a real person. Not someone you knew like you knew Baekhyun. Not someone you lived with and had to keep on living with. The more you replayed the words that refused to come out of your mouth inside your head the more your sanity slowly returned to your mind.

“Your headphones are not plugged in.” You shook your finger in his face. Using every bit of anger you had built up on the walk across the living room, every bit of uncomfortable sweaty stinging ick you felt all over your whole body about the whole thing and you shot those death lasers out of your eyeballs and you focused them right on his face, right there in the center of his stupid forehead. That’s where you put it. That’s where you glared and that’s where you wished every little bit of comeuppance that he had coming to him would land. Right there on that head.

“Wha?” He said and his stupid pink lips frowned downward into a pout. Against your will, you watched them as they moved and then quickly focused your pointing anger back up onto the center of his forehead. It took a lot.

He was looking down at his feet and reached through the big fluffy blanket that covered him from the waist down to the floor to find the headphones that had landed somewhere within it all.

He pulled them up and kept pulling, following the cord until he reached the end and he held the male end of his headphones with his fingertips as he looked down at them with a scoff and a small laugh.

“Oh shit,” he chuckled to himself, “huh...would you look at that?” As if absolutely nothing at all mattered in the world and this was just a humorous little hiccup in his day. At 4 am on a work day.

The audacity of the man. The absolute shameless audacity.

“Would you look at that?!?” The volume of your own voice surprised you. You screamed it. Right at the top of your lungs and he jumped in his seat, closed his eyes up tight and clutched at his chest again with a pained wince on that face. Immediately after you’d done it you felt a pang inside. Was your anger really caused by being awoken? What were you really so damn mad about here?

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered to himself when his eyes opened again.

Then he directed them at you with his eyebrows furrowed and that glare right on your face.

“Jesus. Christ. Woman.” he half spoke again with his eyes on you and his face pointing directly at yours with each new word he spoke. You felt unjustly rebuked. The seriousness on his voice closed up your gaping mouth and you pulled your head back. Part of you wanted to grab his hair and pull it, demanding reparations and apologies and justice for his many 4 AM crimes against you.

“I mean...Jesus. Christ.” His head nodded to emphasize just how ridiculous he was now finding your current outburst and you felt the heaviness deep inside your arms as you sagged on your feet and wanted to give up your fight against gravity. Part of you knew you were justified in your outrage. How could you be losing this fight so easily to him? Maybe...maybe you were just tired.

“I’m just...so tired, Baek.” Your complaint came out as a sad little whine and your head fell back as you closed up your eyes. Suddenly feeling like you could drop right here at his feet and sleep curled up in your wretched comforter.

He must have gotten up. You could feel his arms on your shoulders and you were steered somewhere within his room. Your legs didn’t feel like moving but there were some calming circles being rubbed on your back that felt too nice to resist.

“I’ll turn it off, Bug. You can sleep, I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I was sleeping so nicely.” You mumbled and you were in a bed that didn’t smell like you. “I was dreaming.” All at once the memory and that smell brought back a strange yet familiar feeling.

“Was it a good dream?” His voice sounded far away.

“Mhmm,” you hummed and you let yourself drift. You let yourself curl into the mattress that you were laid over and gave in to an unimaginable comfort that pulled you under too easily.

If he had any more questions you did not know, but something called your sleepy mind back for one more word. Something asked perhaps. You couldn’t be sure what it was, only your single word response slipped from your lips.

“You,” you told the questions, before disappearing entirely.

Your alarm clock was ringing. It was a sufferingly familiar sound that could rip you awake from the deepest sleeps. Today it sounded far away, but that tune was so ingrained into your mind that you immediately opened your eyes and stuck a hand out to look for your phone to stop it.

Only your hand reached and found nothing. You moved further and bumped against something hard like a table that should not have been there.

“Mmm,” a soft moan sounded out from somewhere below and when you finally opened your eyes and searched your ceiling, the layout was definitely different.

This was not your room.

This was not your bed.

“Don't you work today?” You followed the sound of his voice and found it coming from somewhere curled up on the floor beside the bed underneath your comforter. The one you’d abandoned last night. The memories flooded in an instant.

“Yeah. I’m getting up. You can have your bed back, Peanut.”

Peeling back his blankets for a quick escape you saw your own bare shins; knees; thighs; all the way up to your underwear. You’d fallen asleep with only a t-shirt on last night. But there was a new addition. You saw a flesh colored bandage stuck to your knee with a brown-red stain in the center of the gauze pad. You paused to look down at it, a thousand conflicting inclinations running through you in a single breath and not a spare minute to dwell on any of them because your alarm was still ringing and Baekhyun had turned over and peeked his face out from under your blanket.

You could not explain the urgency to leave. You freely loitered near him and around him constantly without even a second thought.

Although you had never done it in such a state of undress. This could have explained the rush. How much would he see of you? How many flaws could he make out with his sleepy eyes. How long had it taken him to apply the bandage last night? Did he use his bare fingertips to softly dab ointment on your wound or did he merely slap on a bandaid with a rough palm. He wouldn't have lightly blown on it to dry the medicine would he?

Something was wrong with you.

These were not important questions for you to be asking. You needed to get out of his room before he saw any more. Perhaps the dream had done much more damage than you had feared.

You could have stepped down off the bed beside where he laid. It would have only required an extra step to get over him. Instead you climbed down to the foot of his bed and without a look back you were out of his room under the compulsion of the ringing alarm and you surrendered willingly.

Back inside your room you could breathe freely and deeply. You could indulge in your routine of getting ready for the day and you took your time to get your hair and your makeup looking nice. It was cold out so you opened for the thick winter leggings to get you through the commute without freezing to death and you were out of your door just in time to stop for a morning coffee.

The day dragged. You were probably just out of practice, having worked from home for so long that having to make an active attempt to look busy enough to justify your paycheck with so many witnesses in the office had you feeling burnt out by lunch time.

You went for a walk to avoid awkward small talk with your co-workers even though it meant you didn't have enough time to actually eat any real food before your break was over. Still it was preferable to the alternative. Namely the meddling old women who, every time they saw you had some new neighbor’s friend’s son, or some doctor’s nephew they just had to set you up with.

So what if you were single. So what if you were too young and too pretty to be alone. There wasn’t some invisible timer counting down to your swift and imminent demise just because you didn't have a boyfriend. You were pretty sure that timer was running for everyone despite the relationship status on their facebook profile. And you did not mention your facebook profile to Baekhyun because he would probably flip out, hack into your computer and delete the whole thing. The dramatic man. How else were you supposed to see what a mess your high school friend’s lives were shaping up to be.

When it was finally time to go home for the day you were more exhausted than you thought was normal for someone still walking around on her own two legs. You were the angry sort of hungry that made you annoyed with every single sound you heard on the subway and not even your headphones in your ears playing your favorite songs eased your anxiety.

You glared at the woman across the aisle with the unruly kids who refused to wear their masks right. You glared at the old man with his nose sticking out of the top of his and you tightened your own mask to your face and took a step back and away from the group of youths that eyed you up and down as they moved through the doors.

You’d never before been so happy to open the door to your apartment and be greeted by the pleasant hum of a refrigerator that you knew had to have at least one tasty thing you could snack on to take the edge off of your mood.

Inside was bright. It was cleaned recently — You’re welcome — It was sparkling and gleaming and well organized and it was full of a multitude of raw ingredients that could be chopped and sliced and diced and cooked up to make a wonderfully healthy and fulfilling meal for whoever had the energy and ambition to embark on such a feat.

You peered inside at the bottles of water in the door. The sticks of butter and the bottles of sauce mocked you. You were pretty sure raw eggs cracked into your open mouth would give you some sort of infection that would require you to leave the house again this month so you opened the drawer where you were sure you saw a cheese stick hiding inside last night.

There it was.

It was white and bouncy. It was salty and individually wrapped and it was calling your name in sweet a cheesy joyous chorus of promised deliciousness.  

It was yours.

It’s most amazing feature wasn’t the chewiness or the cold chill it had from sitting for weeks in a refrigerator. No, the best thing, and you mean the absolute very best thing about this single plastic wrapped cheese stick was that it existed.

Exactly when you needed it most.

Feet shuffled behind you. Baekhyun would be waking up from whatever napping schedule he’d accidentally tricked his body clock into adopting and he would be stumbling into the kitchen for a drink of water.

You unwrapped the cheese stick and stuck the end between your lips. Instantly rewarded by the soft way it gave when you bit down. You took the tiniest bite and you chewed carefully and thoughtfully. Perhaps your eyes rolled back and closed and perhaps you might have even experienced something akin to out of body experience of pure pleasure as you chewed, swallowed, and opened your mouth again for another bite. A real one this time.

What you hadn’t anticipated, was the cruelty of the universe that had allowed you to live this many years on Earth only to end up here in this exact moment with this man whose home you also lived in. You hadn’t expected the crushing reality of watching that man sleepily stumble into you with his eyes half closed and open his big mouth as wide as it would go and sink that mouth down directly onto the entire exposed part of your cheese stick, of which maybe 85% had been exposed, and chomp down ruthlessly with nearly the entire thing vanishing away before your eyes.

You watched him chewing noisily with his mouth open and bits of white cheese bumbled around inside before he let out a noisy laugh complete with a snort that sent bits of cheese flying across your once clean kitchen.

“Haha,” he said as he swallowed, “your face.”

He was laughing at you.

He ate your cheese; well, most of your cheese. He was laughing now, harder. The longer you stood staring at him in absolute shock at what he had just done the harder he laughed and you could feel the countdown happening inside of your chest. A number for each heart beat that seemed to be speeding up toward his death.

He had no idea. He never ever did.

This man was so close to death and he was giggling now and reaching for the big bottle of orange juice that sat inside the fridge.

He lifted it up to his lips and drank from the bottle, not even bothering with a glass. He drained half of its contents and when he pulled the bottle down, some things, tiny and white - mini specks of your cheese floated around inside the orange liquid.

You saw bright white nothingness.

You would like to go on the record now, and plead insanity.

In your mind's eye, everything was just all white.

Like the afterlife in movies. Except far less peaceful but equally unexplainable.

Violence may not be the answer. But you really had very little memory of this.

You had flashes of it. His deafening screams and your hand reaching into a bag of cheese puffs for handfuls that you shoved into his gaping mouth. You don’t even know where you got them from. They just appeared suddenly and they crushed so easily into soft powder as you pressed them between his teeth. The powder coated the surface of his skin around his mouth. It flew in the air too as he screamed. You were covered in it. Your hands were stained bright orange. The color of your wicked crimes.

The whiteness returned. Then more flashes of your crimes. Your mind touched on images of the sticky drops of orange juice that fell one by one from his hair that laid completely flat, lacquered to the top of his head. Then, his cries of pain with your knees dug into his chest and both of your bright orange hands squeezed tightly around his neck. The coughing when you pressed down harder in the middle of his neck and the eventual sensation of him fighting back. The urge to live must be strong in him. Why did he resist this so much? Just die already. Why fight the inevitable? If not done by you, surely some other person would do it.

When you came to, you were inside of your bedroom packing a bag full of clothes and stuffed animals. You felt that this was probably your get-away bag, and that meant he was probably dead.

Drowned in two ounces of backwash filled orange juice and lungs stuffed with brightly colored cheese flavored* puffs (*contains no real cheese.)

You had a list happening inside of your head. Things you had to do before you left this place forever and never returned. A strange calm had washed over you; probably brought on by shock.

First, you had to pack this bag. You had stuffed it full of overcoats. Your winter coat with the pink polka dots. The fluffy yellow puffer jacket you got as a gift from your best friend. Your rain jacket in case it got wet in hell. Second, you would go into his room and clear his search history. It was something you had always promised you would do for him and he had promised to do the same for you. After that, you would call the police from a pay phone on the corner of the block to anonymously report the crime.

Your bag was full. Too full to fit the brightly colored pink bunny even though it was a tiny thing. You pushed and shoved, squeezing it in between the layers of coats until you were sure the seam of your bag was about to pop if you tried to zip it closed.

You still had your toiletries to pack. This would never do. How could you pack a get-away bag without your favorite shampoo.

A flood of memories came to you. Your favorite shampoo and handing the bottle with your eyes covered to Baekhyun as he showered. All at once, that steady and all consuming calm wavered and you felt the first hot tears building. Stinging and burning as they crested and spilled over your lashes onto your cheeks.

Your lips were stuck in a deep frown and you did your best to inhale through a stuffed up nose.

“My poor Peanut,” you said into the hollow empty space of your lonely bedroom. You’d have to venture into his bathroom to get your shampoo. Possibly walking past his lifeless corpse which you were pretty sure you left somewhere in between the kitchen and the living room.

A maniac. You were a heartless monster. The remorse you now felt, which could very well help you in court, coated you from head to toe and you cried openly when you pulled your bedroom door open and took your first step out of your room.

Shampoo and search history. These things were your destination.

But a sound coming from somewhere deep in the kitchen threw off your steps and you felt the hairs on the back of your neck rise with the unexpectedness of it.

More than just a sound, you could smell something too. Was that sizzling? Had you accidentally turned the stove on and now your whole apartment was on fire? Was this how you could get rid of the body?

No. You had to get a grip now. That was going too far. You could understand homicide but desecration of a corpse? Ick. That kinda shit was for sickos.

You focused your energy on your destination and took three big steps to cross the living room and placed a hand on the door knob of his room.

The knob clicked noisily when you turned it too quickly and you heard a shuffle coming from the kitchen. A shuffle and then a scrape and you turned at the sound.

“Hey Bug, food’s ready. Come eat. I made your favorite.”

You froze on your feet with your eyes wide open, nose too stuffy to breathe so your mouth hung wide open as well. With tears streaming down your face, made fresh again by the sight of him standing in the kitchen with a white towel draped around his neck, clean wet hair, and a frying pan and spatula in his hand, you gasped.

You had never been quite so relieved to see the sight of your stupid roommate. Overcome, you dropped the bag you carried at your feet and rushed to where he stood with arms raised and the dish he had just finished cooking elevated and you reached for his body with your arms outstretched. When you felt his warmth you wrapped your arms around his waist and pulled him in for a tight hug.

“Uhh,” he said softly, flinching upon contact and freezing up but first lifting the hot pan high enough to remove any danger of burning you with it. “Why are you crying?”

You squeezed tighter and buried your face in his chest. You’d get his shirt wet with tears and with snot but you didn't care. He was okay. Your overwhelming guilt for your behavior towards him was so thick you had a hard time not sobbing harder when you felt the awkward steps he took to set the hot pan down and free his hands and then that first warmth of the palm of his hand that landed on your back.

When the other hand joined and slipped around your shoulder a quiet cry got caught up inside the back of your throat and you heard a warning sound somewhere. Because the warning did not exist in this realm of reality he did not hear it and another step into you brought his arms tighter around your shoulders and when you felt those hands move gently over your back the warning sound blared up hot and terrifying.

You and him did not do this. This was not something you had ever done with Baekhyun. Sure, light touches sometimes. Plenty, even. Hell, you playfully smacked him for something new and annoying every single day. You weren’t exactly scared of him, but you had never hugged him before and you sure as fuck didn't ever hold him.

“Bug?” His voice was calling you. You had an inkling that it might have been the second or third time and you pulled back from him. His hands released you the second he felt your retreat and you looked at the spot where you’d mashed your whole face into his shirt wincing at all the face shaped wet spots you saw there.

He didn't seem bothered by it and you inhaled a deep trembling breath with a meaningless nod of your head at him. Whatever had happened didn’t matter. Everything was fine. Everything was over and it was okay. He was okay too.

He offered a small smile and turned to get two bowls to fill with the food he had made.

It was fried rice. Simple, no frills fried rice with a fried egg on top and just enough spice to make it interesting but not enough to activate any more water works. It was his favorite and you were pretty sure he didn't actually know how to make any other dishes. But hadn’t he just said he made your favorite?

“Baek, This isn’t my favorite. This is your favorite.”

He placed a bowl in front of where you sat and he lifted a quizzical eyebrow with a small tick of his head.

“No, it’s not my favorite. It’s your favorite. You make it all the time. And that’s why I made it now. Because it's your favorite.”

As he spoke, he pointed back and forth between you and the bowl of rice with his spoon. As if he was teaching a class on something you obviously didn’t know the first thing about.

“But I only make it all the time because it's your favorite, Peanut.”

You picked up your spoon and mixed the egg into the rice and began eating quickly out of necessity. You were about to pass out from hunger at this point.

He was watching you eat with that confused look on his face and he hadn’t touched his rice yet.

“Well whose favorite is it then?”

You shrugged and swallowed another bite. You were half finished with your bowl already and Baekhyun looked down and scooped up the egg from the top of his own rice with his spoon, leaning forward to plop it down on top of your remaining rice.

“Please tell me you at least like eggs on top.”

“Doesn’t everybody?” You remarked flippantly and you mixed again, feeling so much more human now that you had some real food in your stomach.

He was leaning back in his chair, fingertips over his face as he lightly massaged at the space between his eyebrows and you giggled to yourself with a mouth full of rice.

“I thought I killed you, Baekhyun.”

You heard him snort out a laugh and he quickly covered his mouth with both of his hands before he spat out all over the table. You yourself had to cover your mouth to keep your rice in and you laughed in a painful stifled way to keep from choking on the food in your mouth.

“You made me eat so many fucking cheese puffs I’m not even hungry right now.” He wheezed through his words and you saw him wiping at his eyes while you forced yourself to swallow before rice flew out of your nose.

He was holding his stomach as he laughed and the tight pained wince on his face only made you laugh harder.

You had eaten all you could and Baekhyun abandoned his food before he even started due to a certain cheese puff armed psychopath.

You’d stood to clear away the plates when you heard the hum of his phone vibrating on the table. You’d made your way into the kitchen when his voice piped up from where he was seated at the table staring down at whatever he had just received on his phone.

“Hey, uhh...h-how should I respond to this girl?”

“Girl? Baekhyun are you chatting with someone?” You perked up, instantly way more interested in what was happening on his phone than washing these dishes and you quickly rounded the corner back into the dining room to find out more.

“Oh wait, nevermind, I think...I don’t think she’s serious.” His voice weakened when his phone vibrated again and you’d reached a spot where you could clearly see the messages he had just received.

From Vixxxen18 again. You rolled your eyes hard enough for them to ache just seeing that familiar screen name.

“Ugh, this bitch again,” you said in a disgusted voice and you saw the flinch in his shoulders. He darkened a shade and you quickly grabbed the phone to steady it so you could clearly see what she wanted this time.

‘Hey honey, DTF tonight?’

You read the message out loud and he held his hands over his face and squirmed in his seat.

“Peanut do you know what DTF means?”

“Yes. I know what it means.” He interrupted you before you could get the whole sentence out. His ears were pink. You heard the clench of his jaw muffle his words as he spoke.

Her next message you didn’t read out-loud.

‘Spot me 50 for gas and I’ll come over’

“Gas doesn’t cost fifty dollars,” you scowled under your breath and your fingers were typing before you had a chance to second think.

‘Shouldn’t we get to know each other a little bit first?’

Her response came quickly and made your blood boil.

‘What makes you think I want to know you’

“Oh I’m going to kick her ass,” you said right before the phone was plucked out of your hands so fast you still moved your thumbs as you typed in the air, ready to give this bitch a piece of your mind.

“Settle down, Cheese Puffs, she's actually not that bad most of the time,” he said and he was closing out the messaging program quickly before you could say anything else to literally the worst human being you’d ever had a two second conversation with.

Your breathing was heavy and you must have had a look in your eyes that made him uncomfortable because he was reaching down to grab your hand and he tugged lightly toward the living room sofa. He was swiping with his other hand on his phone again.

“Here, I have some matches on the dating profile you made me. Why don't we have a look through them and find someone who’s ass you don't want to kick.”

He plopped down with a huff and you quickly sat down beside him, leaning well against his arm so you could see his screen clearly.

“God, you’re so mean today. What’s gotten into you? Ever since you woke up from that dream last night you’ve been ready to kill anyone who moves.”

You’d taken over the scrolling and found yourself lost in the freedom of judging the girls on his phone screen as he mused about what a grump you were.

Boring. Bland. Brainless. Vapid. Ugh.

As you flipped through them you not so quietly voiced how much you hated every one of them. Sure, for someone they could have been perfect but for him, they were not.  His complaints about you went silent and as he watched the scrolling.

At last you found someone who seemed to fit some sort of idealized image you had of the perfect girl for him and you stopped scrolling instantly with a quiet gasp. He wasn’t saying anything about her though and you looked up excitedly at his face expecting him to be reading the profile she had carefully written, or looking through the pictures you oh so slowly scrolled past but instead of looking down at the phone his eyes were just watching you.

It was an odd and calm observation of only your face. And when you grabbed ahold of his eyes with your searching ones you raised your eyebrows and tilted your head down, pointing with the angle of your face at his phone screen so he could see her, so he could see Mia who lived only 5 miles away from him and had seen all of the animes that he liked and played the same kinds of computer games he played and was honest to god, cute as a damn button. Perfect! You wanted to squeal.

“Peanut,” you whispered and his eyes widened and his eyebrows danced on his face as he finally, finally looked down in his lap where the phone sat.

But the screen was now black. It had timed out. You clicked on a button on the side and it prompted him to log in again and what was wrong with him? Why wasn’t he unlocking it already? You grabbed his hand and his eyes glanced down where you touched his fingertips, carefully tracing with his index finger over the pattern he used to unlock his phone and it came back to life — the smiling, lovely image of Mia who lived only 5 miles away and was just absolutely perfect.

“Bug,” He said softly as he looked down at his phone screen and your smile was naturally wide as he watched each image fly across his screen. The anticipation of his reaction was killing you. He had to be as excited about this as you were. He at least seemed to be paying attention to the pictures this time.

But he wasn't squealing or even smiling about her. The silence on his side got you talking again. A quick nervous sort of talking to fill up the quiet. “She’s cute. And she's nice, I can feel it. And she's perfect for you. Let’s message her.”

You lifted a finger to your chin and thrust your eyes into the air to think. You thought back to some of the opening lines you’d been fed by the men you dated and you opened the window to send a message to Mia from Baekhyun.

“Bug,” he said again, even quieter than he had called before and it stood out to you that he had been trying for a while to get your attention now and you were so distracted with how much fun this was that you hadn’t really acknowledged him.  You were being presumptuous. Just because you liked her didn’t necessarily mean he did. It even occurred to you that maybe you were being downright rude.

So you looked at him. Lifted your eyebrows up and rested the phone back down on his knee cap so he would say what he wanted to say already. You braced for the rejection of the cutest girl in his list of matches.

But instead of speaking he just looked at you and you slowly began to hear the actual ticking of the clock on the wall across the room from where you both sat. After much too long his eyes fell to look down the phone in your hand and you heard the smallest, softest scoff from his chest and he closed his eyes once with a long sigh.

And then he was nodding his head with his eyes closed up tight. “Yeah. Yeah, go ahead, send her a message. If you say she’s perfect, then she’s perfect.”

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

Tag list: @j-pping  @blahblahblah-boo  @his-mochi-cheeks  @amyeonzing@littleflowercrown13  @baekinmylife  @insta1010  @nana-banana  @f4ncyvelvet@bbhbeth  @beg0neth0t420 

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Things You Said When You Were Scared- Prompt Fill

Bit of an au after the worm attack. Jon is having a rough time.

CWs injury (canon typical worm related), paranoia, exhaustion. nausea, vomiting (it's not gross, I promise), pain, dizziness, fainting, medication mention, canon typical quarantine mention, food mention.

@janekfan @sukurarose92

Jon can’t remember the last time he felt this terrible.  There probably had been other times.  A few terrible flus over the years, and getting almost eaten by a spider once upon a time…. but time has a tendency to dull the particularly bad stuff, aside from say, flashbacks and nightmares.  But it’s the brain protecting itself.  You don’t remember the pain.  You don’t remember the fear.  You remember the memory of the pain, wrapped in spun-sugar-strands of time, growing dusty on a shelf.  You remember the taste of fear, the gripping anxiety of it.  You remember surges of it in the depths of the night and you panic… but you can’t remember it all the time.  That just isn’t how the brain works.  

Which is irrelevant.  All irrelevant, because the pain medication he’s been given is wearing off.  He thinks Sasha and Tim went off to do something….?  Probably panic together about the fresh worm trauma.  Martin?  Jon hasn’t the foggiest clue.  

Possibly because he’s hazy with pain and the last of the drugs that have been keeping him going this long.  Staggering into the walls as he tries to exit the institute.  Eyes closing involuntarily against the pain and the exhaustion.  Limbs feeling so alien between the bandages and the aching, weeping holes they hide beneath them.  Pounding dizziness down to his core.  

He aches.  

Phantom itching-crawling-squirming on his skin, through his muscles, down to the bone.  The actual holes chewed into him.  

He isn’t sure how he’s going to get to his flat.  He can’t stay in the Archives, not with the police in the tunnels and the ECDC still doing whatever it is they are doing.  But the thought of taking a cab or the tube make him want to tear his remaining skin off.  Makes him want to just lie down on the sidewalk.  

He even thinks making it to the front doors will end him.  

He’s dizzy and sick and his limbs won’t carry him.  

He has to sit down on the first step outside the door, sticking his head between his knees.  He can’t do this.  He can’t.  He’s just going to sit here all night, or risk passing out or throwing up or risking any other horror of the late twilight consuming him before he can collapse into unconsciousness in the comfort of his own bed.  

He waits for the world to stop spinning, and tries not to cry.  

Because he can’t have more pain medication until he eats something.  He can’t eat anything because it won’t stay in him, and even if it would, he can’t go anywhere.  He’s stuck.  Less than a five minute walk from his office where Gertrude DIED, from where he was attacked where he thought he’d be Safe, where he thought Martin would be safe.  A few paces from where the dead worms were pulled out of him and he was scoured raw and sterile in a hastily assembled quarantine on the sidewalk.  

He tries not to spiral into a panic attack right here.  

Trying to pull his breathing under control, because it isn’t helping his tenuous grasp on the directions of up and down.  

Where is the next danger going to come from?  

Is this when Mr. Spider will strike?  Letting him go until he’s weak and exposed and alone?  

Or is this where some unknown (or known) hostile comes in with a grand betrayal and a gun.  Leaving him to be another mystery, or a willfully ignored casualty of something he can’t begin to understand?  

“Jon?”  

Jon jumps.  And very, very much regrets it.  Heart racing, head spinning, a fresh hurt.  A fresh reminder of every opening in his flesh that doesn’t belong there.  “Ma… Martin?”  He asks around gasping and shuddering breaths.  “What …are you doing here?”  

His voice is a little distant, a little hallow.  “Don’t really have anywhere to do, do I?  You packed up my flat.  All in boxes at some storage unit.  Now, my bedroom is tangentially part of a crime scene.”

“…Right.”  It’s all his fault.  

He needs to sleep.  He needs some painkillers.  He might need to throw up, but that is an issue he plans to avoid, if at all possible.  Ditto to fainting.  Although that seems a little more inevitable.  

Martin makes no move to continue speaking.  “So… your plan was to just camp out on this bench?”  

Martin shrugs.  “Dunno.  Figured I might call Tim?  At some point?  Or try to sneak back into the Archives once the police leave?  Can’t really afford a hotel.   Maybe just sleep on this bench.  Try to decompress or something.  Jon.   Why are you still here?   Said you’d go home hours ago.”

Well he can’t exactly tell Martin he’d passed out in the break room for some indeterminate measure of time, then spent another eternity getting sick in the toilets.  And then possibly passed out again.  That’s not just something you tell Martin and expect him not to fuss over you.   And Jon tries to tell himself that that would be suffocating and not kind of welcome right now.   He tells himself that the thought of spending more time with Martin brings discomfort, and irritation, and fear.  It’s not like he can prove that Martin won’t kill him.  But he’s too tired to think about that.  He just wants to sleep.  

“....Um?”

Martin looks at him, probably for the first time.  “Jesus, Jon.  You look terrible.”

Jon hmmms in agreement.  Not like he can argue.  Martin’s too nice to comment on the bandages.  A little too tactful.  Right?  Martin’s bumbling and stupid, but he’s tactful.  He’s Nice.  As irritating as he can be, he’s just so Nice.  

But, it’s not like he can argue.  He’s covered in bandages and a clammy sweat and he’s halfway into a panic attack and he can’t really walk and he just wants to lay down right here until the world stops moving.  Both in the sense that he’s dizzy and in the sense that things beyond his comprehension are happening at a pace he can’t begin to catch up with.  

“Can I... call you a cab?   Or... or something?”   

Jon shakes his head as much as he dares, which isn’t much.  No cabs.  He gets carsick.  He doesn’t stand a chance.  

“Well you can’t just sit there all night.”  

“Right, like you plan to?”  

Martin looks away.  

And Jon goes back to trying not to pass out.  

“Tim lives close by, doesn’t he, I walk you there?  Or… um… carry you?”  Martin’s trying to be tactful.  Jon is pretty sure that is supposed to be a pointed look at his legs.  

Jon scowls.  (Not that Martin is wrong.  There is something very wrong with his knee.)  

“Can’t just …intrude like that.  I’m sure he doesn’t want me around.  Not professional…”

“Jon, you saw him in his pants today.  You were put in quarantine together.  I think you’re past all normal working relationship boundaries, even if he wasn’t your friend.  I can’t just leave you here, and you clearly aren’t planning to get yourself home.  Besides… maybe if he takes you in… maybe he’ll take me in, too.”  

Jon stares down at the sidewalk, drifting in lazy, nauseous, out of focus movements before his eyes.  “He doesn’t want me around.  Not after taking Sasha’s job.  Not after making him stay to get his statement.”  Jon whispers at the pavement.  

“Yeah like he’s still jealous for Sash, after that creepy worm lady went specifically for the “Archivist.”  Whatever the fuck that means.  And you know Tim was only pissed because he was in pain and tired, like you are now!”  

“I should just go home…”  

“Yeah, but you won’t.”  

Christ Martin’s stubborn.  

“Now.  Can you walk, or do I need to cary you?”  

Jon tries pull himself up to prove a point, but he comes to in Martin’s arms a few moments later, Martin loudly cursing at him.  He’s in too much pain to really hear what Martin is trying to say to him.  And he’s feeling even more sick.  And he wonders where his prescriptions and paramedic provided cane have gotten to, but he really doesn’t really care, because Martin is solid and warm and he’s so tired.  

He wakes up again on Tim’s couch.  Sick to his stomach from the oppressive oder of takeout.  

“Woah, boss.  Not on the couch.  I’ve got you.”

Throwing up nothing into the bin that’s been hastily shoved in front of him even though he’s got nothing in him anymore.  He sobs around dry heaves until it’s just the silence juddering sobs.  He Hurts.  

He wants to hide.  From Martin who is making tea, from Sasha running a bandaged hand through his hair.  From Tim supporting the bin, and Jon himself.  

He curls in on himself.  Wills himself into unconsciousness, but the injuries pulse with each uneven breath, stomach still roiling painfully.  He needs more medicine, but he can’t think about hoping to keep it down.  

He sobs against Tim, as the bin is pried away.  

“‘Hurts.  Tim ‘m scared.”  

Scooped up.  Held, gently.  

“Why didn’t you head home?  Why not go right away so you could get toast and water into you, and sleep until you could take some more meds?”  Tim holding him.  Martin awkwardly sat by his side with ginger tea.  Which Jon doesn’t care for, but Tim hasn’t kept mint tea since Jon stopped visiting.  Still… it should help.  Sasha clearing away the food smells, bless her.  “Why did you have to take our statements?  I would have invited you back here, if you didn’t?”

That last question doesn’t help.  

He doesn’t know he’s tearing at the bandages until Tim’s tugging his hands away, and Martin is bemoaning the splotches of blood now decorating the bandages that are quickly becoming sweaty and grimy.  Couldn’t even stay clean after he was scrubbed sterile.  Martin and Sasha and Tim are spotless and scoured.  

“I… I don’t want to disappear.  I… do-don’t want to be found in the tunnels.  I don’t want to vanish without a trace, I…“  He doesn’t even know.  He can’t breathe.  He’s lightheaded.  He Hurts.  

“Hey… hey hey.  It’s.. it’s okay to be scared.  Why don’t we get you cleaned up, okay?  Then see if we can get some saltines and tea into you so you can get some meds, eh?  Then we’re gonna all get some sleep.”  

“I don’t want to lose you…”  Jon’s voice swallowed by Tim scooping him up.  Martin hovering with the bin and Jon’s bag of medical supplies.  

Sasha’s back by then, brushing back Jon’s curls.  “And you won’t.  Sooner you leave, the sooner we can all get some sleep, alright?”  

Jon closes his eyes, and nods, letting Tim carry him to the washroom.  

[allfather-we-stan]

A little life update "summer 22 with no solid poo"

for anyone who cares lol

as some of you may have seen from my other social medias and here, my health has gone to pretty downhill and I want to share my story and explain bc idk

And for not to scare anyone, no its im not deadly ill. Im prob gonna be just fine.

gross warning i talk about poop

So umm this all started at the end of may- start of june when i started having diarreah. no biggie, i get anxiety diarreah like once a week so i didnt think much of it at the time. Only took me like few more weeks for straight diarreah to realize that something may be wrong lol. So i joked about it and let it be. I call this summer "Summer 22 with no solid poo" and wanted to wait till august to go to doctor. Then i got covid. So i had to wait that out before going to the hospital.

And finally the day I got to go to the doctor and everything was fine, i was supposed to get blood work tested and maybe poop in a container and the doctor thought that it might be celiac-disease bc that runs in my family. But i got fever straight as i got home. I didn't feel so good. The fever continued for a couple of days and then we decided its time to go to ER.

We went there, got bloodwork done etc. Waited there like 6 hours and finallly at 9pm the doctor had time to see me and turns out my inflammatory values were super high and that theyd like me to stay at the hospital for a while. So i stayed at the hospital for 7 days.

In those 7 days they took so much bloodwork from me it was insane! (and fun fact, turns out my veins are shit and no one can find a good spot to draw blood or put an IV tube in). For a couple of days, no answers. They had no idea whats wrong with me. My fever rise and they gave me antibiotics and other meds. Went to the ultrasound and nothing. And then, they had to give me a observation aka "put a little camera up my ass".

But bc i live in a small city theres like one doctor who does that and his schedule was full. So I had long long days waiting for my appointment. And they got me on friday.

But before we get to the camera up my ass part. Hell was loose. They had to "clean" my bowels. And they told me, and I QOUTE "It's either 1: drink two cups of this cocktail that tastes like orange juice or 2: drink 3 litres of water". Obv i took the orange juice! It cant be that bad! WRONG! JESUS CHRIST I WAS WRONG.

As soon as i drank the bad tasting orange drink, i felt like throwing up. Then the pain came. Oh god the pain. It was like level 10 menstrual cramp kind of pain. I was literally crying and screaming bc it hurt so bad. Only thing that helped at the moment was to stay still but i couldnt do that bc i had to shit out the cocktail like every 5 minutes. Many times i thought to just shit my pants on the bed and not let that be my problem. I was in so much pain I was in panic mode. And the worst thing was, no one warned me. They didn't even mention that it might hurt with some people. I don't remember all bc panic lol but i remember this one bitch ass nurse going "Duh its gonna hurt it has big chemicals in it! Even gas can hurt inside bowels". I would have punched her if I wasnt shitting at the time. Then the nurses took their sweet time to get me painkillers and nausea meds. But I couldnt take those bc i felt like throwing up. And then I remember a doctor came. He was nice and explained to me that it hurts bc the orange juice made my bowels like spasm to clean it. I was like "lol thanks for warning me beforehand". Some time goes, they give me that yummy tranquilizer trough IV and I'm high asf. It still hurt but atleast i was high. Then came the cup number 2! I tried to drink it, immeadetly i threw it up like no way that stayed down. And again, panic bc idk what happens next. Do i need to do this all again? Is my bowel clean? Am i gonna be okay? And then i passed out and slept trough the night.

And at this point, on a serious point. WHY THE FUCK IS TELLING PATIENCE THAT THIS THING X IS GONNA HURT SO FUCKING TABOO??? Like i get it, you dont want to scare people but a little heads up would be better than nothing! I just wish someone had told me.

Okay, morning comes, its friday, camera about to go up my ass. they give me nice tranquilizer again, YUMMY. Im high again. they roll me to the operation room, and the nice nurses and a doctor explains whats gonna happen. ( I knew this was gonna hurt beforehand bc they gave me the tranquilizer and figures). At this point they tell me that going up my ass is the hardest part and hurts but after that its easier. Im like okay i can do this, im high and im a big boy! So there i was, laying on my side, doctor rips hole in my underwear to put the camera up my ass. And there it goes, felt weird. Then this stinging pain comes and i curse. Nice nurse lady notices and presses against my tummy and the pain gets easier. They tell me to take a deep breath everytime the pain eases. I do. I'm breathing so good baby you wouldnt believe ( still fucking high). And that thing happens over and over again for like, maybe 3-4 minutes but felt much longer. Sometimes the pain was larger but the nice nurse always pressed my tummy and i, kind of, farted the pain out? It's weird but you get it. Then i hear the words of heaven "We are there"! THE WORST IS BEHIND. I'm happy! I turn around, look at the screen where i can somehow see ( didnt have my glasses) the inside of my bowel part. And i said "ew" and turned my head back. I dont wanna see that. it was pink. Then the doctor spoke something doctorly that i didnt understand. They spend a minute inside my ass doing... doctor stuff and then they took the camera out. It didnt hurt just felt weird, like taking a weirdly shaped long shit. And then they were like "lol we done! We gonna take these samples to the lab asap!" And I was like "you took samples?". THEY TOOK PIECES OF THE INSIDE OF MY ASS WTF.

okay its done, im still high and after couple of hours, they let me go home. I'm happy. I'm feeling good. Life was good. Untill the next morning.

I felt bad again, I threw up at night and I had a mild fever. We call the ER to ask what we do. They tell me that i havent drank enough liquids. So for the next two days I drank so much water you wont believe but i still felt bad and had a fever. So off to ER again!

We went there, they were like lol again bloodwork. At this point im sure i have no blood left. Then we waited and waited and they take some more blood and wait again. Results come back. My inflammatory values were high again. They again want me to stay at the hospital overnight. Hospital booked full. I wait. And finally its time. They take me to a 2 person room, as a 3rd guy. Like it was so cramped and I didnt even have the emergency button. Everything is overwhelming. It smelled like shit. I cried. it was a horrible experience and i can go all night about how shit it was but ill skip it at this point.

So i spend like two nights at the hospital, and they finally have the results in about the pieces of my ass they took. they dont know what it is. THEY HAVE NO CLUE. But atleast they got me meds that work and i dont have a fever anymore. But its like 5 different meds. They make me nauseous and tired. So its not going that well now but atleast im in a good shape to be at home rn.

Im still waiting for more results and follow-up things at the hospital. I'll update as I get to those. Thanks for reading, feel free to ask any questions and stay healthy lmao.

[waka-chan-out]

Hey, it's Fay!

Happy 700 bestie!!!! You know what time it is? Time for your milestone Ushijima fic! (I did take some inspiration from your pet name tag)

You and Ushijima are coworkers. You're not that close. You've got a pretty professional relationship, but he laughs whenever you make a joke and sometimes he'll bring you a drink when he knows you've been working hard.

And yeah, it's no secret, he's extremely handsome. He's solid and well-built under the work shirts that hug tight over his broad chest and shoulders. At the end of the workday, you might catch him with his sleeves rolled up, tie loose, biting his lip in concentration as he looks over some papers. You have a little workplace crush on him, but that's all it is, its never going to come to anything.

You're staying late one day looking over your work for the hundredth time.

"Oh." A deep voice says from the door to your office. "I thought I was the last one here." You look up to see Ushijima, brow furrowed.

You look at the clock on the wall. "Oh, god, it's later than I thought. I'd better get going."

He nods. "I was just leaving. I'll walk with you."

You gather your things and shoot him a smile as you walk past him to the elevators.

"So." He starts. You stop and turn to look at him. "Do you... have dinner plans?"

"Not really, why?"

He runs a hand through his hair in a reflexive gesture. "Well I just- I just thought maybe you and I could grab something to eat."

The two of you step into the elevator and the doors shut on the office. You don't want to make any assumptions. Coworkers got dinner all the time, it didn't have to mean anything. "What did you have in mind?"

He's silent. "I didn't really think it through this far."

That startles a laugh out of you. "Well there's a great pizza place near-"

The elevator jerks and you lose your balance, you fall into Ushijima and the two of you fall to the ground, you on top of him. It doesn't feel very awkward, or even strange. It's a weird thing to thing but you kind of fit like this, in this position. If he notices that you're using him as a mattress he doesn't say anything, he's too busy staring up at the lights, which have gone red. "The elevator stopped."

His eyes flicked back to you and you became increasingly aware that you were lying on top of him. You scrambled to roll off of him so that you were on your back next to him. "Sorry, Ushijima-"

He wraps a large hand around your wrist "Call me Wakatoshi. Please."

"Okay." You turn to smile at him. "Wakatoshi." You pull your phone out of your pocket and hold it above your head. "I've got reception."

The call with emergency services is short and unremarkable, and you come out of it with the news that you're going to have to wait at least an hour.

Ushijima, standing against the back wall,, lets out a dark chuckle, then a switch flips and he's laughing. He laughs with his whole body, his shoulders shake, he throws his head back, revealing the long line of his neck. He's infectious, suddenly the two of you are laughing and you have no idea why.

He's still laughing, he holds out a hand as if to steady himself, and it ends up on your shoulder, you feel the warmth of his touch, the gentleness of his hand. "I'm sorry, its just. I finally get up the courage to ask you to dinner, and you almost say yes. And then the elevator just breaks!"

That sets you off again, you're just thinking about how ridiculous this all is. You're both leaning on each other because you're both laughing too hard to hold yourselves up.

As the laughter winds down, something strikes

"Why did you have to get up the courage to ask me to dinner?" You say, slowly piecing out the answer in your head. Hope rises brightly in your chest.

He looks at you, neither of you have moved away. "I like you. A lot. I think you're amazing, and I know that you probably don't feel the same way, but-"

You grab him by the tie and pull him closer to you, halfway through the motion, he surges forward and your lips meet. He's so gentle. His hands find either side of your face. You tilt your head, press your lips together a little harder and he takes the direction, kissing you a little rougher. You nip at his lower lip and the sound he makes, a low growl, runs down your whole body, you feel it in your fingers, you feel it in your toes, you feel it pooling warmly in your stomach.

The two of you come up for air. Wakatoshi "I'm sorry."

You lean your foreheads together "why the hell would you be sorry for that?"

"This wasn't how I planned it, I was gonna take you to dinner, tell you all about how I felt.

You shrug. "I don't need it. I like you. I really do. Have for a while actually."

"Really?"

You smile. "I can't count how many times I've thought about you, about this. Every time you'd bring me something to drink, or smile when I said something stupid."

"What did you think about?"

"Well, mainly this," you lean up to place a slow, deep kiss on his lips. "And other things."

"What kind of other things?"

"Lots of things." Your hands reach down to unbuckle his belt. "You, earing me out under my desk..." you palm him through his boxers and he gasps. "Ripping those goddamn work shirts off you..."

You feel him hardening under your palm. He clears his throat. "I have. Um. There's a condom in my wallet." He rustles around in his pocket and retrieves it.

You lean your head back and raise an eyebrow as you take the foil square from his fingers. "Hoping for the best this morning?"

He shrugs. "I'm an optimist."

You step back and away from him, he moves to follow but you shake your head and push him backwards. He frowns, confused, but moves where you put him. You lean back against the side wall of the elevator. "Strip."

His eyes go dark with lust, and he wastes no time in ridding himself of his shirt and slacks. He stands there in his boxers.

"All the way."

He pulls them off and his cock springs free, hard and so much bigger than you'd expected.

"Jesus christ." You say before you can stop yourself, and he smiles.

"I know. You don't have to-" he moans into your mouth as you roll the condom on and stroke him slowly.

"Get on your back," you command. "I'm going to ride you, is that alright?"

"Yes!" He clears his throat. "Yes."

Your hand closes tighter around his cock and he whimpers. "Yes...?"

"Yes ma'am."

You could get off on those two words alone. He sits on his discarded clothes and looks up at you, he reaches under your pencil skirt to feel the fabric between your legs. "Oh." He says "you're wet."

He moves the fabric aside to slide a rough but tender finger across your folds.

You gently move his hand away and pull your panties off under your skirt to afford him better access. His hands find your hips, and he rolls up the skirt, leaving your legs bare. "Come here, baby," and he pulls you down toward him.

Together, you line each other up, and when you sink down onto him, you feel like he was made for you. You feel so full. You move apart and then sink together again. "Oh god. Ushi- fuck. You feel so good -toshi, oh!"

You roll your hips and he tosses his head back with a cry. You pick up the pace, and the sound get louder and more intense.

"Toshi," you moan. "I'm close."

His hand comes between you to circle your clit. Your feel yourself clenching around him with a shout, and him bucking up into you, coming, only moments later.

You collapse on to him, letting yourself appreciate how good it feels this time.

"So. That's a yes to dinner?"

You laugh and feel his heartbeat against your chest. "That’s a yes to dinner."

(I hope you enjoyed this! Congrats again!!! You deserve all this and more! (P.s. seeing my name on the masterlist made my heart so happy. I saw it and I thought I was hallucinating. I'm really happy to have made such an impact on you))

FAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!!

i think you can read my mind because i’m such a whore for the coworkers to lovers trope i think i’m going to go insane. and i had to physically set my phone down at that “yes ma’am.” i swear to god you are going to be the death of me.

thank you so much and of course you’re on the list! people (((mostly me!!!!))) have really liked everything you’ve sent in so far and i know i definitely don’t want to lose these so onto the masterlist they go :) god damn. idk what i did to deserve such high quality content in my inbox but i am GRATEFUL.

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Chapter 16

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

She stands on the rain-soaked sidewalk, staring up at the silhouette of the steeple against the grey sky. Church has always been a place to come home to, and yet she’s dreading walking through these doors.

Ethan slips his hand into hers, all long fingers and soft palm, and she looks at him.

“Ready?” he asks softly, and she nods once.

They push through the imposing wooden doors and enter the anteroom, turning to the right to find Father O’Dowell’s office. Ethan raps thrice on the door frame and a gruff voice commands them to enter.

“Dana, Ethan, please sit down,” he directs as they enter the room, and they take the seats across from his desk. “You’re ready to begin your Pre-Cana, then?” he asks over his bifocals, and they nod in unison.

Ethan reaches across the armrest to take the hand in her lap and she holds it limply, her stomach twisting as though it’s attempting to turn itself inside out. She probably should have eaten breakfast.

“As you both know,” Father O’Dowell begins, “marriage between two baptized Catholics such as yourselves is a sacrament. Much as Jesus turned water into wine in Cana, your marriage will be a miracle, becoming something greater and more powerful than you are alone. Your marriage will be a symbol which reveals the Lord Jesus and through which his divine life and love are communicated.”

He pauses to consider them, and she works hard to keep her expression neutral, if not leaning ever so slightly towards pleased. She can’t let the panic in her belly find its way to her face in front of this priest.

“Have you discussed your sacramental marriage commitment to each other, under all circumstances? You are each entering into this union with the intention to die married to one another, forsaking all others?” he says, giving her a pointed look.

Is she imagining it, or is he directing all of this towards her and not Ethan? She swallows and then nods softly.

“Alright,” he continues, opening a folder and sifting through several sheets of paper, “let’s talk, then, about how to prepare for a successful marriage, so that you might spend eternity as man and wife.”

Eternity.

———

“You okay?,” Ethan asks, sitting down beside her on the couch and resting his hand on the back of her neck with a brief squeeze.

She nods. “That was just...a lot,” she replies with tired eyes.

Two hours spent talking to Father O’Dowell about how they’d raise their children, how they’d keep Christ present in their marriage daily, what holiday traditions they wanted to create for their family, how they will approach conflict resolution. As a private person, these conversations feel invasive and embarrassing, but even more than that she is shell shocked by how many times he used the word eternity. Of course she knows that what she is signing on for is the rest of her life with Ethan, but the hammering home of the eternity bit along with the fact that divorce is out of the question was a bit jarring.

“You want me to stay?” Ethan asks with a concerned look. “I can cancel, it’s no big deal.”

“No,” she replies with a wave of her hand, “you should go, I think I’d actually benefit from some time alone.”

“Right, before we spend ETERNITY together,” he replies with a smirk, and she knows it’s supposed to make her laugh, but it only makes her want to run. “Okay. I’m gonna get going then, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening. I think maybe around 7, but it’ll depend on traffic. You don’t need to wait for me for dinner or anything.”

She sighs deeply. “Okay, have fun. Be safe.” She forces a weak smile.

He kisses her twice, whispers I love you into her ear, and leaves with a suitcase in hand for his college buddy’s bachelor party in Philly.

She flops to the side so that she’s laying on the couch, and spends a long while staring blankly at the ceiling.

Eternity.

That’s a very long time. The unequivocal unacceptability of divorce makes it feel longer. Realistically, of course catholic people get divorced, it happens. But how could she put her mother through that? And why is she moving forward with marrying a man if she’s considering the possibility of divorce before they’re even married?

Sitting up, she runs her hands over the skirt of her baby blue dress, the church-appropriate outfit she wore even on a day that is unseasonably cool and dreary. Always dressing for the occasion, doing what is expected of her. Always making the right choice.

She stands, grabbing her purse and keys, and leaves the apartment. She needs to be somewhere else, anywhere else. She needs to escape for a bit.

She’s been driving aimlessly for some time with the radio off when she finds herself parked in front of 2630 Hegal Place. She exits the car and walks around the block, letting the gentle rain soak her shoulders and seep into her heels. Three times. Four times. On the fifth trip, she approaches the front doors of the building.

She pauses with her hand on the door handle, too afraid to ask herself what she’s doing here. She just wants to stop thinking for a little bit. About Ethan, about marriage, about eternity. She just wants to exist for a little bit as Dana, just herself, without any of that baggage. She pulls the door open.

Mulder greets her with a dazed expression, wearing grey sweatpants and no shirt. He stares at her for a long moment, taking in the beads of water trailing off the ends of her soaked hair and her chattering jaw. He looks a little afraid, like a grenade with the pin pulled just appeared on his doorstep. All she has to do is let go and the explosion is inevitable, along with the destruction.

She opens her mouth to speak, but she can’t find words. She searches his face, looking for some reason to stay or to leave. Looking for an answer. His eyes darken a little and at that moment she lets go. She feels the tick tick tick of the timer; it’s already too late to stop. She moves one step beyond his threshold and drops her purse on the floor unceremoniously before threading her wet arms around the back of his neck, their mouths coming together like sea and shore. His lips are warm and pliant, hints of coffee and salt slick on his tongue as he slides it against her teeth. She sighs deeply, a silent moan, a giving over of control and higher reasoning, melting into the sturdy man before her as rays of sun into an oak tree.

She feels his hands warming her back, sliding down to her hips. Hips before hands, she thinks, and her pelvis bucks towards him. His hands slide down over her ass until they find the backs of her thighs, hoisting her up and onto him, carrying her like a wounded soldier into his bedroom. Her weight is dead against him, seeking only to be taken, to be had. She has nothing for him but she wants to give. Oh but she wants to give.

He sets her there on the bed, damp as a dish towel and quivering with the cold and the adrenaline. His hot lips transfer his heat to her neck, chest, face, arms. He breathes his life onto her skin, igniting her square by square until she feels like a checkerboard of warmth and chill. She’s pushed her legs wide open, welcomed the solid weight of his body to rest against her heat, and he is sending her dress higher up her thighs with eager but gentle hands.

They have not spoken a word.

As he kisses her, his fingers play tentatively at the hem of her panties, seeking permission or watching for objection. Finding none, he allows one index finger to slip behind the gusset that covers her soaked vulva, the flat of his fingernail brushing along her lips and sending shockwaves down her legs. He lets out a long, staggered breath and repeats the movement quickly a few times, groaning as her breath catches and she bucks into him. She has never wanted anyone more in her entire life. Has never needed anyone as much as she needs him now.

And then his head is between her legs, and he’s pulling her panties to the side as the rigid tip of his tongue flicks at her experimentally. She gasps audibly, a half-cry escaping her throat that catches as his finger delves inside of her, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her head lolls back, mouth agape and rapidly drying out as she struggles for air. His lips are sucking and nipping, his tongue prodding and stroking, while his fingers flutter against a place that she is only just now realizing exists. She feels a warm tingle in her toes, a flood of dopamine coursing through her, rendering her incapable of rational thought. She is high on sex and pleasure and Mulder and if this were a drug she could buy, she would go broke tomorrow.

Gathering, building, peaking, she is a swell on still waters, giving nothing away of the chaos that rages below. When she starts coming, she cries out “oh,” which is the first word either of them has said. Oh, and she’s exploding around him, and across his tongue. Oh, and he’s flexing his finger inside her, drawing it out. Oh, and as the tidal wave of release begins to recede, the awareness of what has just happened settles over her. Oh, oh, oh.

Oh, what has she done?

Oh, god.

Oh, no.

She recoils from him, pushing up into a sitting position on the bed as her hand comes to her mouth in horror.

“Scully?” he asks, reaching for her, and she pushes his hand off her knee.

She’s shaking her head, her eyes wild and unbelieving. She has to go. She has to get out. She slides off the bed and makes her way wordlessly to the foyer.

“Scully, what’s going on, are you okay?” He follows her, his fading erection still nudging the front of his sweatpants, his lips glistening with her wetness. She can’t look at him.

Her wet shoes are returned to her feet, her purse hanging haphazardly from her elbow. Mulder is looking at her with fear and confusion. She thinks he might try to stop her from leaving.

Swallowing hard to bring moisture to her throat, she forces out a strangled “I’m so sorry,” and then she goes, she runs. Down the stairwell because she can’t bear to wait for the elevator, out into the now pouring rain and behind the wheel of her car. She drives fast and recklessly, nothing left worth trying to protect.

Oh, what has she done?

[gravegroves]

ace nancy 👀?? from your wips?

I'm gonna preffice this by warning that Billy knows about Asexuality but isn't all that good at explaining it or the nuanced spectrum of being Ace. Also it's the 80's, so please read the following with that in mind. (Clarification comes later in the fic)

So this fic is about Billy being pressganged by Mr Clark into joining the debate team for the State Championships for extra credit. Nancy would rather have a Demodog chomp her left leg off than team up with Billy Hargrove, but things have a way of working out.

A few excerpts:

"Be honest Wheeler, did Harrington make you come even once?"

Nancy blushes.

"Oh, holy shit, he really didn't, did he?" 

"I didn't say that--" Nancy insists, loudly.

Billy laughs, "Oh, you didn't have to, Princess. Your face says it all."

"Shut up, Hargrove, just…" Nancy huffs in frustration and goes back to picking at the label a little more aggressively, "Just don't."

"Hey, I'm not judging you, that's all on Harrington. What a dick."

"He's not really. Not anymore. It's just," Her nail finally catches and she rips another strip of wet, sticky label off the bottle and flings it into the grass, "He was my first, you know? I didn't know what to do or how to - to move, and then it was over and I just remember thinking, is that all it is? And then I thought, maybe I'm just not good at it yet, maybe I just need to try again."

She sniffs, reaches up to wipe her face and Billy realises with a sickening lurch in his stomach that Wheeler is crying. He stares at her, frozen solid with uncertainty about what to do.

"And then I thought maybe there's something wrong with him, you know?" Her voice turns bitter. "Like, why couldn't he make it good for me? It's not like I hadn't heard about the other girls talking about Steve before we got together. None of them had any complaints." 

"But then I got together with Jonathan and I thought this feeling, this is what I was missing. But-- it didn't fix anything! It didn't fix me."

Billy flounders a little, but ultimately goes with the first thing that pops into his head. "There isn't anything wrong with you, Wheeler."

Nancy cackles a little, sways on the spot, the drink clearly loosening her tongue as well as her body. "Yeah? You gonna show me what I've been missing out on, huh? You wanna take me for a ride in your Camaro, Billy?"

Billy gags a little at the thought, luckily Nancy is too preoccupied by taking another swig from her bottle to notice.

"Oh yeah, that'd end really fucking well."

*****

"You literally did an hour long presentation on Nicola Tesla last semester and spent a quarter of it talking about why he never got married. Don't tell anyone I said this, but you're not exactly stupid. Don't fail me now, Wheeler."

Nancy blinks, looks likes she's thinking real fucking hard. Maybe Billy spoke too soon.

"You ever heard of the term asexual?"

"I think so?" She says, slowly, sounding out the words with deliberate care and turning it into a question. A valley grows between her brows in concentration. "The farmers at the spring festival talked about-- about culling a rooster because it wouldn't, like, mount the hens naturally. I'm sure that's the term he used. 

"Jesus Christ." Billy sucks deeply on his cigarette. "It means you don't wanna fuck." Billy frowns, waves his hand dismissively. "Like, you can like it just fine, but you don't think about it like most people do. Something like that."

Nancy straightens of her slouch to lean back and stare at him, jerking a little when she overbalances and steadies herself by grabbing the crook of Billy's elbow. "That doesn't sound normal."

He shrugs a little, takes one last pull from the cigarette before flicking the butt at the ground.  "What the fuck is normal, huh?" He grinds the butt into the gravel and turns to look at her, "Let's get you back on your pea, princess. I think you've had enough for one night."

He holds out a hand.

Nancy takes it.

*****

Billy jerks out of doze when someone drops into the seat next to him. He already knows who it's gonna be before he turns to look.

"Morning Wheeler, you get lost on the way to your seat?"

Billy looks around pointedly, his little nook in the back of the bus cut off from the rest of the group by a good five or six rows of empty seats. Far enough to get the point across that Billy isn't there by choice or planning to socialise with any of these nerds.

"No." She says simply.

"You sure? Seems like an awful lot of empty seats for you to be getting all friendly. How's the head?"

Nancy ignores him. Stares at the back of the seat in front of her like it gave her a less than a perfect grade. She purses her lips in that awful way that reminds Billy of a cat's asshole, but she doesn't run off in a huff like he expects.

"You're right." She says, still not looking at him. He watches a muscle tick in her jaw as she grinds her teeth.

He grins.

"You about to have a heart to heart with me, Wheeler? Gotta know whether or not to turn the volume up on these things." He gestures to the headphones pushed partially off his left ear.

She turns her head and regards him cooly for a beat, before a hand shoots out and bats the thing off his head with a quick swipe.

"Watch it!" Billy scrambles to catch them by the cord before they fall to the floor.

Nancy smiles sweetly, "Don't be a dick, Hargrove."

He rolls his eyes.

"Bitch."

"Slut."

"Whore."

She shoots him a pitying look. "Oh Billy, we both know Christie Otto paid you twenty bucks to let her suck your toes."

Billy guffaws, taken completely by surprise and loving it.

Nancy stares, disbelieving.

"You actually did it?"

Billy grins.

Her face does a complicated thing before settling on a confused expression. "But why?"

"Twenty bucks is a hell of a lot of dough for us mere peasants, Princess."

Billy screws his face up, tries not to squirm uncomfortably in his seat at the memory,  "Maybe I should have warned her that I'm ticklish. Almost kicked her face in, like, three times."

Nancy coughs. Covers her mouth as she laughs into her hands, like she doesn't want him to see that he made her laugh.

"Not that this isn't nice and all--"

"Oh, I'm sorry, you got somewhere to be, Hargrove?" She snaps, deadpan, but Billy can tell she's nervous from the way she wrings her hands and hides them up her sleeves.

"I just wanted to say thank you--"

"Don't mention it, Wheeler." He says, hastily. Actually he'd prefer it if they never spoke about it ever again.

She glares at the interruption, but presses on. "-- thank you and I wanted to know if I could talk to you. More. About it."

And now it's Billy's turn to stare. Nancy meets his eyes with a determined gaze. Whatever shit Tommy and the rest of the school likes to say about Nancy Wheeler, she's got stones, he'll give her that.

"Alright."

*****

The topic is announced.

Gay marriage.

Berkeley for. Hawkins against.

They win by a landslide.

Of course they do.

The team from Berkeley registers a formal complaint with the panel the second the win is announced. Mr Scott and his Berkeley counterpart are waved up to approach the judges table. Billy wants desperately to leave, but he's forced to sit and watch the Berkeley debate coach protest the unfair conditions his team had been placed under.

"No one in their right mind would chose to side with us on such a topic. No matter how well my kids argue their case."

"I'm afraid I disagree." Mr. Clarke argues. "We debate politically and morally charged topics all the time, Mr. Davenport. The judges judge how well you present your side, not their own personal beliefs.

Billy snorts. Feels unclean after having to stand on that stage and tell the world how unfit people like him are to love. To form families. To be allowed to simply be.

Even if it's all hypothetical, Billy knows those words came damn easily out of his team mates mouths, just as the words of support clearly left a sour after-taste in their opponents.

Nancy turns to look at him.

Fuck it.

Billy gets up and stalks out of the hall. Fuck it all to shit.

[aellynera]

Accidental Anniversary (Llewyn Davis x Reader)

ACCIDENTAL ANNIVERSARY

💜💘 Happy Valentine’s Fic Exchange, @samrockweil​ 💘💜

I am your Valentine’s elf (or maybe cupid?) It was an absolute blast writing this for you!! At first I couldn’t decide which guy to write for, but Llewyn spoke to me and I ran with it and I hope you love it even half as half as much as I did writing it. Happy reading and happy beeps!

Also, huge thanks to @sergeantkane​ for putting this fic exchange together! Love you Clarke!

Word Count: around 8k oops look i had a whole MONTH okay i’m not sorry

Summary: You meet Llewyn Davis one night at the Gaslight, and soon find out that the universe has an odd sense of humor and an even weirder sense of timing.

Warnings: A few curses. Nothing else, it’s 99.999999999% fluffy fluff.

March 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a whiskey, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as your boss flips the power on.

You’ve been working there for a couple weeks, a side job to help make your rent and keep you busy on the weekends. It’s not a terrible gig, most of the time; the patrons are pleasant enough, the performers hit or miss, and Pappi, your boss, is okayish, so long as you can mostly steer clear of him.

You begin to wipe down part of the bar while the next performer sets up on the small, dingy stage. You haven’t seen him before, but whispers from the stools at the counter hint he’s semi-popular around these parts. You quirk an eyebrow; he certainly is easy on the eyes, at least.

From the minute he takes the stage, your focus is ninety percent on him (you do need a little brain power to do your job, after all) and you find that he is also very easy on the ears. Dark curls, dark beard, dark eyes, dark clothes, but a surprisingly bright voice singing lovely songs. He finishes his set, comes off the stage, and sidles up to the bar. You hand him the requested bourbon with a soft smile.

And the next thing you know, Pappi is on the ground and this stranger is holding his hand, wincing, flexing his fingers. Your mouth drops open.

“Oh my god!” you cry. “What--”

“Jesus Christ, Llewyn,” Pappi groans from the floor. “I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, doubt that,” this Llewyn person mutters under his breath, taking a seat on the stool closest to him. “Can I bother you for some ice?”

You keep a wary eye on him, and on Pappi as he gets up and wanders to the other side of the room like nothing happened, and wrap some ice cubes in a towel and hand it to him. “You decked him.”

He scoffs and takes a sip of his drink. “You hear what he said about you?”

Well, no, you hadn’t actually, but having heard what Pappi has said about others in the club over the past two weeks, you can imagine. “I can handle him,” you say archly.

“I’m sure you can,” a huff of air escapes his lips, “but you shouldn’t have to.” He turns around to look at Pappi, who just glares and shakes his head. The man in front of you flips your boss off.

You refill his glass without him asking and stick out your hand, telling him your name.

He shakes it and says, “Llewyn Davis” with a sheepish smile.

April 14

Llewyn shuffles down the sidewalk towards the Gaslight, really only noticing the early spring chill that hangs in the air. It’s early, before noon, but he wants to run through his set before the night’s performance and the early hour is convenient for him to be able to do so in peace.

He’s about a block away when a sound distracts him. A voice is singing, pure and sweet - if a tiny bit off-key - and if he didn’t know any better - and he certainly does, at least most times - he would call it angelic. No, not angelic. An actual angel. That’s what it sounds like.

Llewyn stops and looks up at an open window on the third floor. He can make out the vague outline of a figure inside, but he’s unable to see any details. But that voice. A few minutes pass as he just listens, staring up at the window, thinking about calling up to get the attention of the mysterious singer. But he doesn’t, and he just stands and listens, until he finds his feet starting to carry him on to his usual destination. 

Three steps into his walk, he realizes he knows the song. It’s one of his songs. Part of him can’t believe it, and the rest of him wants to offer pitch correction. Three more steps into his walk, and his face makes very solid, very resounding contact with the light pole on the corner.

“God dammit,” he shouts.

A few seconds later, the window on the third floor slides open and a head pokes out. “Oh my god. Llewyn?”

Llewyn looks up and groans inwardly as he recognizes your face from that last gig at the Gaslight. “Hey,” he waves awkwardly, leaning on the pole.

“Are you bleeding?” you call down to him.

He reaches up near his eyebrow and realizes he is, in fact, bleeding. Quite a bit, honestly. Before he can answer, you call back down, “Come up the fire escape to the side window!” The window drops shut and he can hear another slide open.

So Llewyn Davis climbs the fire escape steps and meets you at your side window, a first aid kit in your hands as you motion for him to sit. He does and you start to patch up his wound.

“You should be more careful,” you mutter as you worked, stopping briefly to look him right in the eyes.

He holds your gaze. “Sorry, I was...distracted.”

“Mmm,” you return. You fold a gauze pad and hand it to him. “Hold this on that cut. I’m going to get you some ice.” You turn to walk to your kitchen.

He mumbles his thanks and leans his head back against the fire escape railing.

May 14

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and although Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, he takes up a spot at the end of the bar and thanks you as you pass him a drink.

“How have you been?” you ask. You’d seen him a few times over the past couple weeks, here and there in the Village, but it’s been several days. You found Llewyn’s company quite enjoyable. You’d talked a bit and even shared lunch once at the diner a couple blocks away.

His lips turn up, a shy smile lighting his face. He opens his mouth to respond, when another voice breaks in.

“He’s been an asshole.”

Llewyn’s head ships around and you follow his gaze. A slender woman with long, straight brown hair and piercing eyes stands about ten feet behind him, arms crossed and glaring. Neither of them says anything for a beat, Llewyn turns away from her, and then she’s on him, daggers flying from her lips, going on and on about assholes and responsibility and electrical tape.

Llewyn keeps his eyes down, the bottom of his glass suddenly staring back at him. “Jesus Christ, Jean.”

You bite your lip as you glance between them. You have no idea who this woman - this Jean - is, but it’s clear she is not a fan of Llewyn Davis. In three seconds flat you decide you do not like her either.

“Is there something you needed?” you break in.

Her eyes flare at Llewyn, then at you, then bore into the back of Llewyn’s head. You resist the urge to literally toss a glass of whiskey in her direction.

“I need Llewyn to stop being an asshole,” she seethes. Llewyn rolls his eyes.

You arch an eyebrow and the words are on your tongue - I need you to back off, you crazy weird bit-- you bite your tongue just hard enough to make your mouth behave. Fortunately, she’s distracted by someone else calling her name and her attention drifts to the stage. With a final mutter of “asshole” and a rude hand gesture, she flounces off.

You point over Llewyn’s shoulder. “Um, what was that?”

He snorts. “A night of bad decisions and a lifetime of regret.” A pause. “It’s...a long story.”

You watch as she adjusts the microphone center stage. “Good lord, is she a singer? Tell me she’s not going to just smile and sing after...whatever that was.”

“Yeah. Well,” he offers by way of explanation and doesn’t say anything else. It’s almost like this woman sucked all the fight out of him and you feel your heart give a little twinge.

You toss the rag in the sink and take his glass. “Do you wanna get out of here?” The air around you has a weird vibe now, and you felt a sudden impulse to get out and take this man - your friend - with you, away from this...whatever she was, somewhere safe.

“Fuck yes,” he sighs, a grateful glimmer passing through his dark eyes.

“There’s a great cafe down the block.”

“But don’t you have to...you know...work?”

You look around and shrug. “It’s dead in here, and Bobby can handle it,” you hook your thumb at a co-worker behind the bar. “And if Pappi says anything, I know someone who can set him straight.”

Llewyn’s eyes glint and his lips turn up in a real, honest smile this time. “So, coffee?”

“Coffee.”

June 14

The summer - or very last days of spring, technically - is starting to get hot and your open windows are doing the bare minimum to alleviate the warmth. Of course, the third glass of wine you’re drinking probably isn’t helping things either.

Whatever. It’s your day off.

Shoes kicked off, jeans rolled up above your ankles, feet up on the arm of the couch, a record on the turntable and your glass of red as the dusk slowly melts into dark. The night is tranquil and relaxing and perfect. It has been a shitty week, and all you want is to ignore the outside world and do exactly this.

The shrill ring of your phone bursts that bubble..

You close your eyes and tilt your head back on the couch. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away. The phone stops ringing. Deciding to take no further chances, you switch off the ringer, completely, then sigh happily, settling yourself on the couch and sipping your wine.

Perfect.

A resounding, repeated thump echoes through the room. You bit back a shriek. Ignore it. If you just ignore it, it will go away - lightning can strike twice, right? It was extremely rude of people to just call you and knock when all you wanted was--

“Hey, are you home?” a muffled voice comes from the other side of the door.

Suddenly alert and somehow much less annoyed, you spring up and cross to your front door. Yanking it open, you find a very disheveled Llewyn Davis on the other side. He doesn’t seem to notice right away that the door was now open, and you had to jump back as his hand, raised to pound on the door again, almost knocks you in the head instead.

You take a deep breath. You catch a waft like the mat under the taps after a long night at the bar.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

“Are you drunk?” You take him by the arm and drag him inside, appraising him quickly. His eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, his curls an absolute mess, and there’s a dark mark under his left eye and a split in his lip. He looks terrible, smells just as bad, but suddenly all your desire for a quiet, no-other-humans night evaporates. “And did you get in a fight?”

“...yes?”

You sigh and point to the couch. “Go. Sit. I’ll make some coffee, and then you’re getting a shower..”

“You’re incredible,” he slurs, smiling, “And you’re so…I tried t’call you, from th’phone on the corner but you dinnt answer. An’ then I realized, hey, I’m on your corner, so decided t’come up and see you. You’re pretty.”

You take him by the elbow and lead him to the couch, only stumbling twice and managing to catch him as he sways, precariously, once. “Uh huh,” you bite your lip to hide a smile. “Sounds like you’ve had a fun night. You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” He flops down on the couch and buries his face in a pillow.

By the time you make the promised pot of coffee and get back to the living room, Llewyn is snoring, still face down in the throw pillow. Turning off the music and the lights, you cover him with a blanket and take your glass of wine to your room.

July 14

Ring, ring, ring.

You’d remembered to turn the ringer back on three days after Llewyn slept it off on your couch, but your phone hadn’t actually rung again until just over half an hour ago, and honestly you weren’t sure if that was a blessing or if it was just sad.

You are sure, however, that the sheer desperation in the voice on the other end when you answered is the reason you’re on this train to Queens. Are you doing anything, Llewyn had asked, because I could really, really use some help right now. Please, I’m begging you. And now the echo of your phone ringing just, well, rings in your ears.

The train screeches to a halt and you exit, making your way to the given address. You knock on the door of a smallish, nondescript row house and it swings open almost immediately, revealing a very disheveled, slightly panicked looking Llewyn.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he breathes and grabs you by the arm, dragging you inside.

“Llewyn? What is going on?”

“It’s a disaster,” he says. He’s completely serious.

You’re preparing yourself for blood, broken bones, water damage, collapsed ceilings, possible dismemberment, anything, really, that could explain your friend’s current frazzled condition. What you get is completely, unexpectedly, not anything like that.

There are about ten kids, all around ten years old, running around in the living room, which is also full of balloons and streamers. One giant pinata, shaped like a baseball glove and bat, hangs from the light fixture. To Llewyn’s credit, it is kind of...chaotic, but it’s far from a disaster and you can barely contain the guffaw that escapes your lungs.

“Whose birthday?” you grin at him.

He narrows his eyes at you. “It’s not funny.”

You consider this and try to straighten your lips. Nope, not working. “It’s a little funny.”

Llewyn smacks you lightly on the shoulder. “It’s my nephew’s birthday, and my sister forgot some party thing and made a run to the store. I was stayin’ here last night and she just decided, oh, Llewyn can watch the kids, and she was gone.”

“So what’s the problem, exactly?”

“She should be back by now,” his eyes look slightly panicked.

“Maybe she had to go to a couple stores? Maybe she just got delayed by transit?”

“I can’t do…” Llewyn gestures around weakly, shaking his head. “This.”

“Llewyn, they’re kids. They can’t be more than what, ten years old? Just blindfold them and let them whack at the pinata.”

“You’re the people person. I can’t...can you help me, please,” he turns to look at you. Directly at you. You’re fairly certain his eyes cannot get any bigger or shine more pleadingly.

“Fine,” you sigh. “Let’s go wrangle some kids.”

The panic slides from his face and to your surprise, he throws an arm over your shoulder and kisses the top of your head in his thanks.

And when one kid takes a wild swing at that tacky papier-mache sports equipment, misses completely, and lands a clean hit on Llewyn’s thigh, neither of you talk about it.

You just get him an ice pack.

August 14

“I’m making lasagna. Come over for dinner.”

You worked early that day, and said this to Llewyn as you left the Gaslight for the day. He isn’t playing tonight, and he’s really just here to stay out of the sun, and as much as he doesn’t like to push his luck with others’ hospitality, he has to admit that a home-cooked meal does sound incredible.

He has a feeling your invitation was partly due to Jean showing up, ready to do unnecessary verbal battle because she just can’t let it go, and you’d asked to both deflect her and keep yourself from actual physical battle. But whatever.

So he finds himself at your front door a couple hours later, a bottle of cheapish red wine in hand and an odd tingle in his chest. He dismisses it offhand; he’s probably just hungry.

You open the door and Llewyn’s nose is assaulted by the smell of homemade sauce - he’s half Italian, he knows these things - and cheese and garlic. You smile brightly at him. Yeah, he’s definitely hungry.

“Hey! Come in, it’s almost ready.”

He hands you the bottle. “Brought wine.”

“Excellent,” you lead him to the kitchen table and motion to a seat. He settles himself into it and grabs a piece of bread from the basket on the table as you grab two wine glasses.

“What’s the occasion?” he asks around a mouthful of carbs.

The timer dings and you pull the lasagna out of the oven. “No occasion. I just felt like making this and I didn’t really want to eat alone.”

“Lucky for you I like to eat,” he chuckles.

Your face suddenly feels warmer. Well, you did just pull a piping hot casserole dish out of the oven, so that does make sense, you suppose. You turn and put the lasagna on the trivet in the middle of the table, then turn and grab two regular glasses for water. There is an outlandish, metallic ka-chunk-ing noise as you turn on the tap, and suddenly water is shooting from under the sink and halfway across the room.

Llewyn jumps up and dives at the faucet, a chunk of bread clutched between his teeth, at the same time you crawl halfway under the sink to try and shut the water off. The stream blasts you in the face and you sputter.

This is not how you imagined tonight. Blasted ancient, rickety building. You make a mental note to have words with the super tomorrow.

You finally get the water shut off, and Llewyn closes the tap and sinks down onto the wet floor next to you. You lean against the cabinets and try to wipe the water out of your eyes.

Llewyn fares a little better; he’s only wet from his waist down. Your head thumps back on the soaked particle board behind you and you turn your head towards him. For a long moment he looks back at you, then rips the butt off the hunk of baguette in his mouth and passes it to you.

You snort. He bites his lip.

“Sorry, I think dinner might be a bit late,” you deadpan, eyes still on him, and take a bite of bread.

He bumps your shoulder with his. “It’s okay. Lasagna is always better the next day.”

Llewyn has to admit, though, it’s still pretty good a couple hours later, after you’re both dry and the lake in the kitchen is mopped up and you settle on the couch with your plates.

And if you use the water glasses for the wine, well, neither of you mentions it.

September 14

It’s pleasantly warm today, the heat of late August dragging itself into the beginning of September, and you find yourself in Washington Square Park, on a checkered blanket, a basket in the middle and a guitar by your feet. Pigeons wander and plot to steal food, but it’s easy enough to shoo them away.

It takes a little convincing, early that morning, to get Llewyn to agree to join you. It didn’t, really; he’s quickly become one of your best friends, and he doesn’t have anywhere else to be, he just likes to tease you.

But he does accept, and you eat some of the bread and cheese you packed and drink the iced tea you brought, and you get out a container of fruit salad and package of cookies your down-the-hall neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, made for you that morning.

“For you and your lovely man,” she’d said as she knocked on your door. You feel the warmth in the tips of your ears and you certainly see the color rise in Llewyn’s embarrassed face, but you don’t have the heart to correct her. She’s such a sweet old lady.

Llewyn plays a song or two while you enjoy your lunch, and even asks if you want to hear a new song he’s been working on, which you are more than happy to agree to.

It’s such a pleasant afternoon.

Until a small, brownish-gray blur jumps onto the blanket and grabs a chunk of bread and darts further onto the lawn.

“What the hell!’ Llewyn shouts as you yelp in surprise. The squirrel, for its part, just stops fifty feet away and turns back with a triumphant gaze, then scoots off into the bushes, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake.

He starts to make a comment about the nerve of the wildlife, but you’re not really listening. Your eyes are fixed on the path the squirrel just ran and you tug on Llewyn’s sleeve. He keeps muttering and you tug harder.

“Llewyn.”

He finally looks up and follows your finger. There’s a flock - an honest-to-god flock, not that he has any real idea on the technical makeup of a flock, but there’s more than one so as far as he’s concerned, yeah, it’s a flock - of geese marching directly at the blanket.

Okay, so there’s only three of them. But they look angry.

The leader strides forward deliberately and bites at Llewyn’s shoe. Another yelp leaves your lips and he grabs your hand, pulling you to your feet. He also grabs the remainder of the bread and tosses it in the opposite direction as he takes off running towards the fountain, dragging you behind him.

“Where are we going?” you shout.

“No idea,” he replies. The leader falls for the bread feint, but his loyal minions do not, and they follow behind you, quacking and honking and flapping and Llewyn isn’t sure but he may dislike geese even more than he dislikes pigeons.

He jumps up on the edge of the fountain and pulls you into a protective embrace as the beasts close in. Only Llewyn doesn’t account for, you know, physics, and the force of your bodies colliding sends you both straight into the water.

Spluttering, you try to wipe the water out of your eyes. Llewyn is doing the same when a loud HONK startles you both. The leader is back, flanked by his friends, and they’re all staring at you.

“Um, Llewyn?” you whisper.

“Yeah?”

“...don’t geese like, love the water?”

His eyes flick to you, then the winged monsters, then you again, then the fountain like he’s seeing it for the first time and all he can do is mutter, “Shit!” and grab your hand as he pulls you to your feet and takes off running again.

You manage to swing by and gather the leavings of your picnic, blanket and basket tucked under your arms and his precious guitar clutched to him, as you beeline out of the park, soaking wet and laughing.

October 14

Llewyn slides the key into the lock and turns it, an odd flutter rolling up his spine as he hears the bolt click open. He’s had a key to your apartment for almost two months now. You gave it to him, insisted really, telling him this way he wouldn’t need to worry about finding somewhere to crash. That your couch is always open.

It still doesn’t feel real and he doesn’t always use it, but tonight he really, really doesn’t feel like making the rounds. You’ve been spending more time together recently anyway, and he feels mostly comfortable around you.

He’s greeted by the sight of you wearing a catcher’s mask and knee high rubber boots, and you’re wielding a tennis racquet. He doesn’t know what to say for a full minute.

“What are you...why are you wearing...what the hell.”

“There’s a bat,” is your whispered response.

Llewyn’s nose scrunches and he isn’t any less confused than he was a second ago. “What?”

“There’s a bat,’ you repeat. Your voice is slightly on the edge of hysteria because, well, “there is a bat. In the bathroom.”

“...okay?”

You jab your finger at the closed door. “I was just going to wash my face and brush my teeth and I went in there and it was just...in the corner, by the shelves. It was staring at me.”

He bites his lip, trying his hardest to suppress the smile tugging on his face. It isn’t working. He drops to a whisper himself and asks, “Baby, why are you whispering?”

Your head jerks towards the bathroom, and your shrug nearly sends the tennis racquet into his shoulder. “Because that’s how they...they’re...how they do the...the bat hearing thing!”

Llewyn laughs fully. He can’t help it; you’re ridiculous and his face heats a bit as he realizes it’s entirely endearing. “I don’t think that’s how it works,” he says, his voice sliding back to a whisper. He avoids your death glare as he makes his way to the bathroom door. “But sit tight, slugger, I’ll get rid of it.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and considers this. “Just gonna encourage it to go home? I dunno.”

Your grip tightens on the racquet. “How will that work?!”

“I don’t know! I’m not a fucking bat!” he hisses at you. “Just, make sure a window is open.” He opens the bathroom door.

Several things happen at once. Llewyn doesn’t so much open the door as he flings it wide and it slams into the wall. The bat makes a squeaky-shrieky noise (you were entirely unaware, until now, that they could even do that) and swoops out, recklessly streaking through Llewyn’s mess of curls. You make an actual shriek and fling the side window open as wide as possible. Llewyn makes a sound he can’t describe and you’re honestly not sure if it was Llewyn or the bat. The bat decides to take a few laps around the living room and you duck under the window sill just before it mercifully decides that outside is the place to be. Llewyn slams the window shut and you spring back to your feet, crash into his chest and his arms wrap around you.

Neither of you say anything, and Llewyn isn’t sure how much time passes, but he’s very aware of your hand running through his hair, and your soft words catching as you say you’re just trying to smooth out the bat damage.

He clears his throat. “I, uh, I’ll keep watch out here, make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” he jokes. “You okay?”

You finally - finally, he cheers internally - take off the catcher’s mask and nod slowly. “Yeah, I’m...good. Thanks for...thanks.”

Llewyn lets you go and takes the tennis racquet out of your hands, placing it next to the couch. He throws you a soft smile. “Just in case.”

November 14

It’s been a long night at work, a lot longer than it has any right to be and infinitely insufferable. The Gaslight is packed, patrons nearly crawling the walls and not an empty seat to be found. Drink orders stack up and you try to keep up. It’s so crazy that even Pappi doesn’t have a chance to be a smartass like usual.

Apparently it always gets like this, closer to a holiday.

Note to self - skip holidays.

There are two acts tonight. Llewyn is first, and it’s clear much of the crowd is here to catch him. It cheers you slightly, and it would certainly cheer you more if you had the time to pay more attention to him, but the constant call for whiskey and gin takes most of your focus. But for the time he’s on stage, your heart feels lighter.

Then the second act takes the stage, and Jean launches eye missiles at Llewyn from behind the microphone, and your mood sours instantly.

Yeah, it’s a very long night.

Everything is blurry for the rest of the evening, until last call mercifully rolls around and you can finally get to straightening out the mess the bar has become. You notice Llewyn still sitting on his usual stool at the end of the counter, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Don’t even say it,” you point at him sternly. “When will you stop fussing about this?” Ridiculous man. He has a key to your apartment, and still he worries that he’s an inconvenience.

You toss an orange slice at him, and he allows you a sweet grin.

Finally - finally - you’re home and Llewyn follows you inside, locking the door behind you. He heads for the couch and you head for your room, a mumbled g’night the only word that passes between you. You’re far too exhausted to deal with anything higher level.

It could be minutes or it could be hours later - your alarm clock somehow ended up on the floor and the darkish sky outside giving nothing away, and when did it start raining anyway - when a loud SPRONG and then a yelp and a THUMP from the living room jolts you awake.

It takes a few seconds to regain your senses. “Llewyn?”

“Fuck.”

You stumble out to the living room to find him half-sitting, half-sprawled on the floor, the quilt he normally uses tangled around his knees and ankles. He rubs a spot on his lower back and winces.

“Llewyn! What happened?” you cry.

He points to the middle cushion and you see something sticking up from the padding.

“Oh, Llewyn, jesus. I’m so sorry,” you apologize. You really do feel terrible; your couch hasn’t been in the best shape for ages, and it looks like the squeaky spring you noticed a few weeks ago finally gave up and poked it way through. And stabbed Llewyn in the back as he slept. Damn it. 

“It’s...it’s fine,” he tells you, still wincing. “I can turn the other way, or sleep on the floor. Not a big deal.”

You shake your head. “Yes big deal. My couch just stabbed you, and it’s cold outside, you can’t sleep on the floor.”

“S’fine. Not the first time I ended up on the floor.”

You make up your mind before you even think about it and reach your hand out to him. “Come on,” you wiggle your fingers. “Come to bed.”

Llewyn’s eyes go wide and he opens his mouth to protest, but your look is so firm that he relents with a soft sigh and extricates himself from the blanket. He follows you to the bedroom and asks, no less than seven times, if you’re sure this is okay and says he really has no problem sleeping on the floor. You eventually tell him to shut the hell up and get under the covers.

You both lay on your sides, facing each other, but keep a space between you. Llewyn still looks mildly uneasy but relaxes as you smile at him and the warmth of your duvet and the softness of your pillows pull him under.

“Good night again, Llewyn,” you whisper.

“Good night again,” he replies with a soft yawn.

The rain steadily patters on your window and the sky slowly lightens as morning breaks and you languidly wake, curled into Llewyn’s chest, his arms secure around you.

December 14

Snow falls lightly outside, coats the grass and sticks to Llewyn’s curls, and his breath swirls and makes curlicues in the chill winter air. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and you decide to put up a tree, a real tree, and you tell him he’s going to help decorate it.

You also tell him that a bunch of your light strings have stopped working, and before you can ask him to run to the shop down the block that sells replacements, he volunteers and is out the door.

He can’t remember the last time he was anywhere with a real tree. It was usually those cheap-looking fake ones, the green plastic branches a color that would never exist naturally, if there were any tree at all.

So yeah, maybe he’s a little excited. He comes up the steps to the apartment, a bag perched in the crook of his elbow as he unlocks the door.

“So I got the lights, like you asked,” he says cheerfully, and sets the bag down on the table by the door.

“Help.” That’s...not the response he’s expecting.

It’s two weeks since the entire living room has been rearranged. The new, non-back-stabbing couch is on the opposite wall. You rearranged all your shelves, got a new armchair, and much to Llewyn’s wary delight and bewilderment, a new side table. The side table has blank sheet music and pens and there’s a guitar stand next to it and he doesn’t really know what to make of it. You just smile and tell him he needs a space to be himself, whatever that means.

The newly-opened space under the window is where the tree is going. Or, should be going. Llewyn looks down at the toppled fir and sees a foot sticking out near the trunk.

“Sweetheart? What happened?”

Your voice answers from beneath the branches. “Can you just help get this off me, please?”

Llewyn rights the tree and turns his head to check on you. He’s more concerned about you than the tree, of course, but he wants to make sure it doesn’t take you out again so he secures it to the stand as he takes you in. Thankfully you look fine, a few needles stuck to your sweater and a tiny scratch on your cheek, but otherwise…

He tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re looking very festive.”

Your eyes narrow. “Go ahead and ask,” you bite out, “because I know you’re going to ask.”

“I already did ask, before I had to be your lumberjack.”

You refrain from telling him that lumberjacks fell trees, not upright them. Whatever. You motion your head to the shiny silver tinsel wrapped around your torso. You can’t use your hands, really, and you’re not sure how they got tied up in this mess, exactly, but here you are, sitting on your living room floor in a pile of pine needles, trussed like a Christmas goose in sparking silver twine.

And your best friend is laughing at you. Jerk.

“I was trying to get this around the top part, and I lost my balance. Then like an idiot I tried to catch myself on the tree, and the whole damn thing went down with me,” you sigh. “I don’t even know how the rest of this tangled mess happened.”

He does laugh now, full and rich. “I was only gone for like, twenty minutes.”

“Yeah, yeah. Um, can you maybe...untie me?”

“Oh! Wait, here, I got something else,” Llewyn jumps to his feet. He ignores your request and pokes around in the shopping bag.

“If it’s not chocolate, I don’t want to hear about it,” your grumbled response brings another laugh.

Llewyn’s back in front of you seconds later, holding a small white cluster above your head. The grin on his face is equally charming and infuriating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you blink at him.

“I mean, I was just gonna, y’know, hang it above the door later and let it happen, but now seems like a better time for some Christmas cheer.”

“I think you’re pretty satisfyingly cheerful right now, idiot.”

He waves the mistletoe over your heads. “Come on. It’s tradition.”

One day, maybe you’ll be able to stop sighing in his presence, but today is not that day. You sigh again, roll your eyes, and lean in, planting a soft kiss on his cheek and delighting in the shade of crimson he turns in response. He clears his throat and places the mistletoe to the side.

“Now will you untie me?” you ask, sugar-sweet.

He does, and helps you get the tinsel where it’s supposed to go and you spend the rest of the afternoon decorating the tree and drinking hot cider.

Llewyn sings you more than one Christmas song to make up for all the teasing.

January 14

It seems like a good idea at the time. One of your friends at your actual day-to-day job offers to set you up with another coworker, and it’s been ages since you went on a date and you figure, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

It turns out the answer is, a lot. A lot can go wrong. So much that you don’t even want to think about it.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. There is no chemistry, no spark, just an hours-long recitation of how your date is god’s gift to pretty much everything under the sun and possibly also the moon. The name-drops are just the cherry on top.

Maybe your first impression isn’t wrong after all.

You trudge up to your apartment, the bag of your favorite takeout under your arm filled to nearly bursting, and get the door open. All you want to do is stuff your face and maybe take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine. Yes, that sounds perfect.

The melody of a strumming guitar stops as you place the bag on the side table and shimmy out of your coat. The lamp in the corner is the only illumination and you tilt your head towards the armchair’s occupant. You’re surprised that he’s there, but only because he was supposed to be somewhere else tonight. Knowing he wouldn’t be around was at least...half the reason you agreed to this stupid date in the first place.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?” Llewyn asks in a low voice through the dim light.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing at the Gaslight tonight?” you retort, brow raised.

He shrugs. “Might have had a few too many an’ said some things. Might’ve gotten thrown out.”

“Mmm,” you appraise him. He just looks the same way you feel; ridiculously tired. Exhausted. “Might’ve told my date I had to use the restroom but… maybe didn’t mention I meant the one at my house.”

“That bad?” Despite his snort, Llewyn sounds genuinely curious.

You sigh as you flop down on the couch and hold up the takeout bag. “I’d rather not talk about it. You wanna help me eat this?”

In an instant he’s on the couch next to you and you hand him some plastic utensils and a napkin. You get up and grab two beers. For a while you just focus on eating, passing containers back and forth with occasional comments about the food. Your knees bump sometimes as you each reach for different containers or your drinks.

“So what happened?”

You stab a piece of chicken a bit more forcefully than necessary. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. It was a stupid idea to go on a blind date.”

“Kind of a stupid idea to go on a date at all,” Llewyn replies softly.

“What.” It’s not really a question. You definitely don’t mean it as a question and you vaguely think about throwing an egg roll at him but that would be an honest waste of decent takeout.

“I know what the problem is,” he continues in a normal voice. “It’s the fourteenth.”

You look at him with a raised brow. He has an odd look on his face and you wait a beat before asking, “Okay? And?”

Llewyn also waits a beat before replying and points at you with his fork, a green bean stabbed on the end. You lean forward and pluck it off with your teeth. He needs a moment to clear his throat before he can go on. “It’s the fourteenth,” he repeats. “Don’t know if you noticed, but...well..weird things seem to keep happening. On the fourteenth. Of every month.”

“Huh.” He’s right, now that you think about it. You stab your food again. “What do you think that means?”

Llewyn looks like he wants to say something, like he’s going to say something, but instead he just shrugs. You put the container down and lean back on the couch, swinging your feet into Llewyn’s lap. 

He idly strokes your ankles as his expression grows serious. “I think it means we should not go out on any fourteenths, ever. Just to be safe.”

You poke him with your big toe. “You’re an idiot. There are things that can happen inside. There are things that have happened inside.”

A smirk creeps through his beard. “Shit, you’re right. One-a your crappy novels might fall off the shelf and crack me on the skull.” He pauses. “More run-ins with wildlife? Oh! I know. Squirrels, but this time, in the walls.”

“That’s not funny!” you try to poke him again and dissolve into giggles as he tickles your foot. Your combined laughter ricochets off the living room walls before dissipating back into silence.

This time, you’re clearing your throat before being able to continue. “It’s been a day. I’m gonna go take a hot bath.” You get up and walk down the hall to the bathroom.

“Please don’t fall asleep in the tub!” he calls after you. “Don’t forget what day it is.”

Idiot.

After your bath, you head to the bedroom and find Llewyn passed out on top of the covers. He has a key, and he stays over far more often than not nowadays, and even though he’s been told numerous times since the broken couch that it’s okay if he’d rather sleep in a bed, you don’t mind sharing, he rarely takes you up on that offer. Okay, so this is the first time since the broken couch that he’s even sort of taken up the offer.

It’s been a weird day.

You grab a quilt and curl up on the other side of the bed, pulling it over both of you and snuggling down into your pillow. 

“I wonder what happens on the next fourteenth,” you yawn mutter into the darkness of the room.

You’re asleep, so you can’t notice that Llewyn isn’t, really, and he rolls to face away from you and whispers, “Yeah, me too.”

February 14

The air inside the Gaslight is thick with smoke that coils and kinks around the dim lights on the walls and the candles on the tables. Someone at the end of the bar calls out for a straight bourbon, which you pour and pass down. The sound system shrieks with feedback for three painful seconds as Pappi flips the power on.

You glance back behind the bar, making sure the bottles are stocked and the glasses are ready. Another night at the Gaslight is about to start, and Llewyn isn’t playing tonight, and he hasn’t shown up yet, which is strange.

Another thing that’s strange? This weird feeling of déjà vu.  Whatever, you’ve been working more nights at the club recently, and they’re all starting to blend together.

“Your friend’s out back,” Pappi’s voice breaks into your thoughts as he sidles up to the bar and leans back on it.

“My friend?” you ask, confused.

Pappi shrugs. “Said he was a friend of yours. Dark curly hair, worn corduroy jacket, always looks tired or pissed off or both.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Wait, why is...did he get the crap kicked out of him again?”

“Nah,” Pappi shakes his head. “At least, maybe not yet. Anyway, I dunno, he just asked me to tell you he was outside. I don’t know what the hell he’s up to.” He nods his head towards the back exit and turns to tend to the bar.

Strange.

You duck your head out the door and glance up and down the alley. You see nothing except the usual debris; trash containers, the dumpster, the rusty drain pipes that run down from the gutters, weathered fire escapes. Something skitters off at the far end and disappears between the buildings. Was that a raccoon?

You snort a laugh as you recall Llewyn’s jab about wildlife run-ins. It would be something that happens, in a dark alley behind a basket house in Greenwich Village on the fourteenth of…

Oh. It is the fourteenth.

“Hey,” a familiar voice calls from the head of the alley.

Llewyn stands there, leaning against the brick, dark curls and worn corduroy and all. He holds a single yellow rose in his hands. He looks incredibly nervous, enough to match you looking incredibly confused.

You step fully outside and the door clicks shut behind you. “Hi?”

“Uhm, this is for you,” he says, awkwardly holding the rose out. “Saw a guy selling ‘em a few blocks down, thought you might like it.”

“Thank you? But what’s the occasion?” Why is everything coming out as a question? Even that.

He bites his lip. “You don’t know what today is?”

“Yeah, it’s the four---” Oh. Oh. 

“You wanna get out of here? Have dinner with me, maybe?” Llewyn rubs the back of his neck. It’s a nervous habit you’ve seen him done countless times, usually when he’s thinking about something serious and… Oh.

You twirl the rose in your fingertips and don’t quite meet his eyes. “I thought you said maybe we shouldn’t go out any fourteenths.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well. Um, I don’t know if you also noticed, along with this whole fourteenth business, but I...I really like spending time with you, just hanging out with you, and...I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid, but I thought maybe we could, y’know, have a non-weird fourteenth day of the month for a change.”

He’s rambling and it’s adorable. You hum softly. “...on Valentine’s Day.”

Llewyn’s hands twitch in his pockets. “Well...yeah. I mean, I like spending time with you, but...I also like you. So why not?”

He has a point. And really, now that one of you has said it out loud, you really can’t deny it. All the time spent together, all the shared meals and drinks and late-night talks on the couch and letting him basically move into your apartment...it’s no secret, you realize, it never really was, how close you’ve become over the past many months. How easy it is with him. How natural it is.

All the times he helped you. All the times you helped him. All the times you were together, just being.

The fourteenth of the month be damned.

You pretend to think about it for a little longer than necessary as Llewyn watches you anxiously. “Well, I do have to work, you know.”

“I already asked your boss,” he shakes his head, “and he was more than willing to agree. Something about not getting a black eye on your behalf tonight.”

Your laugh rings out into the street. “But it is the fourteenth. What if one of us gets food poisoning or chokes on dessert or something?”

“Vomit doesn’t bother me and I know the Heimlich,” he smirks. “And I’m already asking you out in a dark alley in the Village, how much weirder can it get?”

“You make a fair point, Llewyn Davis.”

He extends an elbow and a hopeful smile.

If he notices, as he brushes his lips on your knuckles as you take his offered arm, that your breath catches and your heart rate increases, he doesn’t let on.

But later that night, as he trails kisses along your jaw and down your neck and asks you what you want to do on the next fourteenth, well, Llewyn Davis definitely notices then.

~end~

[getitinbusan]

The Studio Sessions Part 5 Smut

It's Min Yoongi's birthday and you're ready to give him whatever he wants. When he makes a sarcastic wish while blowing out the candles he didn't think you'd take it seriously. But he's glad you did.

When word spreads about these special "Studio Sessions" everyone wants to collaborate. A chaptered 0T7 smut. 

These stand alone but you won't want to miss reading all of them!

The Collaborators so far:

Taehyung

Jimin

J-Hope & Joon

Jin

The Jungkook Collaboration

You kissed Yoongi's cheek, "I'm going to go grab a shower and some clothes that don't have cum all over them."

He swatted your ass as you stood up, "Shall I summon the Golden Maknae?"

You scrunched your face in thought, "I'm not sure how we should approach him Yoongs, he's a bit of a scared rabbit." 

Yoongi nodded thinking the same thing, in many ways Jungkook was just a kid trapped in a man's body. 

"I'll figure it out, in the meantime you've got about ½ an hour of solid uninterrupted work time." You ruffled his hair, "I'll be back!"

_______________________________

Freshly scrubbed you made your way back to the Genius Lab. Just about to turn the corner you stopped, Jungkook, head down, was pacing back and forth in front of the door. 

When he noticed he was no longer alone his eyes locked on to you, his expression serious.

You kissed his cheek, it was smooth and his skin smelt like fresh apricots. "Hey, Kookie, what's up? Isn't Yoongi answering the door?"

Not skipping a beat he abruptly asked, "Don't you want to fuck me Noona?" 

"Oh," You stepped back, "what's going on here Guk?"

His ears went red, "Taehyung, he told me this morning about….what you guys did. Then Jimin, then Joon and Hobi and I saw Jin Hyung leave about half an hour ago smiling stupidly...but nobody called me."

"So you've been standing here wondering why you weren't invited?" 

He nodded, "I've been waiting for my turn all day, I even rubbed one out so I'd last longer for you." Reaching out he touched the fuzzy sweater that covered your arm.

So much for a scared rabbit.

"You placed your hands on his chest, "Guk, you were the prize. I saved you for last because I wanted you the most."

Looking up at him, small smiles graced both your faces as the distance between your lips lessened to nothing. It started soft and passionate but quickly moved to lustful and needy.

"I've thought of a million different ways to get you off Noona, how many times am I allowed to make you cum?" 

Your hands were wrapped in his hair and your breath was ragged, "Yes..." 

He laughed, "Are you that far gone already?" He shoved his leg between yours, knee slightly bent and grabbed your hips.

As your tongues explored each other's mouths he guided you up and down his thigh. You couldn't help but moan out loud as your clit found friction on his flexed muscle.

Dragging his lips to your collarbone he sucked hard, "Does all of you taste this good Noona?

Your mind was blank as you were quickly unravelling, no thought to the Big Hit security cameras catching you humping Kookie's leg in the hallway. He, however, knowing someone was watching, turned and smiled towards them.

"Crying out as you came, he held your body up against his. Turning the handle you both stumbled mouths attached into the studio.

Jungkook swung you over to the couch and grabbed at your legs to remove your pants. 

"Don't mind me I guess?" Yoongi frowned from his chair.

"So no problems getting him here huh Y/N?" 

Jungkook looked towards him, "Shit, is this okay?" 

"Since I already heard her cumming in the hallway it might be a little late for permissions."

He tongued the inside of his cheek, "I mean, both of you have been fantasizing about this since day one so... just fuck and get it over with." 

You knew he wasn't happy, but until he called it, you weren't about to stop. 

Jungkook got back to removing your pants. He either didn't notice or didn't care that he'd agitated your boyfriend.

Sucking two fingers he pushed your now bare legs apart and slid them inside you. 

He moaned at the sight, "You're so beautiful Noona, look at how they slide right in.

Putting in a third he cupped his hand. Rocking it quickly, his fingers hit your g spot, palm rubbing your clit simultaneously. He was already making your brain mush and his dick hadn't even left his pants.

As his right hand worked tirelessly to get you to orgasm number two. His left hand raised your shirt and he grinned devilishly, "No bra?"

He squeezed the base of your breast and latched his mouth onto your hardened nipple. Every nerve ending in your body was overcome with pleasure as he tugged it between his lips.  

Yoongi turned his chair to watch, you were unusually quiet except for the heavy breathing. "You okay babe?" He asked seriously.

"Uh-huh, yes...oh my god," barely able to form thoughts let alone words you were having an out of body experience.

He stared at your face, even screwed up in pleasure you were still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.  Sensing his gaze you forced your eyes open, both of you locked onto each other as Jungkook made you squirt all over the couch. 

The Maknae sat back looking in amazement at the mess he just helped create, "I... wow, I didn't think that..shit."

His breathing was heavy and his cock strained against his jeans but he still wasn't ready to please himself. "Can I lick you now?" 

"Jesus Christ you're a fucking machine Jungkook, you're making the rest of us look bad." 

He smiled his bunny grin at Yoongi's praise and immediately got to work between your legs.  

Yoongi came over and kissed you as Guk's tongue went on exploring. "I'm going upstairs. You don't need me here for this one." 

"Wait, what..why? Do you want us to stop?" I don't want this if you don't baby…" Jungkook froze unsure of what to do. 

Yoongi tenderly touched your cheek, "I'm okay, " he motioned to Guk, "this is okay. I trust you both."

Your mouth was open, yet you felt speechless. "Yoongi...I love you…" 

"I know baby, I love you too."

He patted Guk on the shoulder, take care of my girl."

The door closing behind him you found yourself alone with Jungkook.

"Are you okay Noona?"

You hesitated for a moment but made your mind up fast, "Ask me after you make me cum again Kookie."

Smiling so hard his dimples appeared and your heart melted. 

Resting his hand on your pubic mound he pulled the skin taught making your clit stand at attention. He stared at you as he teased it with just the pointed tip of his tongue.

Your body jumped, "It's too much Kookie!"

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked while he kept naughtily flicking it.

"God, no, don't stop...just…"

He switched to soft sloppy sucks and you were done. Convulsing around nothing you came again, the couch beneath you was soaked. 

Righting himself, he motioned for your hand, "Stand up."

He grabbed the blanket that had been thrown over the chair and placed it on the floor. Lifting his sweatshirt over his head he folded it into a makeshift pillow and set it on the blanket. 

You couldn't help but stare at his body. Lean muscle, taut, tan skin and tattoos that were rarely displayed were on full view before you. 

"When did you do all this growing up?"

You placed your hand on his chest and he put his over top, "Not soon enough or you would have been mine." 

"You shouldn't say things like that Guk, you might make me fall in love with you."

You gave his rock hard nipples a teasing little pinch and he moaned.

"Can you play with them a little Noona?"

You felt your walls pulse at his request, what wouldn't you do for him right now? 

Replacing your fingers with your mouth you ran your tongue over them, goosebumps covered his body as you suckled.

Letting your hand wander lower, his jeans still on, you couldn't take another minute of anticipation.

Grabbing his sweatshirt to kneel on, you kissed your way down his abs. Splaying your fingers over his soft pubic trail you unhitched his button as your heart raced.

Sliding the zipper down slowly, revealed his lack of underwear. He was still painfully tucked in as you reached in to release him.

Impatiently he pushed the denim down just enough that he freed himself into your waiting hand. "How are you so perfect Jungkook?"

He felt heavy in your mouth, big and smooth as your lips slid up and down his cock. Holding your hair back he watched. No pushing or pulling he just stood enjoying the feeling of your mouth finally wrapped around him.

Working him over hand and mouth in tandem he got more vocal. "So good, oh my god, Noona."

His balls were getting tighter in your palm and you knew he was almost there. You pulled him out of your mouth and kept stroking, "Are you going to cum for me Kookie?"

His head was back and his eyes were closed as he slowly rocked himself into your strokes. He moaned, "No I want to be inside you Noona," he pulled away, his cock so hard it stuck straight out. 

Laying back you opened your legs for him. "Do I need a condom?" He asked as he stroked himself.

You shook your head no.

"You're gonna let me cum in you?"

God he was so sweet, you nodded and smiled.

He got quiet, "I can't believe I can finally have you, I've wanted this for so long." Laying over you he was slow and gentle, almost afraid.

"I want you so badly Jungkook, please…"

He held your hips as he entered you, taking long deep strokes you felt like you could black out in ecstasy. 

"You feel so good I'm not gonna last," he was so wrecked. 

"Jungkook you've taken such good care of me tonight, let me ride you."

Wrapping his arms around you he rolled you on top. You held still looking down at him.

Fuck, you were fucked. There were feelings here, you knew it, he knew it.

Deciding the only way out was through, you smiled and went hard.

Grinding yourself onto his cock he moaned beautifully underneath you as your walls squeezed him.

Cumming for the fourth time you were getting tired and sloppy. Your hands were pressed to his chest holding you upright as your hips clapped together.

He began fucking himself furiously into you, chasing his orgasm. His closed eyes leaked out tears as he came hard shooting deep inside you.

"I can't believe you just let me do that to you."

_______________________________

Laying cuddled up beside him, he buried his face in your neck and whispered quietly, "Was it ok Noona? Was I worth waiting for?"

"I can't believe you'd even have to ask that Jungkook, nobodies ever made me feel that good."

He smiled shyly, "I'm glad. I was afraid I wouldn't be good my first time."

You sat upright absolutely stunned at his revelation. "That was your first...and you gave yourself to me?" 

He smiled that little boy smile that now seemed so contradictory, "I've always loved you Y/N."

Your heart swelled and broke all at once. "Jungkook, was I worth waiting for?" 

His strong arms pulled you closer and he kissed your lips, "So worth waiting for."

Laying in silence you couldn't stop thinking about being his first. You were perplexed that his skill level didn't match his experience. Then it dawned on you.

"Jungkook?"

He nodded

"How much fucking porn do you watch?"

_______________________________

Yoongi

[raleighcarrera]

oh girl it’s loving Jake hours here 24/7 so uhhhhh if you still want prompts how about Best Experience/Worst Experience for him & ur MC 👀

best vs. worst prompts / 28. best experience vs. worst experience

the worst experience 

thinking that taylor is dead is pretty fucking bad.

in fact, it’s just about the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, and he hasn’t exactly had a good run of things. 

the whole experience is miserable -- from the moment they share their last kiss to the way her hand slips out of his no matter how tightly he holds on, to how he has to force himself to do the right thing and help her along on her mission.

he doesn’t want to, is the thing. he wants to stop her from doing this -- this stupid, brave, heroic sacrifice. he wants to beg her to reconsider, to find another way. they can take the deal and bring everyone back and maybe things won’t be perfect but they’ll be together, won’t they, and then -- 

jesus christ, they’ll figure it out like they have with everything else.

but she doesn’t give him that option. it all happens so quickly, and then she’s gone, and they’re back to their regular lives and everything is perfect except that there’s a giant fucking hole in his heart that he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to live with.

it’s impossible not to dwell. he listens to her voicemail more times than he can count, sitting and stewing over everything that happened and everything that could’ve been. through it all -- the trial, being pardoned, moving back home and seeing his mom and sister again -- he goes over the what ifs until they threaten to drive him crazy.

most of the time it just feels like life is happening around him. 

he’s drifting aimlessly, watching things happen to other people while feeling so lost himself part of him wonders every day if he made the right decision, not doing more to stop her. 

and it’s strange to finally have all the things he thought would make him happy -- the truth, out there for everyone, a permanent place to settle, being with his his family -- and still be so utterly miserable every day.

that is until...

the best experience 

...there’s a knock at his door one random tuesday in june.

no one is home but him. rebecca and his mother have been doing their best to give him his space, though he knows their patience has to be wearing thin, too. “it’s been almost a year, jake,” becca had whispered to him on one particularly bad evening, as though he had any understanding of time anymore or cared.

through the worst time of his life, he hadn’t even dared to hope that things would be different. for all their promises to find each other in any dimension, any time loop, any lifetime -- her goodbye had felt pretty final. and he wasn’t an idiot.

so that’s why it feels like seeing a ghost when he opens the front door and sees taylor standing there, in the same little cutoffs and tank top she was wearing when they kissed for the last time on la huerta.

“hi,” she squeaks out, already choked up. those big, blue eyes of hers are wet with tears. her hands twist anxiously in front of her.

his jaw drops to the floor. the same time that had been so cruel to him and dragged on so slowly for the last nine months now stands completely still, the pounding of his own heart like kick drums in his ears. “taylor?”

she nods. her bottom lip trembles. “uh huh. it’s me. jake, i --”

“it can’t be.” he shakes his head, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. this is a trick, it has to be. he watched her disappear into the sky, he saw her leave. “you can’t be taylor, she...”

...is still there, crying on his porch. jesus, okay. 

“jake,” she breathes again, and that crumples the last of his resolve. he’s only human, and she’s here -- however she is and whatever she is. 

he stumbles forward to pull her into his arms and wraps her up in the biggest hug he’s capable of, squeezing her body to his. taylor is warm and solid in his arms, smelling like sunshine and snow in equal measures. a vivid sensory memory smacks him in the face near-immediately, hurtling him right back to that last goodbye.

“fuck.” now he’s emotional, too. “i don’t understand, how did you --”

“me either,” she rushes to answer shakily, pulling back enough to see his face, cupping his jaw reverently in her hands. “i wasn’t supposed to, i should’ve stayed... but... yesterday i woke up at home like nothing happened and i -- i had to see you, but i never thought... god, jake, it feels like i’ve been gone for a hundred years, i didn’t know if you’d be here or if you’d be --”

he cuts her off with a kiss, the kiss he’s been dreaming about since the last one ended and he watched her disappear. taylor makes a sound against his mouth like she’s drowning and he greedily pulls her in closer, dragging her through the doorway and kicking it closed behind her back so there’s a flat surface for him to take advantage of, letting her get her legs up around his waist. 

“jake,” she sighs between kisses, her hands yanking at his hair and keeping him anchored to this moment when it feels like his mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to process the emotional whiplash that has his heart feeling like it’s about to explode. “oh my god, i missed you so much.”

“i missed you every -- fucking -- day, taylor, fuck,” he gasps, squeezing her so tightly there’s no way she’s going anywhere, this time. 

except for when they lose track of time again, somehow, and the door behind her back gives way what might be ten minutes or an hour later, sending them both tumbling forward onto the floor.

his sister blinks down at the both of them in surprise, but taylor’s hand never leaves his, keeping their fingers intertwined even as she climbs off of him apologetically. he’s sure they look the very picture of debauchery, if his hair is as mussed and his eyes are as wild as taylor’s are, her lips kiss-bitten and swollen.

“okay, wow,” rebecca says slowly, looking just as confused as he feels. that taylor hasn’t disappeared in a puff of smoke yet feels far too good to be true. 

he already knows he won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight -- that he’ll spend the entire evening staring at her, just in case. 

“i feel like you must be -- taylor?” she asks, and he watches as taylor’s teeth sink into her bottom lip and she nods, slowly and carefully. “well -- okay. i mean, i have a lot of questions, but...”

her eyes slide to jake, her eyebrows lifting curiously. “i’ll let you guys finish catching up first. jesus, mom is going to flip. you’d better be ready for dinner in two hours.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || Also on AO3

Chapter 48: Sasha

“Yes, of course. I’ll—I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Sasha disconnects the call and stares at her cell phone for a long moment. She’s worked at the Magnus Institute for almost seven years now, been in the Archives for almost two. She honestly thought she’d lost the ability to be afraid of anything the mundane world could dish up anymore.

But that phone call…

“You okay, Sash?” Melanie’s voice seems to be coming from a long distance away.

With difficulty, Sasha pulls herself together and looks up. It’s just the two of them in the Archives right now, since Martin and Tim are both at lunch; Melanie’s already taken hers, and Sasha will go as soon as one of the others gets back. She’s not really hungry anymore, though.

“I’m fine,” she lies, then stops. They’re trying, they’re all making the effort not to lie to one another or downplay when things are bad. Tim and Martin both know her well enough to call her on it when she does it, and they’re also connected to the Eye well enough to be able to at least get a sense when she does. Melanie doesn’t and isn’t, and it’s not fair to her to keep her in the dark. “It’s my uncle.”

Something in Melanie’s face shifts, and she half-closes her laptop. “Is he sick?”

“No—I don’t know. He just said he has something he needs to talk to me about in person. They’re making an exception for me to come see him today.” Sasha rubs her forehead. “That’s not normal, Mel.”

“O…kay,” Melanie says slowly. “You usually…can’t visit him whenever you want? What, is it a prison or something?”

Sasha winces, remembering that Melanie wasn’t part of the team when she told them. “Yes, actually. He’s in HMP Pentonville.”

Melanie covers her mouth with a hand. “Oh, God, Sasha, why didn’t you shut me up? My big mouth—”

“It’s fine. You didn’t know.” Sasha manages a smile. “But yeah. I don’t know what he’s in for, but if he wants to see me today, and they’re letting me…whatever’s going on can’t be good.”

“Can you, like—” Melanie wiggles her fingers in the universal gesture of mystical bullshit. “—Know what it is?”

“I mean…maybe? I’m trying really hard not to use that outside of…you know, work. I don’t want to risk falling too deeply into it, or—or hurting myself, or someone else.” Sasha sighs. “I think it might be too far away, though. Honestly, I think the only way to find out what’s going on is to go out there myself.”

“Go out where?”

The voice makes both Sasha and Melanie jump. She looks up quickly to see Martin coming towards them, a bag of leftovers dangling from one hand. He looks about like he’s looked since Jon left—tired, worried, and faintly stressed. “Martin, Jesus. Heard from Jon yet?”

“Yeah, did you not see the text?” Martin frowns at her slightly. “I thought he sent it to the group chat.”

Now that she thinks about it, Sasha remembers hearing a slight beep while she was on her phone call, but she didn’t think about it twice. She checks her phone and sees two new texts—one from Jon saying he was changing buses, one from Tim asking what he was changing them into. Rolling her eyes fondly, she sets it down. “No, I—I was on the phone. My uncle called. He wants to see me today.”

“Oh.” Martin’s expression is one of mingled sympathy and concern. “Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we were talking about. I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t want to…you know.” Sasha makes the same gesture Melanie made a few moments ago.

Martin nods in understanding. “Did you have anything time-sensitive you were doing today?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Then I don’t think Jon would mind you taking the rest of the day off. I know you won’t be able to get to Pentonville and back in the span of your lunch break, and this seems…kind of important.” Martin reaches over and squeezes Sasha’s hand gently. “Let us know if you need anything.”

Sasha smiles and squeezes back. “Thanks, Martin. I’ll keep you all posted.”

An hour later, she’s seated in a room at the prison, jiggling her foot nervously and waiting. It’s one of the small, private rooms usually set aside for attorneys to consult with their clients, which is unusual; normally she has to conduct her visits in a loud, noisy room with a Plexiglas divider between them. A private conversation, on a weekday, out of the clear blue sky? Either something has gone terribly wrong or she’s been lied to.

There’s a familiar whirring sound, and Sasha reaches into her pocket to pull out the tape recorder. She very most definitely did not have this with her when she left; she shut it in her desk drawer before heading out, and it hadn’t been in her pocket when they searched her. She hopes she won’t get in trouble for having it.

As the thought crosses her mind, the door opens and, with a clank of chains, a figure is escorted in. A gruff voice instructs her to buzz for help if there’s an issue, and then the door closes and leaves the two of them alone together.

There’s another clank as the man leans forward, smiling hopefully. “Sasha.”

Sasha smiles back, genuinely pleased but worried at the same time. “Hello, Uncle Wade.”

The family resemblance between them is obvious. Both of them have the same facial structure, the same shape to their eyes, the same skin tone. They’d looked enough alike once to switch places, when Sasha was eighteen and going through a phase and shaved her head. Now, though, after almost a decade in prison, Wade Copper looks old enough to be her father—gaunt, thin, his once-dark hair almost solid grey despite the fact that he’s only in his mid-forties. Every time she’s seen him, he’s tried to smile for her, tried to stay cheerful as he asks about her work, tried to convince her things aren’t so bad for him, but she knows. She can see the weight of imprisonment bearing him down.

Today, though, is different. Today his eyes are sparkling, his smile seems real, and he seems to be barely keeping something contained. She has no idea what it is, but it seems like he’s…excited.

Sudden panic strikes her, and she very quickly throws up those mental blocks Jon Prime has been teaching them. The absolute last thing she wants is to take the surprise away from the man who’s had so few to give her over the years.

“Is everything okay?” she asks instead. “You said we needed to talk and—”

“No, no, everything’s fine. Everything’s fine,” Wade assures her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just had some news for you. It could have—are you on your lunch break? Do we need to—”

“I took the afternoon off. My boss is out of town at the moment, so the three—well, the four of us, we’ve got a new coworker—we’re sort of running things ourselves. When the others found out you wanted to talk to me, they suggested I just call it a day. We’ve got all the time in the world.” Sasha smiles. “What’s going on?”

Wade’s smile broadens. “I’m coming home.”

It takes Sasha a second to process that, and then she sits up straighter. “You’re getting released?”

“I heard back from the parole board this morning. I didn’t tell you I was going up because I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but I had the hearing a few weeks ago. Today I got word that they’ve decided I’m a good candidate for release.”

“That’s—that’s wonderful!” Sasha says.

Wade’s smile slips, just a little. “You don’t sound so sure about that. What’s the matter, Puddle-Duck?”

It’s been forever and a day since he called her that—an old family nickname bestowed on her after her favorite bedtime story, the one she used to beg to be read over and over. She’d trailed after her Uncle Wade “like a little duckling” from the time she could walk, and the “duckling” nickname had eventually morphed into Puddle-Duck. He hasn’t used it since she was about twelve, though, and hearing it now almost makes her cry.

“Nothing,” she says, unconvincingly. “It’s just—there’s a lot going on. That’s all.”

“I won’t be an imposition,” Wade says earnestly. “I’ve managed to save up a bit while I’ve been in here from the work I’ve been doing in the prison library. I should be able to get a place. I won’t be in your way—”

“No, it’s not that at all!” Sasha feels horribly guilty. “I’d be happy to have you stay with me. Of course I would. I’ve got loads of space and—and I’ve missed you so much. It’s just that…”

It’s just that the world might end in a year if they can’t stop it. It’s just that she’s trying to figure out a way to pretend to stop a ritual that she knows won’t succeed even if they do nothing without letting the man who does have a ritual that will work know she knows it. It’s just that she’s developing incredibly invasive psychic powers and doesn’t know if she can live with another person who doesn’t know about it. It’s just that the world is objectively terrifying and she doesn’t know if she can lie about it to the only family she has left or let him believe he’s safe.

“It’s just that there’s been a lot going on in the world since you’ve been in here,” she finally says. “I—I worry that you might—that it might be a lot for you to adjust to.”

“Hey, I raised you, didn’t I?” Wade teases. “If I can handle losing my sister and my parents in one fell swoop, especially to…that, and then turn a six-year-old into a relatively functional adult despite barely having passed my A-levels when I started, I think I can handle anything the world thinks it can throw at me. Bring it on.”

Sasha’s whole body tingles. She clasps her hands together tightly to hide the shaking and focuses very hard on that mental block. There’s something there. A secret. A story. Something in the way he said that has the Eye’s attention and it wants to use her. She can’t let it, she can’t…

“Sasha? Sasha, what’s wrong? Are you—Christ, I’m sorry.” Wade reaches for her hands, manacles jangling, then grunts as the chain binding him to the table stops them halfway. “I shouldn’t have brought that up, I shouldn’t have—are you still having that nightmare?”

Sasha can’t help the slightly brittle laugh that escapes her lips. “I don’t have room for my own nightmares anymore, Uncle Wade. Especially ones in red-on-black binary.”

Wade frowns at her in evident confusion. “What do you mean? Who else’s nightmares would you have?”

Shit, Sasha thinks. “It’s a long story. And I don’t think you’d believe it.”

“It’s you, Sash. I’d believe you if you said the sky was green. Anyway, after what I’ve seen, trust me, there’s not much that’s unbelievable.”

Sasha looks hard at her uncle, then glances at the recorder, spinning away. She should have known. Should have realized that if it’s turning on, there’s something he’s seen. He’s been touched by one of the Fears. And she can’t—she can’t—

“It’s got to do with work,” she finally says. “Part of the Archive job—when I, when I listen to people tell me about something they’ve encountered or seen or, or done, if it’s something that really happened…I end up dreaming about it. I’ve only got a couple, but…it does mean I haven’t had any dreams of my own since I started doing that.”

Wade blinks at her. Softly, he says, “So it is real. I knew it.”

“What, the paranormal?”

“Not just that.” Wade hesitates. “I never—I never told you how I wound up here, did I?”

“No, just—you said it was something to do with you hacking into something you shouldn’t have,” Sasha says slowly. “You never explained.”

“Truthfully, I never fully understood it much beyond what I told you. I don’t even know exactly what I did hack into,” Wade says, a bit ruefully. “I suppose it was the culmination of a project, in a sense, but—it wasn’t intentional.”

“What do you mean?”

Wade takes a deep breath. “The short version? I was hunting a computer virus, trying to trace where it came from. I suppose the path led through something I shouldn’t have been looking at and I got arrested. It fell enough under the Official Secrets Act that they could justify locking me up for it. But I swear, Sash, just like I’ve been telling everyone for years, I wasn’t hacking for secrets. I was trying to save lives.”

“I believe you,” Sasha says, because she does. If there’s anyone in the world she trusts completely, it’s her uncle. And really, this is the most mundane thing she’s been asked to believe in ages. “I just don’t—I don’t understand how tracing a computer virus can save lives. Unless it was infecting hospital computers or something like that.”

“No, that would have made sense.” Wade sighs. “Computer viruses aren’t supposed to be able to infect humans, but…this one did. O-or something like that. I honestly don’t know how to explain it, but…well, if working at that institute of yours is giving you other people’s nightmares, maybe you’ll know better than I do.” He ponders for a moment. “That’s probably a big part of why I got locked up, honestly. I couldn’t explain why I was hunting the computer virus without sounding insane, so I didn’t try. I mean, what was I supposed to say? ‘Yes, Your Honor, I wasn’t even aware of what system I was in, I was just looking for the origin of a bit of coding that killed my entire family’?”

Sasha freezes. The static in her mind gets louder and more insistent. “I don’t understand,” she says with difficulty, rather afraid that she does. He’s right, computer viruses aren’t supposed to infect humans, so if one did…it must belong to one of the Fears. She just can’t imagine which one.

Wade hesitates. “I—I don’t—Sasha, Puddle-Duck, if you don’t—you don’t remember what happened, do you?”

“To Mum and Dad? No.” The doctor said it was to be expected; she was six years old at the time, and it had been a rough experience. She had blacked out most of it, and honestly a lot of her memories from before that point as well. She remembers huddling in a closet with her teddy bear clutched tightly to her chest, hearing her uncle screaming her name, clinging to him tightly after he found her, both of them sobbing as he promised over and over that he would protect her, that he would never leave her, but for the life of her, she can’t remember what she was hiding from. The nightmare she had for years, one that made her wake up screaming almost until she left for uni, hadn’t been specific. She just remembers strings of ones and zeros in constantly shifting columns, blood-red on a black background, scrolling past her vision, but something in the code is terrifying and wrong…

“I don’t want you to have those nightmares.” Wade reaches for her hands again, looking conflicted. “You deserve to know, but…but if your job means that if people tell you those stories, you’ll dream about them too—I’ve had to train myself out of waking up screaming. It’s bad. I don’t want to do that to you, too.”

“It’s not—it’s not exactly like that.” Sasha wonders how to phrase it, then decides, to hell with it. He says he’ll believe her. She might as well tell the truth. It’s not like they’re being recorded by anything other than the spooling tapes, and there aren’t exactly eyes around for Elias to watch through, as far as she knows. She takes her uncle’s hands. “There’s a being…a thing that thrives on fear. I mean, there are a lot of them, but there’s one in particular that lives off of the fear of—of knowledge and secrets being exposed and being watched and all that.”

Wade gives a bitter laugh. “It must love prisons then.”

“In fact, the Institute is built over the remains of the old Millbank Prison, probably right where Smirke was testing out the panopticon design. And that’s the thing. The Institute…kind of belongs to that being. Which means I do, too.” Sasha takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I can—I can tell secrets without trying. I’m not right now,” she adds hastily. “I’ve been working on not…accidentally reading people’s minds or whatever. But the other part of it is the statements. When people tell us their stories and we dream about them? We’re not taking the place of the person dreaming about them. We’re…watching, I guess. Observing. We’re just…there.” She squeezes Wade’s hands. “So if you tell me, Uncle Wade, and I do end up sharing your nightmares, maybe it’ll be better. Because then you won’t have to look at them alone.”

Wade stares at her for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’ll tell you. You need to know, anyway.”

Sasha smiles, as reassuringly as she can, and glances at the tape recorder. “Do you want to make this…official? I can do, um, I can do the whole spiel we do at the Institute. Put it on the record. We can do some research, maybe.”

“Will it help?”

“It might.”

“Then…okay. Lay it on me.”

Sasha puts the tape recorder between them and takes her uncle’s hands again. Clearly, she says, “Statement of Wade Copper, regarding a murderous computer virus. Recorded direct from subject, twenty-first March, 2017.” She nods at her uncle. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Wade swallows. “Right. Well, you know I’ve always been into computers. I loved coding and programming and seeing what I could do. One of my favorite things to code up were the games, especially interactive fiction. I subscribed to a couple magazines where people would publish the codes for games they’d developed, and I would put them in and play them. I owned a couple that I bought commercially, too. One of the ones I had that I was most excited about was The Hound of Shadows. The story sounded right up my alley—a proper creepy one—but it turned out to have one of the worst parsers I’ve ever seen, and I struggled to finish it. I was crushed.

“I was looking around for something that was like that but…better? Tried my hand at coding it myself, but you know me, I’ve never been all that at coming up with a story of my own. Did a couple reasonably decent games based on a few of the stories I liked, but it wasn’t the same. Around the time I was finishing up my A-levels, some classmates and I were talking about interactive fiction, and I was complaining about Hound. That’s when one of my mates told me about a game he’d recently come across. He said he couldn’t finish it because it was too scary for him, but he thought I’d like it. It was called The Conqueror Worm.”

As he talks, Wade’s eyes go vacant and his shoulders slack; it’s like the words are pouring out of him independent of his will. Sasha never takes her eyes off him. The story fills her the same way Basira’s did, the same way Tim and Martin’s tale of the Not-Them did, the same way that man with the dog’s story did last week. She’s just aware enough of the situation to feel guilty about it, but she can’t stop him now if she tries.

“I managed to get my hands on a copy,” Wade continues. “As soon as I’d finished my exams, but while I was still waiting for the results to come back, I loaded it up on our computer. My friend was right—it was exactly what I was looking for. Interactive fiction. According to the cover, it was ‘loosely’ based on the Edgar Allan Poe poem, which I’d never heard at that point, but if it was Poe I knew it’d be spooky. The story was wonderful, the parser was the best I’d ever seen. Sometimes it was like talking to a real person—like that one Sergey Ushanka bot you and I spent the evening with when you were eight, you remember?” Sasha nods. “Anyway, I was really into it. The idea was that you were the manager of a theater that was putting on a new play, but something was trying to sabotage it, something inhuman and unholy. Started off normal enough, got creepy right fast. I had this constant sense of creeping dread. I loved it.

“The weird thing about this one, though, was that every so often you’d start to do something and suddenly three pixels would turn red. Always three, two in one row and one in between them in the row immediately above or below, and then they’d switch places a few times before disappearing. At first I thought it was a glitch. Then I realized it was intentional, that it was something to do with commands. I finally figured out that if the pixels appeared, you’d done something right.

“I started tracking the commands and decisions that got the wiggling pixels to appear, then started doing them more. Better. Started getting two, three, four at a time. I was sure it meant I was going to win. By the time I got to ‘opening night’ of the play, I could generally make upwards of ten appear every time I made the right choices.  The thing is that ‘opening night’ was the big climax of the game, and there was only one command you could type: ‘The Show Must Go On’. Once you typed that, the play started and you watched to see if you got it right. You wanted to see the ‘play’, but I knew it was a horror game, so I told you to let me watch it first, and if it wasn’t too scary, you and I would play on Saturday. You pretended to accept that, but I knew you were angry. I could hear you yelling halfway across the house. At the time, I kind of thought it was funny, actually.”

Sasha vaguely remembers this now. She was bitterly disappointed—Uncle Wade always let her “help” with his games—so she waited until she was out of the room, then stomped off to the living room where her parents and grandparents were playing a card game and loudly declared that he was the meanest meanie to ever mean. Her mother laughed and said he was always like that, and her grandfather swept her onto his lap and offered to let her be his partner, until…

“What happened then?” she asks.

Wade takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I typed in the command, and I watched. The ‘play’ started, and…there was a voice. Reciting a poem. I guess it was the Poe poem. The ‘actors’ were performing along to the words, but then I noticed the wiggling pixels. One by one, slowly at first, then more and more. They started in the corners, then gradually started moving inwards. But see, amid the mimic rout, a crawling shape intrude. While I was watching, the wiggling pixels crept in an ever-increasing wave towards the ‘stage.’ That’s when I realized it was all the ones I’d been rewarded with for making the right choices. The voice got louder and more desperate-sounding, and then the pixels—I finally realized they were supposed to be worms—swarmed the ‘actors’ and…the screen went red, and then it went black. All the while the voice was still talking. And then it was just the black screen, with the text in blood red, appearing as the voice spoke the words.”

He swallows hard. “I—I looked up the poem. Later. It’s a real poem, ‘The Conqueror Worm’. The plot does follow the…events of the final scene of the game, up to a point. It’s a play, and then a worm—or in the game’s case, many worms—shows up and eats all the actors. The last four lines are…chilling.” He closes his eyes and recites, “And the angels, all pallid and wan, / Uprising, unveiling, affirm / That the play is the tragedy ‘Man,’ / And its hero the Conqueror Worm.”

A chill runs up Sasha’s spine. “I know that poem. He used it in ‘Ligeia’.”

“Maybe. But what got me…what really spooked me at the time, was that the words on the screen weren’t…right. I didn’t know that at the time. I thought it odd. But the voice spoke them, exactly as they appeared on the screen. Instead of ‘The play is the tragedy “Man”’…it said, ‘The play is the tragedy “Guy Copper.”’ The voice even said Dad’s name. I remember thinking that was a creepy coincidence. And then…”  Wade takes another deep breath, and there are tears in his eyes. “I heard a noise from another room, like someone shouting. I turned to look, and when I turned back, the words were changing, morphing almost. Computers didn’t work like that back then, Sash, the graphics weren’t—I know you know that. But it was like the name blurred. And then the voice said those four lines again, but with the new name. And the angels, all pallid and wan, / Uprising, unveiling, affirm / That the play is the tragedy ‘Mary Copper,’ / And its hero the Conqueror Worm.”

The memories are starting to come back. A red wash fills her mind, then the screaming, then her mother pushing her away…oh, God. “And the next name—the next name was ‘Marjorie James’?”

“Yes,” Wade whispers. “And that’s when the screaming started. I was screaming, too. I was—I was convinced it was the game, that it was—I kept hitting keys, backspacing over and over, typing EXIT and hitting the Escape key and—nothing worked. It shifted from Margie’s name to Hugh’s, and…I thought about how many worms had been on the screen, how many ‘successes’ I thought I’d had, and I was suddenly terrified. It started to change again, and I—I dove under the table and I pulled the plug. The sound died. The light died. The screaming stopped, all at once.

“I went running and—and I found them. Mum and Dad, Margie and Hugh, all sprawled around the card table. They were all dead. They were—they were full of worms, Sasha. Blood-red ones. I didn’t know if they’d been red before they…” Wade inhales shakily and looks away. The tears are rolling down his face now. “I called 999, I was trying to tell them what had happened, but—but then I realized I couldn’t find you. I shouted at the poor woman to hurry and I dropped the phone and went looking for you. I was terrified that I’d been too late…but there you were, hiding in my closet with your teddy bear. You had blood on your arms and chest, but you weren’t hurt, and I—oh, God, Sasha. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sasha whispers. “It’s not. I wish—I’m so sorry, Uncle Wade.”

They both cling to each other’s hands for a moment, crying silently. Finally, Wade takes a deep breath and frees one hand to wipe his eyes. “Anyway, that’s…I couldn’t really explain it to people when they showed up. Just that I’d heard screaming and…the worms were gone by then, but it was obvious. I told a few lies about how old I was and managed to get them to let me take care of you instead of putting you in a home, and for a while everything was fine. Then…just after you left for uni, I was debugging a computer for someone who’d downloaded a game off an FTP server and picked up some sort of virus. When I went into the code, I discovered a secondary virus underneath the main one and went to dig it out. I thought it was a dead-man switch of some kind—you know, remove the main virus, trigger the second one—so I was going to take that one out first. But then I realized it was just some metadata. I would have just deleted it without a second thought, except that I recognized the words. It was those same four lines, the last lines of ‘The Conqueror Worm’, except that it had a name I didn’t know as the name of the ‘play’.”

Another chill runs up Sasha’s spine. “You’re sure you didn’t know it?”

“I didn’t, but my client did. I asked him about it when I gave him his computer back, and he said it was his girlfriend’s name, she was out of town on a trip. I told him to give her a call, and he looked at me kind of funny, but said he would.” Wade sighs. “I looked her up a couple times. Two days later her obituary popped up.”

“You’re saying—”

“I’m saying that once is happenstance, twice is coincidence. But I kept my eyes open, and a few months later, I saw the words again. Different computer, different name, same results,” Wade tells her. “I started tracing it. It’s a—well, it’s a worm, in the truest sense of the word, but I was sure if I could trace its path, figure out where it came from, I could stop it from spreading. Seven or eight years ago, though, I…guess I went through something I wasn’t supposed to, got caught, and wound up here.” He sighs heavily and sits back, blinking. “And…that’s it. I still call it the Conqueror Worm, but…I couldn’t stop it. It’s still out there.”

“I don’t think you can stop it,” Sasha says slowly. Several things slot into place in her mind. When Tim looked at all of them and described the colors he saw on them, he’d mentioned that Sasha had the same sick yellow-green as Martin and Jon Prime faintly woven over her upper torso, but she had just assumed it was from her encounter with Timothy Hodge, the first night she met Michael. Now she realizes the mark he described is too big to be from a single worm, and that the Corruption marked her much more thoroughly than that. She might have to get Tim to take a look at the tape now that she’s made it, but…she’s pretty sure she’s right.  “I think this thing came from—from one of the other fear beings. I’d have to look in the Archives to see if there’s a way to destroy it. There might be, I don’t know. But I do know that you wouldn’t have been able to destroy it on your own. Not without succumbing to the power that it fuels.”

“Sash.” Wade grips her hand tightly. “Are you in danger? If you…belong to one of these powers. Will it hurt you?”

“Maybe. Probably,” Sasha admits. “Someday. I don’t know. It’s—it’s all a bit complicated. I don’t know for sure.” She pauses and reconsiders. “I don’t think it will actively hurt me. But I don’t think it cares if I live or die, in the long run.”

Wade’s face was a study in fear and sorrow. “And it’s from working at the Magnus Institute,” he says. It’s not really a question. “You never would have done that if it wasn’t for me. I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know about that,” Sasha says. “Maybe. Maybe not. My project with the EPCC was shutting down anyway, so I don’t know where I would have ended up, but the Magnus Institute was hiring. Maybe I wouldn’t have stayed as long as I did, maybe I’d have looked for another job outside of London eventually, but…honestly, Uncle Wade, as much as I’ve always loved snooping and ferreting out secrets? I think I would have ended up bound to it anyway. At least this way I kind of know what’s going on enough to mitigate the damage.”

Wade shakes his head slowly. “I just…don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” Sasha promises, even though she knows she can’t really promise that. But he’s all the family she has left, he gave up his future so that she could have one, and she’ll do anything she can to make sure she doesn’t waste that. “I’ll tell you everything when you come home. When will that be?”

“Two weeks. The first of April. Is that enough time for—I mean, will you be okay if I—”

“Yes,” Sasha interrupts him. “Of course. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it all set up.”

Wade smiles slowly, the hopeful look back in his eyes. He laces his fingers through hers and squeezes.

“We’ll be all right,” he tells her. “Family looks out for each other. I promise, Puddle-Duck, I will do anything I can to protect you.”

Sasha smiles back and returns the squeeze. She doesn’t tell her uncle that she’s grown up a little beyond his ability to protect her, or that she might need to be the one protecting him. Right about now, she really wants to let him wrap her in a blanket and a hug and promise her that everything will be all right again.

She might even let herself believe him.

[go-bonkers-go-foolish]

highlights of starkid’s black friday part two

here we go boys

i’m gonna be real the first time i watched this i had no fucking clue what was happening for a solid two and a half minutes

shoutout to whoever choreographed this because i love it

THIS MAN’S NAME IS CHRISTOPHER KRINGLE

robert’s inflection combined with the exaggerated hand gestures is the single funniest thing i’ve ever seen

THE ELVES’ NAMES ARE JINGLE AND JANGLE I’M GONNA CRY

i would pay so much money to see this movie

“thaaaaaaaaat’s right :^)”

the love interest’s name is NOELLE bitch i’m hollering

how does lauren look so adorable in that stupid elf costume??

these lyrics are fucking gold man

joey’s literally just vibin

P A S S  C H R I S  K R I N G L E  T H E  B A L L 

santa’s gonna Reconnect With The Teens™

“becky look!!! remember when we carved that?” “yeah...it’s...a penis” “eyyy”

becky’s monologue about her ex-husband...fuck dude

“it’s funny. stanley was the one who made me go to nursing school. that’s how i knew where his femoral artery was.” HOLY SHIT

“you say you killed your family. i hope i killed mine.” D U D E 

Take Me Back absolutely made me break down dude i’m still crying

“if the universe is infinite, then it’s definite, there’s an alternate reality where we’re now a family.”

“if you’re really santa, tell me something only santa would know” GDGJHSLJHSGK

“i knew it. i knew you weren’t santa” WHEN DID THIS BECOME THE CONFLICT I NEED TO SEE THIS MOVIE

“........a red tricycle.” “santa!!!!!!!!!!” (passionate tongue kissing)

so we all agree that wilbur cross is uncle wiley, right

“in short, mr. president, we are trying to stop the birth....of a god.” what a raw line

“If We Have Faith, We Will Be Rewarded With A Cuddly Toy” -the homeless dude, who i’m pretty sure has just been vibin this whole time

god i kind of want a wiggly now

the audience losing their minds at linda being the supreme cult mother

 “please, for the love of god, just let me go.” “oh, i’ve met god. he had nothing nice to say about you.” (THROAT SLASH) 

FUCKIN RAW LINE RIGHT THERE

linda: “you willlllll adoooooore me....” my dumbass, already in love: ok

“unless i get what i- shit it’s gerald”

YES MAAM LIFT THAT LAUREN LOPEZ UP LIKE JESUS

h i p  t h r u s t

hmm i dont like new ethan

wiggly: “hello hannah. let’s be pally-wals.”  me, with a water gun full of holy water: dont try it demon

the way he says “rotten little banana” is terrifying

“i’m going to have to peel you. i’m going to split you in two. i’m going to Eat you, hannah.” WHAT the fuck

hannah’s scream when wiggly threatens her?? chilling

god someone protect this kid

uh yeah Do You Want To Play is genuinely one of the scariest songs i’ve ever heard from a starkid musical, or pretty much any musical. like, this sweet nurse who waited hours in the freezing cold to get a toy for a little girl who lost her sight is about to viciously murder an eleven-year-old in cold blood because of wiggly.

so, theory time. becky’s a nurse. i dont think that even in her altered state she would miss hannah entirely and accidentally inject it into her own leg. but hannah was wearing the hat. i think ethan was right, it protected her.

joey is scaring me but also giving me some very sexy energy that i’m not opposed to

“Only in america could wiggly take root! Hold this”

“WHEN YOU’RE MADE IN AMERICAAAAAAAAAAAA” fuck yeah!!!!!

“i’m going to cut open your belly-well, and deck the halls with your gutsy-wutsies...” JESUS CHRIST

shoutout to macnamara for literally everything, he’s doing great

can you IMAGINE being president goodman here. like you just found out you’ve killed millions of innocent people and the world is probably going to end in the next hour or so and there’s nothing left to do and all the while this demonic entity is baby-talking to you and laughing that terrifying laugh? yeah, i’d go insane too.

curt mega’s acting is top notch here, dude, he actually scared me

also what the FUCK was that last wiggly laugh

“you better not be fucking with me.....” uh hey sherman i’ll give you five (5) dollars to stop that

“there’s something that’s beautiful, being awake for my funeral” fuck

“still, i thought that angels did exist, but now i hope they plan to end it quick, ‘cause friday is black for me, only my ashes will see the sea” i gotta sit down for a while

“I’m authorizing you to use my firearm.” F U C K  Y E A H

theory: macnamara is hannah’s father (and maybe lex’s) since they can both see into/communicate with the black and white

MONSTERS AND MEN REPRISE

oh my god tim never said he wanted a wiggly oh god oh fuck

“kids don’t want that piece of shit! they’re all into fortnite, dude!” 

If I Fail You also made me cry i’m very emotional over this musical

“answer me, or I’ll open your mouth with my FUCKING KNIFE!” JESUS CHRIST LAUREN

i love that wiggly’s theme is carol of the bells

“look at you! you’re paralyzed with fear!” “no. i’m just lining up my shot.” FUCK YEAH

“you have two choices: abandon your god or burn here with him” this dialogue is so fuckin powerful dude

yeah so all of them burning alive freaked me out but what a way to end a cult

“you know, i have this kooky reclusive biology professor...” when i tell you i YELLED

“wear a watch.” AHHHHHH

what an ending.

anyway stan starkid goodnight

part one

[platypanthewriter]

Switch Your Partner Round And Round/END

Part One here

for @ihni​

Steve jerked in his hospital bed as Billy slammed back into the room, stalked over, and braced himself over Steve’s face.  “You saved me from a burning car,” he hissed.  “Even after—after I kicked your ass.”

Steve blinked up, the horny gay body he was in noticing the shine where Billy’d bitten his lip, and remembering how his muscles had felt, warm and heavy, pressing Steve into the bed.  “Mrhm?” he grunted.

“I kept screwing with you,” Billy whispered, and to Steve’s bewilderment, he recognized the sound of his own voice trying not to cry.  Billy leaned closer, grabbing a handful of Steve’s hospital-gowned shoulder.  “You knew I—you knew I was trying to k—to kill those kids,” he said in that shaky, raspy voice Steve tried to hide.  “You saved me, you pulled me out—”

“...wasn’t gonna let you burn to death,” Steve whispered back, his traitorous borrowed body actually starting to tear up.  He opened his mouth again, and Billy kissed him, clutching at his hair, and running a shaking thumb along Steve’s jaw.  

“Wanted me bad enough to climb out of your wreck and come over to mine,” Billy whispered, again, and a tear fell from his eyelashes.  “Saved me from the monster, kept me from—” 

Steve made a startled grunting noise as their teeth clonked together in Billy’s urgency, and Billy sighed, slumping to bury his face in Steve’s neck. 

“The hell am I supposed to do,” he whispered, his breath as warm as the rest of him.  “Wheelers are gonna drop me right at your door.  Where the hell are your parents?”

“Where the hell are your parents,” Steve shot back.  “Just—just get me some clothes.”

“What am I supposed to say?!  They’re gonna know,” Billy hissed, lifting his head to prop himself up on an elbow.  “Maybe if I just get in, get out.  And come back here.  I’ll be back in an hour or two.  Don’t pine away without me,” he said, leaning in to kiss Steve’s temple—which was unfair, Steve wanted to complain, having to resist the one person lurking at his bedside, worried.  

“I’m not pining,” Steve muttered, trying not to strain towards the hand tracing slow circles on his chest and stomach.  “Not gonna...asshole.  Why the hell.”

“You saw Billy Hargrove in a burning car and thought it was worth risking your life to get him out,” Billy whispered, leaning in for a slow kiss as Steve sputtered.  

Steve couldn’t talk for a minute, as Billy Hargrove kissed him and touched him and he resonated with it, like the little hammer dulcimers at the toy store—kids grabbed them all day and played Christmas songs on them in July, and the dulcimers had no say in it at all, Steve thought, grabbing the back of Billy’s head and angling him, the better to kiss away his laugh.

“Pulled me out of a burning car,” Billy whispered again, like he still couldn’t believe it.  “I’m that hot.”

“Hotter on fire,” Steve mumbled nonsensically, and shoved at Billy’s shoulder.  “Parents won’t be home.  Bring me a fucking burger.”

“Can do.” Billy kissed him again, and Steve arched into it, wondering in the back of his brain whether it’d still feel good, touching Billy, when whatever insanity wore off and they were both back in the right bodies, and Billy was just someone who he saw around town, sometimes, slamming people into walls.   If it’s just insanity, Steve thought, why would I imagine Billy Hargrove is so good at kissing?!

 He woke again with a grunt of pain, as something thudded into his bed.  

“What are you doing,” came Max’s voice, and Steve squinted blearily up at a middle-aged man with a tight smile.

“Waking him up,” the man said.  “Wonder what his mom would think, her baby boy growing up to get in a car crash drunk, and wind up handcuffed to a bed.  Maybe she always saw that in you,” he told Steve, who stared back at him, suddenly breathstoppingly relieved Billy was at his house, probably trying outfits.  

“What?!” he replied, glancing at Max, who looked away, swallowing.

“I hoped we’d get here soon enough to thank your Good Samaritan,” the man—it had to be Billy’s dad—said, shooting a glance at Max, who hunched her shoulders.  “Takes some kind of kid to save someone like you.”

“Not Max’s fault,” Steve protested, the only thing he could think of to say—Max shot him a startled glance—and the man turned back from regarding Billy’s bed to face him.

“You’ve got a lot to say all of a sudden,” he laughed.  “You got liquored up and almost killed a bunch of kids, and you didn’t even manage to die right, did you?  And now, you got a lot to say.”

“Shut up,” Steve told him, his vision going blurry.  “What the hell is your problem?  I could’ve died, and—and you—you show up and—piss off, christ.  What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Me?” the man laughed, as Max grabbed Steve’s arm, taking shallow breaths, but Steve wasn’t too worried about what the asshole would do, with nurses checking in on the hour.  Billy’s probable dad stepped closer, leaning in like Billy did, with a similarly threatening smile.  “What’s wrong with me?”

“Yeah, you, you asshole!” Steve shouted back, wincing as he braced himself up on his elbows to yell properly.  “I’m gonna get my stuff and move out, jesus.  As soon as I can move.  What the hell?!”  A tear dripped down his cheek, and he sniffled, wondering in passing whether Billy was so goddamned mean to cover himself crying over every third sentence.  “You’re my dad, right?!”  

Steve glanced at Max, raising his eyebrows, and she blinked back, swallowing and nodding.  Steve growled with incoherent rage.  “You—you just—jesus, you make a kid and then tell him he should die?!  Die yourself, asshole.  Go to hell!  Get out of my room!”  Billy’s dad stared, his mouth open, and Steve narrowed his eyes.  “I’m ringing for the nurse,” he gritted out.  “Get the hell out of my room.”

Max sniffled, but he glanced at her and saw she was covering a grin, her eyes red and watery.  Billy’s dad was immobile with rage, but between Max dragging at his arm, and the nurse showing up, he was pushed to the side, and when the nurse was done fiddling with Steve’s bandages, the man, and Max, had vanished.  

“Everything okay in here, sweetie?” the nurse asked, and Steve wondered how many people called Billy Hargrove a sweetie and survived.  

He took a bite of Jell-O as he considered—it was cherry—and stared into the cup.  “You found me cherry,” he whispered.

“I had them make it special, hon.”  She beamed at him, and Steve beamed back at her, then registered why she had some misconceptions about Billy's personality.  

He cleared his throat.  “Uh, th-thank you.  Um, that was B—my dad.  He said he wished I’d died, so I, uh, I yelled at him.”  It’d been weirdly satisfying, yelling at Billy’s dad.

“He what?!”  She spun to stare at the door.  

“It’s okay,” Steve told her.  “I’ll, uh, I’ll go stay with my friend there.  That pulled me out of the car.”

“Oh, honey,” she said, glancing worriedly at Billy’s neatly made bed.  “How old are you?”

“It’s okay, his parents won’t mind,” he reassured her, trying to keep his mouth from turning bitterly downward.  

 When Billy returned, Steve was pretty sure it was past visiting hours.  “I couldn’t get away,” he whispered, knocking at the end of Steve’s bed, gentler than his dad.  “Had to convince the sheriff that Steve Harrington wasn’t pressing charges,” he said, lifting the blanket to slide in next to Steve, who watched, still disbelieving, as Billy Hargrove, in Steve's body, curled around him and buried his clean-shaven face in Steve’s neck.  “Had to escape Wheeler,” he mumbled.  “She wanted to know,” he paused for emphasis, “—whether I was a mindflayer.”

Steve snorted.  “Whether you were?  Why—”

“Well, you, right now,” Billy slid his finger between Steve’s wrist, and the handcuff.  “Got the handcuff keys from the sheriff,” he whispered.  

“Well, uncuff me,” Steve hissed back.  “I’m ready to stop pissing in a bowl, dude.”

Billy shoved the keys into Steve’s hand, muttering against Steve’s neck.  “...you’re just gonna book it, aren’t you.  Shoulda handcuffed us together.”

“You—you’re not getting away that easy,” Steve snorted.  “You think you’re done?  You’re gonna help me take a shit, asshole—” he told Billy, trailing off into a growl as he sat up, and his eyes watered with the ache in his lungs, and the scraping feel of the sheets and bandages against his burns.  

“Easy there,” Billy breathed, sitting up to uncuff Steve from the bed, and sliding an arm around his waist.  “...you gonna make it?  I can grab a nurse.”

“You can grab a bedpan,” Steve muttered, glaring at him, and Billy laughed.  “You can fucking clean my bedpans,” Steve told him, hissing into Billy’s warm, solid shoulder as the world spun around him after so long lying flat on his back.  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Billy replied, steadying him as they inched towards the bathroom. 

“Screw you,” Steve mumbled, slumping on the toilet in relief.  “...how come I gotta be cuffed?  You were—you’re the—Billy.”

“You wanna cuff me to something?” Billy asked, and Steve went still, staring up at him.  

“Kinda, yeah,” he said, eyes narrowed, and Billy laughed, leaning in for a kiss and banging their teeth together as Steve shoved his chest.

“Get the hell out!” Steve smacked him away, feeling his face heat at the idea of Billy handcuffed to a bed.  “Shut up, jesus christ, go away.  Trying to pee, come on—”

“Tell me when to come get you,” Billy told Steve, leaving him alone with a really, really cold toilet seat.  

Steve’s hands—Billy’s hands—trembled as he grabbed toilet paper, and he glared down at their tanned, shaking fingers—first murdering people under the mindflayer’s control, now useless when he needed to wipe his ass.  “Might as well cut ‘em off,” Steve muttered, wondering what it was like, watching from inside as your hands killed, or what it was like watching another stranger use them, the next day.  He flexed them, and the punching joints were stiff.    

“Come back!” Steve yelled when he was done.  “Get in here!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Billy called back, sliding back inside.  He used  Steve’s own eyeballs to roll his eyes at Steve, which seemed unfair.  

“Sorry I can’t give it back,” Steve told him, as Billy swore and yanked them away from falling into the sink.  

“What,” Billy muttered, sliding his arm around Steve’s waist again.  

“Sorry took your body,” Steve said, already exhausted.  He turned to grab Billy’s shirt with his free hand, so they were chest to chest.  “Got it back from the—uh, the...thing, and now I have it.”

“Uh,” Billy laughed, turning them towards the bed like they were dance partners.  

“Promise I won’t murder anyone in it,” Steve told him, and Billy flinched, and took a shaky breath.  “Keep it safe.  Keep you safe.”

Billy tipped him back into bed, and curled alongside him.  He took a breath like he was going to talk, then sighed.  “Mmm.”

“Mmn,” Steve mumbled, relaxing into the warmth.  “I mean it.  I mean, I—I yelled at your dad,” he told Billy, grimacing, and Billy shot back upright, his nose thunking into Steve’s jaw. “You live with me now,” Steve added, rubbing his jaw, and hoping he sounded reassuring.  

“...what,” Billy mouthed, then cleared his throat, pinching his nose as his eyes went red and shiny.  “He doesn’t want me back home?  He threw me out.  Fuck.”

“No, he—he didn’t.” Steve yanked at his still-handcuffed hand—in the back of his head, he thought Hopper could get on clearing Billy a bit faster— and then raised the one full of tubes, squeezing Billy’s shoulder.  “He didn’t, I—I, uh, I guess I...stole...you?  I told him you’d live with me.  Come home with me.”

“Jesus,” Billy gulped, choking on a laugh.  “How can you like me this much.  Love at—love at fucking—first sight?”  He sniffled.  “Shoulda kissed you in the shower.  Wasted all this time.”

“Ah.  Uh—uh, hum.  Hrm.” Steve bit his lip, liking it as Billy slumped against him again, pressing kisses under his jaw, and wondering whether he’d still like it, when he wasn’t in Billy’s gay-ass body.  Whether he’d have been flattered, if Billy’d tried to dance with him at the party, instead of being so...Billy.  He had a deep, uncomfortable suspicion that he’d been hoping anybody, ever, would be as delighted he existed as Billy was right now, and tried not to think about what that would mean, if they switched back and he didn’t want Billy’s callused fingers against his skin.  

Billy sighed.  “It’s in case we can switch back, isn’t it,” he whispered, and Steve kissed his hair, squinting at it in the dark.  

“Nah, it’s—I mean, some, maybe, but your dad’s got—he shouldn’t be a dad, if he’s gonna—the hell did you do to my hair, Hargrove.”

“Took a shower,” Billy breathed, laughing into Steve’s shoulder as Steve cupped the back of his head with still-shaky fingers.  

“The hell did you use, Ajax?  Why’s my hair crunchy?!”

“I used the shit in the bathroom!” Billy laughed harder, sliding an arm around Steve’s waist.  “The shampoo in the shower!”

“Which bathroom?” Steve asked suspiciously, and at Billy’s “I don’t know, the chintzy one,” he groaned until he ran out of breath.  

Billy snickered, squeezing him gently, and Steve swallowed back the guilt of letting someone think he loved them, and lifted his head to kiss the person who’d tried to kill him the night before and then crawled into bed with him hours later.  Billy hummed against his mouth, and Steve could feel him grin.  “My hair looks worse,” he whispered.  “You been rolling around on it.  You look like you got raised by wolves.  S’all knotted...Tarzan.”

“So I’ll brush it later,” Steve said, shrugging.  The fight with Shitty Dad Hargrove had worn him out, and Billy wanted to lie on top of him, and breathe warm and damp against his neck, and Steve never, ever wanted him to stop.   No wonder Billy’s so goddamn thrilled, he thought.  After a lifetime of being Billy Hargrove in that house, he thinks somebody finally loves him.

“Don’t go out in public,” Billy muttered against his shoulder.  “Wear...bag over your head.”  He growled as Steve started snickering, and grunted into Steve’s shoulder, groaning.  “Look like a poodle.  You can’t brush curls, you gotta—”

“What?!” Steve found Billy’s ear in the darkness, and grinned at the heat coming off it.  He gave it a lick, and Billy laughed, lifting his head for a kiss.  

“Hey, hero,” he whispered against Steve’s mouth.  “This what you wanted?”

“What?” Steve asked again, his brain comfortably blanketed away so he could doze in warm bliss, half-listening to Billy muttering in his ear.  

“This what you wanted so bad you yanked me out of a burning car?” Billy whispered, his forehead hot against Steve’s jaw.  

It wasn’t like anyone was going to find out Steve hadn’t particularly wanted to rescue Billy, he thought, as his stomach clenched.  It wasn’t like there was paperwork.  He hadn’t shaken Robin awake, and told her, “I’m gonna get Billy out, so I can run him over again,” even if he thought she could probably guess.  He lifted his entubed arm and squeezed Billy against him, kissing his hair, and felt like cheating spouses probably did, knowing there wasn’t concrete evidence against them, but also knowing any hint would break someone in half.  “I kinda don’t want to change back,” he whispered, the best he could do, and Billy burst out laughing against his shoulder.

 Sneakers squeaked outside, the door rattled, and Billy was off the edge of the bed and in a visitor’s chair before it creaked open.  Steve was waiting for the nurse to come in, wishing Billy’d fix his hair—his best feature, which was all flat on one side, from the heat of Steve’s shoulder—when Max’s face popped around the edge of the door.  

“What the hell time is it,” Billy grunted, rubbing his face.  “The hell are you doing here.”

Max stared at him.  “What are you doing here?!” she hissed back.  “Go away!”

“He’s fine,” Steve told her, wishing he’d listened earlier, and he and Billy had come up with some kind of code.  “He’s, uh.”

She pointed at Billy—to her knowledge, Steve—and made an irritated kettled boiling noise.  “Why is he here?”

“I’m bringing him water,” Billy said, in Steve’s body, blinking big brown eyes like a dumb cow, and Max glared.  

Stop it, Steve mouthed, and Billy batted his eyelashes again, opening his eyes wide and innocent.  Steve huffed a sigh, rolling his eyes, coincidentally in perfect unison with Max.  "He's helping—"

“I need to talk to my brother,” she hissed at Billy.  “Buzz off.”

Billy stood, stretched slowly, and finally laughed as Max shoved him outside, and Steve was left alone with a fierce little girl who thought he was her awful brother.  He tried to think of Billy responses.

“Billy,” she gritted out, crossing her arms at the foot of his bed.  “How’d you know who I was?”

“...what?” Steve asked, unprepared for that one.

“Look.  I figured it out,” she hissed, and Steve squinted at her, wondering whether she was weirder than he thought, or he’d just had too many painkillers to follow a conversation.

She pushed the curtains back, peering around, nodded, and shuffled a few inches closer.  “I know you have amnesia,” she whispered, and his mouth fell open.  “You had to ask me who your dad was,” she pointed out, counting off a finger, and he winced.  She counted off another.  “Steve Harrington’s being nice to you.  I guess you told him?  He hates you!  Didn’t he say?!  He just, what, feels sorry for you now you don’t know who he is?!”

What Would Billy Do, Steve tried to think, imagining a WWBD bumpersticker.  “...I don’t—he doesn’t fuckin’...hate me,” he protested feebly.  “Probably?”

“You beat him up,” she whispered, grabbing a chair and pulling it close.  “So bad.  You kicked the shit out of him.  How come you—eugh.  He’s seriously letting you stay with him?  At his house?  Really?”

Steve opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, wondering whether Nancy and Robin would believe his body had amnesia.  “Uh, would he...lie about that?”

She steepled her fingers, eyes intent, and Steve fought the urge to laugh.  “I don’t think so,” she decided.  “But he’s dumb as rocks, god.”  

Steve wanted to object, biting back a laugh, but she took a shaky breath, swallowing, and he bit his lips together to listen.

“And—um, it’s—probably good you don’t, uh.  You—you better not try and—change your mind?  He’s...he’s really pissed.  At you.  You should, um, you should get your stuff when he’s not home, he’s—he’s so angry,” she dropped her hands to her knees, swallowing.  “It’s—you were right,” she whispered, in a strangled voice.  “To—to tell him.  Tell him off.  But uh, just, just be careful.”

“His, um.  My dad?” Steve asked, watching Max’s knuckles whiten, and her shoulders hunch.  

She nodded.  

“We’ll get you out too,” he promised impulsively.  “You can’t stay there, we’ll figure something out—”

“This is so weird,” she cut him off, squinting into his face.  “You—you’re you, but you aren’t you, do—do you think you’ll come back?  Have you remembered anything?”

“Uh,” Steve said, and the door opened.  Billy stuck Steve’s face inside, watching them.  I never look that innocent, Steve thought, annoyed.  “Max figured out I have amnesia,” he said, and Billy stared for a long second, and yanked the door shut again.

“We need a plan to get your stuff,” said Max, and Steve wanted to hug her.  

“At least my sister’s cool,” he told her, grinning, and she stumbled to a halt mid-sentence, staring back at him.  Her cheeks went so red her freckles faded.

“...shut up,” she mumbled.  

Before she left—she had to skateboard back and climb in the window, she explained, and it would have been funny, if she hadn’t kept setting her jaw, and flinching from sudden movements—Steve had her grab her actual brother from the hallway, so they could tell him the plan.  Billy sat on the edge of the hospital bed to listen, and Steve hauled Max against both of them in a hug that left both Hargroves tight-shouldered and red-faced, muttering thanks to each other.

“Thanks, Max,” Steve called, as she left, and she stared back for a second with a grimace, but threw him a salute.

“She’s a good kid,” he told Billy.  “You could, y’know.  Get her some water too.”

Billy snorted, leaned in, and kissed Steve’s face until he was too turned on to argue, then sighed.  “Yeah, I’ll—I’ll think of—something.  I don’t know.  I didn’t think she’d...show up, like this.  Horning in.  Like she...I—yeah,” he groaned against Steve’s neck, and sighed.

Steve squirmed, wishing Billy would pick a topic and stay with it, because switching back and forth between “sibling relationships” and “touching Steve’s dick” was distracting.  And kinda gross.  

 When they released Steve-in-Billy’s-body, Billy was waiting to fill out the paperwork, wheel him out to the car, and help him into the house.  It looked lived-in, for once, Billy’s shoes in a pile by the door and a mess of homework on the table, and Steve turned back to the guest in his house—the guest in his body—and pushed him back against the door for a soft kiss.  Billy’s smiles looked more uncertain in Steve’s body—or maybe they just were more uncertain, away from the father that hated his guts, and the monster controlling him.  

I love him, Steve thought, frowning, and wondered when he could know it was real— they had to change back eventually, he thought, and what was he gonna say if he’d gone on one knee already, and all he could think about was boobs?  He grimaced, and Billy blinked at him, still pinned against the wall.  “I missed you,” he said instead, and Billy’s smirk widened again.

“I left for a shower, dumbass,” he said, and Steve kissed him again, then nearly fell over, and Billy got an arm around him and dumped him on the couch.  “Made your stupid cherry Jell-O,” he called over his shoulder, stalking off into the kitchen, and Steve’s brain spun wildly.   Maybe I just really love him, he thought, groaning into his sleeves and staring at the wall.   Maybe I’ll love him no matter what.  Fight his dad for him.  Fight his scary dad for the man who shows up for me.  And brings me Jell-O.

“What are you muttering about?” Billy asked, dropping next to him with a bowl of quivering red gelatin dessert, and Steve’s lungs shuddered.  

His sinuses stung with tears, and he realized he was about to start dripping—not just tears, but snot too, as an exclusive bonus.  “You made me cherry Jell-O,” he rasped out, trying not to sob, and Billy swore and ran off, returning to shove a roll of toilet paper into his hands.

“What the shit,” he hissed, shoving wads of toilet paper at Steve’s face.  “What the hell, what the fuck, Harrington, it’s Jell-O—”

“It’s cherry,” Steve sobbed.  “Your body sucks, what the shit, asshole—why am I bawling over Jell-O—”

“Makes me feel better about some things, actually,” Billy muttered, yanking Steve against his shoulder.

~

Nancy knew Steve wasn’t fine.  Steve Harrington wasn’t abrupt with his ex-girlfriend’s mom, or difficult for Dustin Henderson to talk to—and he definitely didn’t ask Billy Hargrove to stay, acting excited about it, like they were going to stay up doing each other’s hair.  She stopped after work to pick Robin up—Robin griped the whole way about the ice cream you suddenly want, when you don’t work at an ice cream shop anymore—and they picked up Kentucky Fried Chicken, and gallons of strawberry, jamocha almond fudge, and mint chip.  

Robin dropped into the passenger seat and dug a spoon out of her purse, blew on it, squinted at it, and dug in to the mint chip.  She met Nancy’s sputter with a flat stare.

Steve opened the door looking as stiff as he had ever since he’d had to use his car to nearly murder the boy lying on his couch, covered in bandages.  “Y’know, he was going to kill us,” she whispered, as they got plates out in the kitchen.

“Yeah, I noticed,” he said, his shoulders hunching.

“Everything—” She waved her hand at the front room, where Robin was still eating ice cream while she interrogated Billy.  “Everything that’s going on, it’s—it’s not your fault, Steve.  You don’t have to keep helping him.”

He stopped to frown at her.  “...I know that,” he said, unconvincingly.

“It’s not,” she hissed again.  “It’s not your fault you had to plow into him—”

Steve coughed, biting his lips together, and she reached out to squeeze his shoulder.  

“It’s not your fault his car caught fire.  It’s not your fault his dad is—is a shitheel—”

“Wait.” Steve flinched.  “Wait, what—what did m—what did his dad do?!”

“I heard about it from Max.” She dropped her voice to a bare whisper.  “He showed up at Billy’s bedside in the hospital.  He told Billy he—he wished Billy had died.  But—” She cut off, yelling at herself internally as her lecture had exactly the opposite effect she wanted, and Steve’s eyes filled with tears.  He leaned back with a thud against the counter, and she didn’t know what to do— it seemed stupid to hug him, and she found herself shoving the fried chicken tub into his arms, babbling, “—but it’s okay, Steve, you’ll make sure he’s fine, right, he’s staying here, right, I didn’t know you were friends—”  

To her bewilderment, he elbowed away, half-running to the front room, and Billy.

“The hell is going on in here,” Robin said, poking her head around the corner.

“I’m terrible,” Nancy squeaked under her breath.  “They’re friends?!  I didn’t know they were friends, shit, I’m so sorry—”  She followed Robin and Steve back out to the front room, kicking herself, but also trying to figure out what was even happening, that Steve Harrington would start to cry about it.

He’d gone to the door to the porch, where he was wiping his eyes and fumbling with the knob, and when he couldn’t get it to open—he was so upset he couldn’t figure out the lock, Nancy realized, digging her nails into her palms—he swung a fist at the door.  

Robin yelled, caught his arm, stalked close, and yanked the KFC bucket away.  “The hell are you doing, moron, you’re gonna break your fingers—what’s wrong—”

Steve stiffened, and then snorted a laugh.  “I ff--it’s—”  He was trying not to cry, which made it worse that he couldn’t stop, and Nancy stepped closer, wondering whether it’d be more awkward to turn her back and give him some privacy, or shove a wad of paper towels in his face, when he started snickering wetly through his sobs.  “I secretly cry all the time,” he whispered, and Robin visibly shuddered.  “I do,” he told her, looking delighted.  “Cry into my pillow!  I’ve got so many feelings—”

“Does baby need some hugs,” Robin hissed back at him, and he laughed harder, with big tears rolling down his cheeks.  

“Baby needs a pacifier,” Steve wheezed, as Nancy stared, but Robin just groaned, rolling her eyes, and threw her arms around him.  It looked like half a hug, half a wrestling hold.

After what felt like minutes—and was probably seconds—of Steve’s muffled gasping, Billy staggered up from under the blanket on the couch, steadying himself against the wall.  “What the hell,” he whispered, and Steve laughed harder.  

“Getting in touch with my feelings,” he said, sounding smug, and Billy growled at him.  

Nancy stepped closer between them, as Billy stomped up, angling himself between Robin and the door, and leaned to bump shoulders with Steve.  She got herself wedged in the mix of awkward-leaning-that-wasn't-quite-a-group-hug, and had the sort of realization you have when you fight secret monsters with your friends—that she was always going to be close to these people, in a way she’d never be able to explain at parties.  As soon as Steve could breathe again, he scrambled away from them—though he accepted the ice cream Robin shoved at him, eyeing her warily.

“Come on, you think I don’t remember which ice cream to get you?  You think I’ve never seen you be a moron before?” she asked dryly, and he grinned, glancing at Billy, who was scowling back.  

After some extremely stiff chatting, though, he said he was going to go to sleep.  Nancy did feel better, as Billy—of all people—ushered her and Robin out, whispering, “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise.  I—I owe him that.”

“Yeah, you sure as hell do,” Robin told him, and he laughed.

~

That night, they were finally alone, after three days of getting interrupted by nurses, and people that said they were worried about Steve going home alone, but never argued when he said he was fine.  Billy’d sat in the visitors’ chair after hours and scoffed, nudging Steve’s butt with one toe, and said, “Can’t leave you by yourself, dumbass, you’d cry.”  

He kept bringing it up, annoyingly.  “You cry when I went home for a shower?” he whispered against Steve’s throat.

“I might, in this dumb body,” Steve told him finally, unbuttoning his shirt on his body, with Billy inside it.  “You’re built like a sprinkler system.”

“Shut up.” Billy leaned in for a kiss, watching his face, and Steve laughed. 

“You even cry in my body," he whispered, grinning into Billy’s kisses.  “I bet you don't even want to change back—you won’t be able to make out with yourself.”

Billy choked, coughing.  “...no,” he managed, his cheeks going even more red.  “You blush, asshole,” he gritted out.  “I hate it—”

“Your feet stumble,” Steve whispered back, running his knuckles up Billy’s side and watching him shiver.  “No wonder you gotta think so damn hard about basketball.”

“Your mouth stumbles,” Billy hissed.  “I sound like a fucking moron.”

“God, I know.” Steve leaned in to kiss Billy’s collarbones, and Billy burst out laughing.  

“You into morons?”

“No!” Steve shot back, snickering, and slid his arms around Billy’s waist, tilting them so they fell facing each other on the bed.  “No, it’s just.  It sucks, being dumb.”

“Mmn,” Billy hummed consideringly against Steve’s shoulder, and burrowed his face in to kiss skin.  “Worked out pretty good for me.”

“You’re not dumb,” Steve told him, fairly sure.  

“Some dumbass fell in love with my hot bod,” Billy told him, scooting up the bed to grab Steve by the back of the head and stare into his face.  “Some moron.  Pulled me out of a burning car, this—this idiot.”

“Oh.” Steve tried not to wince.  “Yeah.  That.”

“‘Yeah, that,’ he says,” Billy parroted, and Steve stuck out his tongue.  “You know…”

Steve waited, then raised his eyebrows.  “My tongue being dumb, or you stuck?”

“You know it’s not your fault, right,” Billy said thickly, swallowing.  “None of this shit.  And I’d rather be in your body than a monster in mine.”

“Hell yeah, you would,” Steve snorted, his tongue for once faster than his brain.  “Uh.  Wait.  What?”

“Nothing,” Billy said quickly, yanking Steve into a clumsy kiss.  Steve gentled him with both hands, closing his eyes to imagine what Billy was supposed to look like, instead of staring into his own eyes like he was licking a mirror.  

“I’m gay now, let’s fuck,” Steve whispered, and Billy breathed wrong, so they had to stop kissing for several minutes while he hacked and choked, pounding his chest.  

“The hell is wrong with you, Harrington,” he whispered, but Steve was laughing too hard to answer.

 Steve was starting to mark time in awakenings.  Not days— he was sleeping several times a day, and he had no idea what time it was, most of the time.  He half-awakened, briefly, to notice his ass hurt, and let go of the warm bulk against him to pat at his own clean shaven face.

“Shit,” he mumbled.  “Not gay anymore.”

“What,” came Billy’s voice.  

Not Billy’s-voice-through-Steve’s-vocal-cords, though that had a distinctive sound too, but Billy’s normal voice, the one that followed Steve around at school, and threatened Lucas, and beat Steve’s face until he slurred on waking up.  Steve’s spine tightened, and his heart started pounding.   It’s okay, he told his body, Billy thinks I’m in love with him, and I like it.  I let him think it was true.  He swallowed, rolling onto his back to take a deep breath.

“Harrington,” Billy said, and the bed shifted as he crawled to turn on the bedside lamp.  “Harrington?”

“Shit,” Steve whispered, afraid to open his eyes.  

“We switched back,” Billy told him.  “Harrington.  Steve.  C-c’mon.”

“I thought that might work,” Steve said, keeping his voice light, and wondering what kind of terrible person it would make him if he just kept his eyes closed, and kissed Billy Hargrove, and pretended everything was fine.   Maybe I don’t have to be gay, he thought wildly.   Maybe I can just want the person around, I can—we can be friends who jack each other off, it’s not dishonest, it’s not any more dishonest—

“Is that why you brought me home,” Billy whispered.  “Just—you thought you’d—fuck me gone?”

“Shit, no, don’t go anywhere,” Steve choked out, rolling to thud his torso against Billy’s knees and wedge his face under one, smooshing his cheek and mouth against the bed.

“...what are you doing?” Billy asked, turning to lie cautiously alongside him.  “Do—what do you want, Harrington—”

“Don’t go away,” Steve told him, gathering him close with both arms and inhaling the smell of boy—deodorant, and aftershave, and cigarettes saturated into Billy’s hair.  He smelled a little sweaty, and Steve felt himself drifting close to sleep again, in the contented haze he’d had in his hospital bed, using Billy’s bulk and warmth as a sedative.  Billy’s heart was pounding, and he’d started to shake, so Steve took a deep breath and pulled back, opening his eyes.  

Billy’s eyes were red and watery, his lips red from biting, and Steve pulled him into a kiss without any thought.  

“It’s okay,” he whispered, running his fingers through hair that looked like it belonged in a metal band.  “Sorry.  I want you, of course I want you, you’re you, you’re Billy,” he rambled, and Billy leaned their foreheads together, taking shaky breaths.  “Love you,” Steve told him, this time for sure.   Shut up, he told the voice in his head saying you’ve been sort-of dating for three days.  It sounded suspiciously like Nancy.   I’ve known him like six months, he told it.   Shut up, I know what I’m doing.  

“Jesus.” Billy swallowed, closing his eyes.  “Scare the shit out of me, why don’t you.”

"Yelled at your dad for you," Steve told him.  "I mean.  Sorry.  He pissed me off, talking like—talking about his kid like that.  About you."

"What'd he say?" Billy asked, his voice husky, and Steve kissed his mouth, and his cheeks—they warmed as Billy smiled—and his teeth as he grinned. 

"He didn't say anything true," Steve whispered back.  "Goddamn—goddamn asshole bullshit liar."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Steve hissed back.  "You made me cherry Jell-O," he told Billy, thinking it hard at the doubtful voice that had been in the back of his head, telling him Billy wasn't lovable, and neither was he.  "I mean," he tried to explain, over Billy's wheezes of laughter, "—that's not why—you just—you're Billy, and you l—you want me because I'm Steve, and—and he's wrong, about you.  E—everyone is.  I was—I was wrong about you, you—you're good, you're worth the bullshit—"

Billy yanked him close, squeezing him until his ribs creaked, and Billy swore.  Steve froze, listening to him mutter.  "God, fucking—it hurts, ow.  Shit.  Don't set your car on fire, it hurts—"

"Careful, damn," Steve told him, running cautious fingers for the first time over Billy’s skin with him in it. 

Billy blew air through his cheeks, glancing down at his bandages.  “Wanna go again?” he asked, and Steve kissed him, lingering to breathe against his mouth.

"I could be real gentle," he offered, and Billy nodded, squirming closer on the bed with a grin.

“They’re not too bad, mostly,” he whispered, “You got me out in time.”

"Yeah...but I'll be careful," Steve told him, as he slid his hand down Billy’s side again. 

“Yeah, sure,”  Billy whispered back, grinning, and Steve laughed, stopping to concentrate on kissing him until he couldn’t breathe for panting.

 Later that night, Steve awoke to go to the bathroom, found himself sporting a mustache and mullet again in the mirror, and groaned.  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

[basicjetsetter]

At the End of the Day (I)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Words: 4.9k

Warnings: Lil Fluff, Lotta Angst, Language, Violence – an extremely violent scene, might not be suitable for some, don’t continue to read if it triggers you.

Summary: All Bucky wants to do is protect his family and keep them happy, keep them safe. But no matter what he does, danger hunts him down and makes his life a living hell. It has a name. Baron Zemo.

A/N: This is my first time writing for Bucky. I hope y’all love it as much as I do. If you want, you can listen to Sometimes by H.E.R. The fic isn’t inspired by the song, but I felt like it fit. (Gif not mine, all credit to its creator). Also I apologize if the translation is wrong. Happy Reading!!

Part II

Bucky had it all planned out.

Race out of the debriefing room as soon as the meeting adjourned, jump into his car, still grimy and clothed in tactical gear, and gun it to his house to get there in time for dinner. For the most part, the plan was successful. He left the Compound at 3:45 p.m. and made it to the driveway by 5:50. The clock on the dash reads 6:18. He can’t get out of the car. Every time he attempts to unfasten the seatbelt his muscles lock up until he caves under the exhaustion.

Missions never take this much of a toll on his body, but to be fair, he did hurl himself out of a ten-story building like an idiot. He remembered how the world outside swayed, remembered hearing Sam shout into the coms, telling him that everyone was safely out and that he needed to get out too. There was nothing else they could do.

The floor underneath his boots shuddered. Stairs were out of the question and there was no time for Sam to figure out which side of the building Bucky was in. So he jumped.

By now he’d thought he’d be used to imminent death. After all, it came with the job. And yet this knowledge didn’t keep him from squeezing his eyes shut and holding his breath until his lungs cried for air. It didn’t help his hammering heart or the tight clench of his gut as he plummeted to meet the concrete.

Everything had gone a bit fuzzy afterward. A lot of people rushed in to see if he was still alive. He thought he saw a familiar face, but chalked it up to be a trick of the light. Sam and Wanda hovered over him, repeatedly asking if he could hear them and if he was alright. Nothing hurt too bad. He somehow managed to rotate enough so his left side took most of the impact. His head hurt like a son of a bitch, though, and his mouth tasted metallic and felt like sandpaper.

Medics pawed at him the entire way back to the Compound, checking his vitals, shining bright lights in his eyes to rule out concussions. One of them suggested he be left in their care for the night.

What he needed was a goddamn aspirin and a nap. If he let them hook him up to all those machines, he’d be stuck in there for… Christ knows how long. Hours? Days?

Bucky just wanted to go home to his girls.

Instead of listening to the docs advising him to do such and such, he thought of you seeing him like this, bruised from head to toe, covered in rubble and blood. You’d seen him look worse, but every time he came in with even a cut you worried at your bottom lip and a small crease of a frown darkened your features. But he knew you’d be relieved to have him at home in one piece.

So he disregarded their caution. Within 48 hours he’d be right as rain. The perks of being a souped-up solider, he thought ruefully.

Only one good came out of this mess. Bumblebee is going to go through the roof with excitement. He can hear her screams now, “No way! That’s so cool! Mama! Mama! Did ya hear that? Daddy jumped out of a building!”

6:32 p.m.

He wouldn’t be able to tell her anything if he couldn’t haul his ass out of the car.

Bucky groaned as he grabbed hold of his canvas bag and slung it over his shoulder, then kicked the door of the Jeep open. He gingerly climbed out, whimpering with each movement. He shouldn’t have sat in there for so long. All his muscles are stiff as a starched shirt. He leaned against the car door to close it.

As Bucky limped up to the front door he heard the sounds of Bumblebee and Tater, their golden retriever puppy, running around and you laughing as Bumblebee huffed in frustration, “Give me back my shoe, Tater!”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth curved into a large grin despite his crushing headache. He put his key in the lock and frowned when it didn’t click. Already open. Sighing deeply, he twisted the knob and pushed open the door. Scampering feet ran out of the kitchen into the foyer. “Daddy’s home!”

Sure enough, Bumblebee, and Tater right on her heels, dashed into him just as he dropped his canvas bag on the ground and jumped into his open arms. He grunted in the effort to keep her up in his aching arms, staggering back a couple of steps. “Jeez kid, you’re getting big on me.”

She pouted. Miniature versions of your eyes examined his face. “Are you okay, Daddy? Why’re you all purple and blue?” Her smooth, chubby hand brushed away a stray hair from his face. “Does that hurt?”

Had he winced?

In front of him, he heard a sharp inhale. Shit. Reluctantly, Bucky lifted his eyes and met yours. He’s probably not his usual sight for sore eyes. In fact, he’d be willing to bet that he’s the cause of those sore eyes.

You assessed him from head to toe, no doubt noting how he shifted your daughter to his right side to protect his left.

“James.” Your tone is viperous.

He’s in for it. “Don’t say it,” he pleaded.

“Buchanan.”

Bucky hid his face behind his daughter’s shoulder. “Doll, I-“

“Barnes. What the hell happened to you?” You didn’t wait for an answer, striding over and taking your daughter out of his arms and setting her down. “Honey, why don’t you go finish up your dinner. Daddy and I need to talk about grown-up stuff.”

The girl looked up at her dad with a defiant set of her mouth. “I want Daddy to come and eat with me.” She is her mother’s child, but the way she held herself reminded Bucky so much of himself before he became a pawn to Hydra. Cock-sure and confident, ready to hold his own. That’s his little Bumblebee.

You sighed. “He’ll be there in a minute, baby. I promise. Go on,” you smiled sweetly. He knows you don’t want her to worry, but you aren’t doing a good job at neutralizing your frantic expression.

Your daughter still didn’t budge.

“Celeste, please. For Mama?” you supplicated, leaning down to meet her stricken gaze.

“Is Daddy in trouble?” she asked, her voice now small and quavering. It broke his bruised heart.

Bucky’s knees buckled as he kneeled and he did his best to minimize the sound of his groans. “No, no, Bumblebee, I’m fine. Mama just wants to take care of me, that’s all. As soon as we’re done, I’m all yours.”

“Promise?”

He nodded and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Super promise.”

She perked up as if her mood hadn’t soured at all and skittered off into the kitchen, Tater trailing after her with a tiny shoe in his mouth. Bucky waited until he heard her chair scrape across the floor then peered up at you. “Might need some help getting up here, Doll.”

Despite your apparent anger, you giggled lightly and held out your hand. Bucky grabbed it with his right and pulled himself up, but leaned against the wall adjacent to the front door for support, panting.

“God Bucky, you look awful,” you whispered, running a hand through his tangled hair. “Did you get hit by a train?”

“Sort of.” At your stern frown, he confessed. “I-uh… I may have jumped out a ten-story building and the ground might’ve broken my fall. It’s nothing,” he rushed. “I’ll be fine in a few hours.”

He sucked in a breath as you softly pressed a hand to his left side. You set to work on undoing the harnesses and buckles of his vest. “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?” he asked.

“Lie to me.” Bucky fixed his mouth to deny it, but you continued. “We’ve been married for six years… Don’t you think I know you like the back of my hand by now? You aren’t fine. It’s not nothing. You’re human, no matter what you or anyone else thinks. You can still feel pain.” Your voice dropped to a murmur.

At first, he thought your silence resulted from the weight of your words because now he certainly felt like he got hit by a train. But he followed your eyes. You’d successfully ridden him of the top half of his tactical gear, laying everything in a heap at the bottom of your feet. Angry welts, cuts, and bruises smattered down his chest in an intricate pattern, ranging from red to purple to blue. The puffed scar connecting his cybernetic arm to his shoulder paled in comparison.

Hearing you sniffle brought him back to the present.

“Jesus Bucky.” Tears shone in your eyes, pooled, then fell down your cheeks.

This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go. He wasn’t supposed to come home after being away for three weeks and immediately upset his girls. The sheer sadness laced in your words hurt him more than his wounds. And that sadness wouldn’t just go away in a few hours.

Bucky pulled you into his arms, welcoming your soft body against his like a heat compress. You smelled like roasted garlic chicken with a hint of buttery, herbed mashed potatoes, and lavender soap. His stomach growled.

“Remember that time we took Bumblebee to Wollman Rink and she accidentally fell on her head and got that nasty bruise?” Bucky asked, resting his head on your shoulder and pressing small kisses to the side of your neck. A small sigh of contentment sifted into the air.

“Yeah.” Another sniffle. “Sam, Wanda, Peter, and Rhodey all bought her big teddy bears and ice cream to cheer her up. My poor baby. I never wanted to hear her cry like that again.”

Bucky nodded in agreement, recalling how every rational thought fled his mind as he rushed to his daughter, cradling her small body to his chest. They took her to the Med-Bay and she stayed there for a week and he never once left her side.

“We didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Sam all but locked us out of her room and told us to take a shower and change into some fresh clothes.”

You cocked your head back and gazed confusedly into his pale blue eyes. “You going somewhere with this?”

“We can’t…” he paused, clearing his throat. “There is a healthy amount of worry we’re allowed to give before it becomes too much, you know. We’ll go mad wanting to keep each other out of harm’s way and that’s exactly what you’re doing. This is my job, Doll. I get hurt. We just gotta accept that.”

You pulled out of his arms and crossed yours. You didn’t damper the bitterness as you spoke. “You’re such a hypocrite. What would you do if I came home covered in bruises and cuts every night? Huh? Shrug it off? That’s what you’re telling me to do?”

Bucky didn’t know if he should answer, so he kept his mouth shut, down-casting his eyes. That’s not quite what he meant, but it’s in the same vein.

“Alright. Fine.” You turned away from him and walked out of the room, into the kitchen.

That didn’t turn out how he wanted it to, but Bucky didn’t have the energy to go after you. You need time to simmer. 

He picked up his stuff and dropped it off on the foot of his office, quickly showered and changed into a pair of gray sweatpants. His muscles appreciated the warm water and comfortable clothes.

The lights in the family room and dining room were shut off by the time he finished, leaving only the kitchen to be illuminated in a faint glow. A stack of dishes sat in the sink and the leftovers were contained on the counter, ready to be put away in the fridge. On the other side of the house, down the hall, the light in the second guest bathroom gleamed. He heard the splash of water and giggles. Bath time.

Despite his cloudy mood, he smiled. Bucky missed this.

After he scarfed down some microwaved chicken, mashed potatoes and carrots, he got to work on the dishes.

The act always soothed him. When every second of his day had to be calculated down to the last minutiae, taking the time to listen to his thoughts became a welcome gift. But all his thoughts led back to you. Your warm body in his arms, your head propped against his chest as you made little sighs of happiness. He understands why you’re upset, and no, he wouldn’t like it if you came home hurt every night as he does. Hell, he wouldn’t be able to stand to be away from you as long as he does now.

You’re concerned for him. The least he can do is empathize and lessen your fears. Him not saying anything translated to you as, “Yes, I’d prefer if you didn’t care about me.”

“I’m such an asshole,” he muttered, tossing the dish towel onto the counter after drying the last plate.

He heard you shuffle behind him and he turned in time to see you drop an armful of blankets and pillows onto the couch.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, acknowledging the clean dishes. “If you need some more pillows there’s a couple in the hall closet.”

Before you could lope off into your bedroom, Bucky called out, “I’m sorry.”

That stopped you short.

He chanced a step forward, then another, until you put a hand out to confirm the distance. “About earlier… You were right.” Bucky itched to hold you, but instead, he settled for pulling his hands through his damp hair. “If the situation was reversed, I know I wouldn’t be able to handle it and the fact that you’ve been doing it every day since we got together… I’m gonna be more careful. I promise. I can-I can request some time off. We can—”

You interrupted him, so quiet even his enhanced hearing strained to pick up the noise. “Do you know why I handled it, Buck? Why I never complained?”

He shook his head, again finding his tongue too tied up to answer.

“Because it’s your job. You’re an Avenger. You’re this awesome superhero who saves hundreds of people every day. How can I complain?” Your words choked off with emotion, yet somehow you managed to push past it, sounding rugged and defeated. “H-How can I be so selfish to want to keep the Winter Soldier safe? The craziest thing is, I never see him when I look at you. The soldier, I mean.” You bowed your head and swiped away ceaseless tears. When you brought your eyes back up to meet his, both of your eyes glistened. “I see you, Bucky. And you’re someone I can’t lose.”

Bucky didn’t react fast enough. As soon as he took that last step forward to stand right in front of you, you turned and dashed into your bedroom, shutting the door. He didn’t hear the lock turn.

He walked over to the door and placed his hand on the knob. Pressed his ear against the wood. You sounded close. Crying with your hands clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs. Nothing would be able to stop him from going in the room to comfort you, locked door or not. But if you wanted him to be near you, you’d have left the door open.

How had this whole day turned to shit?

He went into his daughter’s room. You being upset with him and him landing himself a night on the couch were huge setbacks, but he’d be damned if he didn’t tell Bumblebee a good-night story. She loves those. He loves telling them to her.

They have their ritual every time he’s home. She’s usually sitting up against the headboard, wearing a toothy grin. He’d come in and she’d scoot over to the side to let him lie on the bed with her. Some nights they’d doze off together.

When he cracked open the door and peered in, her back faced him and the blue covers were drawn up over her head.

Bucky took a seat on the corner of her twin mattress, feeling how it slightly bowed under his weight. Tater is curled up on the other corner. His head rested on his paws and his eyes dolefully glanced up at Bucky.

“Bumblebee,” he whispered, stroking her head. “Hey, kid. You sleep?”

Silence. He heard her breath quicken. She’s still awake.

“You mad at me too?”

He held his breath. Utter silence.

“Guess I can’t blame ya.” Exhaling slowly, Bucky leaned in and kissed the back of her head. “Sweet dreams, sweetheart. I love you.” Then he got up, turned on her rainbow nightlight, and delicately closed the door.

The family room felt too small. Too still. Too vacant. Trying to sleep on a couch, especially this one, in particular, had to be the worst sleeping arrangement he’s ever experienced, on par with sleeping on dirt floors and metal cots.

A previously recorded football game is playing noiselessly on the TV. All the lights are turned off. The exhaustion Bucky warded off earlier returned in full force. He blanked out by the time the game reached the second quarter.

“Good evening, Sergeant Barnes,” a distant voice lulled. It’s familiar. Accented. It stood nearby, standing right above him. “Or would you prefer Winter Soldier?”

Bucky’s eyes opened as slow as a stream of molasses. His head swam and his body felt out of place. He didn’t know what was up or down, left or right. That wasn’t what shocked him, though. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t even twitch his pinky. 

Isn’t he supposed to be in jail? How did he find me? How the hell did he even get in here?

As far as Bucky can tell he’s still in his family room, laying on the couch. The covers around his body have been thrown back. A needle is sticking out of his right arm, connected to a small drip bag.

“Whahh—” he slurred. It took him a while to pull his eyes away from the needle and up to the man looming above him with a gaunt smirk.

God no.

“Oh good, you remember me.” Zemo pulled up a chair and sat right by Bucky’s head. He’s wearing a plain black sweater and dark jeans. “Don’t worry, it isn’t poison. Simply a temporary sedative. The effects will wear off as soon as I take out the needle.”

Bucky tried to scream with everything inside of him. He called your name over and over again, but nothing came out higher than a whimper. Even if you heard him, he doubted if you’d be able to alert the others in time. What if he already got to you? Or Bumblebee? A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

Zemo watched in amusement at the emotions flitting over Bucky’s face. “You’re a hard man to find, but easy enough to keep track of. Your little band of do-gooders always makes the front page. But you know what those covers don’t show? Hm?”

He held up a picture frame level to Bucky’s eyesight. It was you, him, and Bumblebee, all going down a slide together. Sam took the picture a year ago. You were at the top, holding up your then three-year-old daughter, and Bucky at the bottom. Bumblebee gripped his long strands of hair with a vicious glee in her eyes. Your eyes are closed from laughing and Bucky is looking up at his wife and daughter with a rapt smile.

“You have a lovely family, Sergeant Barnes. Reminds me of mine.” He pulled out a small folded copy of a photograph, creased due to the course of time.

Bucky saw a family, but he didn’t take them in. He didn’t want to care.

Zemo paid him no attention as he stared fondly at the picture, taking them in for himself and then comparing it to Bucky’s family.

“You see, I went about this all wrong the first time around. Taking on the Avengers as a whole resulted from my hubris, if you will. I saw the potential to exploit a weakness and work around the outside. Some might say I instigated the War. No,” he smiled and took the needle out of Bucky’s arm. “I merely set them on the right path.

“Captain Rogers was indeed quite fond of you, but I knew Stark wouldn’t be so disillusioned to your heinous crimes. Though, I admit I may have given him too much credit. A tin man set up to fight against two of the world’s best super soldiers? A failed endeavor, yes, but necessary. It brought me reason. Why influence a whole and almost succeed when I can influence one at a time. Leaves less room for marginal error, don’t you agree, Soldat?”

As the sedative ebbed away, feeling gradually flooded into his fingertips and toes. In a couple of minutes, he’d be free from the immobilizing numbness. He prepared his body to spring.

Zemo pulled one more object from behind his back. A red book. An old, red book with a black star branded on the front.

An icy gust of recognition shot shards of panic through his system. It couldn’t be. He’s fixed. Shuri fixed me.

The man went on in relish. “Of course you recognize your creator’s book. A handy thing, this is. Hydra is many things, Sergeant Barnes. Many things. But one thing they remain to be is prepared.” He thumbed through the pages, stopping to the last several pages. “Two steps ahead and all that stuff.”

Bucky forced out the word, “Why?”’

“Why?” Zemo mocked. “Why is it that an abomination, a murderous machine such as yourself, can have this type of happiness at the end of the day? Doesn’t it strike you as unfair, Sergeant Barnes? Why should you have this beautiful family while mine doesn’t even get an ounce of recognition? No front covers. Not even an obituary. I’m simply taking matters into my own hands and dealing justice where justice is due. And Sergeant Barnes, you have over 70 years of undue justice stacked against you.”

Tears stung Bucky’s eyes. Every inch of his body trembled. His teeth painfully chattered. He felt his lips move. “No, please. No, no, no, no, no. God no. I can’t. I can’t.” Not to them.

“This is the way it has to be, Sergeant Barnes. I truly am sorry.” Zemo rose from the chair, walking around to the back of the couch. “Возвращение (Return).”

Bucky’s whole body drowned in a cold sweat and the blood drained from his face. Those bastards! Those goddamn fucking bastards! He pushed off the couch on jelly legs, falling in a heap of blankets.

“сброс настроек (Reset).”

Anger propelled him to his feet and he staggered drunkenly around the couch, standing arms-length away from Zemo. Only a few feet stood between him and the front door.

“не помнить. Добро пожаловать назад зимний солдат (Forget. Welcome back Winter Soldier).”

Zemo closely watched the man standing rigid in his sweats, chest heaving. Bits of his hair is in his face and one blanket is caught around his ankle. He heard the harsh grinding of his metal palm curling into a fist. The asset’s face smoothed over into a mask of stiff submission and indifference.

“Ready to comply.” Mechanical, detached, lethal.

“Terminate everyone inside the house.” With those final words, Zemo withdrew from the house, exiting out of the front door. It slammed shut.

You weren’t really asleep.

Even trying felt like a waste of time. The king-size bed swallowed you with its vast amount of unfilled space. Sleeping in an empty bed was hard enough not knowing where Bucky was. Turns out it’s even worse when he was just outside the door and down the hall, sleeping on an uncomfortable couch.

You knew that he knew the door wasn’t locked.

Relief and an inkling of regret settled your nerves thirty minutes after you closed the door. He wasn’t going to come in. He was giving you space.

Is it wrong to want Bucky laying here with you, even though your heart wasn’t ready to face him? Maybe you’re being ridiculous. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s an amazing father to Bumblebee. He’s an amazing husband. Work doesn’t consume him and if it does start to become an obstacle in your marriage, Bucky’s quick to rectify the problem.

You inched over onto his side of the bed and buried your face in his pillow, taking in his heady scent. Were you too hard on him? Were you irrational? Bucky can’t help who he is. 

He’s your daughter’s hero.

He’s yours too.

At 2 a.m. you fretfully turned back over to your side of the bed when you heard one of the doors slam shut, ringing out like a shotgun

You’re on your feet and rushing out without a single thought of caution to stall you. Bucky is out there. So is your Bumblebee.

Bucky stood in the middle of the room. Blankets are strewn around and one of them wrapped around his ankle.

“Are you alright? What happened?”

His head swiveled up at the sound of your voice. Empty, calculating eyes snapped to yours.

Something’s wrong.

You tripped back a little, finding your balance against a wall. Fear mounted in your chest. “B-Bucky?”

No reaction.

“Buc—"

In an instant he advanced towards you, stepping out of the blanket as if it was never there. A scream caught halfway in your throat as metal coiled around your neck. Squeezing. Squeezing. Squeezing.

Black pinpoints and stars shaded your vision. He watched you splutter. You’re sure he didn’t feel your nails clawing at his shoulder.

None of the things Bucky taught you about self-defense came to mind. You couldn’t think, but you had to act. Instinctively, you kicked out. One kick landed dead in his hard abdomen. It felt like kicking at a boulder. He coughed out a surprised grunt and his grip slackened. You aimed another kick at his crotch, dead on the center, and the hand around your neck loosened enough to send you scrambling on the ground.

Your lungs scorched. Your palms and knees ached from landing unceremoniously on the hardwood flooring. By the time you began to crawl away, it was too late.

Bucky regained himself quicker than humanly possible. His hot flesh hand snagged your ankle in a bruising grip and yanked you back.

You cried out, hoarsely. “Bucky stop!”

He paid you no attention. Almost didn’t seem to hear you at all.

His hair fell into his face, darkening the mask that slid into place. He barely struggled to pull you underneath him. Strong, thick thighs caged your lower half to halt your flailing legs as he straddled your hips.

The pressure instantly returned. Both hands crushed your windpipe. His fingers dug into your skin. The wedding band fitted on his flesh hand bit deeper than the metal of his cybernetic hand.

In a last-ditch effort, your fingernails impaled his forearm, breaking the skin. Five half-moon crescents beaded up and trickled in lines of scarlet red, slicking along his arm and on your fingertips.

He never flinched.

Tears streamed out the corners of your eyes.

Darkness bled into your vision, starting at the corners and then filling in the rest as the seconds ticked by. Each beat of your heart painfully thudded in your chest, each thump clunking slower and slower. More spaced out.

Numbness spread until you resigned to it.

Your lids slid shut. You didn’t want those eyes to be the last thing you saw. Those arctic blue, barren eyes. Not Bucky’s eyes.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“Stop it, Daddy! Stop it! Get off of Mama!”

You wrenched your eyes back open in time to see your daughter smacking her father over the head with her rainbow nightlight.

Hope and absolute dread wracked your body as Bucky unclasped his hands and turned to look at the small girl standing her ground behind him, nightlight half-raised in the air for another strike. Tater is in front of her, barking viciously at Bucky.

“Run!” The word tore itself out your mangled throat. “Run!”

Bumblebee watched in horror as Bucky rose to a towering height, and she let out an earsplitting scream as he ripped the light away from her, then gripped the front of her Avengers pajama shirt, lifting her into the air.

“BUCKY NO!”

Past the rush of oxygen flowing back into your lungs and the thunderous beats of your heart, you heard terrified crying.

Your baby.

Wailing. Scared.

For a second, you’re back at the skating rink and your eyes land on Bucky, sitting on the ice, cradling her to his chest. Nothing else mattered.

Bucky frowned.

The first sign of emotion flickered over his features since you came out of the room.

Confusion.

You saw his eyes drop to the ground, saw him shake his head. Then he looked at the girl in his hold.

Recognition.

Grief.

Fear.

Horror.

Agony.

Bucky trembled, slowly and shakily lowering Bumblebee back onto her feet. She skittered around him, putting as much space between them as possible, and stumbled to your side. Tater is still growling at him.

You watched his eyes reluctantly settle on your body, watched his face crumble.

Bucky choked out. “I’m sorry.” He took a step back. He looked at his arms and saw the indents of your fingernails. Saw the imprint of his hands around your neck. Took another step back. “I…I…I didn’t—”

He turned and ran out of the house.