#I just need to live in somewhere where I can bear to have the windows open all year

[that-is-just-so-typically-me]

The more time goes on the more desperate I am to be outside constantly. Had such a hard time feeling sleepy until I put on an ambient soundtrack of just the noise of wind steadily blowing through trees and the chirping of birds and it was legitimately a calming tonic to my nerves.

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

I visited the Como Zoo in Minnesota not long ago and learned that they recently had some tiger cubs! So recently that the babies and mama are not on exhibit yet, and likely won't be for a while. And it made me wonder, how long does it usually take for big cat cubs to go on exhibit? And what's going on behind the scenes while they're not on display?

(also, we were doing our walkthrough in the afternoon, and both of the lions as well as the remaining tiger on exhibit were just. Fully stretched out right in the middle of their enclosures, having the most luxurious naps of their lives lol. Both the boys were snoozing on their backs, belly-up, and it was very funny to behold. Also, the polar bear was having a great time showing off for a gaggle of kids at the pool window!)

Sounds like you visited on a good day! Re: when cubs are allowed on exhibit, it's a good question! It can vary, but normally big cat cubs aren't let on habitat until they're at least a few months old. There's a couple reasons for this:

They've got to grow! In the wild, cubs wouldn't leave their den until their eyes are open and they can walk. Like a den, keeping them behind the scenes keeps the babies warm and safe and where their health can be easily monitored by staff. Indoors, it's less stressful and more successful for staff coax mom into another den if they need to access a baby for medical care - imagine the problems if they were stashed somewhere outside and mom wouldn't come indoors at all!

Mom's got to be willing to let them go outside. Again, just like in the wild, female cats keep their cubs hidden until they're "ready" to go outside - which is when they're big and strong enough to be past the "potato with eyes" stage and actively want to start exploring the world. I've seen some cubs not spend a ton of time on exhibit even when a zoo is willing to let them because mom isn't sure about it and will pick them up and take them back indoors.

Habitats built for adults aren't always built for littles! Before young animals of any species can be let out into the adult habitats, they have to be baby-proofed. And the little have to be big enough to be able to navigate an adult space safely. You see this when habitats have pools or moats, frequently, where they're either drained or fenced off until cubs (or baby eles) are coordinated enough to swim or big enough to wade safely.

So really, the timing of habitat access is a safety/health/natural behavior thing, and it normally aligns with about the normal timeline of mom being willing to let her babies start to explore the world.

Meet Marisa and Maks, the Amur tiger cubs born at the Como Zoo in October 2024.

Photo Credit: Como Zoo

[wannaeatramyeon]

Lookism x Reader: Happy Holidays!

G/N. Soft fluff. (All my blorbos - Gun Park, Goo Kim, Ryuhei Kuroda, Jake Kim, Vin Jin, Samuel Seo)

Gun Park - Hat

For the man that could buy pretty much anything, you opted to go for homemade. A personal touch.

Issue is, your personal touch is pretty shitty and shoddy. Gun still accepts the hat with a straight face and heartfelt thanks even as you tell him he doesn't have to wear it.

Why wouldn't I, he thinks. You have spent your time and effort making this for him and he appreciates it. Even if it isn't quite his... taste.

.

.

"What is that on your head?" Goo exclaims, torn between bursting into laughter and abject horror at the crimson bobble hat Gun is sporting. Ends of his hair poking out, and the colour highlighting the red of his windswept cheeks and nose.

"Fuck off."

"I think it's cute," Crystal grins as Goo whirls around and screeches.

"Cute?! Gun Park? Have you lost your mind?"

"Like you can say anything with those ridiculous mittens."

"My mittens are not ridiculous!"

Ignoring Crystal and Goo devolving into slinging insults at each other, Kouji glances at Gun and chuckles, opens his mouth to tease-

And is intercepted by a look from Gun, and a warning. "Shut it if you want to live."

Kouji's mouth slams shut.

.

.

Goo -  Mittens

"Tasteless," Gun sneers, and Goo kicks his ass for it.

"Tasteless," Kouji sighs, and Goo throws his laptop out the window.

"Tasteless," Crystal laments, and Goo- well. Goo can't exactly do anything. That's his boss's daughter, and nepotism is kinda a thing.

So he snarls, nostrils flaring and calls her tasteless too.

.

.

"I. LOVE. THESE!" You screech, high and shrill when you yank the mittens out of the box.

Tasteless huh, Goo thinks smugly as you cover him in kisses, No surprise it's everyone else that has no taste.

Birds of a feather truly flock together where you and Goo are concerned. Birds of a feather will also be able to keep their hands warm with their couples mittens too.

A conjoined monstrous thing, that allows you two to keep holding hands through the bitter Seoul winter. Keeping your fingers intertwined and an objectively OTT display of PDA. That you had to be touching, can't even bear to keep your hands to yourself for a moment, that you would need such an accessory.

Goo thought it was perfect when he laid eyes on it, if the way you two are always attached at the hip is any indication.

You clearly think so too, when Goo unwraps his own gift-

-Delighted and cackling, pulling out the same duplicate mittens.

.

.

Ryuhei Kuroda - Card

"Y/N!" Ryuhei calls you from down the hallway, waving enthusiastically before striding over.

"Here," he grins, handing over a card, "Happy Holidays. Hope you like it!"

.

.

The card sits on your desk. It's somewhere between cringe and cheesy, and utterly charming.

On the front is a (badly) hand drawn picture of you and Ryuhei, signed with his signature in the corner. Inside, a couple lines of explicit filth accompanied with sickeningly sweet declarations and too many hearts and kisses to count.

You blame it on the festive period. That's the reason you're feeling so soppy and sentimental, why every time you look at the crappy drawing you can't help but smile.

.

.

Ryuhei blinks, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline, "You kept it?"

"Yeah," you peer at the card in your periphery, "I like it."

"You like it? Really?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

You hear Ryuhei mumbling something about how someone (no prizes for guessing who) would always just dump them in the trash without opening.

"...And they weren't even lewd," he sighs, then perks up, any gloominess dissipating and eyes practically sparkling, "But that's all in the past."

Absolutely delighted, Ryuhei leans over your desk, practically lying across it, and punctuates each word with a kiss, "You!” MWAH “Like!” MWAH “It!” MWAH

"Yeah," you smile fondly at your idiot, cupping his face, "I like you too."

.

.

Jake Kim - Gifts

Jake shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie. It's been a long day. Actually, it's just been a long goddamn year.

He runs his fingers through his hair, ready to jump in the shower and straight to bed when-

Gift bags and presents cover his coffee table and a 'DO NOT OPEN! IT'S NOT FOR YOU!' sign catches his eye.

Huh. That is undoubtedly your scrawl, but if they're not gifts for him then...? He fires off a quick text.

Jake: hey, did you leave some presents at mine?

Y/N: yeah!

Y/N: i did some shopping and grabbed some stuff for your big deal boys

Y/N: and lua ofc

Jake, jaw dropping open at your thoughtfulness: really?

Y/N: yep. sinu and yeonhui too btw.

Jake: are you serious??

Y/N: yeah.. is that not ok?

He’s rendered speechless. And that you might even think that you have overstepped or any such nonsense is ridiculous.

Jake: wow

Jake: it’s more than ok

Jake: you didn’t have to

Jake: i appreciate it.thank you

Y/N: 😁 its just some small bits and pieces. i didn't think you would have time

Y/N: i left some food for you in the fridge too 🥰

His breath hitches and stomach grumbles, your message reminding his body he hasn't had anything since this morning.

Jake starts to type-

I can't believe-

You're the best-

I'm so lucky-

You're too good to-

I don't know what I would do without-

None of them feel right.

In the end he settles for something far simpler.

He dials your number, hears the question in your voice when you pick up.

And pours everything into three words, "I love you."

.

.

Vin Jin - Cheonliang

Vin opts for casual and nonchalant, pretends it's something that he thought of rather than something that he has wondered about for the last few weeks.

(Used Mary as a soundboard and she had thought it was a good idea, and if Mary thinks it's a good idea then it definitely is.)

It was a passing thought, at first. A small seed planted and grown until all Vin can think about is how nice the holidays would be with you, how cool it would be to show you where he grew up.

He can't ever escape the awful memories there that still haunt him, but... maybe he can create new memories too.

With you.)

"If you're not doing anything for the holiday break," Vin keeps his eyes on his phone, scrolling now and then to keep up appearances, "Want to come visit Cheonliang with me?"

The question is casual. Easygoing. Breezy. His voice doesn't crack at the end. He's not holding his breath waiting for your reply. He doesn't desperately wish you would say yes, and hasn’t already planned the days with you in advance.

"Really?"

"Yeah," Vin forces himself to shrug, "Might be nice."

"I would love to!"

Vin takes a peek in your direction, double checks he didn't just hallucinate your agreement or that you're joking.

He didn't, and you're not. All he sees is excitement painted over your face and a wide smile. You know how much this means.

He wraps his arm around your shoulder, a weight lifted from his own. Equally anxious and thrilled to show you every part of himself.

.

.

Samuel Seo - Gift

"This would look good on you," Samuel shows you a piece of fine jewellery on his phone. It's exquisite. A bit too much for everyday wear (of course Samuel would pick this out, he himself is a bit too much), though it really is stunning.

You tell him it's beautiful.

He pauses, studies your face, then clicks the screen off. Back to square one. "You don't love it."

It's not accusatory, just a statement. But he feels like he needs to get this right. Your first holiday together and you deserve the world. He wants to get you something, really spoil you, to show how much you mean to him.

You take in Samuel's face and can't help but giggle. Him trying to remain unaffected except for a small, telling pout.

"I would love it if you got it for me," You shuffle over until you're sitting in his lap, "But I don't need it."

He wraps you in his arms, adjusting until you're both comfortable, "What do you need?"

"Nothing," Grinning, "I don't need anything else."

"Fine, then what do you want?"

"You."

Your cheesy response earns an eye roll and a reluctant huff of laughter, "You got me. What else do you want?"

"Nothing," you repeat, leaning in and lifting his glasses off. "You're enough."

You pepper his face with kisses until Samuel melts into a puddle; all thoughts of proving his love with price tags and money completely forgotten.

[leiawritesstories]

I Won't Call It Love, Part 2

Find Part 1 here! written for the rowaelin yulemas swap 2024 for @shyvioletcat :))

Word count: 2k

Warnings: swearing, pregnancy & hormones

Enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Alright.” The doctor tapped away on her laptop for a minute. “Okay, I let the receptionist know that you’ll want to come back in about a week. I tentatively have you down for next Thursday at 10, but you can chat with reception if that time doesn’t work.” 

“Okay.” Calm enough to release her hands, Aelin cleared her throat. “I have a couple of questions for right now, if that’s okay?” 

“Absolutely.” Dr. Towers turned to fully face her. 

Aelin swallowed the lump in her throat. “How…how is this possible?” She twisted the ring around her right forefinger. “I thought I’d been diagnosed with infertility.” 

The doctor nodded slowly. “Well, there’s always a tiny bit of a chance. In your case, you have somewhere around a two percent chance of conceiving naturally, and it seems like that little window lined up just right.” 

“I…oh.” Aelin blinked slowly. “Okay.” On instinct, one hand went to her low belly, fingertips carefully resting atop the skin. “Gods. This is a lot to process.” 

“Of course.” Dr. Towers closed her laptop and rolled back her stool. “Take some time, Aelin. We’ll see you again in about a week, okay?” 

“Sounds good.” Aelin pushed herself up onto her feet and went out to the reception desk, where she confirmed the follow-up appointment for the next week. She went out to her car and just sat there for a while, music playing in the background, staring blankly at the landscaped shrubs in front of her. 

A baby. 

It might make her crazy, but somewhere deep down in her heart, Aelin knew she couldn’t give up this chance. She’d seen glimpses of the devastation her parents hid from her, flickers of their sadness the few times she had asked for a baby sister when she was a child. As she grew older and began to navigate her own fertility problems, she faced the reality that even if she fell in love with someone who she wanted to have a family with, it might not be possible. 

She couldn’t bear to give up the chance now that she had it. 

Her hand hovered over her phone, eventually withdrawing. She had to get home first, get herself to a familiar place where she could break down if the call didn’t go the way she hoped it would. So she finally left the clinic parking lot and drove back home, and once she was inside and wrapped in cozy sweats and a blanket, she tapped Rowan’s contact. 

He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Fireheart. What’s up?” 

“Rowan, I…” Aelin swallowed the tangle of words. “We need to talk. Can you come over?” 

“Yeah.” Something rustled on his end of the call. “Want me to come over now? I can be there in fifteen minutes.” 

“Okay.” Her voice was small, soft. 

He paused, and she sensed the questions brewing in his mind. “Aelin…are you okay?” 

She let out a shaky breath. “I’ve had a wild day, Ro, and I’m overwhelmed.”

“I’ll be there soon.” Reassurance coated his words. “Do you need to stay on the phone?” 

“I’ll be okay.” She clung to the warmth of his voice. “Drive safe, buzzard.” 

She was still in the same position on her couch fifteen minutes later when her doorbell rang, and it took her some effort to get up and go let her boyfriend in. 

Worry creased his forehead, and he hesitantly reached out and slid his arms around her. “Hey, it’s just me.” 

The tears she’d been holding back broke free and spilled down her cheeks as she melted into his arms. He lifted her off her feet and carried her down to the living room and settled onto the couch, pulling her into his lap. She clung to his solid strength, willing her voice not to shake as she finally lifted her head off his shoulder, met his worried eyes, and whispered, “I’m pregnant.” 

A thousand shades of shock crossed his face. “Aelin…”

Her breath shuddered out. “I saw my doctor today and the test was so positive.” A shaky inhale. “Rowan, I—I haven’t been with anyone else in a long time.” 

Slowly, he nodded, one hand lifting to her face to brush the tears off her cheeks. “It’s okay, Fireheart. We’re gonna be okay.” He swallowed thickly. “Do you know if you want this?” 

“I definitely do.” She surprised herself at how fast her answer came. “I’m seeing my doctor again next week; she gave me some time to think about it. But Ro…I didn’t think I’d get this chance this soon.” She sniffled. “I’m gonna blame you for having magical fucking sperm.” 

That brought a husky laugh out of both of them. A smile curved Rowan’s lips. “You’re sure, then? Because if you want this—if you want our baby—I’m here for you.” 

Tears sprang to Aelin’s eyes again. “I’m sure, Ro. I want this. With you.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Can you come to the doctor with me next week?” 

~

Aelin touched the curve of her stomach, still not quite used to the feeling of her body stretching and constantly changing even after six months of pregnancy. Since she found out and had her first ultrasound, which put her at around ten weeks, everything had been going fairly smoothly, except for her fucking hormones making her cry every five seconds. Around a month ago, she’d finally worked up the balls to ask Rowan to move in. He’d been nothing but committed to her and Baby Bean, and it was time to stop dancing around the question. 

It was time to stop pretending she could keep anything about him casual. 

“Aelin Galathynius?” The voice broke through her thoughts. 

She stood up, pressing a fist to the small of her back. “Hi. That’s me.” 

“Follow me.” The woman dressed in gray scrubs led Aelin and Rowan down a hallway and into a softly-lit ultrasound room. “Go ahead and get yourself comfortable, Miss Aelin. I’ll be back shortly to get the scan started.” 

Rowan settled into a chair and set Aelin’s coat and shoulder bag on the chair next to him. “Ready to see the baby again?” 

“Yeah.” She smiled as she got herself settled on the exam bed, touching the swell of her belly and feeling the flutter of tiny kicks. “She’s excited to show herself off too.” 

“She?” Rowan raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t we finding out the sex today?” 

Aelin chuckled. “I just have a feeling.” 

The ultrasound tech came back into the room and explained the anatomy scan before telling Aelin to tuck her shirt up. She squeezed gel onto Aelin’s belly and pressed the probe against the skin, scanning, and static flickered on the screen before resolving into a beautifully clear image of the baby, little legs and arms waving. “Baby’s in a good position today,” the tech murmured, clicking away at the keyboard. She took a whole bunch of images, checking baby’s measurements and nodding as she went. “Did you want to know the sex?” 

“Yes.” 

She moved the probe around, and a warm smile lit up her face. “Congratulations! You’re having a girl.” 

Aelin beamed. “I knew it!” Just as quickly, a shade darkened her eyes, but she shook it away. “Get ready for all the cutest little dresses in the world to show up at our house, Ro.” 

“Already ordered her first tutu,” he teased, reaching over to squeeze Aelin’s hand. 

The exam finished up, and after a brief chat with Dr. Towers, Aelin and Rowan left the clinic with a roll of ultrasound images. Aelin was quiet during the drive home, and Rowan noticed but didn’t say anything until they were home. 

“Everything alright?” he asked as he went to put the new ultrasounds up on the fridge. 

“Just thinking.” She took a box of pretzel crisps out of the pantry. “Processing. I’m so excited for our daughter, but…” She shook her head. “Never mind. It’s stupid.” 

“Hey.” He passed her the jar of tzatziki dip she kept in the fridge for her cravings. “It’s not stupid, love.” 

She sighed. “What if she grows up and hates me, Ro?” Tears clouded her vision. “I don’t want to fail her like that.” 

“Fireheart,” he whispered, coming to slide his arms around her, “she won’t.” 

“How do you know?” She sniffled, helpless. “I don’t want to repeat everything my mom did.” 

“You won’t.” He kissed the top of her head. “This worry—the want you have to show our daughter unconditional love—that’s why. She’s always going to know that her mama loves her. Always.” 

Aelin flicked away a stray tear. “I hope so.” 

“I know so.” Rowan cupped her chin in one hand. “Just like I love you, Ae.” 

Her tears crested again. “You can’t be all sweet to a hormonal pregnant lady, buzzard. I’m turning into a mess.” Rising onto her tiptoes, she turned and kissed him. “I love you too.” 

~

“Buzzard.” Aelin poked her boyfriend’s ribs, but he didn’t budge. “Wake up, Ro.” 

He shifted, mumbling incoherently, so she poked him again. His eyes cracked open. “Mornin’, Fireheart. What time is it?” 

She glanced at the clock. “A little after five.” 

“So early,” he mumbled. “You okay?” 

“I—shit.” A contraction gripped her, and she bent over. “Contractions, Ro.” 

He was out of bed in seconds, hurrying to throw on sweatpants and a shirt. “Is it time?” 

Catching her breath, she nodded. “I think so.” She rubbed her stomach. “You ready, baby girl? Mama and Daddy have been waiting for you.” 

“Looks like the inducing worked.” Rowan shot her a devious little wink, and she shook her head and tossed a pillow towards him. He caught it with a smirk. “Bags are already in the car, love.” 

“I know.” She’d packed her hospital bags a few weeks ago and kept them in the back of her car. “Ready, buzzard?” 

“I am.” He slipped his hand into hers. “Let’s go meet our girl.” 

In a hazy blur of hours, they were in the delivery room. Aelin took every contraction in stride, breathing and changing positions and squeezing the fuck out of Rowan’s hands. As soon as she could, she got an epidural, and she was able to rest for a while before her doctor helped her up and told her it was time to push. 

“Nine…ten! Good job, Aelin!” Dr. Towers called. Aelin heaved a breath, her hair sticking to her forehead, and braced herself. “Okay, ready? Push!” 

Aelin strained, gripping the bed frame one one side and Rowan’s hand on the other, and in a blur of noise, a baby’s wail broke through the room. 

“Meet your daughter,” Dr. Towers said, and she laid the squirming baby girl on the blankets spread across Aelin’s chest. 

“Hi, little love,” Aelin breathed, cradling her tiny girl against her chest. “I…oh gods. I can’t believe how gorgeous you are.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she turned her head to Rowan, who stared wide-eyed at their daughter. “She’s beautiful.” 

“She’s…gods…she…” Rowan coughed. “Fuck. Marry me, Aelin.” 

Laughter bubbled up out of her throat. “How about you try that again when I’m not a hormonal mess, Rowan?” 

“Yeah.” He rubbed his hands down his face, tears tracking down his cheeks. “I have no idea why that slipped out.” 

Aelin couldn’t help herself. “You know what didn’t slip out? You.” 

There was a moment of silence, and then laughter bounced off the walls. 

“Damn right,” Rowan chuckled. He reached over and laid a gentle hand atop their baby girl’s back. “Look what we did, though.” 

“I know.” Aelin traced the curve of her daughter’s tiny nose. “She’s perfect.” 

A little while later, after Baby Girl had been weighed and measured and cleaned up and was wrapped in a cozy blanket and snuggled into her mother’s arms, a nurse came over to Aelin and Rowan. “Do you have a name picked out?” 

“We do.” Aelin met Rowan’s eyes, and he winked. “Alanna Evalin Whitethorn.” 

His jaw went slack. “You…really?”

She nodded. “If I’m getting your last name, so does our daughter.” 

“I love you,” he choked out. 

Aelin smiled. “We love you too.”

~~~

TAGS:

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

@renxzs

@anarchiii

@fauna-flora11

@cynthiesjmxazrielslover

@mysterylilycheeta

[nolita-fairytale]

don't you worry, there's still time | chef luca x fem!reader, feat. marcus brooks

summary: after losing his mother, marcus searches for joy and stillness in copenhagen. you and luca, who are more than happy to host, decide to take a big next step in your relationship. a oneshot from the world of 'burn your life down.'

warnings: fluff, light angst, grief, death, light smut, second person pov, swearing, danish inaccuracies, off-canon connection to the storyline of the bear.

word count: 5.8k

listen to: the playlist

a/n: wow, i missed this world! who is ready for the reveal of chef's restaurant name?! while i don't think i have the bandwidth to write another full series (nor a linear story to tell) i'm thinking of creating a second part to 'burn your life down' where we just get to drop in and see what they're up to. thoughts??

chef luca masterlist | full masterlist

After a tumultuous holiday season, it doesn’t take long for Sydney to realize that her friend is in need of a little help. A reprieve, she so kindly explained to both Marcus and Carmy when she’d proposed the idea. 

It was Sydney this time, who called Luca, knowing that she and Carmy would have to find something to do with Marcus. It wasn’t fair – that he’d lost his mom just before Thanksgiving – and they both agreed that Marcus needed to get out of dodge. Quick to act, Carmy set up a few stages in NYC for a week or so, which, while seemed to inspire Marcus, seemed to only plunge him further into a slump come Christmas. “I don’t know. I think we gotta send him on some kinda… eat, pray, love trip. The guy can only sulk on my couch for so long before I consider jumping out of the window,” Sydney says, her attempt to lighten the mood with humor still genuine. “It’s getting sad, Carm. Like… real fuckin’ sad.”

“You’re right. Uh… what about Copenhagen?” Carmy pitches with a shrug, because he knows what all consuming grief feels like. 

“Again?” she asks, uncertain of whether it’s the best choice that they could make. 

“Yeah,” Carmy shrugs in response. “Think he got a lot of it last time. Could be good for him to go back to somewhere familiar… work with Luca again. You don’t think it’s a-?”

“No I do! I just-,” Sydney hesitates, though she knows her business partner makes a good point. “Familiarity will be good for him. To be around people he can trust.”

“You want me to uh-,” Carmy begins to offer, figuring he’ll make the call. 

“Probably best if I explain the situation. Just ‘cause, you know, I know more of what’s going on… just send me his info and I’ll call later,” Sydney interjects. 

Carmy agrees with a curt nod before adding in:

“Uh… okay yeah. Yeah.”

*

You get plenty of time to prepare for Marcus’ visit, performing all kinds of fancy footwork to arrange a proper visit – a week’s worth of time spent staging and living in Copenhagen. When Luca finds out that the prolific houseboat, a chef retreat of sorts that’s always been an option for lodging, is booked for the week and a half that Marcus plans on visiting, you offer up your place without hesitation. 

The arrangement goes as follows: while Marcus stays at yours at no cost, you’ll stay with Luca for the duration of the time. 

This is how you find yourself at the massive Ikea on Dybbølsbro on a Saturday morning with Luca, in search of a set of fresh bed linens intended for guests. 

“I really should host more. And Astrid said she and Lina were planning a trip out here so… why not kill two birds with one stone?” you’d reasoned to your boyfriend, making a strong case for why you and Luca should make this little shopping trip. 

“What do you think of the blue?” Luca asks you, as you run your hand over a set of the display sheets, checking for softness. 

“Don’t know if the blue is what I’m going for. I was thinking of something warmer. Maybe a yellow or… I don’t know. I’ve kind of been into that trendy rust color as of late,” you reply with a shrug, moving onto the warmer colors. 

Luca chuckles and with a small shake of his head, he clarifies his previous questions with:

“No, I meant for me.”

“What do you mean?” you ask him curiously, his comment pulling all of your focus as you search his face for answers. “You just got new bedding.” 

And expensive ones too. 

But as your eyes follow his gaze, you realize that he’s not talking about sheets, focused on the XL Twin-sized duvets just above where the sheets messily fall along the shelf. 

“I was thinking…” Luca trails off, checking in with you before he continues, with “... maybe it’s time I get two duvets… you know… for us.” He takes a beat, and a step towards you, and you know you’ll never stand a chance against his boyish charm as one side of his mouth turns up into a smile. 

You’re no stranger to the Scandinavian duvet method – two twin duvets for one king sized bed – but it sounds like Luca’s suggestion is about way more than buying an extra duvet on this trip. 

“I want you to feel at home… at my place."

“I do,” you reply, almost instantly, a warmth spreading through your belly as you take a step towards him. 

“But I mean really… feel like it’s your home. Because it is. It could be. You know… if you want it to be,” Luca continues, this time with more insistence, a look of hopefulness in his deep blue eyes. 

“Are you… are you asking me to move in with you?” you manage to get out, your heart skipping a beat. 

“Why not? We could use this week to try it out,” he suggests so casually that you practically have to do a double take. “See how it goes while Marcus stays at your place?”

“Yeah I-... that sounds like a good plan, yeah,” you stammer out, the grin on your face undeniable as you nod enthusiastically in the middle of a goddamn furniture store. 

“Besides,” Luca says, clearing his throat as his tone changes to one that’s much more playful. “You’re an absolute blanket hog and a repeat offender at that.” Luca winks your way as you roll your eyes with a laugh in response. “This could prevent some of our silly little quarrels, don’t you think, love?” 

“Uh huh,” you sound, your face skeptical as you look his way again. “Preventative measures. Sure, babe.”

Luca chuckles before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips, right then and there, in the Ikea bed linen section, the place you’ll now forever think of as the place your boyfriend asked you to move in with him.

Connection

When Marcus arrives in Copenhagen, you’ve arranged your home with the most comfort in mind, having already packed a week’s worth of things and left for Luca’s. You can only imagine what he must be going through, deciding that something like that – losing your mother – though inevitable, is your goddamn worst nightmare. 

“Marcus, 

Enjoy your stay and please reach out if you need anything. I can’t wait to meet you!”

…is the note that you leave him, along with a few morning pastries you picked up from your favorite baggeri across the street, and your number scribbled down at the bottom of the notepad. 

As Marcus arrives, his eyes drawn immediately to your note and gift, Marcus smiles to himself, noticing that you left a very nice looking bottle of wine on the counter as well. He’s moved by your generosity, considering you’ve never met, and the fact that you’re willing to take so much care, extend this much kindness to a stranger, causes a wave of softness to wash over him. 

Maybe, just maybe, he can find softness again – the last few months riddled with pain, grief, and numbness to get through the days. 

While he came here to work, encouraged by his friends that a change of scenery may do his broken heart some good, it’s the first time Marcus has had a chance to be still. His feelings of grief sit heavier here and it catches him off guard, uncertain that he’s quite ready to sit with them yet. He pushes aside the thought, focusing on exploring your home and unpacking his bags. Marcus knows how to stay busy – he’s become an expert at it by now – reminding himself that he’s got work at 5 am sharp tomorrow.

*

“A little too much, chef. Take it down by about 15 grams,” Luca directs, his voice even and sure as he inspects the balls of dough that Marcus currently shapes. 

“Yes, chef,” Marcus nods in understanding, plopping the ball of dough back on the scale to adjust the measurement. 

The two of them work like this for the rest of the morning, Luca treading carefully while keeping things professional, while Marcus buries himself in the work – something that feels good, safe, right. 

He’s missed this. While Marcus has one chef he works with directly at the restaurant, he’s the expert – the head patissier. He misses being surrounded by excellence, getting to be a student of someone who is just as driven, if not more, and inspired. It’s good, quiet, calm, yet there’s a focus and intensity in Luca’s kitchen that feels like a breath of fresh air. 

His stage trip to New York has been more of a mess than beneficial. Maybe it had been the chaos of the city, or the chaos of the chefs he was working with. Maybe it was the fact that Marcus, though hungry for a distraction, hadn’t quite been ready to walk directly into the line of fire yet.

As Marcus’ practiced hands move with the dough, there’s a newfound confidence in the way that he works that's not lost on Luca. Luca watches his friend carefully, pride swelling in his chest as his mentee makes the adjustment with ease and diligence.

“Can I join you?” Luca asks, gesturing towards Marcus' workstation. 

“‘Course, chef,” Marcus replies, his response short yet reverent. 

As Luca joins him, finding a space to the right of Marcus, he busies his hands with rolling each perfectly measured ball of dough into mini boules, ready to proof. The two of them work quietly, side by side, the air between them heavy with words unsaid. He can feel it – the weight that lays so heavily on Marcus' heart – but Luca doesn’t want to bring it up, uninterested in forcing the conversation. Especially about something so painful, something he knows that Marcus has barely begun working through. 

“Thanks, again. For uh… you know… letting me come work,” Marcus begins, momentarily checking in with Luca to gauge a reaction. 

“‘Course,” Luca replies, his answer instantaneous. “You’re welcome here any time, mate.” 

“Yeah?” Marcus asks, stealing a glance in Luca’s direction.

“Yeah,” Luca responds with a certain nod. 

“And uh… shit. I can’t thank your girlfriend enough for letting me crash at her place,” Marcus adds, as he works through his discomfort and overwhelm from the wave of feelings that begin to bubble up in his chest.

“You can thank her yourself on Saturday,” Luca brings up, excited over the fact that Marcus will not only be meeting his girlfriend, but staging at her restaurant too. “She’s really looking forward to meeting you.” 

Marcus nods slowly, his hands the only steady thing about him as he continues to focus on his work. 

“I just mean-, well, she didn’t have to-. ‘S not like either of you owed it to me or anything and I-. You guys just really came through…” Marcus trails off, wanting to make his gratitude clear. It means more to him that he can articulate so instead he settles for, “So thank you. Again.”

Luca shrugs with an aplomb about him as he returns with, “We got you, mate.” He pauses before continuing, fully aware that Marcus isn’t quite comfortable with the feelings that have presented themself in this moment. “And the way I see it, I wouldn’t have met her if it weren’t for you – for our conversation the last time you were here – so we really do owe you for it.”

This time Luca makes an effort to check in with Marcus, gauging his emotional capacity as he concludes with:

“But that’s not what any of this is about: debts, who owes who what. We were both more than happy to host you. That’s what mates are for.”

It’s not till the end of the next shift that it hits him, and Marcus finds himself sitting outside of the restaurant on a bench across the street. He’s not sure whether it’s the jet lag or the exhaustion of the 5 am start time in another time zone, but it hits him all at once, like a ton of bricks. Suddenly consumed with the feelings that he’s been trying his best to avoid, all he can do is pause, completely caught off guard by the strength of them. 

Quietly, Luca joins him, having spotted him on his way home, rerouting himself in Marcus’ direction instead. 

All he can think of are the words you’ve asked him, and he you, time and time again – the ones that cut right to the core of you each and every time – that show you how much he cares. 

“How’s your heart?” Luca asks Marcus, after a few minutes of sitting on the bench together in silence. 

And how is his heart? 

He’s not sure how to answer, considering it’s been a while since he’s really had a chance to check in, the crippling reality of this great loss is too much to bear alone. 

His heart is broken, shattered into an infinite amount of pieces. 

He, and his heart will never be the same again and he doesn’t know where or how he’ll ever put it back together. 

His heart is… lost, in desperate need of finding a soft place to land. 

Marcus takes a while to answer, racking his brain for any semblance of a cohesive answer. 

He waits. And then he waits. 

Until finally, he can answer. 

“I uh… don’t know. But I’m hoping this trip will help me figure that out.”

Creativity 

“do you remember the 21st night of september? love was changin' the minds of pretenders while chasin' the clouds away.” (earth, wind, and fire.)

Everything about the way you run your kitchen feels different than what he’s used to. 

It’s sure as hell different from his last stage trip to New York, Marcus thinks to himself.

With Carmy and Syd, working with them, there’s a buzz of chaos that runs underneath even the most organized and efficient service. It’s something integral to what they have, gives an edge to The Bear that seems to make it hum in all the right ways. Even with Luca, who comes from fine dining and Michelin-starred restaurants, there’s a quiet and determined focus – an intensity to his work – even without the undercurrent of chaos. 

But this. But you. 

Your kitchen somehow teeters the line of organized chaos and reckless play so well that Marcus understands why this works – why it’s efficient. 

Still, he watches as you and your staff dance – no, literally dance – around each other to the highly recognizable Earth, Wind, and Fire tune. Mathilde sings along while chopping chives for the brothy mushroom grain bowl, while, mid-phrase, manages to yell out a short command to a line cook in Danish. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus catches Jesper working the dining room, while you finish plating two more dishes, ready to be walked out. 

It’s as if you find focus in the center of all the noise, somewhere between the electric energy between you, Mathilde, and your staff, and the feel-good vibes and homeyness of the restaurant that you’ve created. 

You had been more than welcoming when Marcus had walked through the doors of your restaurant, Kokuore, mere hours ago. You’d given him the tour, shown him which station he’d be working this evening, then warmly introduced him to your entire team before family meal started. Marcus can’t stop moving, too afraid to be still in fear of falling apart in the presence of how comforting you’ve been. 

And this? Your kitchen. It’s all joy, connection, and artistry. 

It’s not hard for him to see why Luca fell in love with you. 

“Marcus, feel free to take a break,” he hears you say, as you nod towards the dining room through the open kitchen. 

As Marcus follows your gesture, he notices that Luca’s arrived, remembering something about a standing Saturday date. 

“You sure, chef?” Marcus asks, looking to you for approval. 

“Positive,” you nod, reassuringly.

Marcus nods in return to confirm, before taking his apron off and making his way over to the dining room where Luca is exchanging a few words with Jesper. 

“Wassup, chef,” he greets his mentor. 

“You know, you can call me Luca,” Luca reminds him with a crooked smile. “At least when we’re off the clock.”

Marcus chuckles, “Uh… yeah alright. That’s gonna take some getting used to.” 

Luca chuckles in return, before Jesper shows them to his table, mentioning something about Americans being so afraid of fluidity. 

“She’s brilliant isn’t she?” Luca asks, in reference to you as his eyes catch yours from across the room. 

“Nah for real. Like… mad scientist vibes,” Marcus concurs with a smile. “She can throw down for sure.” He pauses as they sit down at Luca’s table. “So you come every Saturday night, huh?”

“When I can, yeah, which is… most Saturdays,” Luca replies honestly, before beginning to list why he’s kept up this routine. “But it’s nice. Keeps me inspired. I get to see my girl, walk her home at night which makes me feel better.” Luca leans back in his chair this time, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I never mind helping close down at the end of the night.”

Marcus hums in response before one of the waitstaff comes to their table, with a glass of wine in hand, on the house. They chat for a little longer before Marcus returns to the kitchen, his excitement for what you’re doing here filling him to the brim. 

As dinner service comes to an end, Marcus can’t help but notice the chemistry and how unique it is as you all work together in perfect harmony. There’s a warmth to it, something different, and he begins to understand why the name of the restaurant comes from the word, heart. 

Luca is quick to get up from his table, quickly finishing his glass of wine as he offers to help close down. The music volume goes from underscoring the buzz of a busy night of service, to the main attraction, as a motown throwbacks playlist begins to blare from the speakers. You all work quickly and efficiently, eager to close down, get home, and begin your weekends, but it’s when an old Otis Redding track that Luca decides to put a pause on the progress. 

“Dance with me, my love,” he says, offering his hand out to you as a huge gesture that earns a few looks and giggles from some of your staff. 

“Luca,” you begin to protest, looking around. 

“You can take three minutes,” he offers, exchanging a look with you this time. 

You nod, taking his hand as you agree with, “Okay.”

And as Luca wraps you up in his arms, engaging you in a slow dance to Otis Redding’s “That’s How Strong my Love is,” you chuckle, relaxing into him.

“Oh, get a room, you two!” Jesper calls out after you, teasingly. 

“She pretends – always puts up a fight – as if they don’t do this every single week,” Mathilde adds, as an explanation to Marcus. 

“Every week?” Marcus asks, a little surprised by both you and Luca’s willingness to pause and revel in a moment with each other, instead of just pushing through. 

“Yeah. Romantics, they are,” Jesper chimes in. 

Marcus smiles to himself. It’s a reminder of slowness – something he hasn’t let himself experience in a long time – and for just a moment, he lets himself settle into the feeling. 

*

You don’t even mind that you woke up an hour before your alarm the moment you feel Luca’s arms wrapped around you, and his lips against your soft skin. The low rumble of his voice resonates across your shoulders, sending chills down your spine as you arch into his hands, his arms wrapped around you. 

“I know we’re only a few days in… of our little trial,” Luca begins, the bass of his voice reverberating through your shoulder blade.

“Our living together trial?” you clarify with your ask, letting out a gasp as he nibbles on your shoulder gently. 

“Yeah. Just wonderin’ where your mind’s at,” Luca murmurs, his eager hands beginning to explore underneath the oversized shirt you put on before bed last night. 

“Well… I really like this,” you reply, the sound that comes out of your mouth somewhere between a giggle and a moan. 

“Hmmmm?” Luca sounds, innocently. 

“This… Waking up to you thing.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Mhm.”

Luca’s name escapes your lips as his fingers gently begin to play with your nipples, his erection hard against your back as you begin to grind your hips back against. 

“And the access to round the clock sex is really a bonus,” you sigh, blissfully. 

“Oh yeah?” he asks you again, a large tatted hand slipping between your legs. 

“Yeah… I’d even be… interested in leaning into that part… right now,” you hiss in reply to his touch. “Considering you’re distracting me with sex.”

“Hmmmmm. ‘S not just it, love. Have I told you how grateful I am for what you’ve done for Marcus?” Luca asks, his mouth back on your neck. He presses your body against him, your back to his chest as he rocks his hips against yours. 

“Luca!” you protest, unable to focus on the conversation. 

“It’s your kindness. Your heart… I’m in awe of it,” he continues to praise you as the two of you begin to set a rhythm between your bodies. 

It’s all heat, and soft sighs of pleasure, and foreplay.

“Well, I know a little something about what he’s going through,” you answer breathlessly. You begin to impatiently push the hem of your shirt higher so that you can give Luca more access to your body. 

“That’s why I love you,” Luca murmurs into your skin, his hands all over you, his focus unbroken and your mind beginning to go blank. His hands are tearing your shirt over your head as he continues to praise you. “Your heart, the way you share it.”

“You helped me get there, baby,” you gasp, turning your head so that you can kiss your boyfriend. 

Instead of answering, Luca nods knowingly, before crashing his lips into yours. His mouth on yours feels like heaven, and you can’t believe that you ever fought your feelings for him. 

“Ah fuck it. Let’s do it. Let’s move in together,” you surrender to him, lost in the moment. 

“Yeah?” Luca pauses, pulling away, as if almost can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

“Yeah. I mean it, baby,” you nod, catching his gaze, certain in the way you answer. “I wanna wake up to you every morning.”

“Me too, my love,” Luca grins, before pressing his lips to yours again. “Now will you please let me fuck you, darling?”

“Fuck yes.”

Luca spends the next hour showing you just how grateful he is for you, while you in return, spend the next hour showing him just how sure you are about this decision. 

And you are sure. If mornings like this are a constant for the rest of your life, you think you’ll die a happy woman. 

You’ve found a home in him, and he, you. He’s the person you want to come home to at the end of the day. He’s the man that puts a smile on your face every single time he gets on his soapbox about how Beyonce is the performer of your lifetimes, and he is unequivocally the best, most unexpected thing in your life. 

Luca Davies, in almost a year of knowing him, and eight months of getting to love him, has somehow become your favorite person. 

By the time you and Luca are both showered and decent-for-company, you’ve begun your mise en place for brunch, completely content with the fact that you’re running a little behind schedule (and in all fairness, the sex was worth it – it’s always worth it). The smell of bacon sizzling away on your carbon steel fry pan fills the entire apartment, and you’re glad that Luca opened a window earlier. It’s not exactly window weather yet, but the air ventilation is a must when it comes to smoked meats.

While you play catch up with your brunch plan, Luca’s busy welcoming Marcus in, pouring him a cup of coffee using the extensive ten-step pour over he’s been fixated on ever since he purchased it, while they chat here and there about what else he’s explored in Denmark. 

“Been too busy working, to be honest but… I don’t know. I might wander around today… see what kind of stuff I can get into,” Marcus answers frankly with a shrug. 

“Ah, mate. We just had a walk at the Frederiksberg Gardens. Definitely something I’d recommend checking out,” Luca suggests, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he mentions it. 

Luca continues moving through his list of recommendations, Marcus chiming in with places and things he did the last time he was here, excited to spend a few days exploring the city instead of just working. 

“Wanderin’ around. I dunno. There’s something about it. ‘S good for the spirit, you know?” Luca concludes. 

“Yeah,” Marcus nods in agreement, before turning his attention over to the French toast you’re working on. “Okay, I see you. What is that? Mascarpone?”

“Yeah, good eye. It’s just something new I’m working on: a mascarpone stuffed french toast. We’re actually talking about extending our hours… maybe doing weekend brunch,” you answer thoroughly, as you dip the stuffed pieces of bread into their egg batter, pre-cook. 

“For real? That’s sick,” Marcus compliments, watching you carefully. “I mean… shit. You could have a whole brunch spot.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, looking up from your cutting board. 

“A Brunch spot,” Marcus repeats, simply, the excitement in his eyes at the new idea, evident. “Yeah, you know. Luca could do the morning pastries. You work your magic on the rest of the menu.”

“That’s a novel idea! What do you think, my love?” Luca asks, intrigue in his voice as he searches your face for a reaction. 

“I-,” you begin, looking from Luca to Marcus, then back to Luca again. “I… never thought about it like that.” You take a beat, eyeing Luca carefully. “We’ve never talked about going into business together.”

Marcus shrugs, before picking up his coffee mug, “Yo, it’s just a thought. I think you two would be unstoppable together.”

“Unstoppable, eh?” Luca asks, his eyes locked with yours. 

You only hum in response, raising a quirked eyebrow in Luca’s direction before adding:

“It’s certainly one hell of an idea, Marcus.”

Kokuore

Monday afternoon, you find yourself at your restaurant with Marcus Brooks, on a day off. 

“I might need a little extra help with something tomorrow. We’re closed tomorrow, but I want to get ahead on this special I’m working on. Could use the help of a pastry chef. What do you say?” you’d proposed to him, over one more espresso before he left. 

To Luca’s dismay, (“ you silly Americans just can’t enjoy a day of doing nothing,” he’d teased the two of you) Marcus had given you an unwavering yes, reassuring you that he was down to learn everything he possibly could from you, especially while he was here. 

And it’s true. You do need the help. But should he want someone to talk to – someone who gets it, even just a little bit – you want to offer him the space and the opportunity to do so.

“As a patissier, do you get tasked with pasta? At The Bear?” you ask Marcus, as you pleat a dumpling in hand with a speed that only comes with practice. 

“Nah,” Marcus sounds, his focus on the dumpling he’s pleating too. His concentration on getting the pleats right is reverent and unbroken, even as he answers your question. “Our head chef, Carmy, he uh… he comes from an Italian American family so when we’ve done a stuffed pasta… he usually takes the lead on that.” 

You nod in understanding, placing the dumpling you’ve just finished down on the full-sized sheet pan. The two of you sit across from each other, having pushed a few dining tables together as a makeshift workstation. 

“Think Luca’ll take over this kinda stuff when you guys open a restaurant together?” Marcus asks, lightheartedly pushing his agenda from yesterday. 

You laugh in response, your hands working quickly on yet another dumpling. 

“For someone with no skin in the game, you’re really insistent on this idea,” you tease him in return. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it,” Marcus pushes right back, his tone still light. 

“I…” you sigh, trailing off as you pause your work for a moment. “You know, we just said we’d move in together. That and a restaurant? Feels fast.” 

“Oh shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Like… a few hours before you came over for brunch,” you elaborate, earning a whistle from Marcus. The two of you exchange a look, and a laugh, as you pick up another dumpling wrapper that you and Marcus rolled out together earlier. 

“It’s a good idea though,” you add, stealing a glance his way so that he knows that you’re serious. 

“Well, when you two inevitably do open a restaurant… I want ten percent,” Marcus jokes, earning another laugh from you. 

“Deal,” you agree with him. 

You and Marcus work like this, exchanging a few words, the conversation light, underscored by a softer acoustic soundtrack from one of your Spotify radio stations.

“So how’d you learn to cook like this?” Marcus asks you curiously. 

“Uh…” you hesitate, treading carefully as you realize this conversation could open a can of worms. 

“I don’t know how much Luca’s told you about me… but I was married… before him,” you begin, cautiously. “And… well, I learned a lot of this… a lot of traditional Japanese cooking from my mother-in-law.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. These are her dumplings actually – her recipe. She passed away last Fall and… well, it was important to me to celebrate her – to celebrate her life – by creating a few dishes for her,” you continue, and it’s as if all of the air has been sucked out of the room. “We’re bringing this one back as a special this month but um… yeah. I’m… still very much grieving and… it helps me remember her. Cooking her food helps me feel close to her, you know?”

“Yeah,” Marcus sighs, his heart heavy as he exhales. 

He waits a beat. 

And then another, having paused his work as he watches you pleat, head down, with expert hands. 

The silence between you and Marcus is full, heavy, connected by shared experience. You wait for Marcus to say something, and when he doesn’t, you decide to continue. 

“This restaurant… has so much of my heart in it: it’s got my love for Italian food from growing up in my best friend’s family’s restaurant, and it’s got my love for her – for Aiko – and everything she taught me,” you begin to explain. “And lately… it’s got a fresh perspective… inspired by the love I have with Luca, I think. Well, I know. Inspired by him… how this place brought us together.”

“The name itself is… totally made up, but means a lot to me. The Japanese word for heart is, kokoro, and the Italian word for heart is, cuore. Somehow an homage to my past… and was… Prophetic in so many ways too.” 

As Marcus listens, Luca’s previous question lingers in his head:

How’s your heart?

At the time he didn’t know how to answer, and after five days in Copenhagen – after five days of doing what he loves in a place that he loves – his heart is somehow so full, yet so broken all at once. He’s filled with deep sorrow and with the spark of creativity all at the same time, and he’s just not sure how to hold all of this feeling inside of him. 

Marcus waits a beat, opens his mouth, then lets the words fall out. 

“It’s evident. In your food,” is all he manages to say. “It’s got soul. It’s got heart. I-, it’s inspiring. That’s for sure.” 

“I made a dish. For Michael,” Marcus adds, his eyes on the dumpling he works on, but the guard on his heart beginning to fall away. “He was uh… well, he was the old owner of the restaurant, called The Beef back then. Carmy took over after he died. Felt right to honor him and his life, you know? When we reopened as The Bear.”

“Food is… it’s our art, you know?” you agree. “Sometimes it’s the only way I know how to express myself and… sometimes it’s just the thing that makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

A beat. 

“Maybe one day I can make one for my mom,” Marcus says, his voice stuck in his throat as he admits, “I don’t know if I’m ready yet. But I think… I think I’d like to eventually.” 

“Of course,” you reassure him gently. “You don’t have to be ready now. You don’t have to be ready ever. But when you are, your art will always be there.” 

“Thanks,” Marcus nods solemnly. 

You get up this time, realizing the sheet pan is full, and ready to be placed on the baker’s rack. As you return to the table with a new empty sheet pan, lined with parchment paper, Marcus finally asks you, his eyes soft, the heartbreak in them present. 

“How’d you get through? You know. Losing her? Your mother-in-law?” 

You return to your chair with a heavy sigh. 

“I’ll let you know when I do,” you answer, letting up a soft chuckle. “It helps to have good people and… from what Luca’s told me, you do. But… I had to let ‘em in, let ‘em help me. Let ‘em love me. And in all honesty, most days I’m still just… taking it day by day.” 

“Yeah, I-. I do. I got some really good people. Back home,” Marcus drags out slowly. 

“Then that’s all that matters. Your people and your heart. The rest… you just-,” you start. 

“Take day by day?” Marcus interjects, pausing to catch your eyes. 

You and Marcus exchange a knowing look, the recognition of each others’ pain is met with empathy. 

“Yeah. I think that's all we can do.”

By the end of your work session with Marcus, you’re ready to head home so that you can spend the rest of the day with Luca. 

“What’re you gonna do with the rest of your day?” you ask Marcus, curiously. 

With a sigh, and then a shrug, and a heart that feels just a little lighter, he answers with:

“Think I might wander around a bit. Someone once told me it’s good for the spirit.”

[sidekick-hero]

(steddie | gen | wc: 846 | cw: none | tags: established relationship, soft boys being soft | @steddielovemonth prompt: Love is being seen and known by @acasualcrossfade)

It's a quiet Sunday afternoon in late May, the sun streaming in through the living room windows and bathing them in its warm light.

His head is in Eddie's lap and Eddie's fingers are running through his hair in that soothing way that makes Steve feel closer to sleep than awake. Everything is soft and hazy, like a dream he never wants to wake up from.

Everything could be perfect.

Everything is perfect, really.

Everything except the voice in his head. It speaks in different tongues to better disguise itself, making it harder for Steve to get rid of it.

Sometimes it sounds like his grandfather telling him to go somewhere else to eat like a goddamn pig when Steve ate his chicken legs with his hand and got grease on himself.

Other times it's his mom telling the neighbor that Steve wasn't the brightest kid, but at least he was good at sports.

Often it is his father's voice asking him why he is such a disappointment.

On his bad days, it is Nancy's voice reminding him that his love is bullshit, that he is bullshit.

Eddie helps. Most days he makes the voices go away, or at least helps him quiet them.

But not today.

Today Steve woke up to a bad day.

That's why they canceled their plans to go to the Hopper-Byers' for a family picnic and decided to spend their Sunday on the couch instead, just the two of them.

That's why Steve is biting back the questions he's been dying to ask for hours. It's too much to ask, too raw, too needy. It would be like cutting himself open and showing Eddie the emptiness inside where a real person should be.

That's why he breaks so easily when Eddie looks down at him with a soft, adoring smile on his face and kisses the tip of Steve's nose.

Just like that. Like it's nothing. Like it's everything.

Like it's love.

"Why?" It bursts out of him like hot magma from an erupting volcano, spilling out of his mouth and leaving scorched earth in its wake.

Brown eyes widen in surprise, clearly not expecting a natural disaster in their living room.

"Why what, Stevie?" He asks, his fingers stopping their soothing ministrations, and Steve begins a tally of the casualties. That's one.

"Why are you doing this?" Steve demands, unable to contain the outburst. "Treating me like... like I'm something worth treating with so much care and gentleness? You canceled the picnic today like it's no big deal, but I know how excited you've been all week about your little campaign with the kids. Just because I'm too weak to handle a bad day. Why are you not angry? Why... why...?"

Why are you still here?

He can't say it, can't ask it, too afraid of the answer.

But Eddie hears it anyway, can see through Steve and his bullshit as if he were made of glass.

"Because I love you, Steve."

Steve hates that it sounds so simple when Eddie says it like that.

"But why?"

Steve scrambles into an upright position, can't bear to have this conversation lying down. He needs to be able to run and hide, to get away so he can lick his wounds.

Some of these thoughts must show on his face, or maybe it's just the way Eddie has learned to read him like an open book. Those dark chocolate eyes Steve loves to get lost in go impossibly soft as they take him in, and Eddie's calloused hands are so, so gentle as they grip Steve's own, as if Eddie is afraid he'll break him with one wrong move.

"There is no why, Stevie. I love you because I have to. Because there is no other way to exist in a world with you in it. No why, any more than there's a reason your hair does that floppy thing no matter how hard you try to tame it. Or why a gaggle of middle schoolers imprinted on you like ducklings, so now we're co-parenting them."

Eddie brings both of Steve's hands to his mouth and kisses them reverently before placing them on his own cheeks, silently asking Steve to hold him.

And Steve does, as if Eddie is the most precious thing he's ever held in his hands.

"Some days I felt like I wasn't even real, you know? Like I was imaginary, and if people stopped believing I was real, I would just disappear. So I invented myself every day so other people wouldn't have to. It was like who I really was was secondary to what I wanted everyone else to see. But not you. You saw me. You knew me, from the beginning. I can't really explain it any better than that. You make me real. And I love you. And there is no why, only a how. I love you like you're real too."

The voices in his head do not magically disappear, but when Steve kisses Eddie, he begins to feel like a real person, too.

[angieblogging]

Fight and Forgive.

characters: Spencer Reid, Reader/You

relationship: Spencer Reid/Reader (romantic or/and platonic)

description: Reader is laying alone in bed, tired after fighting with Spencer, soon enough he comes into the room and is their comforter.

other tags: no use of Y/N, gn!reader, established relationship (not specified if it was romantic or platonic.) Anxiety, Anxious and Overthinking Reader

read on ao3!

It was dark and late, it was summer so it took a moment for the sun to fully set and the moon to shine, you could see stars through the window, it was a beautiful night, which you were spending all alone.

Spencer as usual wasn’t back till’ late hours, it was eating you up alive. You couldn’t bear it anymore, you loved him, truly, but all this separation, his recent visit in the hospital…

He called it “risks that come with the job”.

You called it “bullshit”.

Both of you said a lot, that happened each time you held back, silently suffering, feeling as if your feelings, your pain was just not worth it, it’s not like anything could and would change.

You were covered with a fluffy blanket, you had nowhere else to go, really. Spencer didn’t say much, just stayed in the living room, two hours have passed, yet the light still shined through the crack under the door, so he obviously was awake. You simply returned to the bedroom, where you could freely sob, still you tried to be silent, the pillow was wet from the tears however it would dry by the morning, so nothing would look suspicious.

Spencer kept risking his life and the stress of losing him was not something you wanted to go through. You loved him, he loved you, but he also loved his job, his coworkers, sometimes it felt like he loved them more then you. No matter what he said or would do — it couldn’t bring back the time you lost with him, because of the BAU or the sleepless nights when you’re anxiety was horrible, not allowing you to sleep, because he hasn’t returned yet. It was his job, but it had a firm grip on both his and your mental state.

Soon enough you had no tears left to cry, so you laid on the empty, king-sized bed, just spiralling with no intention to stop. Not only you needed to figure out what to tell Spence, you also punished yourself that way, the overthinking mainly resulted in painful headaches, but you just couldn’t stop, I mean this whole fight was your fault anyways…

That’s when your head turned towards the door when you heard it click, he was standing there, his hair messy, letting in the light from the living room, which made you squint your eyes. He moved into the room, switching the lights of the living room off and shutting the door behind himself.

“Hey…” His voice was raspy, he stood over the bed just looking at you, you glanced at him, but chose to focus somewhere else.

You cried and fought, still you could feel the rage and sadness inside of your chest, bubbling up.

“What do you want?” You were straight forward, with no intention to start a conversation, you didn’t want to fight anymore, you couldn’t handle it, you were simply exhausted.

“I- Can we talk…Please?” He hesitated, he knew you too well, well enough to ask, knowing you don’t have the heart to turn him down.

“Spence…Can we do this tomorrow?” You furrowed your brows as he sat on the bed and sighed, that’s when it hit you, he was not going to be here tomorrow. “Oh…” The sound left your mouth as it hit you, like a slap across your face.

“I’m sorry…But it’s…The BAU—“ He didn’t got a chance to finish, you didn’t let him.

“No more of that…” The whine left your mouth as your palms rubbed your face in a poor attempt to stop yourself from bursting out crying. “I’m sick of listening to that, Spencer.” Your voice was stern, you felt so fragile, like anything he says might break you.

He simply nodded as the two of you sat in silence for a moment. You looked at him more carefully now and without a doubt he was doing the same, but only one of you was a profiler.

His eyes were slightly red, his lips chapped and under his eyes you could see eye bags, he obviously wasn’t asleep in awhile.

“Lay down.” You spoke more softly, moving slightly to make him more space. “You need to sleep, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“Sleep.” Spencer simply repeated the word and laid down awkwardly next to you. You could blame him, one moment you’re throwing a tantrum and the other you two are back in bed.

He glanced at you, the silence was loud, the only noise came from the streets and the cars passing every now and then. It was your fault, so you initiated contact, your body moved towards him, closing the distance between you two. Soon enough his hands traveled to your waist and your head to the crook of his neck. Both of you said nothing, just kept calm and enjoyed each other’s warmth.

“You know I love you…I do…” He whispered softly, his breath send a shiver down your spine. “I love coming home and seeing your face and I love spending the holidays with you and every other free moment I have…” He continued as his hand slowly rubbed your back.

“I know…I—“ You whispered back gently, holding back tears.

“It’s okay…I understand.” He whispered back and placed a soft kiss on your forehead, before the two of you drifted to sleep.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 17

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: Thank you so so so much to everyone who has been so understanding of me needing to take some extra time with this now! I love you all. I originally was going to end this chapter very differently but had to split it because I wanted to focus more on certain things, so you'll be getting yet another extra chapter than planned.

---

Somewhere between November 27 and November 28 Houston, TX

Alive. 

Alive. 

Alive. 

The late November stars in the darkness over Houston shine bright – at least, those bright enough to shine through the night lights of a city. If one could see them up close, they’d be fiery reds and blues and yellows. But way up there in the geocentric sky, they’re mostly just white. Explosive, burning masses of hydrogen and helium dozens to hundreds to thousands of lightyears away. 

They don’t sleep, and neither does Gale. 

It might seem funny that he’s wide awake. For days, he could hardly sleep because his husband wasn’t at his side, because he was worried sick he may never sleep beside John again. Now Bucky is here, and Gale still can’t bring himself to sleep. All he can do is sit on the uncomfortable couch beside the hospital bed and stare at the still form of his husband, broken and bruised but still breathing. He listens to the beeping of his heart monitor, and every beat seems to echo the words Gale is trying to drill into his head. 

Alive. 

Alive. 

Alive. 

After so many days spent preparing for the worst – grieving a loss he was sure would come but couldn’t bear to believe – Gale barely dares to look away. He’s worried that if he does, John will somehow slip from his grasp once again, pull away from this world even after everything it took to bring him back to it. What if he looks away, and in the absence of his gaze, Bucky drifts into the open void of the unknowable?

To the stars from which we came, the stars to which we return. Bucky Egan, at the very least, wouldn’t mind having died out there, pushing the boundaries of human exploration, ever the wanderlust-fueled explorer. But here? In a hospital?

Stop it, Gale. 

John is here, bound by gravity once again where Gale can touch him and talk to him and see his smile. He’s fine. He’s recovering. The worst is over.

But still, Gale watches. No matter how many times his tired eyes threaten to close, how shallowly his own heart beats, how fuzzy his head feels. He reminds himself to keep breathing, and he counts Bucky’s breaths, too. Bucky’s lungs fill with Oxygen, and they fill Gale’s with hope. 

Sometime too early in the morning, just hours after he finally laid eyes on his husband for the first time in weeks, Gale feels himself drifting. The TV in the corner of the room is playing on mute, some 80s rom-com that he always confuses with some other 80s rom-com. If John were awake and coherent, he’d insist on coming up with his own dialogue and plot-lines for whatever is silently happening on screen. Absurd stories that would never be aired on television but always, inevitably, make Gale laugh. 

Bucky’s knocked out, though, and it becomes harder and harder for Gale to keep his eyes open. He rests his chin in his hand and looks out the window, at the high-rise view of the lit up, lonely Houston street. Streetlights below, stars above, a black cloudless sky and a glowing quarter moon. That nowhere and everywhere that they’ve both chased for their entire lives. It’s not meant for humans to claim, and Gale grips his hair in his fingers, stares at Earth’s only natural satellite, and thanks it for not claiming his husband. He hears the rhythm of Bucky’s heartbeat, and it beats in time with the pulse of the universe that gave him this life to run with. 

Gale imagines being up there, chasing that infinity again. What does it say about him, that even after all this, he’s itching to get on that rocket, walk on the lunar surface, see the Earthrise from 240,000 miles away? He longs for it almost as much as he longs to hold John in his arms. It’s what both of them were meant to do. 

Their relationship has always been that way: fully dedicated to one another, but just as dedicated to their careers. Split three ways. Buck, Bucky, and boundless flight. 

He imagines looking down on their perfectly imperfect planet through Orion’s window, or Gateway’s or Starship’s – the view that he’s dreamed of, worked for, his entire life. He imagines hurtling through that wide open cosmos towards the moon and beyond, little beacon stars lighting his way to the next frontier, the next dream. He imagines setting foot on that fine lunar soil, craters rising up on all sides, his footsteps imprinted on the surface for years to come.

Or, more simply, he imagines flying a plane through the night sky, the dark Gulf beneath him, the coastline, an invisible map that he knows like the back of his hand. This world that he loves in this universe that he loves, and he’s soaring high above it all in a plane that is his purest home. Free and fearless and full of life. The only place he’s ever felt like he truly, unequivocally, knows who he is and where he’s meant to be. It could be an Air Force jet, a bomber, a NASA trainer. Or it could be his own little prop plane. 

He can feel the familiar controls in his hand, energy thrumming through the aircraft and straight into him. He can hear it so clearly, as if he’s taking off from the runway at this very moment. He inhales with the sense of peace that washes over him, the simultaneous rush of adrenaline that it brings him. He imagines the way he can bank and roll and spin through the sky, completely in control and yet untethered from the rest of reality. Lost in the clouds. Maybe it’s just him, or maybe Bucky’s at his side, stars in his eyes and a grin on his face as they soar higher and higher. Maybe his hand finds Gale’s. They look each other in the eye, and Gale feels all the wrongs of this life wash away.

Two pilots. Two astronauts. Two Buckies. The way the world is meant to be.

“Gale?”

John’s voice cuts through the thick, quiet, TV-lit dimness of this wonderland of the sick and broken, dragging Gale back down to Earth. The sound is so small that Gale almost wonders if he really heard it, or if it was simply an echo of his drifting not-quite-day-dream. But his ears are tuned to the sound of John’s voice, and no matter how soft, it hits him like a wall of stone. Weak and nervous, the same as it was on Starship and Orion. Like a child waking alone in the darkness with no one to hold onto.

Gale, not for the first time, wonders why, in a place of fear and vulnerability, Bucky has turned to calling him by his real name. Gale not Buck. 

He gets to his feet, feels the room tilt around his own fatigue and undoubted dehydration. “I’m here darlin’,” he manages to say. 

In the LED light of the television, he sees Bucky’s eyes, open and unfocused. They seem to find Gale, though, latching onto him like he’s a flame in the dark. Bucky doesn’t smile, but a certain tension leaves the worried set of his features as he follows Gale’s every move.

At the side of the bed, Gale gently grasps Bucky’s clammy hand in his, mindlessly rubs his thumb along the silver band on his ring finger. Mine. My heart. My soul. My love. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky stares at him, eyes wide, as if he can’t believe Gale is there. “‘S’not Orion.”

Gale shakes his head, biting at his lower lip as his heart looks for its own steady beat. “No,” he agrees. “You’re home. You’re in the hospital.”

“Oh.” That’s it. Just oh. Like it makes sense but also makes no sense at all, and Gale doesn’t know which it is or if it’s somehow both. Maybe he could’ve told Bucky he was anywhere and he would’ve believed it. As he’s trying to sort through what comes next – trying to figure out if Bucky remembers anything or if he understands where he is and why – Bucky says something else. “You’re here.” Again, like he can’t believe it.

Gale squeezes his hand gently, holds back a choked breath when Bucky squeezes back. He uses his other hand to stroke Bucky’s cheek, feeling the warmth there, the softness of his skin, solid and whole. “I’m right here,” he whispers, because his own voice isn’t strong enough to say it any louder. 

The next word to come out of Bucky’s mouth is the last for the night, but it carves something sad and grateful and all-over undefinable deep into Gale’s chest. He looks into Gale’s eyes and his lips part and it comes out in a rush of breath that is so simple but ties this fractured reality together again. 

“Stay?”

So he stays. 

Two people, especially two grown men, really, really do not fit in a hospital bed. But Buck and Bucky tend to find ways to bend the laws of physical space to their will, to accommodate the whole that they collectively constitute. Gale helps Bucky scoot over, ever careful of his casted leg, and he eases himself into the bed, wraps himself around his husband like he alone can hold the pieces of him together. The warmth of Bucky’s body pressed against him settles something in Gale’s soul, and his heart swells at the familiarity of having this man in his arms – something he went too long without and nearly lost all together. Bucky is fast asleep the moment he nuzzles into Gale’s chest, and try as he might to stay awake with this ridiculous notion that he needs to watch over Bucky, Gale drifts off without fear clutching at his throat for the first time in weeks. 

They only get a few hours of quiet, nightmare-free sleep before the morning nurse walks in and finds two world-renowned astronauts tucked against each other between the cramped bed rails. Her patient is sound asleep, his face finally relaxed instead of pained. Gale’s face is tucked into the crook of Bucky’s neck, his hand on Bucky’s chest. She can do nothing but smile, shake her head, and do her best not to wake them.

Gale’s eyes groggily open to the rising light of a cloudy dawn and the sound of the nurse adjusting Bucky’s IV. But she just pats him on the leg and tells him to go back to sleep. She was briefed by her superiors and by NASA itself. She knows what kind of Hell they’ve both been dragged through. If John Egan and Gale Cleven want to share a bed for a few hours, they can damn well share a bed.

—

That first morning that Bucky wakes up in the hospital, he’s convinced he’s on Orion. Faintly, he hears rustling around him, feels someone prodding at his IV, his leg, his head. Without even opening his eyes, he winces at the pain. His head feels like it’s splitting in half. He tries weakly to push away the hands holding him in place, hears someone shushing him like a spooked animal, tries to push them away, too. And then all of it is gone.

Some time later – it could be an eternity for all he cares, but Gale tells him it was only about an hour – the sound of quiet music brings him back to the surface. The wake-up alarm, for sure. He tries to blink his eyes open, but his eyelids feel heavy and sticky and don’t want to cooperate. He sees glimpses of bright light, grays and whites above him. Orion’s interior. Someone is beside him; he can feel them. Rosie, probably.

“I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on me…”

Bucky wonders who on Earth – or not on Earth – chose a Christmas song as their morning alarm.

But then a gentle hand is wiping sweat off his forehead, trailing down his cheek like it just doesn’t want to pull away quite yet. Someone isn’t just beside him, but he can feel them pressed up against him, all along his side, warm and comforting. A soft weight is pressed over his chest – someone’s arm, not holding him down, but simply holding him. Slowly, the music becomes clearer, and he realizes that it isn’t a song playing over Orion’s speakers. Instead, the someone beside him is singing quietly, a deep, smooth voice that brings Bucky to pieces every time he hears it.

Why is Buck on Orion?

“Christmas Eve’ll find me, where the love light gleams…”

Bucky fights to open his eyes all the way, tilting his head towards the warmth at his side, the voice in his ear. But Gale’s voice trails off when he notices Bucky stirring. Bucky whines in protest, and Gale picks back up, finishes the last few lines of the song.

Finally, Bucky’s vision comes into focus, and he sees a tall white ceiling above him, monitors on either side of the bed he’s laying on. His leg is held together by a stiff, scratchy cast, elevated at the end of the mattress. The walls are white and empty. Square.

Not Orion. Too big. 

Bucky’s heart rate jumps, and he hears a beeping noise reflect that for everyone around to hear.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Gale’s hand gently cups the side of Bucky’s face again, his thumb rubbing gently over his brow, then his cheek.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something, to ask what’s going on because his brain is only putting together bits and pieces that he can’t fully wrap his head around. He feels like, somewhere, he remembers things that happened, but he doesn’t remember what they were. He doesn’t remember the when or the how. He was on the moon. And then he was in pain. And a lot is missing but somehow he was on Orion again, and all he can remember is blurry moments, pain and fear and sickness. Somewhere, he knows where he is and how he got here, like it’s right on the tip of his tongue, but his brain can’t find the correct puzzle pieces to fill in the gap. They’re there, but they’re not where they need to be. And now he finds that his throat hurts and his head hurts and his lips are dry and sticky and-

“Here,” Gale says. He turns away to pick up a cup of water, and he guides a straw to Bucky’s mouth. “Water. It’ll help.”

Water. Bucky can do water. He clasps the straw between his lips and sucks on it gratefully. It tastes different than what they had up there.

When Gale pulls the cup away and sets it on the little table beside the hospital bed, Bucky finally comprehends that Gale is laying on the bed beside him, squished in between the bars. They’re in a hospital room. He remembers Gale being here when it was dark, kneeling on the floor, crying against Bucky’s hand. His husband looks wrecked, exhausted, worn out. 

Because of Bucky.

And yet he turns back over, propping himself up on his side with one elbow, and there’s a small, hopeful smile on his face.

Because of Bucky.

Two things can be true. 

“Christmas songs?” Those are Bucky’s first words of the morning, scraping out of a scratchy throat but strong and intentional nonetheless. “How long was I out?”

Gale’s thumb strokes lazy patterns over Bucky’s chest, covered by a thin hospital gown. “It’s November 28th. You splashed down on the 26th and arrived stateside yesterday.”

A little laugh pops up out of Bucky’s sore chest. Everything is sore, and the laugh makes the pounding in his head intensify. But it’s worth it to see the way Gale’s tired eyes get a little brighter. Usually, Bucky is the one trying to celebrate Christmas as early as possible, even before Thanksgiving comes around. The moment Halloween is over, Bucky moves right on to holiday cheer. Buck is always the one futilely begging him to wait until December. Yet here he is, singing Bucky a Christmas song.

“You like them,” Gale mutters quietly, reading Bucky’s mind. And Bucky gets totally lost in the way Gale’s eyes shyly flutter downward as he looks away, biting gently at his lower lip. Bucky lifts his hand, which feels as heavy as lead, and rests it over top of Gale’s. The touch sends a bolt of electricity through him, like they’re just awkward teenagers again, holding hands for the first time, and it grounds Bucky back to this planet.

Gale reaches forward suddenly to grab something before it falls to the floor. A little stuffed bear in a NASA shirt. Delicately, he presses Beary Egan back against Bucky’s side, secure between his chest and bicep. Bucky looks down at the little guy. “I remember you,” he mumbles fondly.

His brain feels fuzzy, and he wishes his head would stop pounding so bad. He looks at Gale, wants to say something, the words on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t hold onto them, like trying to catch a bug in a net, and he forces his eyes to focus on his husband’s face. Soft and familiar and the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

I love you, he wants to say. His lips move, but the sound doesn’t quite make it out. Gale kisses the top of his head and pulls him close, so Bucky is resting against his chest. He starts singing White Christmas, low and sweet, his lips brushing against the hair still exposed at the top of Bucky’s head above the bandage. Bucky smiles, and as he fiddles mindlessly with his husband’s fingers, he can feel Gale smiling, too. 

—

Those first 24 hours are the most promising. Bucky rapidly regains strength under the hospital’s care. He wakes several times throughout the day, seeming alert and aware. He complains about the scratchy hospital gown, and he goes so far as to mention things he remembers about the mission. “Didn’t get the plants,” he’ll say. Or “‘S’quiet on the moon” or “felt sick a lot.” Sometimes he doesn’t have the words for what he wants to say, even if Gale asks him about something specific. He might smile or frown or shrug, part his lips to answer but stop short of spitting out the sounds. He looks out the window, watches whatever’s on TV, holds Gale’s hand. His fine motor control remains shaky, and Gale finds himself having to help him eat sometimes – more soup for now – especially later in the day when Bucky gets more fatigued. The doctor assures Gale that regaining full motor control may take time, but is likely at the rate Bucky is progressing.

Bucky asks about Pepper at some point. Gale doesn’t have the heart to tell him that she’s been grieving his absence. He tells him that’s she’s staying with Benny right now, that she misses him. 

Gale slips out for a few hours in the middle of the afternoon to head to JSC, where he debriefs with Mission Control, Harding, and the rest of the crew. It’s the first of several meetings of the sort, where they’ll discuss everything from spacecraft performance to experiment results to crew health. For now, they tiptoe around the elephant in the room – what went wrong with that rover. Bucky’s accident and everything that followed will constitute its own debrief, or possibly more than one.

Before heading off with Marge to prep for a post-flight press conference, the three present crew members ask about Bucky, and Gale assures them that he’s doing okay.

The man in question is asleep when Gale returns in a fresh change of clothes. He’s carrying two duffel bags – one full of clothes and supplies for himself, and one full of clothes for Bucky so he doesn’t have to wear that awful gown. He drops the bags in the corner of the room and takes the opportunity to turn the TV back on, volume low. He flips to the press conference. Harding and Marge are both present to moderate, and Curt, Rosie, and Alex, dressed in flight suits, sit together at a long table emblazoned with a NASA Artemis banner. Gale listens as they answer questions about the mission, but he finds he can’t focus for shit.

The press room is packed full of people, buzzing with a need-to-know energy. Of course, the first reporters to shoot their hands into the air ask about Bucky’s condition, to which Rosie responds that the commander is “recovering well.” The next is about the injuries he sustained, and then there’s one about if he’s expected to make a full recovery. “We’re optimistic,” Rosie says – code for, we hope so, but we don’t know. 

Gale knows that, as the questions pour in about what happened and how it happened and what it means for NASA, Marge and Harding will begin to shift the conference away from John’s accident entirely. A single “how can NASA justify such a dangerous program” will be professionally answered, and then any further questions regarding the incident will be pushed aside for now. But Gale doesn’t make it that far anyway. 

When someone asks for an account of what went wrong that day on the moon, Curt, as the only other person present, is forced to explain what happened at Shackleton Crater. He makes every effort to speak professionally, but everyone watching can plainly see that it’s an uncomfortable conversation to have. Gale can’t stand to listen for even another second.

He’ll be forced to relive what happened over and over for months, maybe years to come. He’ll hear it in debriefings and on the news. He’ll discuss it in interviews and press conferences. It’ll loom over him as he prepares for his own mission. It’ll haunt his dreams, even when Bucky is home safe, healthy and happy and raring for another go. It won’t leave him. Ever.

So for now, he turns off the TV. He sits quietly. He listens to the beeping heart monitor. And he tries not to forget that his husband is alive beside him.

—

The nurses allow a handful of visitors over the weekend. Bucky experiences intense periods of discomfort and confusion overnight, but once again seems lucid in the morning. Whatever they put in the IV is starting to dull the fever and helps with the pain, but only so much can be done when the pain is nearly unbearable. It also has the side effect of making Bucky feel nauseous throughout the day. Despite all of that, he’s in good spirits, making small talk with the nurse as she takes his vitals or kissing the back of Gale’s hand whenever he has the chance. So, late on Saturday morning, Gale leaves for another debriefing at JSC, and he returns in the afternoon with Benny and Marge trailing after him.

One of the nurses lets Gale know that Bucky woke again about an hour ago, cooperated well for all of his hygiene tasks, and ate some yogurt. He seems lucid now, but had an initial moment of anxiety when he realized Gale was gone. The head of the bed is raised, so he’s in an upright sitting position, now dressed in an old Air Force t-shirt and gray shorts. A fresh bandage is wrapped around his head.

“You look like shit,” Benny tells him as he stops at the end of the bed, arms crossed. He grins at Bucky, who raises a hand and just about manages to flip him off.

Marge goes straight to the bedside, leaning in to wrap Bucky in a tight hug. He raises both arms to hug her back with a force that surprises both of them. On Earth and in proper healthcare, he’s finally regaining the strength for things like that, even if his hands don’t always work right. 

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Marge whispers.

“Kinda miss the moon,” Bucky whispers back. Gale, who stands on the other side of Bucky’s bed, smacks him gently on the shoulder, making Bucky smile. “I missed ya, Marge,” he says sincerely as she lets go.

“Didn’t miss me?” Benny asks.

Bucky playfully glares at him. “Heard enough of your voice for a lifetime.” 

Benny rolls his eyes, but he switches places with Marge to give Bucky a hug. “I’m glad you didn’t die.” He pulls away and motions to Gale. “Your husband would’ve been a nightmare to deal with.”

Gale scowls and raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Bucky reaches for his hand, kisses his knuckles. And none of them say a word about the fact that Gale was nearly inconsolable as it was.

Bucky looks at Marge. “Saw the guys on the, um… the…” He points vaguely to the TV and closes his eyes in frustration. 

“The news,” Gale supplies, and Bucky nods. “I didn’t know you were awake for that.”

Bucky shrugs. “I never really know when I’m awake.” This makes Benny snort, because it sounds like such a John thing to say, and yet right now it’s actually true. 

Marge sits at the end of Bucky’s bed. “Hope it’s alright they did the post-flight press conference without their commander.”

“Doesn’t seem right, huh?” Bucky points out. He smiles though, so Marge knows he doesn’t mean it. He knows there wasn’t much choice. “World’s gonna think I’m dyin’.”

“Well,” Benny starts to say, but Gale hits him with a nasty glare that shuts him up. 

Marge rolls her eyes. “What? Do you want me to post a picture of you or something? Prove you’re alive?” She’s joking, but Bucky isn’t. 

So the Artemis PAO posts two photographs on NASA’s various relevant social media accounts: one of Bucky sitting up in the hospital bed, head wrapped, leg in a cast, face pale, but smiling brightly with two thumbs up; and one candid of him and Gale, looking at each other with all the love in the world, their hands clasped together on top of the shitty hospital mattress. 

She drafts a brief statement to go with them, starting with the words: “Artemis 3 commander, Major John Egan, is recovering well after his incident at the lunar South Pole.” She also includes, at his insistence, the sentiment that he’d go back, it was the mission of a lifetime, and he’s grateful to have had such an amazing crew up there with him. 

She does not include his message of “fuck you” to everyone who thought he deserved it.  

—

When Harding comes by in the afternoon, he first pulls Gale into a tight hug. No words pass between them, but the look Chick gives him says everything that needs to be said. I’m proud of you, I’m here for you, everything will be okay. 

Both of them are caught in a nervous sense of relief and tentative hope. They both thought they might lose John. One of Harding’s boys. Gale’s entire world. They both felt, in their own ways, the world crash around them. No one saw the director of the spaceflight program break every wine glass in his kitchen cabinet by chucking them at the wall. No one saw the way he paced in the darkness and screamed at the moon and interrogated every man and woman who had a hand in building that damn rover. 

All they saw was a hardened, fearless man, hell bent on bringing his astronauts home. He spoke to the press every day, fielded every absurd question they had. He directed the flight controllers and oversaw the task forces and pushed them all to do better, work harder, find more solutions. He watched Gale fall apart. He prepared for John’s death, had to have Marge draft a damn statement about it – something she never told Gale. He had to stand in his office and practice giving it, stone-faced, in the event he had to give it on live television.

Today we lost an American hero… He gave his life doing what he loved… 

John Egan, a good pilot, a good astronaut, a good husband…

This is a devastating loss for the NASA community and for America…

We commit his soul to the stars, and we hope he will fly among them with the same fire in his heart…

“Hey Chick.” 

Chick takes a long moment to stare at Bucky, upright in the hospital bed. He looks sick, but he doesn’t look small. He doesn’t look weak.  

We commit his soul to the stars…

The words ring in Chick’s head, and just a few days after Thanksgiving, he can’t thank this world enough for not forcing him to say them on a live broadcast. Miraculously, John’s wild, unruly soul still has a home on this Earth, reflected in his grin, in the way his curls stick up in all different directions from beneath the bandage around his head, the glint in his eyes, still glassy from fever but wide open and watching. 

“Well if it isn’t the man of the hour,” Harding says, pushing aside the emotion he feels. He shoves his hands into his pockets, then pulls them back out, adjusts the collar of his shirt, looks at Bucky’s cast, his IV, his fever-reddened cheeks. Listens to the heart monitor playing its steady song.

Bucky reaches an arm up, inviting Chick in for a hug that both of them desperately need. Chick will swear he didn’t cry, but it was damn close.

Bucky smirks at him when he stands upright again. “I think I deserve man of the year.”

—

When the rest of the crew comes to visit on Sunday, finally released from NASA’s laundry list of initial debriefings and medical checks, the first thing that happens is they come marching into the room single file, singing “We’re glad you’re not dead” to the tune of Happy Birthday. Gale doesn’t know if he should laugh or hide his face in second hand embarrassment. Bucky waves his hand in the air like a conductor as they gather around his bed, Curt on his right, Rosie seated at the foot of the bed, Alex standing at the end. Gale sits on the couch, present but allowing the four crewmates some space.

The second thing that happens is all four astronauts stick their tongues out at each other. Gale raises his eyebrow, but not a single one explains. 

The third thing that happens is Curt hands over a sealed silver packet, much like the ones they had on the spacecraft. Exactly like the ones they had on the spacecraft.

“The fuck?” Bucky scoffs, even as he grabs the packet. “Hospital food’s bad. Space food ain’t much better.”

“Orange juice,” Curt says. He’s pleased when Bucky’s eyes widen a little bit, skepticism replaced with gratitude. “Buck mentioned the juice here kinda sucked. Nicked it from the space center this morning.”

Curt and Rosie both have half a mind to open the pouch for Bucky, hold it up for him to sip from. But Bucky pops the top off all on his own and presses the straw between his lips. He nods in approval after taking a sip. “Thank you, orange juice, for keeping me alive.”

Curt holds a hand over his heart, using the other to motion to himself and Rosie. “I think the orange juice had a little help.”

Bucky waves a hand to brush them off with a roll of his eyes, but then he grins at them. “I wouldn’t, uh…” He tilts his head, squinting as he seems to lose the words he wanted to say, and the grin falls away. After a long few seconds, he looks at them again, a more tempered smile returning to his face. “Wouldn’t be here if… if it weren’t for you two.” 

Even if the words would stop fading from his brain, there aren’t any words that can appropriately encapsulate what Bucky needs to say. How do you thank someone for saving your life in a situation that is quite literally beyond the human limits of survival? How do you thank them for looking after you, day and night, doing whatever needed to be done just to make sure you kept breathing? How do you express regret for having upended the once in a lifetime mission that they’d spent years preparing for? Sadness for what was sacrificed? Gratitude for making that sacrifice anyway?

Curt shakes his head and rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Couldn’t stand the idea of flyin’ home with your dead body in a space suit. Keepin’ ya alive was the best way to avoid it.”

Bucky looks up at him. “Sorry you didn’t get to…” He sighs and shakes his head.

“The plants,” Gale calls out.

Bucky nods. “The plants.”

He doesn’t remember much of anything from those touch and go days on Starship. But in every memory he does have of it, Curt is right there with him. Curt, standing over him with worry all over his face. Curt, speaking to Houston. Curt, staring out the window at the little greenhouse he’d never see again. Curt, cleaning up Bucky’s messes and struggling to get him into the OCS suit. Curt, reaching out to him, telling him he was gonna be alright.

Little snapshots of a blurry, industrial world. Whites and grays and pain and fear. And in the middle of it all, Curt.

The Artemis pilot shrugs and grips Bucky’s shoulder a little harder. “You’re worth more to me.” It’s the single most genuine thing Curt has ever said to him. He smiles self-deprecatingly and says “Alright, quit goin’ all sappy on me. I saved your ass. What else is new?”

Bucky laughs and shakes off Curt’s hand. Then he looks at Rosie. “You… are a steely-eyed missile man.” Of all the words to be able to remember, of course, for a space-obsessed boy-turned-pilot-turned-astronaut, that term sticks out loud and clear.

“I think that title is reserved for the engineers,” Rosie chuckles. It’s a name that first popped up in Mission Control during the Apollo days – originating with John Aaron – for an astronaut or engineer who proved resourceful and quick-thinking in a crisis, devising a solution to a life- or mission-threatening problem. “All I did was keep you from finding new ways to fuckin’ off yourself.”

Bucky remembers more of his time on Orion, though not all of it. Mostly he remembers the pain and the nausea, the feeling of his body floating in pieces, no longer a whole. He remembers the stars and the Earth out the window. Beary Egan in his hands. He remembers Rosie trying to get him to eat. Rosie, at his side day and night. Rosie, brushing back his sweaty hair and hugging him when he couldn’t stop shaking. Rosie, trying to convince him to keep fighting just a little longer.

Rosie worked through every single problem. He guided Curt through how to care for Bucky, how to stabilize his leg, hold him down through a seizure, keep him stable. Then on Orion, he hardly slept, watching over Bucky at all times. He prevented Bucky from re-injuring himself, from tearing out his IV. He worked out how to keep Bucky going on rationed IV fluid and the little food he could stomach. Sure, Houston was there to help. But Dr. Rosenthal is the one that actively figured out how to keep Bucky alive at every point of their journey back to Earth. He foresaw and solved the problems. He brought Bucky home.

So Bucky shakes his head when Rosie tries to be modest. He looks at Gale. “Buck, tell Marge to write up somethin’ ‘bout Rosie. Steely-eyed missile man.”

“I don’t tell Marge what to do,” Gale says flatly.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Ask her.” He catches Gale’s eye and points at Rosie again. It takes him another moment to get the words right, and they fumble through his lips, but they make it through. “This man d-deserves it more ‘n anyone.”

Articles about Dr. Robert ‘Rosie’ Rosenthal, the “steely-eyed missile man” who got Major Egan home, will be circulating within 48 hours. 

Finally, Bucky looks at Alex. “And you… thanks for lookin’ after her.” He means the capsule, of course. Alex stepped in when Bucky couldn’t, made sure Orion kept functioning and got them all home in one piece. “G-Got her home at least as good as I could’ve.” 

Alex rolls his eyes, but the engineer smiles and sets a hand on Bucky’s leg. “I wish you didn’t almost clock out on us, but it was a hell of a ride.”

Gale watches the four of them laugh and joke and give each other shit. Even as Bucky starts to lose energy, Gale sees the way he smiles at his crew, sticks his tongue out when Curt says something rude. The way he tries to stay present even when the words seem to leave him. The way he leans into Rosie when the physician gives him a tight side hug. The way he willingly hands Beary Egan off to Alex to inspect before protectively taking the plushie back again. 

This right here is their family. They’d each do just about anything for one another – not even the sky's the limit. And yet Gale feels like he’s indebted to them for life, because against all odds, they brought his husband home to him.

—

Somewhere in the liminal space between Sunday and Monday, Gale has to wake Bucky – twitching, near-crying, and scratching at his IV – from a nightmare. Bucky won’t speak, won’t tell Gale what the nightmare was about. He holds onto Gale’s hand and won’t let go until Gale finally climbs into the bed beside him, holding him tight. Beary Egan remains clutched to his chest.

Monday morning finds him in another state of confusion, more or less mute with an elevated heart rate signifying his distress. He keeps trying to get at the cast on his leg or pull off the bandage on his head. He scrabbles weakly at the IV and tries to lash out when the nurse attempts to restrain his hands for his own safety. Gale has to clamp both of Bucky’s hands tightly in his own as he tries to ask him to calm down and assures him he’s alright. He quietly sings Blue Skies, looks into wild blue eyes. He squeezes Bucky’s hands, and slowly Bucky’s heart rate drops; the tension leaves his body.

The nurse ups his morphine, and he’s out again.

The next time he wakes, early Monday afternoon, Bucky is of clearer mind. Gale, who left for a few hours to stop by JSC, returns to the hospital to find him flirting with the nurse taking his vitals. He’s eating scrambled eggs, his hand trembling the littlest bit as he lifts his fork to his mouth, but he’s smiling at the nurse. She blushes at something he says, and Gale knocks on the open door.

Bucky’s eyes are clear and focused as they immediately shift to Gale, who is dressed in black jeans, a gray long-sleeve, and a NASA flight jacket with his hair gelled back. 

“There’s my lovely wife!” The smile on Bucky’s face widens, and a glob of scrambled eggs tumbles off his fork and onto the plate. He glares at it and lowers the fork back to the plate as well. 

The corner of Gale’s mouth curves up as he leans against the door frame. “Losin’ interest in me already?” 

“You’ve had me wrapped around your finger since we met, doll.” Bucky reaches a hand out, causing the IV to tug at the skin – red and irritated from his attempts to remove it this morning. Gale fully enters the room to take Bucky’s hand. Then Bucky motions to the nurse. “Doesn’t mean I can’t tell Clara she looks beautiful today.”

The nurse – Clara – smiles shyly as she jots down information on Bucky’s chart. “And you certainly keep us on our toes Major Egan.”

“What he does best,” Gale agrees. He looks down as Bucky slides his hand away once again, looking intently at his plate. 

“His temperature is going down,” Clara tells Gale by way of update. “Only 99.2, so the propranolol seems to be helping. We’re very pleased.” 

“Damn eggs,” Bucky mutters. He picks up the fork again and scoops up some of the offending eggs. His hand shakes as he lifts the fork to his mouth and barely manages to get his lips around it. No matter how many times he’s told it’ll take some good occupational therapy to regain fine motor control, he’s pissed about it. 

Clara sets the clipboard with John’s chart down on the mattress. “Shall we take a look at that scalp infection? If it’s healing nicely, we can keep the bandage off.”

Bucky nods, and Clara unwinds the gauze from around his head. The healing gash is a lot less angry than it was before, and she deems it improved enough to keep the wrap off for now. Bucky raises a tentative hand to the back of his head, feeling the patch of stubbly hair where they had to shave it once again upon his arrival. Gale gently smacks his hand. “That’s what got you in trouble in the first place.”

Bucky scowls but lets his hand be guided away from his head. “Think it was the rover that got me in trouble.”

Gale can’t really argue with that, and he tries to push past the unsettled feeling the statement leaves him with. Sensing the sudden tension, Clara pats Bucky on the shoulder, tells him to try to finish his eggs, and leaves the couple be.

Over the next 24 hours, Bucky manages to not only finish his scrambled eggs but also eat jell-o, a late dinner of chicken and rice, and half a pancake for breakfast that he savors the taste of but nearly throws back up – too rich too fast. Sometimes he needs Gale’s help holding the utensils, and sometimes he doesn’t. They go on a couple of walks around the hospital ward, Gale pushing Bucky in a wheelchair. 

They talk until Bucky’s brain refuses to talk anymore. Then they stay in peaceful silence, or Gale fills the gaps with stories, well-wishes from friends, or, most often by Bucky’s request, more singing. Bucky drifts in and out of consciousness with a far better sense of place and time than when he was on Orion, but his baseline anxiety levels are elevated. Overnight, they deal with more nightmares, more heart rate and blood pressure spikes, more lapses in memory and awareness. 

Turns out Gale isn’t the only one with a newfound unease in the night.

In the daylight, Bucky’s cognitive capabilities are far more reliable, and he seems nearly normal. Cocky, charismatic Major Bucky Egan with the winning smile, flirting with Gale and every nurse – young or old, male or female – who attends to him. 

On Tuesday, Bucky’s fever is gone. The headwrap stays off. Rosie comes by early that afternoon to visit and consult with the doctor, who lets Gale know that Bucky will likely be able to go home the next day. Rosie helps Gale make a list of things he’ll need to do to help Bucky at home, and he assures Gale he’ll help out, too.

It feels like they’ve climbed a damn mountain, and they’re so close to the summit. It’s the bottom of the ninth, as Bucky would say. He’s running for home.

—

The first time Gale hears Bucky cough is early on Tuesday evening. He hardly even glances up from his laptop. Just a quick look to make sure John is alright and then, seeing his husband peacefully asleep, he goes back to reviewing Orion flight data sent over from JSC, noting down how Artemis 3 findings may impact Artemis 4 protocols. A couple hours later, when he hears it again, it’s louder, wetter, and Gale frowns. But still, Bucky remains asleep, his brow just the slightest bit scrunched. Gale watches him for a minute before returning to his work, running a hand through his hair as he stifles a yawn. He takes a sip of shitty hospital coffee, tries to blink the tiredness out of his eyes, and wraps his fists in the soft sleeves of the Yankees sweatshirt that he’s wearing once again.

By about 8pm, he’s struggling to focus on the data swimming across his too-bright laptop screen, fending off a headache of his own. He’s debating whether or not he can stomach food from the hospital cafeteria, or if he’s better off going in search of something else nearby. Hunger is, for better or worse, something he’s started actually feeling again since Bucky has been progressing under the hospital’s care. 

He’s thinking about calling Benny or Marge to see if they want to meet at the Hundred Proof when the coughing starts up again. And this time, it doesn’t stop. Instead, when Gale looks up from his laptop, Bucky’s eyes are wide open, and he’s coughing so hard his face is turning red. He winces at the pain that the violent motion causes to his head and body. Gale sets his laptop aside and steps over to the bed, helps Bucky to sit up, rubs a hand up and down his back and presses the other to his chest. 

“Gale?” Bucky whispers. His face looks panicked, scared. And it pulls at Gale’s heart as he wonders if this is what Bucky looked like on Orion, every time he reached out into the void, hoping for Gale to be there. He takes Bucky’s hand in his and squeezes, a silent I’m here. A secret, I’m sorry I wasn’t before.

When the coughing subsides and Bucky manages to catch his breath, he makes a disgusted face and gags a little bit. Gale grabs a napkin from the tray at Bucky’s bedside, holds it out for Bucky to spit into, which he does. “You alright?”

Bucky squints and shakes his head, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. He sniffs, and Gale notices for the first time that Bucky’s all stuffed up again, breathing mostly through his mouth. His eyes are a little red and watery, lips chapped, cheeks pink. The dark curls over his forehead are damp with sweat.

Gale presses his wrist to Bucky’s forehead, and he sighs. “You’re warm.”

Bucky looks up at him. The fever he’d been fighting since his return trip had finally gone down, and yet here he is all hot and stuffy again. When Bucky talks, his voice is thick with congestion and tired with the difficulty of drawing air into his lungs. “Shit.”

Gale goes to alert one of the nurses, who promptly follows him back to the room to take Bucky’s temperature. Sure enough, it’s back up to 101.

Gale settles for hospital food. He convinces Bucky to drink juice and swallow a few bites of soup, but he refuses anything else. Any progress he made in eating more solid food over the last day is fundamentally lost. Now, he shakes his head and tells Gale that the soup makes him feel sick. 

—

By the middle of the night, Bucky can’t breathe too well anymore. Unregulated gasps give way to pained wheezing as his lungs refuse to draw in the right amount of oxygen. His head is spinning, and he doesn’t know where he is. “Rosie?” he weakly calls out. It’s too dark, he can’t see the other astronauts across from him. He can’t feel Curt’s presence at his side.

He blinks in confusion when someone kneels down beside him, because that isn’t how people move in space. A strong, slender hand grabs onto his. “Look at me, darlin’.”

Bucky blinks slowly, tries to understand why that voice is here. With him. He reaches a hand up to his own ear in search of a com cap that isn’t there. “Buck.” A cough wracks his chest, and he feels any breath he’d managed to draw being choked from his aching lungs.

“I’m gonna get the nurse,” Gale says calmly. 

“No,” Bucky mutters. His hand searches for the side of Gale’s head, wanting to touch, feel, reassure himself that his husband is here. He feels the gravity pull at his limbs, the IV tug at his skin, the pulse pounding through his leg and his chest and his head. “W-Where am I?” 

In the darkness, he sees the way Gale frowns, and then tries to smile again, and then drops any expression entirely. Gale grips his hand harder, uses his other to brush the sweaty hair back from Bucky’s forehead. Bucky’s heart lurches at the familiar feeling, recalling vague memories of others doing that for him on Orion. His eyes feel wet.

Gale doesn’t break eye contact even as the question tears him apart. “You’re in the hospital, sweetheart. In Texas. You came home five days ago.”

Bucky stares at him, trying to compute something that just won’t quite come together. He remembers being here. He doesn’t remember how he got here. He remembers the pain of being on Orion, and yet part of him is angry that he’s back on this Earth. He doesn’t understand how Gale is here, but he wants to hold on and never, ever let go. He still feels dizzy and he can’t stand the sound of his own breathing, strained and inept. His chest hurts.

“I’m gonna get-”

“Don’t go,” Bucky pleads.

Gale looks pained, but he nods. Carefully, not letting go of Bucky’s hand, he reaches over to press the nurse call button beside the bed. He doesn’t leave Bucky’s side until a nurse comes in to see what the problem is. 

The nurse checks his vitals. “You’re gonna be alright,” she says in a calm, southern drawl. She moves about with such certainty, and Gale tracks her every move even as Bucky can’t, his head hurting too much as he focuses on not suffocating. And then the nurse is fitting a nasal cannula under his nose and around his ears, brushing back his hair in the same comforting way that Gale and Curt and Rosie did. 

“We’re gonna get you some extra oxygen here,” the nurse explains. “Just hold your husband’s hand and try to breathe easy, honey.”

—

In the morning, they take Bucky for imaging, and Gale’s fears prove true: everything about Bucky was weak by the time he made it to the hospital, including his immune system. After being isolated from everyone but a select few for weeks on end and receiving little sufficient nutrients for so long, he contracted a cold and some form of pneumonia during his hospital stay. 

They adjust his IV antibiotics, convince him to drink some water, but can’t get him to eat. The doctor pulls Gale into the hall, and she tells him that they want to keep Bucky for a bit longer to make sure they have a good handle on the infection in his lungs. Gale finds himself flexing the hand he’d punched the mirror with – weeks ago, now – looking for something to ground him. But the skin is healed over, painless. He wishes he could punch something else. Wishes he could have a drink. Hates himself for it. 

Instead, he finds himself dropping, numb, to the chair conveniently beside him. He briefly wonders if doctors do that on purpose, give people bad news where there’s an easy place to sit down. 

It’s not like it’s the worst thing she could’ve told him. It’s not like it’s even unexpected. Out of everything that has gone wrong, could have gone wrong, it could be worse. 

But they were so fucking close. 

Gale nods to himself and runs a hand through his hair, blows a heavy breath through his lips. 

“He’ll be just fine, Major Cleven,” the doctor tells him. “He might be weakened. But he’s not weak.” 

Gale nods again. Nothing about John Egan is weak. Never has been. But Gale also isn’t naive. 

The doctor puts a hand on his shoulder and assures him that John will get better soon. And then she leaves him be. 

He texts Rosie an update. Sits quietly for a while, surrounded by white halls, white floors, the scent of disinfectant. He finds it ironic that the hospital that is supposed to help Bucky heal also brought him new sickness. 

“They’ll get him taken care of,” Rosie’s text comes back. “He’ll be home in no time. Let me know if you have any questions or want to talk.”

Gale pockets his phone and gets to his feet. He holds his breath, counts the seconds. One. Two. Three. Four.

When he hits ten, he exhales and walks back to Bucky’s room. Over the last few days, they’ve accumulated get-well cards and a few flower arrangements, a stuffed Husky from Benny. There’s a brand new drawing from Maggie, one of the little girl and Bucky together on the moon. In the corner, a few balloons from the crew – one meant to look like Mars, one like the moon, and one a star. The gifts are scattered around, brightening a sterile room, and Bucky sits in the middle of it, propped up in bed with his casted leg propped on a pillow, Beary Egan resting beside him. His cast has been signed in colorful marker by his crew mates (at Curt’s insistence), a few of the nurses, and by Gale (at Bucky’s insistence). Gale even drew a little paw print for Pepper. 

Gale pauses in the doorway, taking in every detail. He’s struck by the thought that this is a view he’ll remember for the rest of his life: his husband in a hospital bed, hooked up to oxygen, an IV, a heart monitor; his unkempt hair, growing long from too many weeks of not cutting it, curls draped over his ears and his forehead; his face flushed with a fever that won’t go away; the sound of him choking back coughs and the sterile scent of the room. Every good and bad little nuance of this situation collides in an earthquake that leaves Gale a little dazed. It’s all nearly too much, broken puzzle pieces that are too big for the space they try to occupy. The grief he’s been through, a tragedy narrowly avoided, the gratitude he feels, the relief, the despondency that came with the doctor’s news. All wrapped up in a pure and painful, unequivocal love for the man in front of him. They’re emotions that Gale doesn’t have words for, can’t even begin to sort through, but they all rise up in his chest unbidden. 

He leans against the door frame and watches Bucky, who is looking out the window at the late morning light, the trees and the birds. Gale wonders what he’s thinking about. He runs his thumb along his wedding ring, and he notices that Bucky is doing the same. 

It’s at that moment that Bucky turns to look at him. For the first time, Gale thinks he looks small in that bed, face pale, eyes glassy once again. But he smiles at Gale like none of it matters, like they’re on a beach on the Gulf, drenched in sun, instead of stewing here. Gale forces his mouth into a crooked little half-upturned thing to keep the emotion from showing on his face, keep his features steady. His throat feels tight, his own eyes burning. But he blinks away the tears that threaten to well up, and he takes a breath.

“Hey there,” he says.

Bucky lifts his hand, holding it out. Gale steps into the room to take it, and Bucky presses his lips to Gale’s knuckles. “Hi.”

“Doc says you have to stay here a bit longer.”

“I know.”

Gale bites his lip and nods, looking down at their joined hands.

“Hey,” Bucky whispers, prodding Gale to look at him again. “I’ll be alright.”

A fleeting, sad little smile crosses over Gale’s lips, blink and you’ll miss it. “I know.” He squeezes Bucky’s hand, and he decides right then and there that he believes it. Bucky will get better. He has to.

—

It’s not easy. Bucky gets worse before he gets better.

Gale feels like he’s stuck in a weird time loop, where every night and every early morning feels frighteningly similar. Bucky has nightmares or wakes in the dark, in pain and crying out. He panics when he can’t seem to get enough air into his lungs, and the doctors consider intubating him one night, but manage to get his oxygen levels under control before it comes to that. Often, Bucky’s brain plays tricks on him, convinces him he’s on the moon or on Orion. The darkness and the brain fog leave him disoriented and anxious, not comprehending where he is, until a nurse helps Gale calm him down, gives him more sedative. Gale holds his hand or lays beside him, strokes his sweaty hair, presses his lips to the side of his head. He sings quietly or tells mundane stories until Bucky falls asleep again.

The days are better. With the sun streaming through the window in pastel rays that light up the room, Bucky is tired and lethargic, but coherent. He sleeps a lot, as much if not more than he did on Orion. When he’s awake, he talks as much as he can manage, but often loses his train of thought and seems to drift away. If he manages a conversation, the coughing often brings his contribution to an end, leaving his head pounding and his ribs protesting. Gale worries he’ll break one of those, too, if the cough doesn’t leave him alone.

“Quit lookin’ at me like that,” Bucky will say, when he catches Gale watching him with uncertainty all over his face. “I’m not dyin’.” But then he’ll be consumed by coughs, choking on his own breath.

He isn’t allowed visitors anymore due to the risk of exposing him to other germs, but when Gale isn’t around – or even sometimes when he is, just to give him a chance to get some air or some food – the nurses take to spending their breaks with Bucky. Most often, they take him on walks around the ward, pushing his wheelchair easily through the halls. They tell him about their day, and sometimes if he’s up to it, he tells them abridged stories about the moon or flying jets. One day Gale returns from JSC to find Bucky sitting in a wheelchair, one of the little rolling standing desks that doctors use lowered to his height. Nurse Clara sits in a rolling chair on the other side, and they both have a selection of playing cards in their hand.

“What’s this?” Gale asks as he removes his flight jacket, clutching it in one hand. He peeks at Bucky’s cards.

“Go fish,” Bucky replies, glancing up at him, and Gale notices that his eyes are clearer than they were in the morning. Bucky frowns as he slowly, laboriously convinces his fingers to grab onto the corner of a card, shakily laying it on the table.

Gale raises an eyebrow, and Clara smiles at him. “Just a little something to work on his fine motor control and keep his brain engaged.”

“I’m winning,” Bucky states proudly, and Gale kisses him on the head before going to sit on the couch, leaving them to it.

He never thought a game of Go Fish would make him want to cry.

During the worst moments, Bucky can become just as agitated as he was on Orion. He asks for Curt or Rosie or Beary Egan. He scrabbles at his IV, tries to pull it off, nearly succeeds once before Gale takes notice and makes him stop. He complains about his leg or the nausea or the pain in his head, and Gale can do nothing but be there, hold on tight, try to help him calm down. It’s those panicked moments in the middle of the night that leave Gale feeling bereft and alone, like he’s fighting single-handedly for Bucky’s survival. And even then he knows, it’s not even comparable to what Curt and Rosie went through, way out there on their own. 

Gale was there – even if only in voice – every step of the way on Bucky’s journey home, but he is now made aware, in startling clarity, that he wasn’t there. No matter what information he got through the coms, none of it could really pull into focus the reality of working Bucky through this all day and night in real time. He may have been here, a voice in Bucky’s ear, doing his best from thousands of miles away. He may have been here, feeling alone on this blue planet as he grieved the potential loss of the man he loves. He may have been here, living the nightmare in his own way. But he wasn’t really there for the play by play. He didn’t see the extent of Bucky’s pain and disorientation. He didn’t wrangle him into a spacesuit or clean up his vomit or rush to keep him stable when he tore out his IV. He wasn’t there for the nightmares or the bouts of confusion or the refusals to eat or drink or generally cooperate. He wasn’t there.

But now he is. He’s getting a taste of all of it, trying to keep his husband from crumbling away.

Rosie drags him to the Hundred Proof one night for some quality time with friends, even though Gale protests the whole way and keeps insisting he needs to get back to Bucky. “You need to breathe, Buck,” Rosie tells him. 

“He’ll be alright,” Curt adds. Just like everyone keeps telling him. “You need a break.”

Marge hugs him tight and gets him a glass of soda. Gale watches Rosie and Alex play a round of pool. He talks to Curt about anything that pointedly isn’t Artemis, but they inevitably fall into conversation about it anyway. Even so, Gale’s mind barely leaves the hospital the entire time he’s at the bar. Benny smacks him on the back at one point and tells him to get out of his own head.

When he gets back to the hospital that night, Gale is so exhausted that he feels dead on his feet. But he sits on the edge of Bucky’s bed, and he rests the back of his hand against Bucky’s forehead. Too warm still. The fever is going down, but hasn’t disappeared. He listens to Bucky’s strained breathing, marginally improved, and to the machine-echoed beep of his heart rate. Bucky has a new IV, held in place with even more tape than before to prevent him from pulling at it, and Beary Egan is cradled in the same arm.

Bucky scrunches his nose when Gale pulls gently at a soft curl over his forehead, and his eyes flutter open. His lips part to say something, but no words make it out of his sore throat.

Gale kicks off his shoes and slips into the bed, not even bothering to change out of the jeans and sweater he wore to the bar. Bucky’s fingers fumble at the button to raise the head of the bed, but he can’t quite manage in his groggy, half-asleep state, and Gale reaches over to help. The bed raises until they’re both more or less upright, Gale half curled around Bucky in the cramped space. 

Gale’s phone buzzes with a text message from Curt – tell the idiot to get better soon – and he glances down at it. Bucky looks over at the lit up lock screen, and a hoarse noise comes from his throat that makes Gale look over. Bucky blinks and points to the phone. The screen. The photo on the screen.

“Our wedding,” he finally manages to shove out.

It’s the photo from their first look, with Bucky staring at Gale with such adoration it might consume him from the inside out

Gale never managed to get through the whole album, but he saved this one particular photograph as his phone background, because he couldn’t take his eyes off it any better than Bucky could take his eyes off Gale that day in October.

“Mmm.” Gale tilts the phone to better show Bucky. “This one’s my favorite so far. I haven’t looked at the whole album. Couldn’t without you.”

Bucky stares at the photograph, and a sweet little smile lights up his face, even in his exhaustion. “My beautiful bride.”

Gale is about to ask if he wants to look at a few more, but before he can, Bucky chokes on a breath and coughs violently, leaning forward, away from Gale. Gale puts the phone away and rests a hand on Bucky’s back, but the coughing fit only gets worse, until Bucky can hardly breathe at all. He wheezes between wet, desperate coughs, pressing his arm over his abdomen as the force threatens to crack a rib like Gale is so afraid it will.

When it finally subsides, Bucky is left curled over on himself, one hand wrapped over his stomach and the other clutching weakly at Gale’s hand. He’s drenched in sweat, every part of him ranging from sore to extreme pain, and there’s blood on his hand that he coughed up from his lungs. Gale grabs a napkin from the stand by the bed to wipe it off, and he wipes some sweat from Bucky’s forehead.

“Don’t feel good,” Bucky mutters.

Throwing the napkin to the side, Gale grabs the cup of water and offers it to Bucky, guiding the straw to his lips. “Try to drink,” he instructs. Bucky does as he’s told, but pulls away after a couple of sips, and Gale returns the water to the table.

“Come here,” he says. Gently, he eases Bucky back until he’s laying with his head on Gale’s chest. Gale holds tight to Bucky’s hand, and he strokes his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “You’re alright, darlin’. Just rest, okay? You’re gonna be alright.”

Bucky doesn’t protest, just grips Gale’s hand right back as he shakily tries to keep his breathing under control, wills the coughing to leave him alone for a little while. Eventually, Gale feels Bucky’s hand loosen its grip on his, falling lax as he drifts off to sleep once again. 

It’s a long time before Gale allows himself to do the same. He can see the moon through the window, lighting up the night sky, and he has no idea what time it is, but it doesn’t matter. He once again doesn’t want to take his eyes off his husband even for a moment, like his continued existence is contingent on being in Gale’s line of sight. Or maybe it’s just that Gale spent so long unable to set eyes on Bucky, unsure if he ever would again, and now he can’t get enough. Making up for lost time and time he almost lost.

His fingers remain curled over Bucky’s, their hand’s resting on Bucky’s chest, and he feels the gentle, if shaky, rise and fall. He takes a deep breath of his own, as if it can somehow make up for the inadequacy of Bucky’s lungs, give strength to his body.

A song from Curt’s playlist comes to mind, and Gale finds himself singing it softly in the darkness as he holds his husband’s sweaty hand, willing the fever to break, the pain to go away. He wonders, if he stands guard in the night, will the nightmares leave Bucky in peace until morning comes?

“Ooh-ah, Soon you’ll get better,” Gale croons. He’ll stay up all night if he has to, if that’s what it takes for Bucky to rest easy.

“Ooh-ah, soon you’ll get better.”

He willed the universe to bring his husband home to him, and now he wonders if he’s being greedy, asking for more. But all he wants is Bucky to be safe and healthy again, free of pain, free of fear. He meant it when he said he’d love John Egan in any way, in any form, no matter what. But they’re so damn close.

Please. Just let him heal now. Let him rest. Let him come home. Give him this life as he wants to live it.

Please.

“You’ll get better soon.

‘Cause you have to.”

…

…

Everyone thank my beta reader (I don’t deserve them)

Part 18

[after-witch]

The Potential of You and Me [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: The Potential of You and Me [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Synopsis: You have a stalker. And he's tired of waiting for you. 

Word Count: 5100ish

notes: yandere, stalking, threats, noncon oral sex, humiliation and degradation

Every box packed is sealed with a mixture of bitterness and relief, all stacked high in increasingly precarious towers; filling the dark corners of your longstanding home with cardboard and hastily made tape labels that you hope won’t peel off in the moving truck. 

It makes you sick to see them. It makes you scared. It makes you sad. 

It might be different, if you were leaving under different circumstances. If you’d gotten a job in a new city and you were starting over with a fresh coat of paint, or something like that. Something you could spin into sweetness and adventure. 

If only.

If only you weren’t moving because you had a stalker and this was the only palatable option left. The police couldn’t do anything--there was no tangible evidence, no matter how many times you insisted things were missing. 

It turns out that “I can feel someone’s eyes on me” and a letter detailing how much they loved you and how good you were going to feel on the inside was not, in the eyes of the authorities, enough to really do anything. Change your locks, they said. You did. Switch up your routine, they said.  You did.

It didn’t matter. Things kept going missing. You kept feeling watched. You came home and found your bedroom window open and another letter on your pillow that you tossed out without reading. 

It wasn’t going to stop, with or without the advice of the police. And you couldn’t do anything to protect yourself, not on your own. You didn’t even have a damn quirk. 

So what can you do? You can pack up your life and find a cheap apartment in another city, where you don’t know anyone, where you don’t have a job, where you’ll be in a place half this size and nowhere near as nice.

You can throw away everything you’ve ever known and pretend that things are going to be fine. 

This is what you’ve been reduced to--but it’s this or your life, isn’t it? Your sanity? You don’t know how much more you can take or how long it will be before your stalker takes a step beyond stealing your underwear or sending you notes. 

What if your stalker decides to go further than leaving letters and taking panties? What if he decides to hurt you--or kill you? You were no stranger to the nightly news, to stories of women found killed and dismembered by men found to be stalking them. 

You had a life to live. Even if you have to live it somewhere else, if you want to be safe. 

You slap another label on a box filled with books (and God, you had too many books, didn’t you? But you couldn’t bear to part with them, stalker be damned) and wiped a trickle of sweat beading on the back of your neck. This would have to do for tonight. The moving truck was coming in 2 days, and you’d been living on little sleep, tons of coffee, and far too much takeout.

You needed a break. Just a little one. Just some sleep, to feel refreshed, before you spend another whole day packing and shoveling food someone else made into your mouth as quickly as you could before you went back to it.

You’re in the bathroom--still not packed, but you’d been putting it off for the end--when you hear the noise.

Something small. A creak. A noise that you would have brushed off a few months ago as nothing. 

But now it sends a twist straight into your gut. You freeze, turn off the sink, and spit foamy toothpaste carelessly into the basin. Your fingers shake and your toothbrush clatters into the sink, too loud, too overt. Fuck.

Your hands clench the end of the counter and you strain sideways, forcing yourself to listen.

Nothing… nothing. Maybe you are being paranoid. Maybe it’s best that you’re moving away, if even the slightest noise had you on edge--

But, oh. 

Oh.

You hear it again.

A creak--but it’s not just a creak, is it? 

It’s a step.

Down the hall. Something is in the hallway. No, not something, because something wouldn’t be wearing shoes that make an unmistakable sound when connecting with the floorboards.

Someone is in the hall. 

Someone is coming for you.

Your body seems to move on autopilot, quick, numb. 

One step, two step. 

You hear the hallway closet door opening. Nothing inside but boxes. 

Another step, and another. 

The guest room door opens. More boxes, and piles of stuff you planned to take to the donation center tomorrow. 

Step, step. Step. 

The hallway isn’t long enough, oh God, how you wish it was longer.

Because all too soon, the steps stop at your bedroom door and there’s an awful scratching sound, like someone is dragging fingernails down the wood. 

The terrible reality of that sound makes your body jolt back to life. You’re just standing there! You stupid, stupid moron. You have to do something. 

Your buzzing mind races, what are you supposed to do? Call the police! But your phone is on your bed, sitting idly on top of the bare mattress where you left it earlier. There’s not enough time. It’s too far away. You’ll get caught, mid-lunge, and your trembling fingers will probably drop the phone anyway.

So you, legs tingling with fear that seems to both paralyze and push you, rush into your doorless closet and stand inside next to the open doorway. 

You’ve already packed your closet up, so there’s nothing to hide behind, no layers of clothing to shield you. Only the darkness of the bedroom that you hope is enough to hide you. 

The door opens with a foreboding creaking that makes your chest hurt. Slow and methodical, like whoever it is is fucking with you on purpose.

You cover your mouth and nose and will yourself not to breathe. 

Someone steps into the room and you curse yourself for not turning off the bathroom light. But the closet should still be dark enough, right? You pray for that, mindlessly.

Whoever it is--it’s a man, you realize, with lanky silver hair, but you can’t see his face--glances toward the bathroom. 

He takes a step, then pauses.

Don’t come to the closet. Don’t come to the closet. Don’t come to the closet. It’s a mantra, a prayer, rushing through your brain as you will him to inspect the bathroom. 

Maybe someone up there likes you, because he does take slow steps toward the bathroom and you wait until he’s in the threshold (where he’ll no doubt see the room is empty) before you bolt from the closet, arm slapping carelessly against the door frame (it hurts) before you rush through the doorway of your room and into the hallway.

Everything is dark and dim. You were going to bed, now you’re running for your life. 

You register only sounds and vague physical feelings that puncture through the veil of your terror. The slap of your bare feet against the floor. The sound of the clock in the kitchen. The scratch against your elbow from one of the cardboard boxes as you run towards the front door, a sharp corner digging into your skin. 

And then you hear the slow, calm steps that come from behind you, almost matching the ticking of the kitchen clock in their lack of urgency.

Your fingers pull on the doorknob and nothing happens. Your palm grips it, twisting this way and that, turning the lock open and shut and open and shut. But it doesn’t open, no matter what you do, what you turn. A soft, helpless sound pushes its way out of your throat.

And then you look up and see something jammed into the top of the doorway, like it’s been stuck on there. A barrier? A lock? You have to get it off, and you go to stand on your tiptoes when a voice behind you sends every nerve in your skin tingling.

“You’re not very good at this, are you?”

Your bowels clench and your hands shake as they slap against the door and you turn your body around to face the man who broke into your home.

The light is dim, lit only by some streetlights streaming through the window and the tiny light above your stove in the kitchen. His hair is the easiest thing to see about him, light colored. His clothing is dark. His face is hidden in shadows.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you whisper, keeping your back pressed against the door. If only you had a quirk that would let you melt through walls or blast open locks or do something, anything, to help yourself.

The man tilts his head, and there’s a dim recollection in your mind at the gesture. It’s like something out of a movie. Or a video game. Is this a game to him? Some twisted entertainment? 

“No?” His voice has something of a gravel to it, like he needs to clear his throat. But there’s a smoothness underneath it all, too--a teasing lilt that worries you to the core. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“I--” You lick your lips, and your shoulders shake like you’ve been left in the cold for too long. “I don’t want to die.”

“Oh,” he says, and there’s a snicker at the edge of his voice that promises to cross over should you amuse him too much. “Of course you don’t.”

Your hand stupidly reaches behind you and pulls at the door again. All it does is make a shifting sound as it slips uselessly through your fingers. You aren’t going anywhere. At least not through the front door. But the windows… 

You stand up straighter, trying to center yourself, trying to calm down.

“What… what do you want? I-I have some money, but not much. I’m moving, so--”

He scoffs. You can’t see his expression, exactly, but you get the impression that he’s narrowed his eyes. That he’s annoyed with your suggestion for some reason  you can’t fathom. 

“I don’t want your money.”

It’s a stupid question to ask, but you ask it anyway.

“Then…what do you want?”

He sighs, and that snicker is there, all dark and teasing. It makes your chest hurt more. And then you watch, entranced, as he reaches into his pocket and pulls something out.  A handkerchief? Or a piece of lace? It’s light blue and colorful and--

Fucking hell. 

It’s a pair of your underwear. A cute pair you’d picked out on a whim last year. And… he’s holding it in his hands, fingers drumming in the air, almost toying with the fabric as you stare. This pair went missing, didn’t it? Then how--

“I came to give this back. Aren’t I generous?”

“Give it… back?” The words come out in quiet disbelief and everything clicks in your head, like a lock snapping shut on something you should have realized long ago.

He’s holding a pair of your underwear.

He’s broken into your home. 

He’s your stalker.

“You’re--my…” You can’t bring yourself to bring the word into reality. “And you’ve been…” Your back presses harder against the door, as if you might just conjure up that wall-busting quirk through sheer will alone. 

“Please leave!” You’re almost shocked at how high and loud your voice is, despite the way your body trembles. You lick your dry lips again, and words come tumbling out. Something, anything, to make him go away. “I’ve already called the police. So-so they’re on their way and if you don’t leave, they’ll--”

“Don’t lie.” 

Your mouth stops mid-ramble. 

“I’m… I’m not lying. I really did, I--”

His hand dips into his other pocket and he pulls out your phone, shaking it slightly at you, like presenting evidence of misbehavior to a wayward child. One of his fingers is sticking out to the side. It’s strange, but--

“Unlock it,” he says, holding the screen out flat and there’s no room for argument in his voice. Nor are you stupid enough to try to grab the phone from him. You place a shaking finger on top, and the screen lights up, revealing your latest background--some silly photo your friend sent you a few months ago. 

He begins to run his thumb down your screen, until you see that he’s bringing up your recent calls. 

“Moving company… takeout…” He smiles, but in the darkness, it looks more like a sneer. “No police.” 

You swallow, throat dry. He splays his fingers out suddenly, keeping his thumb wrapped around the screen. He places one finger down. Two fingers. Three, four, five.

And your phone crumbles to dust.

Your bowels clench hard, and you push back against the door.

“Please,” you whisper, throat dry, mouth trembling.

He takes a step closer. You can look at nothing but his fingers. Even in the dimness, you can see a fine layer of dust on them.  Your phone. Your phone, there and gone, nothing but ashes. And now he’s taking a step closer to you, reaching out with his hand. 

You make a sound, something soft and primal in what you believe are your last moments, but instead of agonizing pain and nothingness, you feel only a single finger on  your cheek. You blink, and the tears held back by your imminent death fall easily. His finger makes a lazy swipe up your cheek, catching the tear.

“I like that. Keep saying that, okay?”

“Please?” There’s disbelief in your voice, yes, but hope, too. Hope that you can get out of this alive.

He makes a low sound, like a hum. 

“Please… don’t hurt me.” 

He pulls his finger away and looks at you. Now that he’s closer, you can see a bit more of his features. Or at least, you can make out the smile he gives you. It’s not a comforting smile.

“I won’t hurt you, if you’re good. Now…” He takes a step backward. “Turn around for me. Face the door.”

You don’t want to. More than anything, you don’t want to listen to him. But you have to, at least for right now, if you want to live. So you force your stiff, leaden muscles to work and face the traitorous door that won’t open for you anymore.

“Good,” he says, with a note of something like pleasantness. “Now stay nice and still while I tie your wrists.” 

You do wait. You wait until you hear him unzipping the bag slung around his shoulders, and then you bolt on tingling muscles, pounding down the hallway and whipping back into your bedroom. You can’t call the police, but you sure as shit can jump from your bedroom window.

Your thighs are up against the bottom of your bed--you just have to climb on and get over your headboard to the window behind it, so close, so close--when you feel hands on your back, pressure, and all of the air goes out of your lungs as something big and heavy tackles you and pins you to the bed.

Your mouth opens, and you’ve finally gotten the idea to scream--only for four fingers to slap over your mouth in an instant. There’s dust on them. Like bitter salt. 

“Quiet.” The word is practically hissed into your ear, and all thoughts of making a sound cease. But you don’t give in, not yet, because you’ve read your true crime books and watched your horror movies, and you know what happens to people who get pinned to beds by stalkers who break into their homes. It can’t happen to you. It can’t. 

He grips your shoulders with one hand and flips you onto your back. He slowly releases the hand over your mouth, because you’re smart enough to stay quiet, aren’t you? Especially when those fingers could come down (one, two, three, four, five) and kill you in an instant.

You’re quiet. But you won’t give in without some fight. You move to sit up, free hands pushing against his check--do you really think you’re stronger?--and his breath hitches above you as he grips your wrists and pushes forward, pinning you to the bed.

Your teeth clack together when your head hits the mattress, and against your better judgment, you continue to buck and squirm, pulling at the wrists keeping you on the bed. He’s too strong. You don’t even make it an inch. And the sheer helplessness of it all turns to worms in your stomach, cold and slithering. 

But you don’t stop trying, and your breath comes in heaves as soft, timid sounds of daydreamed escape push past your lips. If you could just get a wrist free. If you could just get a leg free. If you could just get him off you.

Thoughts come and go without staying concrete. Maybe a hero was walking by your bedroom window just now and he heard the tousling and he’s going to break the window and save you. Maybe the police decided to do something and send a patrol car to your home. Like gray daydreams, these fuzzy hopes of rescue.

Instead, there is a man above you, pinning you down with nothing but his strength and if he wanted to, he could turn you to dust for being too difficult. 

But you don’t turn to dust. Instead he’s looking down at you, leaning forward so his hair tickles your face. You can make out his features now, tired, lined, crazed. He scares you in a way you can’t articulate. There’s something deeply, terribly sad and--wrong--about him.

“I should punish you a little.” His words feel sour, breathed onto your face. “But… I can’t stay mad at you…” He leans forward until his nose is absurdly pressed against your cheek, nuzzling your skin, even as you turn your head in an attempt to lessen the contact. “Not when I’m finally ready to take you home.”

The word is a vice, and it’s like all the strength gets sapped out of you at once. 

“Home?” 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tugs at your wrists until they’re resting on top of your stomach, and he takes one hand and holds both of your wrists firm. 

“Don’t be stupid.”

You aren’t. Your skin feels numb from fear, but you keep your wrists still as he leans backward and opens the bag hanging from his shoulders. He pulls out some restraints made from some type of cloth, and wraps them around your wrists one after the other. There’s a center strap in the middle of them, which he yanks high, pulling at your arms, until they’re above your head. The headboard--he’s tied the strap to the headboard.

"There. Nice and snug." He seems pleased, and that scares you more than any of his threats or the dust still clinging to his fingertips. You don’t want him to sound so pleased, not when you’re here, in the dark, tied to your bed.

Your words taste bitter as you force them out of your drying mouth. 

“What are you going to do?” You want to know. You don’t want to know. You want it over with--you don't want him to start. You flex your fingers, but your bound wrists aren’t going anywhere. 

He leans forward, and there’s something sickly sweet on his face. A grin--a grin that is not very nice at all. 

“What am I going to do?” he says, voice higher, frightened. Mimicking your fear. His hand reaches for your face and you flinch, but all he does is trail two fingers on your cheek, winding down until they rest on your lips.

“Open up.”

You do, because what other choice do you have? In an instant he shoves the fingers inside, and you gag on dust and salty skin. He pushes them too forward and you retch.

“Oops.” He giggles. It’s a breathy sound, not at all sweet. “Lick them, okay?” 

Your eyes widen. You want to ask him why, but the thought of making any muffled sound around his fingers makes you sicker than the grittiness currently in your mouth.

“It’s for your own good,” he says, with an almost teasing lilt to his voice. “I promise.”

You don’t trust any of his promises. But you do trust the taste of the dust in your mouth, a forewarning of what might happen to you if you don’t listen.

Slowly, you force the muscle of your tongue to start licking his fingers. It’s a short motion--you want as little contact with his fingers as possible. You have to fight back that way, at least, don’t you? Even if it makes him mad.

But it doesn’t make him mad. He coos, if anything. “Oh, you’re like a kitten.” The words are gross and stick inside your chest, and you can’t ignore the tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. But you keep licking.

Done, or maybe just bored, he pulls them out and wipes an excess line of connecting drool onto your cheek. “Good enough.”

For what?

Without warning, he reaches lower and yanks down your pajama bottoms. You can hear the elastic rip from the force, and the soft fabric bunches up around your knees. 

Whatever part of you that had resolved to be good and quiet dissolves in primal fear, and you shriek--perhaps there’s words in there (Don’t, please, oh--)--but they die the instant he holds up his hands, and is there where you die, too? 

But he doesn’t bring his hand down. 

Instead, he digs down into his pockets and you only have the briefest moment to register that he’s holding the panties from earlier, the ones he stole from this very bedroom, before they’re shoved into your mouth. The fabric tastes stale and there’s brief pulses of horror (what was he doing with them all this time?) before you try to push at all the bunched up fabric with your tongue, desperate to get it out. 

He regards you with a smile, and there’s something so low in it, degrading and dark. 

“Keep them in there. Unless you want the neighbors to hear?” Then he pats your cheek with a few fingers. “If you spit them out, I’ll just gag you with something bigger.”

You don’t want to know what that would be. What remains of your whimpers are muffled around your underwear as he scoots backward and grips your thighs. He pulls them apart without a word and your legs tremble. You could kick, couldn’t you? You could fight and kick and even if your hands are tied, you could.

But you don’t want him to hurt you. You don’t want to die. You want this to be over with. You want him to do what he’s going to do and leave and you’ll call the moving company in the morning and ask if they can pick up your things today. Or you’ll run out the door with only your essentials, and a favorite book or two, a memento--your mom’s necklace, a trinket or two--and… and things will turn out all right.

They have to.

So all you do is keep up your pitiful little whimpers as he rips your underwear off and tosses the destroyed garment on the floor. The coolness from the exposure makes you tremble. Or maybe that’s the fear, and the realization that he’s going to touch you.

He hooks one arm under your thigh and keeps it pulled to the side, giving him easier access to the .

You feel them, then. His fingers. Warm and a bit gritty. Touching you, stroking you, playing with you carelessly like someone who is happy to explore something for the first time. There’s no real consistency to the way he touches you. He pulls apart your pussy lips and prods inside. You jump. He runs his fingers up and down the middle of your slit. 

It doesn’t feel good. But it doesn’t hurt (that’s something) and maybe he won’t hurt you, after all? Not that you want it, not that you would rather be anywhere else right now (I won’t complain about my new city, you think, not the rent or the public transportation or the new neighbors. I’ll be so good and so grateful if this is over with quickly and he leaves.)

And then his finger is touching gently at your clit. It’s too sudden. Your hips jerk and a sound is stifled by your gag. He watches you and pulls his finger back a bit, instead touching around your clit, ghosting it, a much more tolerable (and sickening) feeling. He’s gentle, almost, and it hurts to contrast it with everything else. 

You think about how many of your personal things have gone missing. The letters he’s left you flash in your mind. He can’t stop thinking about you. He wants to know you. He-needs-you-he-wants-you-he-will-have-you. And then… then you think about your phone crumbling to dust and what would it look like, if he did that to your skin?

You don’t want this. This can’t be happening. But it is, and there’s no way to escape the reality of the situation with his body so close to yours--with your hands tied firmly to the headboard. 

You feel the trail of slick on his fingers before you see it, just as he pulls his fingers away. It’s a bodily reaction, nothing more than that. But it doesn’t lessen the humiliation and the terror, and the panty gag in your mouth is soaked with drool and salty tears that have dripped in from between your lips.

“I was going to wait until we got back,” he murmurs. “But…” He almost looks wistful, and there’s a small, childish smile on his face. “You feel so much better in person than I imagined. You know that?” You see him working his bottom lip under his teeth--is that where his scabs are from? “Fuck it.”

All you register is him swooping down and the quick bob of his head before you feel it--his tongue between your pussy lips. It’s startling, and you gasp around your stolen underwear as the warm muscle goes from awkward prods to gently lapping around your clit, just touching the edges of it with enough firmness to send your nerves singing. 

You mewl. You can’t help it. It’s a sinful feeling, delicious and abhorrent. It’s a wet warmth that keeps going, lapping and lapping, making all of your nerves go haywire. Your legs kick on their own, and the thigh kept in his grip trembles.

He pulls back just enough to talk, and you wish he wouldn’t.

“Are you close already? You’re going to be so much fun…” 

He’s back between your legs then, and you feel one finger carelessly toying with your entrance. You clench, but he doesn’t go inside. Instead he presses his mouth back against you, and there’s warmth both from his mouth and your own body, flushing as he forces pleasure to start shooting down your stomach straight to those blissful nerves between your legs.

You moan into your gag, and he moans back. Everything feels sloppy and wet as his tongue begins to lap back and forth, harder, pressing firmer against your clit until you feel it coming--electric and tingling and unwanted, all the same. Your orgasm hits as you shake your head--no no no no--and your legs twitch until the orgasm fades.

All you’re left with is aftershocks and shame.

He maneuvers himself until he’s almost chest to chest with you. His pants press against your exposed lower half, and you can feel your dampness mingling with the fabric of his trousers. And there’s… something else you feel, too.

He’s hard.

You choke back a sob into your gag. You imagine what he’ll do now. He’ll pull down his own pants and he’ll spread your legs again, and you’ll feel him and it will be even more invasive and--

Your breath comes faster now, and you almost wish you were still gagged, so that the sound of  your frightened heaves weren’t so open and ragged. 

It seems like he understands what you’re thinking. 

“You can pay me back some other time, okay?” A finger traces up your neck to your mouth, and he sticks his fingers between your lips and pulls out the now damp panties without a word. “You’re probably tired, huh? I’ll take you back, then.” He says this all so casually and it makes it harder for the words to soak in at first. 

And when they do it, it stings just as badly. 

The sounds that were muffled by your gag now seem to echo around the mostly-empty, packed room. Sniffling. Little choked sobs that shake your chest. Because if he wants you to pay him back, is he going to let you go? If he’s planning on taking you somewhere, will he ever bring you back home? 

How could you call that moving truck anyway, if your phone is dust? 

Where can you run to, if your stalker can kill people with a touch? 

What can you do, except beg for something you know won’t be happening? 

“Please,” you whisper. Quick. Erratic.  “I won’t tell anyone. Just let me go, and I won’t tell.” 

His smile twists into something that’s almost like pity. But there’s something deeper in it. Sharp and bitter. “Hush, hush.” His knuckles reach up and wipe at your tears. “You’ll get used to it. I know you will.” He pats your cheek twice. “I’m…” He seems to consider something. “Call me Tomura. Only that.”

You don’t respond. You don’t want to call him anything. 

Without fanfare, he sits back up on the bed and reaches into his pocket to pull out a phone. His phone, you assume. There’s only a few swipes before he’s putting it up to his ear and talking to some unknown recipient. 

“Hey.” He looks at you and pets your hair. Is it meant to be soothing? Patronizing? Both? “Yeah, we’re ready.”

Without warning, there’s a heavy feeling before blackness fills the room. Your eyes widen like saucers but he doesn’t explain--he doesn’t need to, you know this is not going to be good. 

You could beg. You could spend the next few seconds promising that you’ll do anything if he just leaves you alone. But whatever words might force themselves out of your trembling lips are stuck inside your chest, like so many other things. Thoughts of the apartment waiting for you in a new city. The movers that will call and call and never get an answer from you. Friends and family who are waiting to go out for one-last-big-lunch to send you off.

He unhooks your wrists from the headboard and hoists you over his shoulder, giving you a perfect view of your bedroom as he takes steps into the heavy black swirl that appeared out of nowhere.

Behind you, the doorway of the unpacked bathroom is still open, lit up, showing the contents of your life in full display.

[kingofthe-egirls]

Omg! Omg!

Phone Sex after Part. Luffy is back, late at night, still texting with her and he can't wait to see her agin, so detour to her home, and both desperate and happy to see each other again 👀👀

wait wait WAIT OMG ok ok ok

PHONE SEX: LUFFY x Y/N (part 2)

modern au

(cw: flirting, sweet fluff, self-harm scars, shower sex, spider mention, silliness, sweetness, comfort, blowjob, sex, cunnilingus, food mention)

(a/n: the line "enough to make me supernova" is something i wrote a long time ago, back when i was in high school and had no idea what love was, except that i was sure it had to hurt. guess what, teenage writer? you're still a poet. you're happy now, and you have a partner who loves you so much that you can't even handle it sometimes. he makes you cum, all the time!!! effortlessly and without sadness. i love you, lady.)

"You want me to love you in moderation?

Do I look moderate to you?"

Songs: "Moderation" by Florence + the Machine, "Reality Television" by Maude Latour, "No Rush" by Maude Latour, "Lovebomb" by Maude Latour

words: 4.7k

As soon as his plane touches down, Luffy is searching your address on his phone. He's gonna see you, now.

It's been a week.

One whole long week where he's had to reduce himself to jerking off to your smiling videos, or searching your PornHub for new content. He knows you only film one week in advance, videos weekly scheduled as you queue them up. He's watched your latest (a cute clown girl cosplay) and replayed it over a scant thirty times.

Hey, you're hot, okay?

And he has ADHD too: he hyperfixates on things. And watching you suck a silicone dick with a cute red nose and turquoise wig is enough to make him supernova. He stands up as soon as he's able, and reaches overhead for his black-and-red duffel bag.

****

Luffy trudges along the snowy streets, making his way to your apartment complex. He hunches his shoulders against the freezing winds, not so used to the winter weather. He wonders how you can live here all year round. Or, even stay in one place at all. He's got a few houses dotted around the country, plus an apartment in New York City. He travels between them as it suits him.

He likes freedom.

So do you, apparently, as he notes your lifestyle: you're polyamorous, with a long-term girlfriend named Nami. She's sweet as can be (when she needs something). She'd swiped Sanji right away, the first night you all went out together as friends.

The first time you'd kissed.

He hums, smiling at the memory despite the cold. He hugs his arms around himself for warmth, shivering in just his track suit and sneakers.

why do u have to live somewhere so cold??

He texts you, typing with frozen thumbs. Snowflakes gather on his phone screen, as he sees your ellipses pop up.

sorry lol

It's all he gets til he's buzzing his way up to your apartment. It's a one-bedroom you share with your girlfriend (who is politely out of the apartment for the weekend, spending some much needed spa time with friends). He steps through the glass door of your brownstone apartment building, and makes his way up the carpeted stairs.

It's three flights up, with snow falling outside the staircase windows.

Luffy stops in front of your door.

He knocks.

After just one rap of his knuckles, you open the door. You're standing there in shorts and a t-shirt. You're sparkling and alive, and Luffy feels something clench in his chest. He smiles, big as can be, and wraps you up in his arms without a second thought.

"Luffy!" You cry, arms trapped by your sides as he bear hugs you. Your feet lift off the floor. He's strong, you think.

"Missed you so much!!!" He sings into your hair, nestling his nose in the dark strands so he can breathe you in. "Mm, ya smell nice."

You flush, suffocated slightly.

"Missed you too!" You squeak, nuzzling against his cheek. His face is cold and chapped from the wind. "Come inside!" You breathe as he sets you down, "I've got dirty dishes in the sink so don't look."

Luffy laughs, loud and unashamed, as he scoots in after you. He sets his duffel bag down by the door. He kicks off his shoes (designer brand, you notice, with barely a scuff) and skips happily into your studio.

He crashes onto your daybed immediately. It's barely big enough to fit you and Nami, and Luffy's dangling limbs easily take up the whole space. He spreads out like he owns the place, and you snort.

"Want some hot cocoa?" You ask, heading to your tea kettle.

"Yes!!!" Luffy screams, already excited. You turn around to shush him, reminding the professional athlete of your neighbors. "Oh," he says sheepishly, "Sorry, shishi."

He's so cute.

You hum, singing happily under your breath as you start to heat up the water. You're out of milk, so Luffy's just gonna have to deal. It's the Swiss cocoa with marshmallows though, so hopefully that makes up for it. Luffy's never turned down food or drink as far as you've noticed, so you try to let the stress of having him here in your space roll down your shoulders and off your back. You close your eyes, and take a deep breath. The kettle starts to sing, and your pour the hot water into two mugs, the chocolate powder already set in the bottom.

"Here," you hand Luffy his cocoa. He slurps it immediately, and gasps at the heat. "Sorry," you grin, sitting down next to him on the bed. You lean over to blow on his drink, cooling it down. Steam curls around his cute, squishy cheeks. You lean forward to peck a kiss on the one closest to you: the one with the scar.

"Where'd you get that?"

Luffy shrugs.

"Stabbed myself."

You choke, spluttering on the hot cocoa. Hot liquid spurts onto your thighs, staining your shorts, and you grimace. You swipe the chocolate drops away, licking your fingers of the sticky sweetness. "Why?"

"Wanted to prove somethin'."

You nod.

"Here," you say, reaching quietly across your body to show him your left forearm. It's marked up in self-harm scars, uneven and sad. "I stabbed myself, too. Well, more like sliced. Sorry," your cheeks heat up as you realize you're talking way too violent for this conversation. Luffy traces the barcode-like scars on your skin.

"Means you're alive," he says simply. And then, "Sorry."

You shake your head. "S'okay. They're old, anyway." You don't show him the scars on your thigh. Bright red and fresh, you're too embarrassed to admit how current your struggle is to him. At least, not yet.

"So," he smiles, gripping his hand around your wrist. "What comes after cocoa?"

Luffy plants a kiss on your forearm, and your face heats up. You look away, too ashamed to mention how much you appreciate his care.

"Watch a movie?" You suggest, softly pulling your arm back into your lap. He scoots closer, wrapping his arms own, muscular arms around you. His t-shirt smells like sweat. "Was it a long flight?"

"Oh, just a couple hours," he lies.

You smirk, bumping your shoulder into his. "We can take a shower if you want," you suggest, arching an eyebrow. He grins maliciously, and your heart flutters. You swallow.

"Sure, kitty."

****

Butterfly decals line your shower's walls, pink and purple and blue fluttering over the white porcelain tile. Luffy scrubs a washcloth over your back, both of you standing naked in the steaming water.

"Hmm," you sigh, letting your shoulders relax. He caresses your sides with the washcloth, letting his other hand snake around your waist. He's so warm, soap sliding between your bodies as he brings you into his heated chest. He smells like the charcoal-eucalyptus facewash you let him use from Nami's shelf of shower necessities. (Your girlfriend won't mind, will she?) Luffy bites at your earlobe.

"Pretty kitty," he croons, rubbing his soft hands over your breasts. He squeezes gently, washing them with soap. The bubbles gather on your chest, sliding around in slippery iridescence. He presses a hot, wet cheek against yours, his chin resting on your shoulder. He sways with you slightly, in the water. His back is closest to the stream: with you standing in front. You trace the butterfly stickers with an index finger, trying to stay upright. Your heat is dripping between your legs, you can already tell.

"Luffyyy," you moan, complaining almost at what he does to you. To your body. He's got this freaking Midas touch, sending golden shivers down your spine at every flick of his calloused fingertips.

"Whaaat?" He grins against your ear: tightening his arms around your waist. Your ass presses against his already hardening cock. You gasp, slightly, and he giggles. His wet hair presses into your jaw.

"Luffy," you say again, breaths coming heavy in your chest, "Fuck me?"

Luffy's breath hitches, his hands tightening around your ribcage. He slides his palms up to cup your breasts, feeling their heaviness in his hands. He groans, biting softly into your shoulder.

"Say please, sweetheart," he says against your ear, voice raspy. He thumbs at your nipples, and you squeal.

"Please, Luffy!" I want you to fuck me so badly.

"If you insist," he giggles, reaching his hand down to slide along your belly. Rinsing his fingers off quickly in the stream of hot water, he deftly finds your clit and starts swiping at it. His fingers are rough from years of martial arts, but you don't mind.

"Mm, lower," you huff, leaning your head back against his shoulder. He kisses your cheek, wet and sloppy with a pop.

"Like that?" He asks, hoarse.

"Mhmm," you nod, letting your eyes fall shut as hot water sings down your face. It trickles down your neck, your collarbones, in the space between your breasts. Luffy holds you close, taking your weight in his strong arms. He stands behind you with the water running down his tanned back, spraying the side of his sweet face. You turn to plant messy kisses along the side of his neck, too.

He fingers you like that for a bit, waiting for your moans to start becoming headier, edgier, needier. "There...," he breathes, once you start heaving stuttering breaths through your open mouth, "Bend over for me, sweetheart." He gently runs one hand down your back, sending you forward to support yourself against the edge of the tub.

"S'alright?" He asks, poking at your entrance with his rock-hard tip. You see stars, pussy clenching uncontrollably.

"Yes, Luffy," you squeak, spreading your legs so he has ample room. He squeezes your ass cheeks, spreading those apart, too. He sighs as he inspects your pussy, fingering softly at the wet folds.

"S'pretty for me," he praises you, rubbing one hand over your ass. He gives the cheeks another squeeze, humming softly as he presses in.

"Shit," you whine, stretched out. "So big, Lu..."

Luffy giggles, and starts fucking you shallowly. "Let's getcha used to me, hm?" He starts off slow, sliding his cock in and out of your entrance. "Feels so good, kitty," he groans, pressing in just a little bit deeper. It stings, but it's sweet. You moan, biting your lip as you rock your hips back onto his cock. He snickers, "Want more?"

"Mhmm!" You croon, spreading your legs as wide as the narrow tub will let you. Your feet are flat on the tub, hands holding onto the edge next to your shampoo bottles and facewash. A small, spindly shape slips out from behind your shower gel, and you shriek. Spider.

"Luffy!!"

You slam back upwards, away from the spider, and hit the back of your head square against his jaw.

"Ack!" Luffy shouts, reeling backward from the weight of your blow. His back hits the tile wall, and he slips. Soon enough, you're both tumbling down and half-out of the still-steaming shower.

"Spider!!!" You shriek, scrabbling out of the shower to stand sopping wet on the bathroom floor. "Kill it!!!!"

"Ah, shit--," Luffy croaks, shutting off the water finally. He stands dripping in the tub, the shower curtain pulled to the side and tangled up. He shakes his wet hair like a dog. "Where?"

"There!" You point at the green bottle of shampoo, closing your eyes against the nightmare image. Arachnophobia. You squirm, reaching for a towel and retreating out into the living space. You leave a trail of wet footprints on the uneven floorboards.

Luffy shuffles around a bit, but eventually shouts, "Got 'em!"

"Thanks," you whisper, shivering as you sit on your bed, toweling off your soaking hair. You sit naked, with your pussy aching from the short-lived sex. Your mood has quickly soured, however, and you lean down to pull a t-shirt from the drawers beneath your daybed.

"Hey, you okay?" Luffy walks back into the room, raven hair shoved backward from his face, revealing a soft widow's peak.

You swallow, shaking your head. "Sorry," you mumble, "Scared."

"S'okay," he says, wrapping a towel around his waist. It hangs low around his hips, the deep line of his V disappearing into the faded purple terrycloth. He comes over to sit next to you on the thin mattress. Your patchy quilt folds beneath his weight.

"You scared of spiders?" He knocks his shoulder into yours. You nod, jaw set, as you pull your black t-shirt on over your head. You lean forward, gathering your hair into a messy bun. It's unbrushed and tangled, but right now you don't really care.

When you flip back up, adjusting the soaking strands, Luffy is staring at you. His brown eyes are shimmering, slightly. "What?"

"So pretty," he murmurs, smiling. He pokes at your cheek, and then takes your chin in his hand. He makes you face him, meeting your eyes. His are wide, and serious. You try not to shy away.

"Spiders are your enemies, then?" He asks, eyebrows drawn down over his face. You nod, seriously. Luffy thumbs your bottom lip. "So now they're my enemy too. I'll take care of the house spiders, for you."

Suddenly, you burst into tears.

"M'sorry!" You say, sniffing, "I just--really hate bugs."

Luffy wraps an arm around your shoulders. His bare skin slides across yours, still wet from the shower. You lean into him, slightly. He sighs, squeezing your upper arm with rough fingers.

"Is this a bad time to mention that beetles are my favorite animal?"

You snort, sobs subsiding as you wipe the heel of your palm across your face. "Seriously?" You ask, sniffling. Luffy nods, sheepish. He scratches a hand through his crow-feather hair.

"S'that a deal breaker?"

You shake your head, laughing a little. "Nope," you say, standing up off the bed. You squat down to rifle through your daybed's drawers. Lilac panties and short shorts are the way to go.

You dress, casually flaunting your bare lower half in front of Luffy. He grins, standing up to slide his warm hands beneath your t-shirt. They softly circle around your waist, pressing into the skin just below your ribcage. He sways you, side to side.

Luffy nuzzles his nose into your cheek. He smells like Nami's soap, which is kinda weird, but sorta satisfying at the same time. You peck a kiss on his cheek, just below his scar.

"So long as you don't, like, put beetles in my bed, I'm fine."

Luffy snorts. "Has that happened before?"

You shift uncomfortably, under his hold. You scratch your heel against the bare wooden floor. "Maybe."

Luffy scowls, ducking his head to make you meet his eyes. They're sunlit from the window, snow having somewhat stopped. Even in the winter sun, dark brown eyes look golden. "I'm not gonna put bugs in your bed, babe."

You snort, levity brought back into the room at his tone. He has a special talent for that. You squeeze his hipbone. "Thanks, Luffy."

He smiles, nodding once.

"Let's go cuddle!" He says, pulling you back onto the daybed. "We can pick up from where we left off," he says with a smirk, and you gasp. He pulls your weight down on top of his lap, lying on his back while you straddle his thighs. The wet scratch of the towel digs into your skin, the knot at his pelvis bulging against your lap.

"Take this off?" You suggest, pulling at the edge of the towel. Dark hair disappears in a soft trail beneath it, and you wanna touch.

"Sure," he says, letting you lean back so he can unwrap the towel from around himself. He lets it drape over the side of the bed, halfway onto the floor. You resume your place, greedily taking in the sight of his hard cock. It's thick, lightly sticky with precum at the cherry-red tip. His skin is slightly bronzed, darker around his dick and balls, too. You lean forward, scooting your ass back so you can kiss and lick around the base of his shaft. Luffy swears under his breath.

"Shit, kitten," he rasps, "You're so good at that."

You hum, happily licking a stripe up the underside of his lengthy shaft. Luffy groans, bucking his hips. You place a hand on his abs, trying to hold him down. You press into his soft abdomen, feeling the muscles clench firm and hard under your touch.

"Like that?" You ask slyly, raising an eyebrow as you tongue at his tip. His face is flushed, eyes dark and hazy. He brings his shiny bottom lip between his teeth, shuddering out an exhale.

"So much."

"Hm," you skip your fingers across his hips, tracing the prominent arch of his hipbones. "Good."

You take him fully into your mouth, sucking harshly as he gasps. You hollow your cheeks, lapping at his vein with a swift tongue.

Luffy starts thrusting into your mouth, forcing you to take him deeper into the back of your throat. You're not the best at deep throating (gag reflex too strong for that shit), but do your best to take him as far back as you can comfortably go.

Luffy rambles, his voice high-pitched and raspy as he babbles, "Y/n, fuck, that's so good baby--mmph--yes, please, keep sucking me like that--," Until he's shuddering in your mouth, spilling his cum already.

You sit up, triumphant.

"S'good?" You ask, wiping your chin with a forearm. He stares at you, hungrily, before leaping up to capture your mouth with his. He sticks his tongue down your throat, lapping up any trace of himself.

"Perfect," he whines, "Lemme do you?"

You nod, switching spots. He steps onto the floor, straightening the blanket out under you so you can lie down. He fluffs the pillows behind your head, sweetly smiling down at you. The fake string lights you put up with Nami sparkle overhead, giving him a faint, twinkly halo. You spread your legs.

Luffy kneels down between them, hooking your knees over his shoulders as he lies down on his stomach. His breath tickles the bare skin of your inner thigh. He presses a wet kiss to your clothed cunt, lapping at you through the thin fabric of your shorts.

"Smells so good," he groans, closing his eyes as he breathes you in. His hips grind into the daybed, and your pussy clenches at the sight. Rockets flare down your spine, shooting you through with sparks of ecstasy. And you haven't even cum yet.

"S'okay?" He asks, dipping two fingers into the side of your shorts to pull them aside, along with your panties. You nod, salivating with need. His eyes are shiny with lust, and he grins before licking softly through your folds. Your eyes flutter shut, as your head falls back against the pillows. "Atta girl," Luffy says, teething at the outer lips of your cunt, "Relax f'me."

He sucks on your clit, soft lips closing around your sensitive circle of nerves. His tongue works swiftly, sliding up and down from the base of your entrance all the way back up to swipe over your clit. He traces figure-eight motions around your rosebud, preening into you with heated praises of how good you're taking it, yeah just like that babygirl, don't stop, keep saying my name, sweetheart, yeah--

"Faster--," you moan, arching your hips into his jaw. Your fingers thread through his hair, showing him where to move. "...and a little to the left," you say, guiding his tongue there. He hums, lapping now in earnest at your clit. The two fingers that had been holding your clothes out of the way start sliding into your entrance. Birds chirp from outside your third-story window. A car honks as it passes by.

"Mmph--," Luffy moans, face shoved halfway up your cunt. You hiss, back bowing forward as he starts fucking you with his fingers. He rubs them swiftly at your g-spot (with deadly accuracy, no less) as he moans and gasps and sucks on your clit. He's messy and unorganized, but he's so skilled, nonetheless. A lover with hyperfixation issues and an obsession with food is something you can get used to, you think.

Luffy presses the flat of his tongue against your clit, sliding it back and forth softly. His head slowly shakes side-to-side with the movement. You groan, tightening your fingers in his hair. Water droplets slide through your knuckles, falling down onto the tips of Luffy's ears. Your thighs clench around him, whole body starting to shake. "Luffy--," you warn, sparks building into an explosion within you. Gunpowder alights in your belly.

"Cum f'me," he says, breath ragged in between solid licks of your clit and pistoning his fingers in and out of your sticky cunt.

Bang.

It's a sweet death, cumming on Luffy's tongue. He moans appreciatively, grinding his hips into the mattress as he rides you through your orgasm. Your body shakes, sweating and shimmering with the recoil. Luffy is petting your pussy, slowly helping you come down as the smoke clears.

You whimper.

Luffy slides his fingers out of you, popping them into his mouth with a satisfied slurp. "Feel good, baby?"

"Mhmm," you nod, slowly coming back to yourself. Your spine is still tingling, and the arches of your feet are seared with heat.

"Kiss me," he says, leaning forward to place his lips along yours. They slide together gracefully, his tongue poking into your mouth so you can taste yourself on him. He bites at your upper lip, pulling softly. "Did such a good job for me," he croons, rubbing his thumb along your cheek. You nuzzle into his hand, slowly blinking your eyes back open.

"So did you," you whisper, smiling sweetly. He giggles, all shishishi, as he leans down to kiss your lips. He tastes like hot chocolate and marshmallows. His biceps trap you in on either side of your face, as he starts to thrust gently against your cunt. His dick slides against your thigh, tip poking at your entrance every so often. He lets his head fall down into your shoulder, shuddering a breath. He kisses a line along your collarbone.

"Can I?"

"Mhmm," you nod again, already shivering in anticipation. Luffy adjusts himself with little thrusts, angling his hips until his thick head is pushing aside the walls of your entrance. You groan.

"Luffy," you huff, voice shaky, "You feel so good."

Luffy presses his lips against the side of your neck, mouthing sloppily at your pulse point. He sinks himself deeper into your cunt, going slowly until he's buried to the hilt. He shifts, subtle movements from side to side that have you seeing stars.

You grip the back of Luffy's hair, both arms wrapped around his neck. "Faster," you whisper, tugging at the silken locks. Your legs are wrapped around his broad torso, ankles hooked together.

Luffy grins, lips stretching against your neck, as he starts thrusting hard and fast into your cunt. He hits all your sweetest spots, messily kissing your neck, your face, your jawline. He whimpers so prettily against your skin, it has you near-feral with need.

"Harder, Luffy," you tell him, gripping his hair tighter. He lifts his head up to kiss your lips, moaning into you as he speeds up.

"Love when you tell me how ta fuck ya," he sighs against your mouth, tongue slipping out to glide against your lower lip. His cock is deep inside you now, fucking hard and fast and just right.

You buck your hips up to meet him as best you can, sloppily matching his athletic pace with little gasps of pleasure. He growls into your ear, pulling at the shell of it with his teeth.

"Switch," you tell him, "Wanna ride ya."

He giggles, flipping you over with ease. His arms flex as he does, and you gasp with need. He arches an eyebrow, tracking your hungry movements as you grope his biceps, his shoulders, his rock-hard forearms. He flexes for you, sweat shining on his brow.

"Like that, sweetheart?" He teases you, traces his fingertips around your nipples. He flicks them, slightly, as you sink yourself back down on his cock. He hisses, eyes closed.

"Love it," you answer, arching your back so you can start fucking his cock at the exact angle that you need. It's not long before you're cumming, rutting into him with little "ah-ah's!" of pleasure. Luffy strokes your hipbones, urging you on.

"Keep goin', baby," he tells you, command dripping from every slurred syllable, "Cum f'me again." He grips the flesh of your hips, dragging you back and forth on his cock as he starts to fuck up into you again.

He plants his feet on the mattress, lifting his hips so he can jackhammer up into your needy pussy as fast as he wants to. His stamina is no match for yours, especially as you're catching your breath after your second orgasm. You fold forward, moaning all high-pitched and whiny as you let him wrap his arms around you.

"'M close," he whispers, breath hot on the nape of your neck, "Cum with me, angel?"

The pet name is so sweet, so romantic, that it catches you off guard. You swivel your hips into his, clenching your pussy walls around the thick length of his member. All you smell is him, hot chocolate and charcoal, as he pounds up into you from below.

"Sweet girl," he snarls, face hot and flushed with need, "Clench that pussy for me," he slaps your ass, and you gasp. Your pussy flutters around his cock, and he grins. "Good girl, baby."

He pants, thrusting up into you at the same breakneck pace, before he's spasming inside you and you feel his hot cum burst sticky against your velvet walls. You whine, letting him fuck his own spend deeper inside your aching pussy. A fluttering, shy orgasm lifts its wings against your spine. He gifts you with a few more stuttering thrusts, and you gasp. Luffy, Luffy, Luffy--

Sweet as sugar.

Luffy hums, happily relaxing back into the mattress. His fingertips trail little spirals along your ass. You wiggle, and he grins.

"Didja like that?" He peeks down at you with one eye open. His scar is hidden under a scarlet blush. You reach up to touch it with your thumb. You press, gently.

"Loved it."

Luffy sighs, letting his head fall back. You slowly lift yourself off him, letting his slick cock fall out against his strong thigh. You groan, spasms still coursing through your cunt as you stand up. His cum leaks down the side of your leg. Clean up time.

You softly pad back into the (now spiderless) bathroom to wash up.

****

Luffy is waiting for you when you get back, one arm thrown haphazard above his head. His shorts are back on, and when he looks up at you, your hair disheveled and mascara smudged, his dark eyes light up like firecrackers. "Shishishi," he giggles when he sees you, "You're so freakin' cute."

You squeeze your eyes shut, a wave of affection so profound and unbearable that all you can do is grit your teeth against it. He sits up.

"You okay?"

"Sorry--," you gasp, pressing your hands against your chest, "It's just--really sweet when you say stuff like that."

He grins.

You wave it off, coming back over to throw on your comfy clothes again. He skootches over to give you room to sit. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in. You both lean back against the daybed's headboard, legs folded around each other as the two of you relax. Your body is squishy and sore, and his is probably somewhere near the same. You reach over to squeeze his knee.

"Sex with you is really sweet," you say, quietly. Luffy grins, nose crinkling in delight. He scratches the back of his head.

"Shishishi, 'm glad you liked it, y/n!"

You smile, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Let's order pizza," you say, tracing circles on his knee. There's a splotchy purple bruise on the side of it: one of many you're sure he has from training.

"Kitty, I love you," he says, slumping his whole weight into you. He nuzzles into your cheek, even as you gasp and try to push him off you. His strong arms wrap around you, pulling you over onto his lap.

"My treat," he says, mouth at your ear, "Whatever you want."

[milkywayes]

dreamt a cipher

a shepard/garrus post-destroy ending longfic.

[AO3 link]

I’ve debated a while about when to start posting this. Now it’s the new year, and I’ve been working on Cipher for over a year and a half, and I’ve waited long enough to start sharing it with you all. I’ve decided it’s finally time to start uploading while I work on the final chapters.

I started writing this before I ever drew a single piece of fanart for Mass Effect. It’s all the things that were bouncing around in my head after choosing the destroy ending with a mostly-paragon Shepard—consequence and responsibility and self-recrimination; her relationship with Garrus and with herself; their ties to each other and how much weight they can bear; their differing perspectives and how they slot together—all that fun stuff—compressed into a story, a place, a narrative. 

I believe in the power of love, and I promise a happy ending. They’ve just been taking the long way to get there. Feel free to yell at me in the meantime.

A huge thank you to @callista-curations for her meticulous and invaluable beta work, and to @that-wildwolf and @gammaraydeath for being the best hypemen I could ask for!

A more detailed list of warnings can be found on AO3.

I've posted the full cover art here.

────

Summary:

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian Rating: M (subject to change) Important Tags: post-destroy ending - angst with a happy ending - slow burn (of sorts) - arguing - reconciliation - survivor guilt - minor original characters Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with. ──── “How does the Earth idiom go? No use beating a dead—” A long-suffering sigh. “What was it again?” “A dead horse. And yet, you’re here. Beating it.” Pot, kettle. She wishes he’d just fucking say it.

-> AO3.

Read the start of Chapter 1: Constant Velocity under the cut!

────

The overhead lights flicker as they always do when the data screens are up and running. It’s not something one gets used to, even so. It stings at her ocular nerves—or something like that, anyway, somewhere along the delicate wires that extend from her eyeballs into her brain—but her focus on the data doesn’t waver.

“In that case,” says Shepard, squinting against the ache, “what we need is salvage from a relay outside the immediate burst zone. Four jumps away. Five, if possible. There’s no point to any of this if we can’t scrape together a control group.”

She glances back at Elsawy, who so far hasn’t made it more than a meter into the room. She nods without looking up from her omni-tool; orange shimmers off her shiny, black hair, giving her the uncomfortable air of a Cerberus operative. Not the worst comparison, except that Miranda would waste no time letting her know if her logic took a faulty turn somewhere. Elsawy’s just as likely to agree now and write a message detailing all her crap conclusions later.

Leaning her hip against the conference table, Shepard shifts her weight off her left leg, bites down on the sigh that almost manages to slip out. Once in the clear, she grouses, “Where the hell is Meyer? He’s the one that called this meeting.”

As it is, it’s three people in attendance and she’s the only one talking. She could’ve achieved the same results with a voice call from her quarters, where she could elevate her leg in peace and without witnesses. In the dark.

“Lab Two,” answers Elsawy, finally ripping her attention off the omni-screen and gracing Shepard with a second of eye contact. Maybe in another life she could appreciate the effort—Jesus, as if she hasn’t had her fill of lives already. “We’re close to a breakthrough on the initial output patterns. Sorry. He’s been feeding his data to me.”

“Right.” She blinks once, twice, in time with the flickering. It doesn’t help; it never does. “I’ll swing by later, then. Anything else he asked you to relay?” 

“Just that, Commander.” Elsawy is mumbling just enough that her voice has to compete with the drone of the air vents. The translator takes a second to filter out and amplify it. The result is less than perfect: “More salvage—” bzzrt—“bigger picture, you got it.” She narrows her eyes, and Shepard raises a brow. “Left leg or—” bzz!—“left hip?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Commander.”

“It’s nothing relevant,” she says pleasantly, forcing herself to stand up straight again. There’s a brief tremor shaking up her hamstrings; she waves a hand to distract from it. In the frenzy of the lights, the movement looks jerky, nervous. She soldiers on. “Old field injury. Unrelated. Anything can set it off.”

Funny, kind of, since it’s that very leg that ends in the most perfect, cooperative example of a foot she’s ever had the pleasure of treading on. It’s cloned; a replacement. Not the only one either. They should’ve just done away with the whole limb, but she hadn’t been consulted. Same with her trick shoulder. Not even Cerberus had managed to get that one back on the straight and narrow.

“I’d rather you bring it up with the doctor,” replies Elsawy. This is, apparently, what it takes for her to finally speak at a reasonable volume. “If we manage to fill even one of the data gaps…”

“I know,” she says. “I know, and I’m telling you, it’s unrelated.”

-> continue reading on AO3

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Hi I’m looking for fits where derek leaves beacon hills and stiles finds him living somewhere and somehow they end up together. Possibly in a bed. So…thanks?

Hi @rosplace! There are so many great ones.

You Have Reached... by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

(1/1 I 5,074 I General)

“Why did you listen to the voicemails?”

“I like hearing you talk,” Derek said.

There were many things Stiles had been expecting after asking that question. That answer hadn’t been one of them.

“Any time we ever spoke before, it was always about what next problem we were facing and needed to solve. The voicemails are just you... talking.”

“Oh.” Stiles had never considered that.

A Growl-to-English Dictionary by churkey

(4/4 I 14,688 I Teen)

In which Derek finds his words and Stiles learns to growl.

it took new york to make me a cowboy by piratetattoos

(1/1 I 15,154 I Mature)

After Beacon Hills, Derek heads back to New York. He doesn’t look back, lest he be turned into a pillar of salt. He leaves it all behind, a monument, a tomb, a thousand fuck ups and betrayals left to gather dust and slowly rot away to nothing.

He read somewhere once, that time is cyclical, that the universe repeats over and over, and that he will be reborn and make the exact same mistakes over and over again, helpless to change anything. He thinks Stiles told him about a Vonnegut novel like that once.

He doesn’t think about Stiles.

*

(or: Derek leaves Beacon Hills, finds himself, and waits for Stiles to find him.)

Welcome To New York by Okaylittlebrother

(4/? I 36,657 I General)

Derek has been on Stiles' mind ever since he saw the werewolves initials in the library during Senior Scribe. He plans on attending NYU in the fall just to be close to him.

Come As You Are by Welsh_Woman

(16/16 I 55,684 I Teen)

Derek has finally found a bit of peace after the hell that was his return to Beacon Hills. He has a routine, a warm home, he even has a dog!

Then, one ordinary day, Stiles Stilinski shows up at his door with shoulders broader than he remembered, still carrying far too much.

Maybe Derek can share the peace he found and ease the burden that Stiles bears...

The Moon's Gonna Follow Me Home by turningterrific

(2/2 I 82,866 I Explicit)

Derek doesn’t want to call the window repair guy. He doesn’t want to sweep up the glass. He’ll inevitably miss a few shards and pull them out of the bottom of his bare feet for weeks.

He doesn’t want to try to make this place feel like home when it isn’t.

Derek stayed in Beacon Hills and tried to make it work because he wanted pack, wanted purpose. He gave his best effort and found himself back where he started: alone, with a few begrudging allies. He’s tired, and even though his werewolf body heals quickly, he feels the weary ache down to his center.

He packs his car with the few things he cares about enough to drag them from place to place. He locks the loft and calls a realtor about listing the building he’d bought in a misguided attempt to secure a future.

And then he leaves.

[dontyouworrydaddy]

I should let you go

Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader

summary: Leon was sure you were dead. He held you till you took your lost breath. So why are you alive now? Why can’t you remember him?

warning: violence, angst, mention of death, blood

“This has to be a sick joke” Leon whispers as soon as he sees you. He doesn’t get it. How can you be alive when you clearly died in his arms years ago?

“Please don’t leave me” Leon desperately says as he clutches you to his chest, refusing to let you go. But you lost way too much blood. You shouldn’t have been so stubborn and accepted help but you wanted to prove yourself. You wanted to show him that you didn’t need anyone to look after you. But this clearly went wrong and now you’re dying. You lost way too much blood and you don’t even know where your left side is. All you can focus on is Leon. You want him to be the last person that gets to hold you and you want him to be the last person to talk to you. But with your last energy you push him away from you since the building is gonna explode soon. He looks at you shocked. “I love you Leon. But please run and live before it’s too late” you tell him and see him standing up. He is clearly hesitating and before he runs off. He kisses you and tells you that he loves you. And then he starts running. You cry now and you’re making yourself ready to face death. But before death can even get you, you feel someone picking you up. And those hands are unfamiliar….

You‘re now standing in front if him, looking very much alive. But there is something about you that makes you look so unalive. Like you’re not really living.

“Y/N. My dear-” before he can finish his sentence, you run and attack him and he is defending himself. He is completely confused. Are you mad at him for leaving?

“She doesn’t know who you are. Well… Maybe she does but she can’t control her body.” The enemy appears from behind you and you quickly get back again, standing next to him. You clearly don’t look human.

“I bought her back to live. And let’s say it wasn’t very… how can I put it in words… pleasant? A few years of torture and isolation. She was very lonely in a room with no windows just her bed and herself for 5 years. That must‘ve been very very shitty.” the enemy laughs and you just stand next to him, not reacting.

“I know you’re somewhere in there. Please snap out of it” Leon yells at you but he doesn’t get any attention from you. You didn’t even blink. You did nothing.

“Well Y/N, I allow you to welcome your friend. Go and kill him and be back home afterwards” he says before he leaves you to kill Leon.

Leon won‘t do anything to hurt you. He will let you hurt him if he doesn’t react close enough. He doesn’t want to harm you.

You’re still the woman he loves. The woman he had his first everything with. The woman he wanted to marry and have a child with. He never wanted to be a father but when he met you… he changed his mind.

As you kept attacking him he tried to talk to you and tell you that you still can control yourself.

“Baby please. Remember the first time we kissed. You were nervous and kept hiding your face with your hair because your face was red” it doesn’t seem to work. Nothing seems to work.

As you push his weapon away, you put a gun to his head.

You don’t talk.

“I love you Y/N. I never stopped loving you. And everyday I keep remembering how I left you there and it was eating me alive. I wanted to die because I couldn’t live without you anymore. I love you so much it was hurting my whole body. I couldn’t eat for days because I kept thinking about you. I constantly threw up because the image of you lying in your own pool of blood would keep popping up in my head. And you know what? I never threw anything from you away. Your clothes? Still sitting next to mind. Your purple Calendar with stars? It’s still on the wall. Your post it that says I love you? Still on my mirror. Even your stuffed bear. I was sleeping with that bear because it smelled just like you. And I didn’t throw away the shirt that was covered in your blood because it was the only thing that kept me going for revenge. So if you shoot me, I‘d die happily knowing it was you but I‘d still be feeling guilty because you’re being help hostage and being used” he confesses and feels ready for you to shoot him. He closes his eyes and waits for the feeling of pain but it never comes.

As he opens his eyes he sees that you’re struggling and your hand is shaking. Your gun falls from your hand and many tears are leaving you eyes.

He sees you struggle and comes to hug you. You hand is still in the position where your gun was a few moments before. He knows you’re trying to fight your way back. You try to control your body again.

You feel the enemy coming again and take all the courage and energy you saved to turn you and him over. Soon there is a gunshot echoing through the huge hallway and Leon jumps. He looks behind you and sees him. He doesn’t waste a second. He takes out his gun and shoots him multiple times.

He has a smile on his face because gets to have you again and continue with his dreams but as he looks down at you, you collapse against his chest. He immediately catches you and now the smile washed from his face.

You’ve been shot. Now you’re leaving him again.

You can’t do that. No you can’t do that to him. Not when he got you again. Not when you’re with him again.

“Please. No” he is whispering now. His heart shatters and it feels like someone is stabbing him. Literally.

“I‘m so happy you came” you tell him. All your life you‘ve been held hostage someone in your body. You knew what you were doing. And it was breaking your heart knowing you took innocent souls. But you were never able to control yourself. Not until now. You tried way too hard. Tried to get out and gain control again. But it never happened.

“I love you Leon. I‘ll wait for you” you tell him with your last energy before you close your eyes. Again you’re leaving him. But this time he‘s not leaving you behind.

He holds you and kisses your cold forehead as he carried you out of this hellhole.

“I love you more” he whispers as he takes you somewhere quite with a beautiful view to bury you. And he doesn’t leave your side. Not now. Not ever.

He disappeared from the world and just lays next to you before he buries you.

You left him again. Twice.

[skittles-the-whumpee]

Old Dealings

Chapter One - Sudden Discovery

<<<So, this is a canon side story to bring Skittles into Be Careful What You Wish For since her original story is inactive. I'm trying a new-for-me writing style so please, bear with me.>>>

TW: demon whumper, faerie whumper, human whumpee, degradation, pet whump, yelling, insults, human trafficking, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentioned kidnapping

It's not often that Lord Daelan Darya of Greed is able to visit the human realm on leisure trips but that is where he finds himself today, somewhere in the Pacific Northwest, taking in the familiar scent of salty ocean air on the rooftop of his current love interest's home. The past year has been aggravating at best…he needs this vacation.

The past year had been spent searching for one particular person, one of his wards, a human he made a deal with over two decades ago…she's gone missing and not even his top trackers can find her. It's as if she's dropped off the face of the Earth, just completely vanished without a trace. So, to take his mind off things, he's come to spend some time away from Hell and his domain.

He feels hands sliding around his waist from behind as his lover wraps their arms around him, pressing their body against his back.

"Tense as always…well…I suppose less tense than you usually are."

"It's the ocean air, love. It's calmed me ever since I was a human child. Except back then, it was what is now known as the Persian Gulf." He says as he places his hands on theirs, cherishing their touch. "It was warmer, but this feels better, more calming."

"Have you ever gone back?"

"Hm? Yes…I-…I visit every now and then. It's so incredibly different than how it used to be. Still a dangerous place just…in different ways." He turns around and places his hands on their hips, pulling them in close. "Now, I seem to remember you telling me something about this new pet you've acquired but I have yet to see it. Is it shy?"

They giggle a little before standing on their tiptoes to kiss his cheek. "Yeah, she's just a bit nervous around new people. She's likely been avoiding you on purpose, she doesn't mean anything by it."

"Scared of the big bad demon lord, is she?" He asks with a playful chuckle.

"Want me to go find her?" Their head tilts cutely to the side as an equally playful smile crosses their lips.

"Yes, please. You know I like to check out your new pets. Especially after that pretty angel boy." He definitely has very fond memories of playing with the magpie angel, delicious blood and the prettiest singing voice.

They then turn on their heel with a smile, prompting Daelan to cop a feel, making them squeak and giggle as they wander off to go find their newest pet.

They look everywhere for her; the kitchen, the living room, her cell in the basement, they even look for her in their room seeing as she's hidden there before. There's no sign of her. The only other place they can think of is…oh shit…the greenhouse…on the roof.

Meanwhile, back up on the roof, Daelan has started pacing with a lit cigarette, smoking while he strolls around casually. It's very well-kept, likely because of the pets. Though, a bit of movement catches his eye through the partially warped glass on the side of the greenhouse and, like the proverbial cat, his curiosity is piqued and he slowly approaches.

There's someone in there, slowly watering the plants. They seem relaxed, at peace while they go about their task. He leans in to look inside, squinting to get a better view as he takes a hit from his cigarette, his eyes then opening wide as the person inside turns around.

"There is no way, in all the rings of Hell, that I'm this lucky…" He exclaims loud enough for the one inside to hear. Her back straightens and the watering can rattles as she begins to tremble…she knows that voice.

She looks over at the man in the window and feels her knees instantly go weak. She blinks, hoping that she's seeing things. Nope…that's him. He's here. But…how did he find her? She had changed hands so many times that she was so certain that he'd never find her.

His brows furrow in anger as he drops his cigarette, squashing it with his foot while staring at his missing ward. After all this time, there she is, watering plants…owned by someone else.

"Outside, NOW!" He demands with a growl, making her trembling worse. Cowering from his anger, she obeys, setting the watering can down before exiting the greenhouse with her hands folded neatly down in front of her and her head bowed in submission and fear. She's rightfully terrified, she had volunteered to be someone else's pet and flown halfway across the world to serve him when she truly belonged to Lord Daelan. Needless to say, she's in deep shit.

He's fuming, tapping his foot as she makes her way to him, kneeling before him just as he had trained her long ago.

"Do you have ANY idea how long I've been looking for you?! Where the FUCK have you been?" Each inflection makes her cower into herself more and more, trembling like a leaf.

"I-I-…I'm so-sorry…I-"

"DID I FUCKING ASK IF YOU WERE SORRY, YOU MISERABLE LITTLE SHIT?!" He bellows, his horns manifesting from pure rage. It's at that point that she starts sobbing in fear, she's seen him turn people to ash for lesser offenses. She cannot stop herself from pressing her forehead into the cold concrete of the roof, her tears dripping on it.

His lover reaches the roof and hears his yelling, wondering why their sweet pet is on her knees, sobbing with her head against the concrete. They figure she had offended him somehow…but…how? She's so sweet, she's never broken a rule and guests love her.

Daelan hears the door to the roof close and he turns, still rather angry, not quite able to switch it off at a moment's notice.

"What is going on up here? Skittles, what happened?" They ask, so very puzzled.

Before she can even open her mouth, Daelan raises a finger to them. "This is between me and her, love. Please stay out of it."

Wrong answer.

Their blood begins to boil at being told to stay out of something pertaining to one of their pets.

"Ex-fucking-cuse me?! She is mine and you will respect my authority in my own home." They command as they march right up to him, not even caring that he's the demon lord of Greed, this is their home and they're not about to let him tell them what to do…not here.

Daelan is actually so taken aback by them storming up to him that he's speechless, staring down at them with wide eyes. By the time he's able to collect his thoughts for a reply, they are standing strong, puffing their chest out and actually looking rather intimidating.

"But she's-…" He's barely even able to start a sentence before being cut off.

"NEED I actually adhere to the court order against you?" That makes him shut his mouth tight and shake his head. He then steps aside and over towards the edge facing the harbor, forcing himself to calm down before he does something that will risk his lordship title.

They watch him step away before kneeling down with their pet, completely shifting their attitude from a moment ago as they console the crying human. They rub her back, cooing softly that she's not in trouble and that she can go downstairs and get something to eat. She sniffles as she nods and slowly stands on shaky legs before making her way downstairs.

Once she disappears down the stairs and the door closes, they stand and slowly approach their lover, wrapping their arms around his waist from behind again, prompting him to gently place his on theirs.

"Care to explain what that was all about?" They ask in a calm tone.

He sighs and deflates a bit. "She's my missing ward…the one I've been looking for all this time and she was right under my nose. How long has she been here?"

"A few weeks, I bought her from my college friend, a fetch. He didn't say where he got her, though." It takes them a moment to fully register exactly what he said about her. "Wait…hold on…she is your missing ward?"

He nods, brushing his thumb over the back of their hand, their skin is delightfully soft, good for staying calm, given the circumstances. "Yeah. She is."

They raise their eyebrows in surprise. "Holy shit…talk about a small world. Like…what are the chances of that?"

"Impossibly slim."

"Well…since she was your property to begin with, you can have her back…as much as I'll miss her. She's a very sweet and obedient pet, try to take it easy on her." They offer as they press their cheek against his back in a hug.

Shocked by their offer, he turns back around to look them in the eye. "Are you sure, love? You seemed pretty steadfast when coming to her defense."

They look up at him and smile softly. "Yes, I'm sure. I can't withhold your property from you, so I'm returning her back to her rightful owner." They take a moment to think. "However, I'll only do so if you swear to me that you won't kill her."

He looks off to the side, thinking if it's even worth taking her back at this point before finally settling on a decision. He'll take her, she needs discipline but he'll keep her alive.

"I swear to keep her alive, you have my word. Thank you for returning her to me…I can finally put this wild goose chase to rest." He leans down and gives them a tender kiss, grateful to have them in his life. They keep him honest, completely unafraid of him and his aggressive habits, totally comfortable standing up to him without backing down. He's finally met his match.

Now to just get his pet home. She may be safe from death, but her previous owners are saints by comparison…and she's had some brutal owners.

BCWYWF Taglist (since this is a parallel story):

@whumpshaped @whumper-soot @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @dragonfireridge @whumpofdory @astrowhump @batfacedliar @the-scrapegoat @livoftheparty @thebejeweledwatercat

[wriothesleysgf]

𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘. — erwin smith.

“everyone i’ve cared about has either died or left me. except you.”

about: erwin will always do his best to ease your worries.

notes: implied character death, established relationship, angst. | angst prompts [reqs : open!]

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 when you started dating erwin that his first priority would always be his allegiance to the people of the walls. he had always been chivalrous - hell, that was one of his many qualities that had you falling head over heels for the man.

the two of you had met as trainee scouts. he’d gone on to take command, whereas you turned down higher ranks as you enjoyed being in as many fights as you could — something about the rush that came from slaying titans made you feel more fulfilled, perhaps it was because you could see your direct impact on others in the countless lives that you’ve saved over your career.

erwin had supported you consistently, and you him. he was the only person that you felt always had your own happiness as a priority. the two of you even reminded each other that you were fighting for a better future, for each other and any future family, each time one of you departed on a mission. you had always managed to find your ways back to one another.

before the mission to reseal the walls, you found yourself with a terrible feeling that you couldn’t shake. something was definitely off, but you couldn’t tell what it was. part of you didn’t want to tell erwin, yet he had always been so incredibly wise that you knew you had to. so, with the excuse of bringing a hot mug of coffee to his office late one evening, three days before the scheduled attack, you confided in him.

“my love,” he spoke, his deep, calming voice already chipping away at the fears you felt. “perhaps looking over the plans will help,” he motioned to the maps on his desk.

erwin spent the next forty minutes going over tactics and actions. when he finished, he asked you for your opinions. as a result of your own military experience, you were able to offer a couple of notes here and there. the man took everything on board and made a couple of quick scribbles. sure, these plans have already been triple checked by various high ranking officers, yet everybody bears a different perspective and erwin truly did value yours.

“how are you feeling now?”

“a little better…” your voice was uncharacteristically small. it was a more vulnerable side that you only really showed around erwin. “i think i’m just scared.”

“darling, a little fear is what keeps us alive. if you weren’t scared, i���d be more concerned,” he smiles, a weak attempt at trying to lighten your mood, even marginally.

when you stay silent, erwin gets up to his feet. without saying a word, he leads you closer to the window. it’s already dark out, and you can see the constellations gleaming down from above. it reminds you of those sleepless nights during training and early scout days, either when sleep would evade one of you and you’d both spend some time watching the sky, or occasions where the two of you would be put on watch together whilst outside of the walls. erwin’s father had taught him about the stars, and he was ever so grateful for the way that your eyes shone brighter than any celestial body he’d ever seen when he relayed odd facts that he remembered.

“i’ve had something for a while,” erwin begins a little speech. it’s much different from those he delivered in front of his soldiers; it possessed copious feeling, and felt much less rehearsed. “i’ve never found the right time to ask you…”

and the rest was history. what was supposed to be an engagement ring became the ring you wore when the two of you wed. neither of you were into the idea of something big and fancy, so you posed the idea of simply eloping. all you needed were two witnesses and an officiant - surely there would be one somewhere. the next afternoon, whilst most of the military were training or sorting supplies, you both snuck off.

levi had always been a trusted confidant to erwin, so of course he was called upon to come with you. you weren’t sure if it was a blessing or not that hange just so happened to burst into the room when erwin was explaining your situation to him… thus how you received your second attendant. they’d always been close to you, as you’d often be intrigued in some of their less conventional experiments, so you were happy.

both you and erwin wrote a few vows for one another. his focused around how he would always protect you with every fibre of his being, no matter what.

“everything i do is for you. more than once i've daydreamed of a titan-less world where you and i are happy and safe enough to start a little family. maybe it’s cliche, but i’d be content living the most boring, normal life if i got to spend it by your side."

when it was your turn, you were already tearing up. the terrible feeling in your stomach was forgotten, instead replaced with the butterflies that had appeared the first time that erwin had kissed you.

“i just… i adore you, so much. i don’t know what i did in a past life to deserve you, but it makes everything i’ve endured worth it. you know, everyone i’ve cared about has either died or left me. except you.”

after the short ceremony, the two of you continued about your day. levi managed to cover when somebody asked for the commander’s whereabouts, offering you a nod. nobody dare questioned him, so they got on with their day.

it wasn’t until later that week that those words truly came back to you.

after what felt like days of fighting titans endlessly, you were running on fumes by the time that you regrouped with other scouts. your battalion had been forced to split up in the chaos, you didn’t know what happened to any of them. yet, all you desired now was to see erwin, your husband.

the dreaded feeling. there it was.

the very second that you saw levi in the distance, the horrible knot in your stomach returned. it was more intense than prior, forcing you to use the last of your energy to prevent your knees from buckling. the captain was very clearly trying to maintain his staple stoicism yet you could sense the guilt seeping through the facade. he didn’t say anything until he was stood in front of you. he gave a few orders to others around him, then turned to you. having known him for as long as you did, you could read him better than most. part of you knew the dreadful answer before you asked the question.

“levi… where’s erwin?”

[yet-another-deanw-girl]

Chapter 2: Protocol EG-64 initiated

||The Prophecy Series||

She knew for 15 years that this day would come. She knew her destiny had already been written. That her death had been foretold.

She knew she would have to stop him. She knew she would have to kill him. And she thought she was prepared for all of it. But the day she met him she realized how wrong she was…

Set in Season 10

Pairing: MoC!Dean x Female!OC

Warnings: the usual SPN, language, injuries

Episode mapping: After episode 4 of season 10 "Paper Moon"

Note: The events of this story are following season 10 of Supernatural and are taking place between October 2014 and July 2015. I tried to make sure that all the references to weapons, tech, etc. are accurate with the time period.

AN: This is my first time writing a fanfic but the story has been in my head for too long and it just needed to get out. I hope you like it.

AN: English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes.

I slowly regain consciousness and I’m overwhelmed by the familiar smell of the humid air.  I’m home…  But then the memories from the cabin come back to me.  I struggle to open my eyes but I'm fully awake and I focus on hearing the silent conversation coming from the other side of the room. "What were we supposed to do? Drop her in some hospital? And say what? A bear attacked her?" Sam's voice is concerned. "She just saved our lives, Dean! She will be fine in a couple of days and then she'll be gone." "I know…" Dean sighs. "I'm just not sure if she is safer here with us... with me… or in a hospital on her own!" I'm finally able to open my eyes and start sitting up. "Hey, hey, easy there!" Sam says when he sees me and rushes to me. Dean stays in his place next to the door.  "You are safe here! We are not going to hurt you!" I managed to stop myself before responding with some sarcastic comment like "You should be worried about me hurting you!". I must not behave like the military trained special ops soldier right now. I must act like an American hunter. A little bit of politeness and a fake confusion would be the best way to go. "What happened?" I ask, looking down at my stomach. The wound was stitched up and bandaged. My jeans are covered in blood and my shirt is gone, leaving me only in my sports bra. Sam turns around and produces a plaid shirt from somewhere and I quickly put it on. It is way too big on me, so I roll the sleeves and tie the bottom to a node around my waist so the bandages are not visible. "You were injured by a werewolf while you were saving us. Thanks, for that, by the way." He smiles. "My name is Sam Winchester. This is my brother, Dean. What's your name?" My name? They have probably already found my fake ID. What was the name on it? Nadia? Natasha? "Natalie, Natalie Brooks. Where am I?" Playing 'damsel in distress' is not my favorite role. I'm far away from helpless and confused as you can imagine. But I just need to play the part and go on my way as fast as possible. "You are… ahm… Well, we live here. We didn't want to just drop you in a hospital." Sam explains. Dean hadn't said a word. Hadn't moved. He was just standing with his back against the wall next to the door, his arms crossed. Looking at me the whole time. Studying me.  I really need to go. Now! "Well thank you, for stitching me up. But I think it's time for me to go now."  Sam tries to stop me when I stand up on my unstable legs.  "I'm fine, thanks! I'll just go. I really don't want to intrude." I walk past Dean and open the door but before I run to the exit, I stop myself remembering, I was not supposed to know the layout of this place. I look both ways and turn around with a confused look. "Ahum... Can you point me to the exit? And…um… I suppose my car is not here?"

"Who are you?" I am sitting in the back seat of a black Impala. We have been on the road for about 40 minutes before Dean speaks to me for the first time. I'm looking through the window, lost in my thoughts, so I'm not entirely faking this time when I startle at his abrupt question. Sam looks at him with a scolding expression, like he is on the verge of lecture him for being impolite. I stifle a scoff and instead, put a confused look on my face. "What do you mean? I already told you who I…" Pain grips every nerve in my body. "Stop the car!" I hiss, grabbing at the door handle. "What the hell are you doing!!!" Dean exclaims. "Dean, stop the car! Something's wrong!" I can hear Sam saying. "Her nose is bleeding!"

Created with Microsoft Designer

I stumble out of the car and start moving back down the road frantically. My mind is trying to grasp what is happening. This is not possible. Not now! Not here! When I'm about a hundred meters away from the car, the pain suddenly stops. I gasp for air and when my breathing normalizes I hear the Winchesters running toward me. "What happened?" Sam asks, the concern in his voice even more evident from when I woke up earlier. I wipe out the blood from my nose ignoring the question and dig out my phone from my jeans back pocket. I already know what is going on but I open my navigation map anyway. The exact distance from the Men of Letters bunker is… 64 kilometers…  Fuck!  Fuck!  Shit!  Fuck! "What the hell is all of that about?" Dean asks, raising his voice. I take a deep breath and straighten my back. I knew this was coming. It was inevitable. And it is just the beginning. And, of course, it has to be the renowned Winchester brothers. "I asked you a question, damn it!" Dean growls.

I slowly turn around to face the boys. I compose myself despite the panic and dread in my chest.  My feet - slightly apart… my back - straight… my hands - clasped behind my back… my chin - parallel to the ground… my face - expressionless. I lock all of the feelings in the tiny little black box inside my head. There is no point in panicking… there is no point of feeling any of this… It is what it is… I had accepted that a long time ago… "I'll have to make a call first, and then I'll explain everything." Dean tries to argue, but Sam stops him.

"Commander! Where are you? You've missed your exit window." I hear the voice of the general on the other side of the line. It looks like I'm on speaker because I can hear the usual noises of the command center. "Sir, I just initiated protocol EG-64." The line goes silent. The entire room around him is deadly quiet. They are just standing there not knowing what to say. "Em..." I hear the general's gasp. "It's right on time, sir."  Another long time of silence. "Sir, I need confirmation." My voice is monotone, drained of any emotion, like a good soldier. The man on the other side of the line clears his throat. "You have confirmation. Initiating protocol EG-64."  Silence…  "Soldier!" The general says and I hear the familiar noise of a keyboard. Everyone else is just quiet... I can imagine their faces and the looks that they are exchanging… "Can I do anything for you, commander?" "Sir, I need official permission to disclose my full identity to the active members of the American Men of Letters - Samuel Winchester, born May 2, 1983 and Dean Winchester, born January 24, 1979." The brothers are staring at me with curiosity, distrust and disbelief. "You have permission. You know the rules - only the need to know information." "Yes, sir." "And… you have permission to disclose your identity to everyone that is involved with your task as you deem needed. Call if you need anything!" "Thank you, sir!"

Created with Microsoft Designer

There is nothing left from the confused and fragile girl that woke up in the bunker a couple of hours earlier. That was actually the thing bothering me about her. She had barged in that cabin, killing those werewolves… And when she woke up… She played… almost helpless… But not anymore… The person standing in front of me is the same small framed, 5 '7 tall, 115 pound woman, wearing the same bloodied jeans and my too big plaid shirt under her leather jacket, but she has the stand of a trained soldier.  Who, the hell, is she?  I knew something was up with her, from the moment she stormed in that cabin, but I was not able to put my finger on it until now.  I look at her closely. Her dark hair is held in a tide braid, her military boots are perfectly laced and going around her ankles, definitely not just a style choice.  It all makes sense now.  She was holding back.  She was trying to hide her training this whole time.

She is standing still like a rock the entire time she is talking on the phone. Not moving a muscle. Her expression is cold and distant, showing no emotions. "Yes, sir." …. "Thank you, sir!"

She hangs up the phone and puts it in her back pocket. Her right hand joins the left one behind her back.  "My name is Emilia Nikolova. I'm a tac team commander of The European Division of The Order." She recites with a monotone voice. "The bad news is that there is something wrong with your bunker. The worse news is that I'm going to kill one of you and the other one is going to kill me."

Chapter 3: The stand-off >>

||The Prophecy Series||