#and maybe it’s because I had to wear one this week and my ribs ached

[russilton]

More trans George warm ups - binder edition

Projecting binder back and rib pain onto him. Lewis would help him adjust bc he’s a good teammate.

*Binders should NEVER be worn during periods of intense strain, such as working out or racing. George is being stupid for doing it anyway, and learning his lesson

References from Kibbitzer.

[augustinewrites]

@sunasbabie — for last year’s bday, christmas, and new years gift bcs ily or whatever 🙄

suna used to have a really nice denim jacket.

it was made of black denim, bought from some american brand that cost him way more than he’d care to admit. he loved that jacket— he’d worn it over t-shirts in the summer and thick hoodies in the winter. he’d been wearing it on the day of onigiri miya’s grand opening and the day he’d signed with ejp.

he’d also happened to be wearing it the night he met you.

he remembers seeing you the night of atsumu’s new year’s eve party. remembers thinking that your dress was highly impractical because it was sequined and backless but damn— you looked good.

and no matter what osamu thinks he remembers, it did not take him so long to talk to you because he was feeling shy. he was just giving the other guys at the party a chance, is all. he’s nice like that.

atsumu, the drunken idiot that he was, had ended up dragging everyone up onto the roof of his apartment for the countdown. and you, idiot that you were, started shivering 15 seconds into the count, suna watching as you’d rubbed your arms for warmth and and suddenly turned to face, as if you’d felt him watching.

with 30 seconds to midnight and a shove from osamu, he’s closing the distance between you both to say hi. you have his jacket draped over your shoulders by midnight. just because he’s nice like that, not because he’s silently marking his territory and telling potential suitors to fuck off.

he even lets you leave with it, but not before exchanging numbers so you can return it as soon as possible. which you do, showing up at his place the next afternoon, his jacket washed and folded neatly in your arms, offering to buy him lunch as a thanks.

you’re the one wearing it, four months later, when he asks you to be his girlfriend. because ‘it’s just so windy out, rin. you don’t want my dress flying up, right?’

on cooler days, he’s almost sure you forego your own jacket just so you can steal his, and he lets you. you wear it draped over your shoulders when you walk back to his place after a movie. you use it as a blanket during longer car rides. there’s this fatal bug in suna’s system, and it doesn’t let him tell you ‘no.’

you’re wearing it the day you move in. he wasn’t going to make you unpack all your clothes just to find a jacket to wear to lunch.

you’d spent three years stealing that jacket. the denim is soft and well-worn, with a tear or two in the hem, but you love it. and he loves that it still smells like your perfume on the odd day he gets to wear it himself.

maybe that’s why it hurt so much, watching you brush your fingers over it as you pack away your clothes. you’d left every every t-shirt of his you’d slept in, every hoodie you’d claimed, in what was now his closet again.

but for this, you hesitate. a dull ache throbs between his ribs as he watches you hug the fabric to your chest, eyes fluttering shut.

“just take it,” he’d told you quietly from the doorway. “i don’t want it anymore.”

suna used to have a really nice denim jacket.

_____

it’s almost six months later when you call him for the first time since the breakup.

suna has to do a double take when he sees your contact. mostly because three in the morning and no one should be awake at this hour, but also because he can’t believe it’s you.

his brain and his heart are at a crossroads. he shouldn’t answer. you probably hit the wrong contact. you have other friends in the city, surely you would call one of them if you needed something.

but there’s that flaw again, and suna hits accept.

“hello?”

“rin? rin! hi.”

he sits up in the darkness at the sound of your slurring. “are you drunk?”

“no,” you lie, even hiccuping a little. “i just…i really just wanted to tell you—”

you cut yourself short, sighing. “that you did really good during your game last week.”

he raises his brows slightly, chuckling. “you were watching?”

“no,” you say again, much too quickly. “i just…heard.”

“i know what you sound like when you’re lying,” he reminds you, sliding out of bed and pulling on a hoodie. “and i also know what you sound like when you’re drunk. stay where you are, i’m gonna pick you up.”

you send him your location right away, and he drives over. he calls you to let you know he’s there, because he’s sure you’re not gonna hear your text tone, and when you step out of the bar—

he sees that you’re wearing his jacket.

that damn black denim jacket, american label and all. it hangs off your shoulders loosely, and when suna gets out of the car, he grabs the collar, pulling you closer and pretending not to notice the way you inhale sharply. ignoring your wide-eyed stare as he adjusts the jacket, doing up the buttons because he knows you’re gonna complain about the night chill.

“c’mon,” he says, pulling open the passenger door. “get inside, dumbass.”

the cute pout that downturns your lips is just like suna remembers. he closes the door after you, rounding to the other side of the car.

“did you tell your friends you’re getting home safe?” he asks as he reaches across you to put on your belt. “how come none of them came to get you?”

“oh, uh, yeah i called them but they weren’t answering,” you tell him. “i’ll call them now, just in case.”

suna watches as you fumble with your phone, tapping back and forth through the phone app until he grabs it from your hands with a sigh. he has no idea which one of your friends you’d called, so he goes to your recents.

only to see that he’s the only one you’d called tonight.

[shingekinomyfeelings]

preservation (Reiner x gn reader; drama/fluff)

sfw. canon universe, 104th cadet era. ~1,600 words. no content warnings.

Your over-eager recklessness lands you in the infirmary, and your boyfriend is, well, a little pissy about it...

notes: oh, I know it's not sexy, but I really really love this one, and Reiner acting like an immature grump is always super funny to me. Y/n likes to push his buttons a little, but you definitely love each other. Reiner deserves a bit of a hard time now and then anyway. originally published January 2023.

The first thing you’re aware of is that you’re in a bed – not on the hard forest floor you remember rushing towards you at a terrifying speed – and that fucking hell, your body aches. Blinking a few times, your fuzzy vision clears and you find yourself staring up at a ceiling – not the barracks?

It takes a moment, but you soon recognize that you’re in the infirmary.

‘Why the infirmary...?’

Okay, maybe you got a little too competitive with the training dummies, and maybe you were going way too fast, and maybe trying out some of those fancy maneuvers you’d seen some members of the Survey Corps practicing on the training grounds the week before wasn’t the best idea you’d had recently, but who could really fault you for that?

“Do you actually get some kind've weird kick out of making me worry about you?” A gruff voice to your right makes you glance over in surprise, the room seeming to wobble and tilt just a bit as you turn your head too quickly.

Reiner is seated in the chair next to your bed, slouching to the side with one elbow braced on the arm of the chair so he can prop his face against his hand. He doesn’t even look at you as he poses this question, and the sight of this huge man sulking in a chair that was probably intended for a much smaller person is almost comical enough to make you laugh – except for the intense pain that sears through your ribs when you give a single huff of amusement.

When this immediately makes you wince and take a sharp gasp, you could swear you saw him twitch a muscle, but he keeps his gaze fixed on the opposite wall.

‘So fucking stubborn.’

It’s a little endearing, but at the same time it makes you want to needle him back a bit.

“I mean, of course I do. Practically the reason I get up each morning. Today for instance, I woke up and thought, ‘man, I don’t wanna get up, but I just gotta so I can fuck up a maneuver at full speed and bust my ribs because I’d love to see the look on Reiner’s face when that happens.’ I ate breakfast in a hurry and everything.”

It doesn’t sound as antagonistically flippant as you meant it to sound, sadly, because it actually hurts to talk right now, and because you actually are a little annoyed that he won’t look at you. You can’t even really see his expression, but from the way his brow looks extra furrowed and his nose seems to be crinkled a bit, you imagine he looks like he wants to smother you with your pillow.

With some effort, you push yourself to sitting more or less upright, though still leaning against the headboard, and take a look around. The infirmary is mostly empty but for a few other occupied beds, and afternoon light is spilling through the open windows on a gentle breeze. No one else seems to have any visitors right now.

Reiner is still wearing his body harness, the ODM gear on the floor to either side of his chair; you realize he must have abandoned the drill entirely to follow you here, giving you a pang of regret for being sarcastic with him. Even if he is being a little petulant right now, he’s so sweet…

A moment passes in awkward silence.

“Hey… can you bring me some water, please?” you ask softly, a hint of apology in your voice.

“Get it yourself,” he grumbles, and you can tell he’s trying his best to sound indifferent as he casts you a look from the corner of his eye. “Your ribs aren’t broken, just bruised. That cut on your leg looks pretty nasty, but seeing that you’re already fully capable of being a pain in the ass, I’m guessing the bump on your head didn’t do any lasting damage, either.”

Okay, he’s being really petulant right now.

You give him a look that says, ‘Are you kidding me?’ before swinging your legs off the side of the bed and getting to your feet.

A full body wave of pain draws a trembling exhalation from your lungs, threatening for a heartbeat to throw you off balance… and then Reiner brushes past you to briskly cross the room, returning a moment later looking like a fluffy blonde storm cloud, carrying a glass of water that he pushes into your outstretched hands with an irritated snort.

“Why do you have to be so fucking stubborn?”

An incredulous look flashes across your face before you laugh, dropping yourself back onto the bed a little too hard and splashing yourself with some of the water in the process. A long whimper of pain escapes around your laughter, and you lay back against the pillows as you recompose yourself. Now Reiner’s just looking at you with an expression somewhere between frustrated concern and a confused pout.

“I’m sorry, Reiner, but coming from you of all people...” You look back up at him with a grin despite the pain, and the cold water all over your shirt. “Were you hoping I’d just keep asking you for water or something?”

His pout deepens; of course he’s not going to admit that…

"Come on, sit down,” you implore, setting the water aside and motioning him towards the chair. “Please?”

He sits back down in the chair as it creaks, but facing you this time. You’re able to snake your hand out to grab the harness running across his chest and tug him closer, and though he gives a halfhearted grumble, he allows you to pull him forward so that he’s slumped against the bed, his cheek resting on your stomach. This way, you can relax against your pillows while running your fingers through his hair and lightly grazing them across his cheekbone.

“You mad at me?”

“Hrmm.” You can feel him relaxing against you a little, and he can’t resist resting his eyes for a moment. “Dunno if I’d say angry, but it’s getting pretty damn aggravating how often you’ve been doing shit like this these last few months. You know you don’t have to test your limits in every dumbass way that gets into your head, right?”

“Aren’t we supposed to be pushing ourselves to become stronger?” You brush your hand across his forehead, him looking up at you now with those piercing golden eyes. “Besides, I don’t see you holding back. I mean, I’m not saying I think I’m as strong as you are, but--”

“Hey.” He cuts you off with a firmer tone than before, though he doesn’t lift his head, and his cheek is still smooshed against your belly. “I don’t want you going around with the idea that I think you’re weak or something, cuz I’ve never thought that. I just worry about you, and you’re a little over eager with the risks.”

“I don’t want you to worry about me.” You gaze out the window briefly before you continue, “But, if I get stronger, maybe you won’t... have to, y’know?”

Reiner gives a little huff of annoyance at this.

“Listen, even if you were stronger than the rest of the 104th put together, I’d...” His features tinge a little red as he struggles momentarily to maintain his grumpy expression with you. “I’d still wanna keep you safe ‘n stuff...”

Seeing the downright soppy look that you can’t keep from crossing your face in that instant, he clears his throat and glances aside with a forced air of impassivity before adding, “And I’d still worry about you, especially when you run around acting like you barely worry about yourself.”

You’re searching for the right words when the nurse suddenly enters the room, but – bless her – she merely pretends not to notice the pair of you as she tends to the other patients. You both fall silent for several long minutes as she minds the others, and when she finally leaves again, it’s Reiner who picks up the conversation before you can.

“You know, in another few months, we’re not gonna be cadets anymore. I know you’re still planning to join the Survey Corps. What the hell’s gonna happen to you when you’re out there if you don’t reign it in a little?”

Sighing, you decide that as long as he’s being all emotionally honest here, you may as well do the same. “Look, I get it. I wanna keep you safe, too… I wanna become strong enough to do that. That's all.”

Reiner isn’t sure how to reply, nor what emotion he should ascribe to the swelling feeling that grips his heart, and the strange but pleasant way his stomach seems to do a flip. He opts to just bury his face against your stomach and take your hand in his own, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m really gonna need you to work on your sense of self preservation for me, okay?”

“I will, I promise – as long as you’re gonna let me look out for you, too.”

“Deal. You are gonna have to rest until your ribs heal up, though. I’ll tie you down if I have to.”

“Aw, you just want an excuse to tie me up on a bed, don’t you?”

“Huh. Not gonna lie, you got me thinking about it now...”

You can only imagine how badly the other patients wish the two of you would shut up now.

[whumping-in-the-wings]

Friends, Romans and countrymen, it’s been a WEEK. Thanks so much to everyone who tagged me in stuff- I completely failed to respond to any of those, because I somehow ended up with even more on my plate than previously anticipated, so I’ll be catching up on all of that tomorrow! For now, enjoy an extremely belated installment of Perfect Sorrows…and by some miracle, I’ve actually succeeded at putting whump in a whump story!

CW: magic-based slavery, emotional whump, physical abuse, verbal abuse, magical whump

Taglist: @starlit-hopes-and-dreams, @honey-is-mesi (as always, let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from the list!)

Perfect Sorrows: Part Seven

Previous | Masterlist |

“As long as I can.” Sacha had gone to sleep whispering those five feeble words into his one worn pillow, as though they were a charm, as though anything he could murmur would ever hold up against the much stronger spells his master could speak. But it hardly mattered. As long as he could, that was all he had to do. No one could do any more than that.

“As long as he could” turned out to be shorter than he’d thought.

The first day passed easily enough- not slowly, but quietly, something in him resigning itself to the fact that he was doing the only thing he could. It helped that Mademoiselle was out in the city for most of the day, paying calls and returning those that had been paid to her, as was usual when the society season ended; without her there, he wouldn’t matter to Monsieur Camille any more than usual, and the tangled turmoil inside him settled itself down into a numb, silent stillness.

The second day was harder, if only because she was there. Even the knowledge of that made him nervous; he jumped whenever someone shouted for him, and when he slipped into Mademoiselle’s room early that morning to stir up the fire he had to tell himself that it was only a bit of ash that had gotten caught in his eye, had to force himself not to look at her. Worse, when they passed each other on the stairs, he had to pretend he didn’t see her smile, so much more beautiful with a little color back in her lips, and when she stopped him he had to quickly bow his head so he could pretend he hadn’t seen the look of confusion in her green eyes when he called her Mademoiselle again, as though he had never known her name. The stillness turned into a dull, quiet ache, like an old wound that hadn’t healed right or maybe hadn’t ever healed at all.

The third day began with Laurent’s heavy fist crashing against his ribs.

It wasn’t the first time he’d been woken like that, and he reacted on instinct, curling his elbow up over his ear and turning his head in an attempt to shield his face. It was a futile effort; the next blow was a backhand that caught him across the cheekbone and snapped his head back the other way, so sharply that he gasped with pain.

Or at least, he tried to. But there was something wrong, an odd taste in his mouth, something cold and heavy that silenced him as though he’d never made a sound. Laurent, looming above him, nothing more than a black shadow against the pale gray light of the not-quite-dawn outside, let out a low, dark rumble of a laugh.

“Convenient spell, that one,” he growled. “Camille put it on you late last night. Said if you’re so bound and determined to keep your mouth shut around the girl instead of doing as you’re told, you might as well have a bit of help. It’ll wear off, but not quickly.”

He seized Sacha’s thin wrists, his hands hard and rough and big enough to encircle them both, twisting until a hot, bright spasm shot up Sacha’s arms and he tried, unsuccessfully, to pull away from the man’s iron grip. Laurent leaned over him, blocking out the sight of anything else, his eyes gleaming with hate. “Or did you think,” he hissed in Sacha’s ear, “he didn’t know what you were doing? Did you think he wouldn’t watch?”

What came next, whether Laurent had thrown him or shoved him or something in between, Sacha never knew. The next thing he registered was his back hitting the opposite wall of the narrow attic room with a dull sound that seemed to echo straight through him. Good, he thought dimly, at least Laurent was angry enough that he wouldn’t be quiet about it, at least Hugo and Ondine just down the hall were likely to hear this. But then he realized they’d have to care about it if they did, and that was much less likely.

He slumped to the ground where he’d fallen, making no effort to get up or shield himself any further. Nothing like that worked with Laurent. Laurent did just what he wanted to do, always, and trying to stop it only made matters worse. The man advanced on him, predatory, almost seeming to take a moment to consider as his awful smile changed from the bare-toothed snarl to the more familiar, more terrifying grin of savage triumph.

“You should be thanking me,” he said. “On bended knee, even, and if it weren’t for that spell shutting you up, I’d make you do it.” He took another step forward, close enough to slam his booted foot into Sacha’s ribs. “Camille saw you on the stairs yesterday, the way you brushed her off. And he was all for turning you back right then and there and being done with you once and for all, but I talked him out of it. He raised her smart, that girl. You disappear so soon after she talks to you, and she’d think he did it because she spoke to you. She’d blame herself and maybe even resent her uncle for it, and we couldn’t have that, now could we?”

Sacha wouldn’t have answered even if he could. The answer was too obvious. No, of course they couldn’t have that, of course they couldn’t do anything that might lead Mademoiselle to see Monsieur Camille for what he was. That was the whole point of all of this.

“But there’s another thing we can’t have,” Laurent continued, his voice darker now. He punctuated each of the next words with another kick. “You. Not. Doing. As. You’re. Told.”

The brief, pitiful respite of lying there motionless, letting the man do what he wanted in the hopes that sheer boredom would eventually put an end to things, was over after that. Laurent leaned down and seized a fistful of his collar, lifting him halfway into the air as easily as though he weighed nothing at all. Sacha’s heart jolted up into his throat to join the cold, slick weight of the spell already there. He reacted on instinct again, wrapping his hands around the groundskeeper’s thick wrists in an attempt to ease the viselike grip, but even before he moved he knew it wouldn’t do him any good.

Laurent snarled the next words inches from his face, his breath hot and sour with the smell of old whiskey and cigars. “Give him a bit of time,” he growled, “and I’m sure Camille would be able to come up with more than a few ways to make sure you never so much as think about defying him again. But his time’s too valuable a thing to be wasting any more of it on the likes of you.” He leaned closer, as large and dark and imposing as a nightmare, and Sacha closed his eyes as though he could open them again and find out that this was all nothing more than that, even as a twist of Laurent’s hand sent another flash of real, undeniable pain through his bruised body.

“I, on the other hand,” Laurent continued, “I’ve got all the time in the world. And that’s a lucky thing for you, because Camille might just forget himself and burn you to ashes if he has to take you in hand again. So he says-“ he jabbed a meaty finger into the boy’s chest- “that for the time being, you’re mine. We’ll see if you can learn your lesson if I’m the one teaching it to you.”

Sacha’s heart dropped back down inside him, heavy as a stone in a well. He thought he might have tried to whisper no, please, no. He tried to say something through the spell, at any rate, because Laurent threw back his head and laughed at it, cold and mocking.

If there was one thing Sacha hadn’t expected, it was this. Camille might let Laurent do what he wanted, might rely on him for the bloodier, deadlier parts of a sorcier’s work and leave him in charge of getting rid of anyone foolish enough to make themselves a sorcier’s enemy, but at the end of the day, they belonged to different worlds, and Camille had little respect for the one Laurent came from. Turning over one of his creatures to the man, letting Laurent take a hand in something as important as keeping Mademoiselle Jeanne in the dark as to what her uncle really was…Sacha hadn’t expected it, and he hadn’t prepared for it either.

And worse, he dreaded it. Camille’s brand of cruelty, Sacha could resign himself to, could make up his mind to resist. It was magic, and he was made of magic, understood it. But Laurent was human, nothing more and nothing less. Laurent was proof that even if, by some miracle, he could escape from the magical world, there would still be evil waiting in the other one. That there was no escape, anywhere, and never had been.

Laurent dropped him unceremoniously back to the ground, hard enough to rattle his bruised ribs in his chest and knock the breath out of him for a moment. But he was given no time to recover before Laurent slipped a hand under his jaw, tilting his head up, then back and forth, as though deciding exactly what kind of damage he wanted to do. Held this way, Sacha had no choice but to look him straight in the eyes, as he was always so careful not to do otherwise. The narrow white scar under his own eye throbbed, a memory and a warning. He thought back to that first spell cast on him in Monsieur Camille’s study, the sudden, terrifying blackness. He thought of Laurent hitting him again like he had that night, thought of the blow catching him just a little higher, just a little way above the scar, then blind darkness-

But the blow never came. Laurent scoffed, a hard, sharp sound that made him flinch in spite of himself. “Look at you,” he spat out. “Trembling like a newborn pup. If you’d started out mine, you never would have made it out of that attic where Camille made you. I’d have taken one look at you, snapped your scrawny neck and started over.”

The worst part was that there wasn’t even any particular malice in the words, at least not any more than was usual for the groundskeeper. They weren’t meant as a jab. They were just a simple truth, as undeniable as the fact that the sun was rising outside.

“Doesn’t matter,” Laurent continued. “Because you’re mine now. So here’s what we’re going to do.” He dropped his grip, suddenly, as though he might finally, finally be getting bored. “I’ll make this simple enough that even you can understand it. You’re going to do what Camille told you to do, and we’re going to be watching to be sure. And if you don’t, if your act’s not good enough, then I come back up here tonight and do this again. And again tomorrow morning, and tomorrow night, and again as many times as I need to until you learn your lesson. Take too long about it- long enough that the girl won’t get suspicious- and Camille takes over, and you disappear. Understood?”

He couldn’t answer, not with the spell still sealing his lips, keeping him silent. He sat there a moment, his mind swirling on a current of pain, lost and overwhelmed and tired, so tired of all of this.

And then, without warning, the settled stillness returned, soothing him in a single moment. He nodded, only a little shakily, because all of a sudden he did understand. Laurent was threatening him. That was all Laurent had ever done.

But in doing it, he was threatening the one thing Sacha no longer cared about, the one thing, as he had resolved in the garden three days before, that no longer mattered. Mademoiselle was his focus now, his refusal to lie to her as strong as it had ever been, and Laurent couldn’t change that. Threatening him was all Laurent had ever done- and it was all he could ever do.

The spell still kept him quiet as Laurent finally stalked away, but it couldn’t stop the small, secret smile that stole soundlessly over his lips.

[tblsomedoodles]

. . . a brain geared towards body horror really would have a field day with the family web au (it's me). Bc like. If Raph already had red eyes I imagine the further mutation at maturation would be along the lines of like. Seeing through cloaking magic & Illusions maybe? Maybe he had a migrane for a while while that manifested. And the twins holy mackrel the possibilities. Perhaps one of their arms getting stuck on the bridge of one's shell in the growth process? That could hurt. And with Mikey's eyes I would wager another migrane, one that aches to the bone as his skull reconfigures (part of me wants to write a horror sequence where he wakes up after, not quite sure whats going on, eyes crusted over-with what he assumes is typical sleep crust. but growing 4 new eyelids cant be a bloodless process and head wounds of any sort bleed. Bad. And then someone sees him stumbling blindly to the bathroom, blood smeared all across his face, and screams bloody murder.) Adding if they assume that's all the changes that will occur, Mikey having a simple cough, an aching throat that turns into a mess of built up web and the retching and heaving ribs because he doesn't realize there's something caught, doesn't know what to do or how to loose it

. . . . . . I adore all the fluff but I'm built for horror

Oh definitely, especially early on in the fic like this. (This is pretty much were i'm starting it since it's kind of shifted from a 'sad alternate backstory' fic to a 'solving mysteries about sad alternate backstory' fic.)

I Really like Raph's eyes not just changing color but having a little extra ability with it. Especially if they end up seeing things like Donnie's goggles do, but he doesn't notice immediately. Like it's Raph. I love the kid but he'd probably go around for a week just assuming that there was a sudden influx of yokai not wearing cloaking broaches lol.

(putting in a break b/c it's kinda long and body horror stuff) (just more developing spider traits stuff)

Honestly, the whole thing starts out pretty slow. Like Raph has some itchy eyes that no amount of sleep or eye drops will make stop. Mikey starts out with just some headaches. Donnie's side ache but not enough to be a problem (just enough that Leo tells him he should take a break from his battle shell until it's better.) Leo's the last one to start developing anything for various reasons.

But yeah, they don't really notice anythings wrong until they wake up one morning to find that Donnie's sides hurt so bad that he can't move away from his desk. And those arms coming in, hurt. Especially at the start. As far as Leo and Donnie are concerned, they still have the tiny bit of development those extra arms accomplished from before mutation. (basically just quarter sized bumps on their sides hidden under the bits of shell on their sides. they are well aware they're there and can feel if their there by touching them but it's not viable.) So when they begin developing again, the will-be arms have to force their way through that bit of shell first, kind of like how a tooth grows in through gums. And that's the most painful part of that process. That's what makes Donnie basically unable to move and Raph so concerned that he all but drags Leo out of bed to look at him. (b/c Medic Leo is my jam lol)

Raph, i think would mostly deal with some aches and burning sensations on (or behind) his eyes as his fully develop. Maybe a migraine with heightened light sensitivity so Leo tells him to stay in his room with the lights off.

And you're so right about Mikey! i feel so bad for him now! B/c those headaches would just get worse, and turn to bad migraines that feel like his skull is splitting apart. Eyes can't develop without a spot to develop, so spots would open up for them and, as you said, head wounds bleed a lot so yeah. Poor Raph would just see Mikey and just panic. And i imagine Leo's just starting his own arm development, but regardless of whatever pain he's in, he bolts out of bed b/c Raph screaming at 4am cannot be good. (and with the way things have been going with their mutations, someone probably developed a third eye or something. Scratch that, a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth eye.) But that's not it for Mikey, b/c he's developing webs too and oh that poor kid.

but yeah, early on when it's all developing, is most certainly very rough for the boys. It's painful, and scary, and they're just so confused. (and Leo's just trying to medic everyone while no experience in this or have any good idea of what's going.)

Thank you! This was really cool! Especially since it's dealing with the fic content i'm actively working on. : ) Very helpful, thanks again!

[r0-boat]

yes hello it's me with another abo thingy

continuation off of the last one where they didn't rail their little omega reader they come back after a week and a half of pure destruction in their apartments. they need to replace several things though neither reveals to the other exactly what (Emmet knows that Ingo humped his pillows to death because their bedrooms share a wall). Both are a bit heated and warm under their collars but they can function now. Ingo sports a healthy shade of red and Emmet has the widest closed smile he can (he is not friendly he is barely holding it together)

They hope to see you again. At all, even jsut a glimpse. Just to see if you're alright after a sudden heat like that (and maybe to offer to claim you properly but Ingo holds Emmet back on that).

You show up right on schedule a few days later. Emmet is alone on the boarding dock when he sees you, bright smile across his face as he waves you over. You smile and wave in return, looking perfectly happy. No wear seems to be on you from this distance so maybe everything can go according to schedule and he can-

A draft blows through the subway just as you're feet away from him, bringing the stench of Alpha.

And his smile wrenches wider, mere centimeters from being a snarl.

It couldn't be from you could it? No, you didn't have a mate somewhere right? You wouldn't lead them on like this would you? Come for their aid when you needed them most and let them drool all over your sweet heat just to return to another Alpha? And let that imputant bastard knot you in their stead?

He wanted to scream. To roar out in challenge to whoever thought they could claim you before them. He'd fight them right now, no pokemon needed, just to prove to you who was the better Alpha for you.

Yet he held his tongue. As much as he wanted to gnash his teeth at the mere trickle of unfamiliar scent he'd give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was just another Alpha in the area acting cocky and he was over reacting over nothing.

And then you stepped into his airspace and he got a proper smell of you. And he wanted to recoil.

You positively reeked of it. The stench clung to you like a tumor so potently that other patrons were starting to part around you. But you were so ignorant to it that you just looked up at him with that same smile you always gave them when you were excited. Like you didn't know what you were doing to them. To him.

He wanted to be angry, to rage at the mere idea that you chose someone else, a lingering grief held him back. What right did he have to fight for you when he'd already lost? They'd had their chance and let it slip through their hands when you fell into heat in their office. Some part of him wanted to feel angry at his brother for telling him to wait, but even that was far from him now.

You chose someone else and likely let him bond you. His heart ached in his chest and clenched in his smile but he held firm. For you, he kept his appearances up, just so that you wouldn't see him breaking from the inside out.

He couldn;t bear to think how Ingo would react. If he was cracking at just trying to talk with you then his brother would utterly shatter at your feet. You would hurt him so much if he found out and the thought terrified him as much as it infuriated.

Then you were speaking, a bit of embarrassment in your voice.

"Oh I am so sorry," You bemoaned as you looked around at the crowd parting like waves to a beach, "I told him not to overdo it but like he always does he didn't listen." Emmet clenched his jaw so tightly he worried he'd pop a blood vessel, but you just kept talking,"I didn't think my brother would lay it on so thickly that-"

"What."

"Huh?" Your big, glowing eyes were looking up at him, so curious and divine, "What-what?"

"What did you say."

His hands were shaking. Trembling fingers dug into the brim of his cap and edge of his coat respectively. Hope danced in his ribs so potently that he nearly staggered.

Did you mean-

"Uh...my brother? He scented me before I left today and-"

He didn't let you finish.

He dropped a heavy hand onto your shoulder and dragged you along before you could retort. You spluttered, knocked off balance in attempt to keep up. He was rushing through the crowd, the bite of his own scent spiking so hard that the few Alpha's taking the transit flinched in his path.

Good. Let them. Show you who's better and more prominent than any of them.

You fell silent at some point, likely from the heady scent assaulting the air around you both. He could feel your questioning gaze on him wondering what had gotten into him. Didn't he have his suppressants? Weren't they meant to keep his scent in check?

Yes they were, and no he did not. Neither of them did.

They wanted you to smell just how potent they were, that their power and presence was more than enough to provoke the omega in your veins and prove how good they were for you. But you just had to walk in with another Alpha's scent all over you.

That wouldn't do.

He was shoving you into their office before he knew it. You stumbled a bit at the hard push, jumping at the clack of the shutting door. His eyes found yours wide and jittery.

The growl rumbled in his chest. You flinched, yet there was no fear in your eyes; only a deep confusion and something deeper. A warmth he craved.

He pulled you against his chest. With a heavy breath of your shampoo he twisted you about and into his lap as he plopped onto his desk chair. You struggled in his hold but he didn't waver, clinging to your back. You squealed as he shoved his face directly into the joint between your neck and shoulder.

"E-Emmet! What are you-"

"Get it off."

You squeaked again, hands digging into his forearms as he nuzzled hard into your skin, "E-Emmet wh-"

"Get it off. I am Emmet, and I want it off."

He reveled in the whimper you made as he grazed his teeth along your neck. The sweet, sweet scent of omega began to bleed in between the rotten stench that clung to you. He hummed in satisfaction, "There you go....much better. Verrry good...." He rumbled low in his chest as you relaxed against him, head tilting away from his wandering mouth and giving him even more room to claim, "Muuch better...good little omega.."

The spice of his scent was beginning to overpower what remained of the outsider's smell. His wrathful ire towards the perceived challenger waned the longer you remained in his hold and accepted his advances. He purred low, excitement spiking as he trailed his tongue along the edge of your throat.

His arms clenched down around your waist at the small moan he pulled from you.

He wanted to screech when the door to the office popped open. His teeth bared against your skin and made you jump from the sudden tight grip around you.

"Emmet are you alright? I heard that-"

Ingo stepped in completely unaware to what was happening. He stopped in his tracks the moment he saw what his brother was doing, eyes wide, "(Y-Y/N)? What are you doing here?" He kept glancing between the two of them, eyes focusing along the curve of your neck still stuffed with his twin's face and fangs as well as the hold he had on you and how tight it was.

The subway boss's face exploded in crimson, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, "O-Oh! I-I see." Did he really or was he assuming? Nonetheless he closed the door abruptly, the lock clicking shut. The elder twin tugged on his collar, "W-Well my dear, um..I didn't think you'd go under again." He was sweating bullets twirling his tie between his fingers. A trickle of drool was trying very hard to escape his trembling lips as his scent began to mingle with his own, "I-I never thought that omega's could be suceptible to two heats-"

He knew the moment his twin caught onto the stranger's scent. The moment he stepped forward into the rough area of his desk Ingo stopped short. A hand raised up to his face, covering his mouth as all lust bled out of his eyes. Glistening tears threatened to pour down his face as he made to bark at his younger twin.

"Brother."

Ingo was left stunned silent at the sudden sharpness in his brother's voice. His eyes still glittered even as he tilted his head, "W-What-"

"It's her brother. She reeks of him."

You had enough wherewithall to snap at the both of them "I do not stink-Get-Emmet-" He growled as you tried to push him away, "Emmet get off-let me go dammit-"

Maybe he should have been nicer but, he was impatient. He shut you up again by nipping on your shoulder, "Quiet, omega-" Where was his good little omega willing to bend for him? He wanted her back-

It was Ingo who barked at him then, "Emmet! Stop it!" The acrid scent of his brother stung his nose and he growled, "You cannot hold a passenger when they want to disembark!"

But he wanted to. He desperately wanted to hold you forever and bathe you in his scent until you reeked of it so badly that all other Alpha's stayed far away. Yet when he looked up at his brother, his composed and sane twin, he began to pull out of the haze he'd found himself in. Conscious thought bled in under the rabid instinct that pulled him under until he was himself again

That and the fact that you now smelled of him made it all the better.

Ingo had to take over your care for the moment, not trusting his twin to not try holding you hostage again. He still looked at the brink of tears for several moments before getting a proper smell of you himself, and with the explanation from both you and his brother he finally calmed down.

"I am so sorry for what my brother did today," He mumbled while he straightened your hair, "He wasn't supposed to pull passengers out of boarding unless necessary."

"I am Emmet. It was verrry necessary."

"It was not. It was uncouth and rude!"

"Not for me."

"Okay!" You butted in before they could argue further, "Both of you, calm down. Look," You pinched the bridge of your nose, "I get it, he did it a bit too much but really, you didnt have to drag me away and get all over me. You could have just let me go home and-"

"No."

"What-"

"Emmet-"

"I am Emmet, yes. And no, I did not want you to go home so he could smother you in that disgusting smell again."

"Emmet don't be rude-"

"What do you mean-I guess he's a bit much but-"

"But nothing." He was really pushing his luck, "You don't need it anymore."

"Emmet what do you fucking mean-Don't interrupt me again!" He pouted while you jabbed a finger at him, "What do you mean I don't need it anymore? I know I still stink of heat because he told me I did-"

"That's verrry hot."

"H-Huh-" "Emmet!"

"I am Emmet, yes."

"What-Hold on-"

"I am Emmet." He pressed. The alpha in his veins boiled to the surface, dragging your attention to him, "You do not need that other alpha to scent you again. Ever." His voice growled across his teeth so much it was sending even Ingo to respond with his scent, "I do not want to smell it again."

You spluttered for a moment, glancing between the two clearly irate or irritated Alphas before responding, "Wh-What do you mean?? I can't exactly go out like this for the next few days!"

"You don't need it." His teeth were practically grinding together. His smile was wide, dangerous as it curled over his teeth and exposed far more than necessary, "I am Emmet. You don't need another alpha scenting you because I will." His eyes flicked over to his still stunned, flaring twin, "We will."

You were just, silent. Frozen in place as you just stared at him. A verrry pretty blush was blooming across your cheeks; he liked that verrry much.

He liked your answer so much better in the soft, squeaky "huh!?" that left your pretty mouth.

-----

hhhhh this became a whole thing and I am sorry call me bite anon because you might get some more like this <<;

Omggg what a buffet

Alpha emmet was 😩😩😩

Thank you so much shdbs I hope we get more good food to Feast on from you

Bite anon

[s-brant]

Baby Names

(gif: @mishellejones) (SERIES MASTERLIST)

Summary: Y/N gets frustrated while putting the crib for her and JJ’s baby together and finds herself missing her dead brother more than ever.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Fluff and minor angst.

A/N: Asks and ye shall receive, here’s a little blurb about what happens after Tokens! You don’t really have to read the other parts to enjoy this fic if you don’t want to, but I do recommend it for some backstory. This was slightly inspired by this fic by @cognacdelights, so go give her stuff a read! Let me know if you liked this. Have fun!

Y/N Routledge thought she got over her brother's death long ago.

Though you never truly "get over" losing a loved one, though there will always be a small part of you, however small, that aches for their presence again, she thought she moved past the tragedy to the best of her ability...until last week.

To say that the pregnancy was a surprise would be the understatement of the century. She and JJ were both on the same page about children when their relationship began, and that page was that neither of them wanted them yet. Sure, the idea of it in the future stirred their hearts with fond emotion, but considering that they had yet to graduate high school and barely scraped by on their own, they weren't jumping headfirst into that aspect of adulthood.

They were meticulous about safe sex. They couldn't afford another mouth to feed, she wasn't sure she could handle the emotional trauma of having an abortion, and, underneath it all, he had some reservations about being a father. It wasn't that he didn't envision a future with kids in their relationship, he did, but the topic of fatherhood always took him down a dark path within his mind.

So, she went on birth control once they started dating and they went along with no scares for the next six years as they graduated and started figuring out what the next step for their lives was going to be.

Y/N could get lost thinking about it, honestly, but she tries not to get too swept up in the minor mistake that led to this.

"You, my friend, need to stop moving around in there," she whispers down at her protruding belly with a hand cradling the heavy weight of it, "I'm trying to get your crib set up without JJ yelling at me for not asking for help, and if you don't stop kicking me, I'm not gonna get anything done."

She's sprawled out on the floor in the living room of the Chateau with her legs stretched comfortably in each direction while she hunches over to read the directions of the Ikea furniture. The sugarcoated description makes her want to hunt down the company CEO for sport, because for how "simple and easy!" the construction of it claims to be, she is at her wits end.

The last thing she needed after having her grief over John B's death reignited by their decision to name their kid after him last week was to stress herself out over something as stupid as this, but she won't quit. With how much JJ has been coddling her the further into the pregnancy she gets, she wanted to prove that she could do something for herself.

Whenever she brings in the groceries from the car and goes to lift the bag of dog kibble out of the trunk, he rushes up behind her back and scoops it out of the trunk before she dares to touch it. It always ends with her hollering after him that it's under twenty pounds, the upwards limit of the weight she's allowed to carry according to her doctor, but he refuses to hear any of it.

Inside of her, she feels a sharp sensation of something hitting her right in the ribs in response to her comment, and she groans in frustration. It's as if he did it because he knows she wants it to stop, the feisty little fucker.

"You're definitely your daddy's son, aren't you? It's already enough having one of him, the last thing I need is a JJ clone."

Their three-year-old Rottweiler rescue huffs a sigh from where he lays, frog-legging it, on the floor next to the unboxed crib pieces she can't put together to save her life. His drooping jowls produce a puddle of slobber on the her favorite carpet that is past the point of saving from his constant wear and tear. After a year of having him, she decided to stop trying to prevent him from ruining it. There’s no point.

She smiles at him as she leans forward to read through the directions for the billionth time, saying, "I actually think he'll be a lot like his uncle, but that's just me. If he isn't, I'll feel a little stupid over the name situation."

John Booker Routledge-Maybank.

Hell of a name if you ask her yourself, but for every internal struggle it reopened inside of her, she couldn't help but love it as soon as JJ casually proposed the idea on his way out of the door for work one morning.

Going on without John B has been a learning experience in every aspect. Any time she wanted to turn to him for advice or tell him something about the recent events in her life, she had to walk out back to their dying magnolia tree and sit under the shade to talk to the wind. Then, once the tree finally died and they were forced to cut it down, she took to sitting on its stump and doing it there.

It got easier as time went on, but she can't keep herself from wondering what it'd be like if he didn't die ever since she saw the results on the pregnancy test six months ago. Whenever she does something like going to her OBGYN appointments or, case in point, setting up the crib, she pictures him there.

She can see him here now, petting Bowie's shiny coat until he falls asleep with his head propped onto John B's outstretched legs. He'd be twenty-three years old by now with his life barely starting to blossom to its full potential, yet here they are. Correction, here she is, and he's off somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, already decomposed to the extent that not even his bones can be salvaged anymore.

Her chest sinks in another sigh, and she flips through page after page of the instructions with increasing aggression.

"This crib is so fucking—"

"What are you doing?"

The sound of her yelping in surprise at JJ's voice coming from the door is enough to make him laugh to himself, though his amusement is buried partway by what he's walking in on. He specifically asked her to wait for him to put the crib together, knowing damn well it wouldn't be the easy task she thought it was, but he should've known she'd do it anyway.

She looks over her shoulder with a mixture of guilt and frustration painting her features as she throws her hands up in the air and gestures vaguely to the unassembled crib. Her eyes are shining with the rapid onset of hormone-induced tears.

"I can't put this crib together 'cause the instructions aren't right, all the pieces are labeled wrong, your son won't stop kicking me, and I miss my brother so much right now," she spews the words with no pauses to breathe until the very end, when she stops short to suck down a breath as soon as she gets the last part out.

It leaves JJ standing at the entrance to the house with this stunned expression.

There's no amusement to be found anymore. Once she turned and flashed those wide, teary eyes that never fail to spark an ache in his heart at him, his tired smile vanished and his feet started moving before he could say anything to her.

The floorboards creak beneath his half-laced boots on his way across the room to her. It prompts Bowie to pop his head up from around the side of the coffee table to catch a peek of whoever it is that's approaching his emotionally distraught owner. Upon seeing JJ's familiar face, the dog relaxes back into his lounging position atop the carpet and tracks JJ’s movements until he's seated next to her.

"This is about John B?" he asks.

Her cheeks are flushed in embarrassment at her sudden outburst, and she can't bear to meet his gaze right now. Despite him being her closest friend and husband, she feels as small and vulnerable as she did six years ago when she first learned of her brother's death from Shoupe. Time might as well be shaped in the form of a never-ending circle for them, directing them back to their seventeen-year-old state of mind every time things turn sour.

Y/N finally lifts her hanging head to look over at him after another few seconds and thinks she might crumble at the look on his face. He hates watching her cry.

"I guess," she says through a sniffle, "It's about the crib too, but I've been thinking about it a lot more since we picked the name. Our baby’s gonna grow up never knowing who his uncle was..."

With that, JJ takes it as his cue to pull her closer.

He scoots up behind her and lets his chin rest on the curve bridging her neck and shoulder together as he twines his arms around her body. It's a closeness that's as natural as breathing for him, so natural that he can hardly remember the years before it became normal for them to take part in little moments of intimacy like this. The warmth of their bodies cohabitates in the blurred line distinguishing where she ends and he begins, and he feels her relax, sagging in his embrace in appreciation of his miraculous ability to make her feel better no matter how worked up she is.

One of his hands rests on the swell of her bump in an absentminded effort to calm him too. Even though he isn't consciously thinking of it, he knows that her distress must upset the baby too. The contact steadies her, keeps her grounded to the moment rather than allowing her to slip away into the current of her negative thoughts, and she clings to every word he has to say.

He says, "You and I both know that isn’t true. He's gonna grow up seeing all the pictures you have of John B and ask about him all the time. And we'll tell him all the stories"—there's a pause of contemplation as he recalls a few particularly non-PG memories of his best friend—"Well, maybe not all of them, but you know what I mean."

This draws a soft bout of laughter from deep within her chest that he feels with how her body shakes ever so slightly with it. It seems so wrong to laugh with tears in her eyes but she can't help it. Her emotions have been scattered in every direction since the pregnancy began, and it has only gotten worse the further along she gets.

"If you ever tell him about the kief incident, I'm never giving you a bl—"

His free hand smushes over her mouth before she can say the rest.

"Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”

It's said so frantically, it makes her erupt in laughter hard enough to tickle her abdomen muscles with the aching sensation of it. The vibration of it under his palm makes him drop his hand a second later with the need to hear the beautiful sound. After seeing her cry, it's a welcome shift in mood, even if it's at his expense.

Her head is thrown back on his shoulder, mouth parted into a smile with the gleeful giggling filling the room. His stomach churns with butterflies at the sight of her. Even after all these years, he has the same reaction to her laughter every time. It makes him smile to himself and watch her in quiet reverence. It makes him ache with the same inklings of longing he felt for the first time when he was much younger.

Her laughter begins to die down by the time she can draw enough breath in to murmur a soft, "Sorry, angel," to him and reach down to hold the hand he rests on her belly as consolation for her joke.

They remain this way for another few minutes, tangled up in each other's arms on the floor of the living room with Bowie snoring a few feet away, before he manages to convince her to let him be the one to set up the crib instead. It takes a good five minutes of playful back and forth before she concedes under the condition that he'll let her paint the nursery by herself when the time comes, and that's all it takes for her to abandon the task in favor of finding something to snack on in the fridge.

In her defense, the crib is actually quite difficult to put together.

JJ doesn't consider himself an expert handyman by any means, at least not with anything outside of his area of expertise as an electrician, but he likes to think he knows enough to put together a "no assembly required" Ikea crib without wanting to bang his face against the wall.

In the end, it gets finished by the two of them in the middle of the night over a box of cold leftover pizza from the previous day. It takes them two hours of struggling before they get it fully assembled and placed where they want it in the room that'll soon belong to their son.

He pretends not to notice her sneaking back in to tie John B's old bandana around the wooden railing before they go to bed.

Tag List: @gabiatthedisco, @fangirlvoice, @black-syren, @apparrio, @particularcth, @planetdemon, @idk-ijustworkhere, @krisphann, @astrydis, @k-k0129, @zarahsloves, and @stilesflannels.

[shimmershae]

Halfway There (a Walking Dead ficlet, Caryl).

A little bit late but here’s day 3′s offering.  

Season 11 AU.  Kind of.  Carol and Daryl haven’t seen much of each other since they arrived at the Commonwealth.  Daryl’s part of Mercer’s security force and no, they don’t wear the ridiculous storm trooper suits in this.  Carol’s been doing her own thing.  They cross paths at one of the CW’s many frivolous events.  

Some adult language.  A bit of angst.  

“Ever been lonely in a crowded room?”  

 That voice, her voice?  After weeks of not hearing its soft, familiar cadence, it snakes past Daryl’s lowered defenses.  Burrows deep beneath his ribs and wraps around his fractured heart like the last embrace they shared.  Before he fucked things up by not keeping a tighter rein on his insecurities.  His anger.  Before he chased her back into the darkness of her brittle shell.  

 “Nice suit, Pookie.  You clean up well.”

 There’s a gentle air of teasing that briefly eclipses her strained tone when she acknowledges his uncharacteristic attire.  It vanishes like mist when his silence persists, giving him a perverse thrill of pleasure.

 One tiny, sharp intake of breath and she matches his reticence.  

 Stands apart from him the way she used to when grief and a river used to divide them, and Daryl feels his heart squeeze painfully.  Because this is his doing.  She trusted him and he attacked her very nature.  Carol’s a runner.  Always has been.  Like a graceful deer wary of a hunter, it’s what she’s long been conditioned to do to survive, and he? He unfairly shamed her for it.  For protecting herself.  

 The Commonwealth orchestra strikes up a cheerful tune and Governor Milton’s most devout patrons spin in whimsical circles, carefree and utterly oblivious to the dangers outside the safety of their walls.    

 It’s a mockery of the most insulting order to those they’ve loved and lost, one Carol is unable to let pass without comment (Fools), and for the first time?  Daryl spares her a sideways glance.  Anything more hurts too goddamn much.  Nothing good can be gained from losing himself again in her tumultuous blue gaze.  Besides. He’s on the clock.  Doing his best to be the good, obedient soldier that gets rewarded around these parts.  The kind of provider that pulls himself and the kids that are feeling more and more like his own out of the kind of poverty he thought the end of the whole fucking world had vanquished.  He wants to agree with her.  Instead, he gruffly dispels any more talk that might land them both in hot water.  “Judith.  RJ.  They like it here.”  

 “They do? That’s good.”  

 The soft flicker of a smile touches her lips but it never quite reaches her eyes and all at once, Daryl is paralyzed with a profound sense of homesickness.  Not for Alexandria.  Or Hilltop.  Oceanside or the Georgia woods.  But for her. He’s been so off-center, being at odds with her. Felt so unmoored, learning how to deal with her absence from his day-to-day life.  Having her within arm’s reach again?  It’s almost too much and yet it’s still not enough.  It can never be enough, but he’s worthy only of loving her from a distance.  He chews his lip.  Nods before he turns his head to dutifully scan the room once again.  

 “Daryl?”

 His shoulders tense and his breath catches halfway between hope and despair.  

 Ever brave, she echoes the words he spoke to her a lifetime ago.  “I don’t like not seeing you.  I just wanted you to know that.”  A soft rustle of red fabric and silver curls and she turns to go.

 Daryl recovers his voice just in time.  “Carol. Wait.”  

 She faces him again.  “Yeah?”

 She’s half fairy goddess, half fierce warrior, and he thinks, maybe.  If they meet each other in the middle, that future he promised her?  Might someday come to be.  “You don’t have to be lonely.  We don’t have to be.”        

 “Lunch?  At the diner?  My treat.”

 “Pfft.”  

 “We can go dutch.”  

A hopeful light sparks in her beautiful eyes and something inside Daryl unknots.  The terrible ache he’s been carrying around since that fateful day in the cabin starts to lessen by degrees.  To fade.  “It’s a date.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Time Apart

CW: Trauma survivor, referenced noncon and assault, heavy internalized victim-blaming and self-loathing/anti-asexuality (Chris has serious issues from his conditioning around this)

(references events from this small series)

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

When Chris picks up his phone, it's not at all the message from Laken he expected to see. Not the kind of thing they've ever sent before.

He has to read it two times, then three. The letters swim and shake along with a dull pounding inside his head, but no matter how he tries to make them into other words - tell himself he must have misunderstood, must be missing something - they come back together the same in the end.

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

Each letter is as crisp and clean as a sterilized blade between each rib, one by one by one by one.

The words are a body blow. They're a hundred blows, beating him into a barely recognizable shattered shell of himself. It wasn't supposed to happen this way - it's been a bad few days, yeah, a bad week really, but until yesterday's fight it had never occurred to him that Laken might give up on him.

The fight was his fault, anyway.

He meant to apologize last night, but then Nova had come into his room, and he'd lost the rest of the night to lying next to Jake, trying to remember how to stop living inside his head again, how to stop being still.

He'd woke up this morning with his stomach doing butterfly flips inside him, nervous, but he'd really wanted to say he was sorry, for the fight, for all the weirdness lately. He'd wanted to apologize for being difficult.

Instead... he'd woken up to find a missed text from the night before, sent after he'd shoved Nova away but before he could stand to look at anything again.

I think you should spend time apart, not with me.

There it sits.

He hasn't unlocked his phone yet. Instead, he keeps tapping the button to light up the screen, looking at the message preview that has all he needs to see. Lets it go dark again. As if one of these times he'll click and it'll say something else.

But it doesn't,

It just says the same damn thing.

I think you should spend time apart.

Not with me.

He's still staring at it when another one comes in. He feels the soft pulse of his phone in his hand, and the screen lights on its own.

LAKEN - NOW Did you see my message? 

He thinks maybe Kauri had it easier when he was the age Chris is now. Back when Kauri carried on entire conversations in emoji form, letting the nuance and ambiguity take over, the recipient working through the meaning on their own. With this, each letter is merciless, each word is unmistakable. He can’t misunderstand it. 

Can he?

He opens the phone with shaking fingers, types back yes, presses send, and turns his phone off.

Then he throws it at the wall.

He’s grateful for the heavy plastic case that makes it bounce off and drop to the floor without breaking. There's a strip on the back, textured and a soft purple, gray, white, and black. He rubs his fingers over it sometimes in class to keep himself from rocking and being distracting.

Now he just... stares at it.

Laken bought that for him. They bought the shirt he's wearing right now-

He yanks it off his head before he can think, balls up the soft fabric and throws it as well. It just sort of drifts pointlessly to the floor, a single eyeball from the print of a band he likes staring back at him.

Laken has ranted before about people who break up by text message, and Chris has to breathe through a physical ache in his chest that tightens every muscle at how awful he must be that they're not doing this face to face. How awful, how used-up, how shredded apart, how fucking pretty he is.

After all, he and Laken have been together for more than a year, and he still held perfectly still for Nova to touch him before he remembered how to move. After all, he’s a grown man who still cried and fell apart when Jake was hurt. After all, after all, after all...

He scrambles across the floor for his phone again, turns it back on. Part of him hopes he’ll see a new text saying they take it back, they didn’t mean it. Or just asking him to apologize for what he’d said that night before, for how he’d thrown their confusion over his reaction to something back at them, echoing out the way Kauri fights sometimes, talking about himself the way he thinks everyone else might be thinking about him, so he says the insult first and no one else gets to surprise him with it.

But there’s nothing new.

He manages to open the texts again, barely, and breathes in gasps, nearly pants, as he types out, you don’t want me at your place?

Not right now.

Is it because of what I can’t do?

It takes them a minute to answer. Every single second ticks by with a slowness Chris hasn’t felt since his days in the cold white room, tied down to stillness, forced to endure every minute that passed in perfect silence or to the soundtrack of his own tears and pleading for it to stop.

When they do respond, it’s just, it’s because of what you won’t do.

His breath catches in his throat. The ache in his head starts to pound harder, and he has to close his eyes against a sharp stab behind them. 

What he won’t do.

They’ve never cared before. How-... how could they suddenly care now? The fight had only a little bit been about that, it’d really been about something else. About his nightmares, how he’s not sleeping, not seeing his friends, skipping therapy. It hadn’t even been about... that. About what Chris can do and what he can’t, in bed. 

But that was the thing - the fight had started when Chris had flinched back from Laken’s touch to his back, and snapped at them, and accused them of wanting too much, and...

And now this.

It’s like they knew about Nova. Knew that he could be good just fine - better than fine, Handler Petrus said he was one of the best he’d ever worked with once - he just... wouldn’t. Won’t. Doesn’t want to. Never wanted to. 

Can’t do it without tearing himself to pieces all over again. 

It was always a scream inside his mind, but should he have pushed it down and tried harder to be more like everyone else? Is he losing Laken because of it? Did Nova pick up on something Chris himself doesn’t know?

Should he have... tried?

Even if it hurt?

He drops the phone again, then kicks it viciously under his bed, listening to the scrape of it sliding across the floor, the thump as it hits the wall. He hears it vibrate again, but this time he doesn’t care what Laken has to say.

They’ve said enough.

He understands.

Part of him expected this eventually.

He leaves the room, doesn’t bother to pull on his compression shirt, even. He lets his skin prickle bare and exposed to the air. He accepts the discomfort, the uneasy feeling of being too seen, too felt. 

The house is quiet, this early. 

He makes himself toast with butter, wincing at the scrape of the knife against the crisp bread, the sound boring into his ears. But eventually it’s done, and he slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, willing himself to cry. Somehow, the tears just... don’t happen.

He can hear Jake snoring softly from the living room. He’d been up with Chris until nearly 4 am, then Chris was awake again at 6:30, looking at that text, looking over and over and over again. Two hours of sleep leave him weirdly euphoric alongside his despair. Like he’s floating in some nightmare place that isn’t awake and isn’t sleeping, either.

He’s probably slept nine hours in three days at this point. He keeps seeing Jake with a knife sticking out of him every time he closes his eyes. Jake, screaming as Antoni pushed cloth into his wound to stop up the bleeding. Jake with a bullet wound, sitting up against the wall, staring at him with wide eyes whispering, It’s okay, Tristan, I love you, it’s okay as he dies. 

He can’t sleep. He can’t leave for long. He can’t breathe. He can’t think.

Him being what he is, it’s the reason Jake is hurt. If he hadn’t been his brother, he wouldn’t have decided to run a house for Romantics, and he wouldn’t have ended up dealing with all the dangerous bits about them.

Jake said it himself, didn’t he? It’s a mistake, running a house for Romantics. Not his best idea. A mistake.

Chris is a mistake.

Him being weak, and cowardly... it’s hurting Jake, making his life harder.

He makes everyone’s life harder.

There’s a soft sound of footsteps behind him, and he turns to find Nova in the doorway, staring back. She’s in a sleeveless gray dress and has her long dark hair pulled back from her temples, spilling in a waterfall down her back. Her eyes are dark and fathomless, and she gives him a faint, slight smile.

She had smiled like that with one hand down his pants.

Chris turns around, too fast, his head spinning a little, and hunches over his toast. “Good... good, um, good morning,” He mumbles. 

She clears her throat. “Morning. Chris, about-... about last night...”

“Don’t, um, don’t-... don’t don’t don’t worry about it.” He takes a breath. He doesn’t want his toast any longer. 

“I’m sorry,” She says, simply. “I spoke to Sarita about it, and... and she said this happens with us, and I should apologize, but, um. So I am. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-... I thought I was helping.”

“I... know you did.” His words are slowing down. Chris can’t hold on to his thoughts, they want to drift away somewhere else, somewhere safer. Somewhere darker. 

“When I was with-... with my Miss, she would always say, if you are sad the best way to fix it is to make your body forget that feeling, replace it with something else. And that was what we replaced my sadness with. So, you were sad and upset, and I thought I could fix it that way.” She pauses, flushing a little, looking down and to the side as she moves with effortless grace to get a glass and fill it with water, take a small sip. 

“Kauri used to... to do that,” Chris says after a pause, thinking about it. Kauri, who would show up in the small hours of the morning reeking of liquor and someone else’s cologne, or just didn’t show up at all. Kauri, who would laugh instead of crying, and laugh with someone’s arms around him, a guy whose name he didn’t know. 

Kauri, who ran and ran and ran and can do things and be things that Chris can’t.

Or... won’t.

What if he’s been hurting Laken this whole time and didn’t know it, because he was already hurt himself?

His foot starts to tap tap tap on the floor until he stops it. 

“Did he? Did it-... work for him?” Nova asks it with genuine curiosity, and her eyes are so pretty. He looks up at her, and then down again, pushing the plate of toast away from himself. 

“I don’t know,” Chris whispers. “I, I don’t know. He’s happy now, but...”

“Was he happy then?”

“No. But, but, but... maybe we aren’t supposed to be. At least... not with, with anyone... who isn’t like us.”

“Jake isn’t like us,” Nova points out. Her presence in the room feels heavy, like a weight pushing down on him. But what does it matter? He’s not with Laken anymore, anyway. If he wanted to, he could stand right up and kiss Nova right now, press her back into the counter, and learn what it’s like to be the one doing things and not just having them done to him.

But his body doesn’t stir at the thought. It never has.

“He is,” Chris answers. “A, a little bit. I’m, I’m, I’m sorry, too, Nova. Sorry that I-I can’t.”

“No, I know. You have a partner, and I shouldn’t have-”

“I don’t have... I, I, I I don’t have a partner anymore.” Chris stands up, leaving her there with his plate of untouched toast. The sky outside is bright as the sun rises, as if mocking the way he feels like a stormcloud inside. 

Nova watches him leave, and whispers to herself, “No partner?”

Chris goes outside, pulling a sweatshirt that hangs on the coatrack on over his head to protect his skin, curling up on the porch swing and watching cars pulling out of driveways as the neighborhood starts to head to work in ones and twos. 

He doesn’t cry.

He sits very, very still, and he is silent. 

Upstairs, under the bed, his phone vibrates, again and again, unnoticed.

Just go talk to Nat, Chris. That’s all I said. Just go see Nat and get a night or three away from the house. Being there all the time is overwhelming you. Are you even looking at these? Chris you can’t just ignore me every time I say something you don’t like Chris answer me ... ... Oh shit, Chris, my phone autocorrected earlier and I didn’t notice I meant “some time at Nat’s”, not apart Chris? Are you seeing my messages? Baby? Chris, please check your phone and answer me. Please.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @endless-whump @whumpfigure @astrobly @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @eatyourdamnpears

[homerforsure]

Whumptober No. 6 Bruises / Touch Starved / Hunger Whumptober No. 30 major character death / left for dead / ghosts

Me: I can’t believe I have to post this absolutely incomprehensible piece of writing. 

Me: You don’t... have to?

Me: No, I’m gonna. 

Buck has an exceptional number of pillows on his bed. There are six, before he knocks a few to the floor every night, and he burrows into them like a nest, curling up with one against his chest, two pressed against his back, one between his legs. His sheets are a ridiculously priced, cool, crisp cotton that welcomes him in, surrounding him. The blankets he uses aren’t weighted, but they’re heavy and thick and he keeps his air conditioning turned up so he doesn’t have to give up the feeling of nestling into them in the heat of summer. Along with the white noise machine on his night stand, all of it is chosen to trick him into sleep. To keep back the feeling that night time in his own apartment is the loneliest part of Buck’s day. 

It wasn’t perfect, pre-covid. It’s been a long time since Buck had someone share his space, share his bed, someone he could reach out and touch whenever he wanted. But his life outside of home was full. He didn’t lack for closeness; in some ways he had more than he’d ever dreamed. So while he had lonely moments, they weren’t a constant ache in his chest. 

These months though. These months hurt. Facetime isn’t a substitute for curling up on Maddie’s couch with whatever silly-labeled wine she’d liked best that week. It’s definitely not a substitute for Eddie’s couch and losing to Christopher over and over again at Mario Kart. The last time they talked, Eddie had reached over and ruffled Christopher’s hair and Buck felt it. First as a tingle up the back of his scalp and then as a bruise to his heart. Eddie’s touches, so constant and so casual, became essential somewhere along the way and Buck feels himself reaching out for them even when he knows it’s not allowed.

“Six feet, gentlemen,” Bobby says gently when their orbits swing toward each other and Eddie makes a dramatic show of raising his hands and taking a giant step backward. Bobby just shakes his head and reminds them it’s the price they all agreed to pay for not wearing masks in the firehouse. 

Buck starts dreading the end of a call when taking off his heavy turnout coat leaves him feeling cold and exposed. He folds into himself, claiming a chair, putting in earbuds and crossing his arms tight over his chest, pulling his knees up even though he knows better than to put his shoes on the furniture.

It’s a similar position to the one he lies in at night, clinging to the pillows, trying to draw comfort out of the smooth fabric. In those moments, his loneliness is so loud it might as well be a beacon sent out into the universe, a burning shout of need. 

And that shout is heard. 

***

“Have you guys heard of exploding head syndrome?” Buck asks one morning when the calls are slow and the crew is all lingering in a lazy way rather than rushing off to take care of their other duties. 

“What, the band?” Chimney asks.

“I think it was an album,” Bobby says.

“No,” Buck sighs. “It’s a sleep thing. It’s this loud noise that you hear when you’re falling asleep like a massively loud explosion. Only it’s just happening in your head.”

“Is your brain actually exploding? Like an aneurism?”

“No. It’s just the noise.” 

Just the loudest noise Buck had ever heard. It woke him up with a feeling of abject terror. It was an explosion that didn’t echo. It just rang, clear and true through his eardrums like the end of the world. Even as he struggled out of his sheets, searching for the source so he could run from it, part of him knew it wasn’t a sound that left any physical evidence. What could it even be? A sound like that? An old fashioned safe dropping from two stories up? A car crash without the crunch? Just a high speed collision of two immovable objects, all of the equal and opposite reaction of their momentum forced to escape as sound. 

Once his heart rate had slowed, he googled. He wasn’t initially sure what to google. “Ridiculously loud noise woke me up” seemed at once too vague and too specific but sure enough. Exploding Head Syndrome. It was what happened. Obviously. But Buck remained too full of adrenaline to sleep. As he sat up in bed, he couldn’t shake the urge to look around. Under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain. He didn’t feel alone. 

“I’m just glad it’s happening in your head instead of mine,” Chim laughs. “Maybe try putting some earmuffs on before you go to sleep tonight.” ***

The sound doesn’t reappear. Buck is relieved, but sleeping doesn’t get any easier. He tries to soothe himself with obscenely long hot baths, by ordering a hoodie that’s more fluff than fabric, by running a foam roller across his muscles, trying to pry them into relaxation. It’s so much work and it does so little. Buck’s entire body is screaming out at all times for a hug or a massage or even just a really fucking good haircut. It takes longer and longer to fall asleep and the little sleep he does get isn’t restful. It’s like whatever meager comfort he manages to give himself during the day is leached away in the night. 

He doesn’t even notice the bruises at first. It’s an easy enough thing to miss. Their job is heavy physical labor and Buck barrels through a scene like a one man stampede. Bruises are as common as the smell of smoke in his hair. The ones Eddie points out on his arm though are different. 

Buck’s carrying a kitten at the time. The fire they’ve been fighting is beaten back to smolders. Buck shucked off his coat, wet and dripping from the hose and too cold for the shaking animal, and grabbed a blanket from the ambulance to wrap her up and cradle her against his chest. He’s rubbing his face against her damp fur, feeling the softness like a concentrated shot of endorphins when Eddie asks, “What the hell happened to you?”

“What are you talking about?” Buck asks and Eddie’s hands are pushing up the sleeves of his shirt, rolling them up to his shoulders while Buck’s trying to hold onto the cat.

“You don’t feel that?”

“Feel what?” He’s maybe a little ruder than he means to be but the sleep deprivation makes him cranky and the touch deprivation means that Eddie’s gently probing fingers feel like a dream on his skin. The care in the brush of his hands makes Buck’s knees weak. 

“Your arms are bruised to hell,” Eddie says. “Are you- Did someone grab you or something?”

“I swear to god, Eddie. I don’t feel anything.” Except grumpy and exhausted and longing. 

“Jesus, it goes all the way up your shoulders. It looks like-” He stops, pulling Buck’s collar aside and tracing a small spot that Buck can’t see even if he turns his head. “They look like fingerprints, Buck. Are you seeing someone?” 

“What!”

“These are handprints. And they’re dark. Do you really not-”

Buck wrenches himself from Eddie’s grasp so he can turn around and look at him because if Eddie’s really accusing him of putting everyone at risk by trying to date someone right now… But Eddie’s face is nothing but concerned. Which makes Buck scared. 

“Is it really that bad?” he asks, clutching the cat to his chest. 

Eddie rubs a hand up Buck’s back (it feels so good, hot like Buck’s t-shirt isn’t even between them and is it just because it’s been so long or just because it’s Eddie?) without looking around to see if Bobby’s watching and that’s really all the confirmation Buck needs. It’s bad. 

***

After that, Buck starts to feel them. He wakes up and he can’t breathe. He wakes up and he can’t move. He wakes up on the floor. He spends every moment that he’s asleep fighting to wake up. Buck can only remember fragments and pieces of the torment but he knows that it feels like drowning. Like being held down. Like being grabbed and pulled and smothered. He thinks he remembers long dark hair. 

Google is useless. Sleep apnea. Sleep paralysis. Sleep terrors. Even sleepwalking. None of them can account for the worst of it. For the physical signs of whatever is happening to him while he sleeps.

Bruises bloom blue on the pale skin of his hips. Purple on his ribs. Green on the back of his neck. The ones that Eddie saw first on his arm fade to yellow.  A long scratch runs down the side of his face. Dark circles under his eyes grow darker every day. 

“What’s happening to me?” he asks his reflection.

All he wants is to be able to ask that question with someone’s arms around him. He wants anyone to hold him tight and shush his fears and tell him that it’ll be okay. 

It’s easier than he thought to hide it. Buck just chooses his shower times strategically and opts for a long sleeve uniform, complaining that he ruined his short sleeves ones by grabbing bleach instead of detergent while he was half asleep. 

He’s always half asleep these days.

At least in the bunk rooms, he gets some semblance of rest. Whatever presence he feels in his own bedroom doesn’t cross this threshold and Buck sleeps deeply, almost missing the scream of the alarm. 

“It’s getting worse isn’t it?” Eddie asks, cornering Buck in the locker room. Buck can’t help but nod and Eddie steps closer as if to touch him. 

Buck flinches away and Eddie pulls up short as though hitting an invisible wall. 

He breathes Buck’s name on a pained exhale and says, “You have to get some help. Whatever it is…”

“I don’t know what it is!’ Buck answers. “It’s living in my house and it- it- God. Maybe I need an exorcism.”

“Maybe you should come home with me,” Eddie suggests and Buck recoils again. 

The firehouse seems safe but there’s no guarantee that Buck won’t be followed anywhere else. He’s desperate to be safe--desperate for Eddie to make him safe--but not at the expense of anyone else. Not when he doesn’t know what he’s facing. 

“Okay,” Eddie says. “But call me in the morning.” 

***

The burned girl screams louder when she sees Buck than she did while they were putting out the inferno of her car. 

“Stay away from me!” She shrieks. “Stay awaystayawaystayaway.”

“Miss, we’re going to need you to calm down,” Hen says to her. “Buck, you wanna move aside? Like preferably somewhere she can’t see you?”

Buck does because the patient’s well-being is more important than anything, but his skin feels like ice. He wants to demand to know what else she sees when she looks at him. Wants to know how she knows. For half a second, he imagines following her to the hospital and waiting for her outside the glass doors.  

They aren’t far from her house (52% of accidents happen within five miles of home) and the girl’s father arrives on the scene before they finish prepping her to be transported. And he sees Buck. 

He freezes when he does, but at least he doesn’t scream. He ignores Buck completely, instead going to the ambulance where his daughter is still crying and trying to soothe her. Hen offers to let him ride in the ambulance, but he says that he’ll take his car. 

“You’re in a lot of trouble,” he says, returning to Buck as the ambulance pulls away. “What you summoned… That’s not a normal ghost.”

“I didn’t summon anything! It just happened.” Buck’s voice is high-pitched and he just barely stops himself from grabbing onto the man’s arm, but the man doesn’t seem afraid of Buck the way his daughter was. “What is it? How do I make it go away?”

The man shrugs, “She came in through an open door. Which door depends on the person. But she’ll do everything in her power to keep it pried open. All you can do is try to close it again.”

It is… the least helpful advice Buck’s ever been given in his entire life. But the man’s daughter is on her way to the hospital and he needs to follow her. He vanishes. 

***

They’re about to have four days off. Buck’s bracing himself to meet the woman in his dreams. To look around in that dreamspace for open doors and slam them shut again. He can do it. He has to. 

***

The next night Buck wakes up and he can’t move. He’s paralyzed on the bed. He’s paralyzed on the bed and someone’s standing at the top of his stairs. 

She’s not… right. Buck can’t quite see in the dark and he can’t lift his head but the woman on his stairs isn’t solid in the way a human should be. The outline of her is strong, but it’s like she’s a shell wrapped around a cavernous emptiness. She’s across the room but she’s already pulling at him. 

Buck tries to thrash but his arms are pinned as if her hands are already on his wrists. He needs to reach the lamp. If he can just turn on the light.

“Get away from me,” he pleads and the part of her face where lips should be turns up, revealing pointed teeth that stand in front of a void.

“You called me,” she says. The words don’t come from her mouth and Buck doesn’t hear them with his ears. It’s wrong wrong wrong. He throws himself hard to the left and he rolls, flying further than he expected to, suddenly free, and crashes hard into the table, knocking the lamp to the floor. It shatters, bulb and all and pain scrapes across Buck’s shoulders.

“Poor boy,” the ghost mocks. “Poor lonely boy. Just wants someone to touch him. Just wants someone to stay with him. I heard you.”

“No,” Buck says and he tries to scramble, but his feet can’t find purchase on the floor. “I didn’t want you.”

He doesn’t deny the call. Can’t deny it when his heart is reaching out in the same pleading, desperate way now. Please. Anyone.

In the time it takes to blink she’s in front of him. She’s so close. She shouldn’t be able to get that close without standing on him but she’s there. Her voice whispers in his mind, “You should choose your words more carefully.”

And then her hands are around his throat.

The pressure is insistent and her motive is unmistakable. She’s going to kill him. She’s going to squeeze the life out of him. He’s going to die here and Eddie’s going to find his body because Eddie’s going to come rushing over as soon as Buck doesn’t call him in the morning and what if this thing is still here waiting for him. 

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.

Buck’s mind yells for him like his lungs did when Eddie was buried except now it’s Buck who’s too far away, who’s trapped somewhere deep and dark with no hope of escape. 

He tries to breathe and his breath whistles. It’s like the first time someone handed him a styrofoam cup of coffee and he tried to drink through the plastic stir stick. Black stars twinkle in the room and tears build in his eyes. 

Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. 

There’s a shift as she adjusts her grip and it’s enough for the stars to clear. Buck throws himself forward, shaking his head like he isn’t a ragdoll trapped in the jaws of a rottweiler, like he has a hope of breaking free and then he does. The ghost is thrown off balance and Buck jumps, scrambling back over his bed for the stairs. He can’t even think about defeating her, finding out the secrets of where she came from, closing whatever fucking door he left open. All Buck wants to do is live. 

A force behind him swells like a wave to lift Buck off his feet and slams him into the bathroom door. He expects to slide off of it and onto the floor, but he’s held in place hard, his head turned and his cheek pressed to the wood, toes just brushing the ground. 

“You begged me to come,” the ghost hisses. “I’m here for you, lonely boy. Don’t fight so hard.”

A hand skims up his back, nearly gentle, but leaving a numbness in its path and Buck shudders in disgust. He jerks against the door, but his arms are wrenched behind him and he screams. He realizes it’s the first time he has.

“I didn’t call you! I don’t want you here! Get out.”

“I came because you needed me.” A long finger trails down his cheek and Buck whimpers. She’s taller than him now. Was she always? “I could feel you from so far away. An aching ball of need. I’m here for you now.” 

“I don’t need you,” Buck growls and the room flashes like lightning. He hopes to fall, almost expects to fall, where he can scramble again but instead, Buck is hurled away from the door completely. He has time to see that he’s above the stairs, throw his hands out uselessly and then he’s frozen. 

Buck hovers there in the air above the stairs, dangling in the grip of the ghost, like a cat grabbed by his scruff. Kicking wildly, he grabs for the invisible hand that’s holding him, yelling “No, no, no, no.”

“Need me now?” the ghost asks. 

Smothering the terrified part of him that nearly answers yes, Buck forces himself to stop twisting and just hang there. He doesn’t want to fall. He doesn’t want to die. But what he needs isn’t going to come from the ghost. 

“No,” he answers. 

And he can’t explain how he knows what her face looks like when it’s screwed up in fury, but he does. It’s vicious and vindictive and Buck’s not surprised at all when he’s flicked away from her and down the flight of stairs. 

He seems to hit each one as he falls, something that should be impossible with the speed that he’s traveling and the force with which he bounces off of them, but the ghost is obviously responsible. Air leaves his lungs as his ribs crack against the stairs. His elbows and knees scrape. His head bangs the rail. Buck’s long, long legs seem to tangle as he falls, cartwheeling him down and he lands in a heap at the bottom. 

As he tries to figure out if he can still move, the door flies open. 

Warmth rushes in. Buck hadn’t even realized how cold it had gotten since he first woke up, but the room seems to thaw around him. It’s like sunlight. 

It’s Eddie. 

“Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Evan. Buck. I’ve got you, Buck. I’ve got you.” 

Tenderly, he scoops Buck off the floor, unsnarling the mess of his limbs and feeling all over for the damage he can’t see. “I’ve got you. Open your eyes. Come on.” 

The ghost stands at the top of the stairs and then she’s at the bottom. Buck clambers backward again, digging his heels into the floor to push himself upright in front of Eddie, to try and hide him from view. Eddie doesn’t seem to see the ghost. All of his attention is still on Buck, stroking his hair, promising over and over that he’s there, that he has Buck. 

All of the ghost’s attention is on Buck too. “You need me,” she says. “You called for me.” She sounds different now. Bitter. Like Buck wasted her precious time. 

“I don’t need you,” he says and he reaches behind him to grab Eddie’s hand. “I already have everything I need.” 

Lights flicker and that impossibly loud sound bangs in Buck’s ears again. He gets one last look at the ghost’s vicious, violent visage and then she’s gone. 

And then Buck wakes up.

[bcdwhcre]

Could you write an scenario where Levi's S/O was tortured and now has many nightmares about it? Like... they are sleeping together and she wakes up screaming or he hears her crying asleep and cuddles her or idk... I just think is this kind of angsty fluff that I adore! Also I love your writting ♡

“PTSD,” Levi x Reader

Running out of gifs, using the same ones. Bear with me

Summary: having ptsd and Levi trying his best to comfort you.

Warnings: ptsd, torture, nightmares, abuse

Levi x Fem!Reader

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Pain was all you felt. An intense amount of pain as you were bound down to the chair and left alone with your own tears and blood. You didn’t know why, you couldn’t come up with the reason why you were down here.

Maybe it was because of your fathers crimes. Everyone hated him and before he could pay for what he did, he vanished and left that burden onto you. The people who were practically hit men used you as bait, maybe you getting beaten and tortured would have your father running to your side but little did they know that your father hated you too.

All you could hear is the laughter from the men and your screams echoing off the walls, skin being pulled off and fingernails being broken along with a few other broken bones. You were beaten senseless on a daily basis, you were sure you were going to die in that basement until somehow— you barely escaped with your life.

Your broken bones ached, your skin on fire and your body so weak but your bare feet kept running until you had ran into a MP, soon after that, everything was history. You joined the Scouts, only because you felt your whole personality change into some machine and it convinced you to join and be able to protect yourself.

Levi had seeked interest in you right away, the scars that stayed on your skin noticeable and the pain you wore- he could tell you needed some comfort and he could tell you’ve been through hell and he related to you in someway and eventually it turned into a relationship that neither of you were expecting.

It had taken weeks for him to convince you to sleep in his bed but you didn’t want to be a burden, you didn’t want to wake him from your endless amount of nightmares that replayed in your head every night but a part of you thought maybe his company can make the nightmares go away.

So there you were, laid out on his bed, wearing his shirt and a pair of sweats while his arms were lazily wrapped around your body, spooning you and burying his face in the back of your neck while breathing in your scent.

Levi was completely over the moon with you, you were someone kind and amazing inside and out but he didn’t know the true story of your scars and he didn’t pressure you. All he would do is gently trace his fingertips over the scars that stained your skin, reminding you of your worth and beauty.

You sighed as he slept behind you and you hesitated, you didn’t want to fall asleep, you didn’t want to scare him away- it already took you months for you to be comfortable with him. It took you months for you to allow him to be affectionate and touch you, you couldn’t even let him hug you or touch your hand because it made you flinch and it made you believe he was going to hit you.

But he always remained patient, he stayed with you and gave you all the love you deserved to make you feel worthy of love and affection. He stayed by you until you were comfortable enough to let him in and the day you randomly pulled him in for a hug, you startled him. He stood there, wide eyes and hesitated before his arms were securely around your body- making you feel safe.

An hour went by of you staring at his bedroom wall, hearing his soft snores and feeling his breath tickle the back of your neck before you had finally gave in and fell asleep, hoping you’ll have a happy dream for once- maybe of Levi.

But that’s not what happened.

Your dreams were always the same, the echoing of laughter and screaming as chains were yanked and a whip was slapped onto your skin. The slashes on your back open and bleeding uncontrollably. The cuts on your dirty skin had looked infected and were painful, the broken fingernails on your fingertips throbbed and made you cry for hours but your broken ribs had prevented you from crying for too long.

The constant fear you felt, the look on the older mans face as he enjoyed torturing you and making sure you were in severe pain. You’ve even pleaded with them a few times for them to end your life and kill you. One man stared at you, laughing while pressing a knife to your neck and split some of your skin open as your blood leaked onto the blade.

“Hm, not yet sweetheart, I’m not done with you.” He licked his lips as he stared down at you and it just made you feel disgusting.

One day they even tried to touch you inappropriately, cutting your shirt off but another man had stepped in and said it was going too far yet you laid there bleeding out slowly, what is too far for them?

Your body shook in your sleep, soft mumbles escaping your lips until it had woken Levi up from how much you were shaking against him. His tired eyes had moved down to look at you and stroked your hair back from your face.

“Y/N?” He mumbled, firmly grabbing onto your arm and tried to rub it to somewhat wake you up but it wasn’t working.

You were deep in your slumber, deep in your nightmare that all the pain felt completely real as it ran through your body and a startled scream had left your parted lips, frightening Levi and suddenly you shot up in bed.

Your breathing was heavy, tears had soaked your cheeks and you had forgotten about being in his room until his soft hand had reached out and rested on your back, making you flinch and startle him again.

“Hey, it’s just me.” He said quietly, his sad eyes looking into yours and that’s when you started to unravel and break down before him.

Uncontrollable sobs had left your lips, burying your face into your hands and just cried as he rubbed your back and try to be of some comfort. He wasnt all that great at it but he loved you too much to have you sitting here feeling like this.

You couldn’t handle your emotions, you were embarrassed and humiliated that he’s seen you like this, you never wanted to open that part of your past up but it was still bothering you, it was still torturing you and you just can’t seem to shake the past off.

He hesitated, watching you but his heart had broke into pieces seeing how fragile you really are beneath the tough act you pull everyday at work. He sighed, reaching over to wrap his arms around your small frame and pull you into his chest.

You continued to cry, tears sliding down and hitting his chest which made his shirt a bit wet but he didn’t mind- he was giving you time and giving you a moment to let your emotions out.

“I’m here, no one is going to lay a finger on you again, alright?” He assured you, his fingers brushing through your messy hair and you started to calm down, the feeling of his arms securely around you made you feel safe.

You sucked in a deep breath, small hiccups leaving your lips as your sad tear filled eyes stared into his and everything just felt calm again. His presence and his company just made everything a little better, made you feel like you were truly okay.

“I’m sorry.. this is why I was afraid of sleeping in your room.” You admitted, your voice shaky and he shook his head.

“Don’t be ashamed, I still have nightmares from when I was a kid too. It happens.” He mumbled, tucking your hair back behind your ear and you leaned into his soft touches.

You had sat up on the bed, a random feeling of wanting him to know everything, wanting to show him everything. Sure he’s seen the scars on your arms, legs and the small ones on your face but he’s never seen the worse of it underneath your shirt. You looked like some sick voodoo doll- full of stitches and scars.

Your small hands had gripped the edge of your shirt, his eyes watching you and once you were brave enough to lift it up over your head, leaving you in just your bra- he couldn’t hold back the sound he made as his breath hitched in his throat. He’s thought he’s seen it all, he thought he’s seen bad things but this pretty much took the win.

His eyes began to water, he was never the type to show pure emotions but when it came to you and how important you were to him, he couldn’t help the pain he felt in his empty heart. It’s like he can feel all the pain you endured all those years ago in that empty cold basement.

He took his time, leaning over and brushing his fingertips over the patches of skin and the scars that were on your back as tears streamed down his face and he shook his head, feeling angry.

“I don’t even know what to say.. I’m speechless..” He finally spoke up, lost for words as he stared at your skin and you sighed.

“You don’t have to say anything. My past is always going to haunt me and you might as well know, I don’t want to hide anything from you.” You admitted, turning your head to look at him and he embraced you in another tight hug.

“You’re strong and you’re still beautiful.” He repeated, rubbing soft circles on your back and you buried your face into his shoulder, tears threatening to fall from your eyes again.

“You’re safe now.”

You couldn’t help the overwhelming pain you felt inside of your heart, it fluttered by his words but the reminder of your scars and being vulnerable enough to show him outweighed everything. You were terrified. Sure the guys who did this to you are locked away for good but you just felt scared all of the time. What if it happened again? It was constantly on your mind.

But Levi holding you in his arms as tight as he could without hurting you and the way his fingers danced on your skin to trace over your scars and remind you of his love for you, it made you feel safe. It made you fall even harder for him as you felt his lips press gentle kisses on your shoulder blade and even tilted his head to kiss your cheek.

You pulled back to look up at him in the dark, the moon shining the room bright enough to see his features and see the small smile on his face as he admired you and cupped your cheeks. It was hard for him to be this open and show this much emotion but you were worth everything to him, he risked being vulnerable and lovable for you.

“I know telling you about my past and being locked away tortured for weeks is horrible and probably made you think differently of me but..” You started to say but he was quick to cut you off.

“But nothing, why would I think differently of you? This just proves how strong I know you are. I’ll never think differently.” He mumbled, tracing his thumbs over your soft skin and your heart pounded inside of your chest.

You’ve never had someone like Levi, not one bit and having someone in front of you giving you everything you deserved and more was new but thrilling and it made you feel warm after being locked in a cold basement for what felt like years.

You were convinced after escaping that your life would never go back to normal or be normal, you never expected to find someone as loving and caring as him either but here he was, cradling you in the middle of the night making sure you felt okay and secure.

.

.

.

Sorry for the lonnnnng wait. I actually enjoyed this one🥺

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read bio before requesting pls

[ncitygirls]

mine (yours pt 2) - jaemin x f reader

fluff, angst?, suggestive, f2l, yours pt 1

a stifling dread has been following you all week long. it’s hard to describe. it feels a lot like drowning: a hot thick uncertainty flooding your lungs, tightening your chest. it’s hard because not once have you ever dreaded seeing jaemin, your- well, that’s the thing. what is jaemin?

he’s your friend, that much you know. from as early as you can remember, jaemin’s light has painted every one of your best memories. he has long been one third of your perfect trio. his calmer, more nurturing demeanour a perfect match to your tough exterior and mark’s more naive disposition. his kind eyes and warm smile stain every dream you’ve had, brightened every dark fear and warmed every cold word. jaemin’s presence alone has remedied every single ache and pain. jaemin is your friend.

but he is also your best friend. so you doubt what you’re feeling is dread but rather that same uncertainty, a fear of the unknown. mark keeps assuring you that this feeling is normal, says it’s part and parcel with trying to navigate this new terrain you’re both entering. that anyone would feel what you’re feeling, that it isn’t unique to you. yet you asked what jaemin had felt, he had said nothing. he shut his smiling lips with a pop. one full of shame and insurmountable pity. because jaemin was nothing if not sure. he was nothing if not certain. jaemin know what he was. which brings you to what you’re not yet ready to call jaemin, what mark has already taken to calling jaemin, and what jaemin has taken to calling himself-

“hey,” your boyfriend sings from his spot where he stands tall at your front door step, his hands clasped behind his back. the pose doesn’t last long, his arm extending forward to reveal a slim bouquet, lilacs dotted between pink camellias. he slips them into your hand as you gaze up at him, your eyes squinting suspiciously. “what?”

“nothing.” you lower your head, in part to inhale their samey scent, but in larger part to hide the smile he already knows you’re wearing. you step aside as he steps forward, making way for him to enter, but he doesn’t. “changed your mind? you not coming in?” you laugh, waving your free hand into your hallway, but he doesn’t budge, a soft smirk stealing his lips. “what?”

“nothing,” he sings, grinning as he mocks you. you glare playfully as he raises his hand, his fingers gently pinching your chin before he leans in. he closes his lips around yours ever so slightly, pressing ever so softly. he huffs as you kiss back, your fingers loosening around the small arrangement. when he pulls away, you whine before shying away from his glowing face. “can i come in?”

“i just said to-”

“i just said to,” jaemin, who has pushed past you, ducks out the way of your flying fist, as he mocks you once again. you shut the door with your hip before following him to the living room. he’s already made himself at home in the small space, his sneakers slipped off by the hallway rug, his jacket hanging off the back of your desk chair. you move to pass him on the couch, only to fall backwards, your back meeting his chest as he tugs you into his lap. “where you running off to?” he asks, holding you firmly in place. “i missed you.”

“to the kitchen,” gulping quickly, you pray the small swallow would somehow soothe your beating heart. you let your head fall to his shoulder, leaning further into him as his fingers glide along your sides. “and how can you miss me, we hung out yesterday,” you sigh, relaxing into the press of his lips to your temple.

“mhm,” he’s removing your apron, eliminating any and all things that might aid in your departure. “i know that, i was there,” you feel his smirk on your skin, paired with a squeeze to your hips. “i could have seen you an hour ago and still miss you now.”

“simp.” the insult falls easily from your lips, though you curse yourself a bit for it. for with it comes the long, drawn out laughter you think has you falling further and further in love with na jaemin. your best friend. your boyfriend.

it all started at mark’s wedding. or so you had thought. for you it had been watching jaemin charm the older members of your family, or entice the younger ones, even aggravate a few in between. there was something about that night that made you see jaemin as more than what he was. whether it be your friend, ready to spin you every which way on the dance floor just to keep you company. or your best friend, ready to do the same, just to keep you from bludgeoning your family to death. or maybe more, ready to do the same, just to make you happy. jaemin was prepared to do any and everything it took to make you feel even an ounce of how you did him. to burn your skin by touch alone, arouse your senses, bring you to the brink of all feeling and emotion, make you fall. for you, this all started then. for jaemin? the start had been gradual, yet all at once.

it was a slow ascent of feelings that never once plateaued. feelings that only grew and grew, that just kept intensifying beyond what one would ever think possible. how can anybody love someone this much? to the point days turned to weeks in their absence, sweetest dreams incomparable to moments spent in their company, their heart swelling till it bulged out the gaps between their ribs. how can jaemin love you so much words quickly lost value, to the point even actions aren’t enough? jaemin can spend hours pouring every emotion he could verbalise into you, before pounding the very same emotions into you. with soft spoken gasps, with languid rolls of his hips. jaemin utilised everything he could to show you he loved you. and yet still, nothing was enough to show you he was yours.

he sees your fears in how you quickly run from his safe embrace, schooling yourself as quickly as you’d let yourself slip. his fingers had finally laid waste to your apron, his nails dragging slowly over your andomen. he hugged as you gasped, your hips pressing into his lap, his lips puckering over the the soft skin of your neck, sucking ever so slightly. “jaem,” you whine, fingers gripping tighter on his thighs, nails curving into his skin through the rips. he just grunts in your ear, one hand grinding you further into his crotch, the other snaking up your blouse to your erect nipple. something about it snaps you back to reality. his hands on you, milking pleasure from you as easily as he’d done at the wedding. “the food.” you rush, pushing yourself off his lap and heading straight for your kitchenette.

jaemin just watches you go, panting as you disappear behind the adjacent pillar, leaving him all flustered. if he’d been a betting man, he’d have just made a fortune. jaemin foresaw your departure before he’d ever pulled you in, his heart yearning to hold you firm between his palms. but he just has to laugh, watching you flit back and forth over the counter tops. he prides himself in knowing you so well, knowing your tells, your habits, your peeves. jaemin knows this is a lot for you, it always kind of has been. it took getting used to, all his attention, but now his sudden overt affection was proving laborious. you reject it firmly in public, but let him have his way in private. or so he thought. because since mark’s wedding, you’ve not let jaemin get further than some light petting and humping. which he can’t fault you for. you’d wanted things to go slow, and he’d give it to you. jaemin would give you anything you wanted if it means one day being yours.

but how long did you expect him to ignore the red raw love he has brewing more and more for you each waking hour? because another second without you feels like an hour, and jaemin is starving.

“here you go-” you place a bowl of plain rice before him, grinning as he squeezes your wrist in thanks. “let me get the chilli.”

“okay,” he breathes, relinquishing you with a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist. it’s then jaemin sees nothing of his minor affection has changed, if anything you seem to cling to it, prefer it even. “it smells delicious.”

“thank you,” you sing, serving him two heaped spoon fulls before running for cheese and wine. “i made it special.” he points towards himself, a silent ‘for me?’ in his gaze. “mhm.” jaemin sprints through the meal without a word, his palm laid gently over the skin of your knee as he wolfed down the entire bowl. “damn, don’t choke, jaem.”

“you know i have to finish my food hot.” he laughs, waiting patiently for you to finish before he pushes your shoulder back down when you rise to clear the table. “i’ve got it,” he mumbles against the skin of your cheek, dragging his lip to the shell of your ear. “more wine?”

words escape you when he’s so close, your head bobbing as you hand your glass to him, squeezing his arm. it’s a lot to get used to. a version of jaemin you’s never imagined seeing, a level of affection you hadn’t ever prepared for. it’s overwhelming in the best ways. he has this hypnotic allure. it drenches every word he speaks, every move he makes. his every action warrants an overthought reaction. a kiss to your palm, something you once ignore, even laughed at is now stored in the depths of your heart, stowed away from times in his absence, then jaemin was busy, when his time wasn’t yours. jaemin’s seemingly sudden confession has pushes you so far toward the brink of madness, you wonder whether this has been his plan all along.

especially as you sit perched on his lap, straddled over his thick thighs. he listens carefully as you recount your day, his eyes flickering over the short hairs of your lash, probably counting, taking in the various flecks in your eyes. “and then i had to put her in timeout.”

“no,” he gasps, the perfect amount of shock in his tone. “lina? but she’s your favourite.”

“not anymore,” you grumble, eyes dropped to where your fingers fiddle with the hem of his shirt. “she didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.”

“really?” as in love with you as he is, as he has always been, jaemin does sometime wonder how it got so bad. because if it was anyone else, he’d be hysterical, tears pouring and he laughed off the worry they put into a classroom argument between two four year olds. but it’s not just anyone. it’s you. your classroom. your four year olds. so, instead of laughing, he let’s himself sigh, his eyes locked on the small tremor in your pouted lip. because it’s not just anyone’s problem, it’s yours. and if it’s yours, then it’s his. so he moves your hand from his shirt, wraps his hands around your closed fists and pulls them up around his neck. he hates himself for enjoying your skin on his. he can’t even cringe as your wet cheek meets his neck, your sniffles more his concern. “it’ll be okay.”

“no, it won’t,” you cry, arms winding around his neck as you breathe in his scent. “she’s a really smart girl, she won’t forget. she’ll never forgive me.”

“yes, she will,” he hums, his hands gliding up and down your back. “kids change like the weather,” he reminds, enjoying how you feel pressed to his chest. “and you’re her favourite too.”

“probably not anymore.”

“well you’re mine,” he admits. well, it’s hard to admit something everyone knows. it’s also hard to ignore the feeling it incites, his words like a warm repellant forcing your body up straight. he grins when you glare at him, your tear stained cheeks drawing his thumbs to your cheek. he only speaks as he drugs the same thumb over your still pouting lip. “what?”

“you’re enjoying this.”

“a little,” he pulls you back to his chest, rocking you side to side. “it’s hard to get you like this anymore.” he slows when you stiffen, your head craning up to meet his blank stare. he sees the question in your eyes, a soft glare he’s seen before but the meaning entirely changed. “it’s just been a while since we’ve been like this.”

“well, that’s your fault,” you breathe, only seeing your mistake as he straightens. it’s never easy hiding from jaemin, because he never makes it easy. before you can avoid his gaze, it’s piercing you. his fingers clasp behind your neck, his thumbs slid under your jaw, anchoring you with his gaze.

“what’s my fault?” he asks, an unsettling peace coating his words, a soft click sounding under his tongue. “what’s my fault, y/n?”

“this! the fact we aren’t the same anymore.”

“what changed?”

“you-” it sticks in your throat as he gazes down at you, watching the realisation his you in an oddly comedic fashion. jaemin hadn’t changed. nothing about him had changed. jaemin gave you all of him, yes, but he always had. jaemin gave you every bit of himself you just didn’t know you had. he was always yours. so what had changed? “me,” you breathe, watching him soften as your eyes gleam up at him. “i-i’ve changed. haven’t i?”

he shrugs softly, his smile even softer. “a bit.”

“a bit?” you cry, eyes wide as he grins dumbly at you. “oh my god, jaem. it’s me.”

“no it isn’t-”

“no, it is! it’s me!” he holds you tighter when you try retreat, your body repelling his affection, feeling so undeserving. “jaem it’s me, i just-i just miss you so much, all the time. and-and i don’t know why. and it’s not like you’ve gone anywhere. you’re here. but you’re not you anymore, and i’m not me. we’re this, we-we’re different now. and-and i don’t know what it means for us. i don’t get what we are.”

“we’re whatever we want to be,” he laughs when you scoff. “what’s wrong with that?”

“you make it sound so easy.”

“it could be,” he shrugs, pressing his forehead to yours as he keeps cradling your warm face in his cool hands. “tell me what you want.”

“i want you.” he swells with pride at your firmness, the words warming him before you add, “i want us. i want us to be how we always were. i want my best friend jaemin,” you watch him nod, the light leaving his eyes before you add again, “but that’s because you’re mine. i mean, you were always mine right? i guess i’m just trying to figure out what that all means.”

“it means,” he mumbles against your forehead, smoothing the skin with a kiss. “we’re exactly the same. i’m still jaemin. you’re still y/n,” he assures you, watching the crease in your brow melt away as he rubs along your jaw. “it’s just, instead of being jaemin and y/n, we’re jaemin and y/n.”

“right,” you nod, barely following, but you nod all the same. “but that’s how we always were.”

“exactly. so there’s nothing to be scared of.”

“i guess,” you agree, sighing softly as he kisses your forehead, “except now i’m yours too.”

“yeah?” he breathes, eyes shining “you’re mine?”

“mhm,” you affirm, shying away from his watery gaze. “i think that’s what’s changed. it’s kind of a lot of pressure.”

“if it helps,” he whispers, lips dragging to the skin beneath your ear. “i’m not taking anyone else for the role. ever.”

“you sure?” his lips pucker at the skin there, sucking softly when you sigh.

“i’m sure.” well, not exactly. he’s yours.

[heliads]

How to Move On

Based on this request: “A ghost!Luke Patterson x alive!reader but she is older. Like in the 90s they were but then he died and she got older. An angst story please :)”

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When he was alive, Luke Patterson lived five houses down from one of the cutest girls he’d ever seen. It still surprises him that he has to tack on that first part to describe anything that happened in his life before, like if he shuts his eyes hard enough he’ll find himself back in the 90s, when he had a pulse and a heartbeat and people could see him if he walked out onto the street.

However, an unseen blade cuts a little too deep whenever he thinks about his current situation, so Luke allows himself to fall deeper into the memory instead of returning back to reality. She’d lived five houses down, right? Or was it four? Luke has hardly been brought back as a ghost for a few weeks before he’s started losing his grasp on the details that bound his life. They’re all slipping through his fingertips, gone now in recollection as well as his ability to return to them in person.

Yes, five houses down- he’s certain of it now. Whenever he wanted to sneak out of his house to go visit her, Luke had to climb out of his window and weave through two backyards before he could risk returning to the sidewalk for another three houses. Five houses down, that’s right. Luke curses himself mentally, not wanting to forget another detail. He’s already lost the girl, he doesn’t want to lose the few figments of her in his memory. A ghost of her for the ghost he already is.

If he managed to sneak out of his house and make it down five houses, as he so often did, Luke could then toss small pebbles at one moonlit window. It usually only took two or three of these interactions before the window would be hurriedly unlatched, a beaming face peering out at him. Luke would allow himself a second of staring, admiring the way the moonlight cast the girl in a bone-white halo, then haul himself up into the room.

From the second his feet touched down on the bedroom floor, Luke would be in safe territory. He still took precautions, of course, keeping his voice down and his movements quiet. However, Y/N L/N always seemed to have a secret oasis in the form of her room, and he was never once caught. They both made sure of it, and if he and Y/N worked together, they could achieve any goal so long as it was worth it.

Y/N L/N. She was the one he’d left behind, one of the aches that hurt the most. He’d been lucky enough to win her love, either through some complete misunderstanding or maybe the fact that he’d finally done something right in his life, but he had her nonetheless. Or, he’d had her until the day he’d died, leaving behind nothing in his wake but grieving parents and the girl he’d sworn to stay with for the rest of his life. Well, his promise had come true in one sense, although Luke can’t help but wish there was another way around it.

To be completely honest, even as Luke dreads forgetting any detail of his past girl, he might fear thinking about her even more. It’s not that he wants to lose the picture of her smile in his head, or the way she’d reach for him when she was cold, it’s just that to think of her in any sense is like a knife stabbing him through the ribs, reminding him that he’ll never get her back. If he tries to push her from his mind, he won’t remember the way she’ll never be with him again. Isn’t that better?

Luke already knows the answer: no, not at all. Even this one slip in his memory, the faltering knowledge of how far apart their houses were, sends a jolt of worry spiking through him. Luke wouldn’t consider himself forgetful, maybe just a little absentminded, but the fact that he’s already starting to forget his past life worries him. However, to keep Y/N’s picture cherished in his mind means reminding himself of everything that he’d lost, of finally confronting all the memories he’s been holding back for so long.

Eventually, Luke finds himself in the studio, searching through the boxes and crates of stuff that had eventually made its way into dusty corners and spiderwebbed cracks of the room. Julie’s mom had been kind enough to keep at least some of Sunset Curve’s possessions, and so Luke ransacks these sparse belongings now. At last, his hand emerges triumphant, carrying with it an old photo album. It’s thin, spine scarcely thicker than a small paperback, but for the way he looks at it its pages could be lined with gold.

Luke pauses a second, steeling himself before flipping open the front cover. Instantly, he’s hit with a wave of memories. These first few photos had been taken a year or so before he died, when he had first started dating Y/N and everything seemed like he was living a dream. There are Polaroids from their first few dates, snapshots of festivals and boardwalks and everything a couple of teenagers could afford when they were young and stupidly in love.

Luke studies these, then the next couple of pages, and then the next. He must have been more distracted than he’d first thought, because he doesn’t notice Julie Molina enter the studio until she’s practically standing on top of him. Julie clears his throat, and he startles, doing his best to quickly close the album. For some reason, it doesn’t feel quite right to so openly share his memories of Y/N to anyone within eyesight.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there. Are we practicing?” Luke asks. Julie laughs, her smile a tad incredulous. “Not yet, but I’m a little worried as to why you were so quick to hide that book. What, are you trying to keep secrets from me?” Her eyes assure him that this question is purely an excuse to tease him, but Luke can’t find it within himself to smile back. Instead, he sits back down on the floor of the studio, gesturing listlessly to the empty space next to him.

“Not entirely. It’s just- well, I found this old photo album, and it’s kind of hard to not regret leaving everything behind. The current day is good, don’t get me wrong, and I love the band, but-” Julie picks up on his train of thought even as Luke’s voice trails off. “It’s not what you’re used to, and you feel bad about everything you could have had. I get it. I’m surprised you’ve adjusted so well, to be honest. It can’t be easy to leave your entire life behind.”

Luke lets out a quiet sigh. “Exactly.” After a moment’s consideration, he picks up the photo album again, opening the cover and passing it to Julie. She accepts it, glancing at him one last time to make sure he’s alright with baring his soul to her. A soft smile traces its way onto her face as she sees the photos of him and Y/N, grins so bright they could practically light up the world. “Who is this?”

Her finger lingers over a photo Luke had taken of Y/N. She had been wearing a Sunset Curve shirt, one of their first attempts at a logo. They’d long since changed the design, but she had said something about how her boys were so official and taken the first draft t-shirt nonetheless. Y/N had worn it to many shows since then, until the design faded into nothingness and she’d been forced to get a new one. Luke’s voice softens. “That’s Y/N. She is- she was my girlfriend. Back in the 90s, at least.”

Luke hates the way he has to say that, like she’s died instead of him. She was his girlfriend, they had known each other, they are each utterly different now and there is no getting back what they’d once had. Julie glances over at him, sympathy radiating from her gaze, but then she turns back to the photo, frowning over it in something that almost looks like recognition. “Wait, you said her name was Y/N? Like Y/N L/N?”

Luke sits bolt upright, melancholy thoughts completely forgotten. “Yes! How did you know that? Do you know her?” Julie’s excitement starts to bleed away from her, as if she knows something that ruins the dream she had been so thrilled to share. “Well, yes, but she’s not Y/N L/N anymore. She has a different last name now.” Luke picks up on what Julie is unwilling to say, and his stomach sinks a little. She has a different last name because she’s married, because she’s moved on.

Even as he thinks this, Luke feels annoyed at himself. Of course she’s moved on- he died 25 years ago. There’s no reason she would never love again, and even if she did, Luke would never want that for her. She was so bright, so happy, that the thought of herself locked away in mournful grief like his parents seems so utterly wrong that if that happened she might as well have died with him. Still, Luke doesn’t like thinking that there’s someone else out there receiving her smiles, hearing her hopes and dreams late at night the way he had once listened to her.

Luke must have gone silent for too long, because Julie is looking over at him again, pity written in every line of her face. She thinks for a second longer, then stands up, holding out her hand to him. “She still lives near here, actually. A few streets down. Do you want to go see her?” Luke stares at her, then rushes to his feet. “You mean it? You know where she is?” Julie nods. “Only if you’re willing to see her.” She’s right to worry- seeing Y/N again will mean finally coming to terms with everything Luke had left behind when he’d died, a final piece of proof that Y/N will never be his again. Still, if he hides away from her again, Luke will spend the rest of his ghosthood wondering what she might have been like and who she may have become. So, he nods, and allows Julie to lead him from the studio and down the blocks to Y/N’s house.

Even without Julie’s directions, Luke would know their destination even before she points out Y/N’s front door. He sees her in every corner of the building, every flower and tree planted in the yard. She’d always wanted a brightly painted front door, tall trees in the backyard so she could have a little shade on the summer days. They’d once planned what their future houses would look like, always choosing one for the two of them. If Luke sees traces of his ideas in her house now, does that mean Y/N still thinks of him? Or that she’s already forgotten that it was his voice suggesting those changes and not her own, that he’s already faded into the last few corners of her memory?

His feet stall in the driveway, but at an encouraging look from Julie, Luke forces himself to walk up the final few feet to stop in front of the front door. He reaches forward and rings the doorbell himself, although he can do no more once the door swings open. This will be Julie’s part- Luke can do no more than watch the woman in front of him with wide eyes.

She still looks like her. Is that a strange thing to say? She’s taller now, her face more lined and weary as if she’s had a lifetime of problems to deal with ever since Luke left her days. It makes sense that she looks older- the last time Luke saw her was 25 years ago, so she’s probably in her forties now. Still, there are traces of the girl he’d known in every movement, every step. When she looks questioningly at Julie, Luke can see the way she’d looked at him to ask when and where Sunset Curve would be performing so she could make sure to arrive on time. The gesture is so truthfully her that it practically hurts to see.

Julie’s eyes dart to Luke, as if trying to gauge his reaction, then she focuses her gaze firmly on Y/N. “I, uh, was cleaning out my mom’s old studio. I found something from the band who used to practice there- they went by the name of Sunset Curve? Your name was on one of the photos.” It’s a duplicate photo strip from a photo booth on a long-since demolished boardwalk, an excuse for the visit. Still, it’s enough to make Y/N’s eyes widen, and she looks at Julie as if she’s punched a hole right through her chest.

She gestures for Julie to follow her inside. Luke drifts in after them, staring at the photos lining the walls, the backpacks flung in a corner of the room. So she has children, a family. How long had it taken her to move on from him? She smiles in every family portrait he sees, but did she ever think about the boy she’d left behind? Would it matter that much to him if she did?

Julie hands Y/N the photo strip now, and tears glisten in the woman’s eyes as she looks at herself and Luke, decades younger and what feels like centuries happier. Julie, thank everything, is unwilling to let Y/N leave without asking her about the boy she’d left behind. “Did you know him well? The boy in the photos?” Y/N glances up sharply at Julie, startling as if she’d forgotten there was a girl in front of her, too drowned in the memories of the past to remember reality. It’s a familiar feeling to Luke, and it stings to see it on this older Y/N too.

“Yes, I did. Very well, in fact. I loved him with all of my heart until he died along with his bandmates.” She laughs quietly, the sound broken through with utter misery. It twists Luke’s heart like a blade. “I almost didn’t make it through the funeral. I was sitting next to his parents, and we were sobbing like we’d never smile again. He was everything to me, and I had no idea what to do when he was gone. I wish you could have met him- he was always so quick to a smile or a laugh. I never told him how much I liked his smile. I wish I had.”

Luke stumbles as if he’s been punched. Tears are pricking at his eyes, and he swipes at them angrily with his shirt sleeve. Why should he have to cry now, mourn everything he’d lost? Hasn’t he been through enough? Y/N swallows harshly. “It’s easy to get lost in the past. I graduated high school without him, went to college without him. I didn’t think I’d ever have to live a day without him, and suddenly I had an entire future completely empty of anyone like him. There are days when I almost think I see him in a crowd, and days when it gets easier. In the end, I think he’d want me to move forward, even as hard as that may be.”

Julie glances over at Luke once more, scarcely a second away from tears herself. “Yeah, I think he’d want you to be happy. That above all else.” Y/N sighs, the sound cutting through Luke and almost sending him to the floor. “Thank you for the photos, Julie. You take care of yourself.” Julie smiles. “I will. Thank you too.” Luke, sensing the imminent goodbye, takes one last furtive glance around the house. What if he had been there, present in every family photo and every line in her journals? He wishes nothing more than to have that option, to be able to go back, but he can’t.

So, he allows himself to follow Julie back out into the sunshine of the afternoon, and when the door closes softly behind him, he doesn’t look back. Julie is silent on the walk back, as is he. Luke heads for the studio, and he stops before the photo album before glancing up at the walls around him. If he tries hard enough, Luke thinks he can see her in every corner of the studio. There she is on the couch, laughing as she pretends to smack him with a pillow. There she is next to him on the piano, listening to his latest song. There are hundreds of her in the studio, hundreds of memories. That’s all he has left of her. Just memories and nothing more.

Julie returns to find him later, and it doesn’t take long for her eyes to cut across the room, landing on the photo newly pinned to the wall. There are two figures in it, a boy and a girl grinning madly as they reach for each other in a dusky night. Both of them are long gone now, dead and aged even as their photo-selves smile on. If Luke looks back at the photo now, keeping that image burned into his mind, he never speaks of it again.

requested by @charliegillespiewife​

jatp tag list: someone who i would not leave behind if i died in the 90s @underc0vercryptid​

[duskholland]

Cuddle Buddies | Peter Parker

summary ↠ you’re touch-starved, Peter’s your best friend, and there’s a whole lot of unresolved romantic tension between you; friends to lovers.

word count ↠ 3.4k

warnings ↠ uh oh.... there’s only one bed..? additionally maybe two swear words? also copious amounts of fluff lmao

a/n ↠ so apparently I really wanna cuddle Peter Parker. wbk. this is very cute and made me so soft when I wrote it. I hope you enjoy it! please let me know if you have any thoughts :D

“God damn, MJ, I think I’m actually going to die if I don’t get a hug soon.”

You’re rambling, your voice full of heavy frustration. Your hair is unkempt and messy from all the times you’ve run your fingers through it, and you stare at Michelle with a wild look in your eyes that makes her press a hand to her hips and laugh lightly.

“Has anyone told you that you’re really good at being dramatic, Y/N?” She replies casually, causing you to mock an outraged gasp. You sit down at the lunch table together, setting down your trays in front of you.

You manage a glare at your friend. “You’re so mean to me,” you whine. “You don’t understand how desperate I am.”

MJ narrows her eyes. “I don’t think it’s possible to die from lack of human contact,” she chimes.

“Who’s dying?”

You startle as a third, familiar voice joins the conversation, and crane your neck to see Peter slipping into the open seat beside you. He gives you an easy smile that stretches all the way to his soft, lovely brown eyes, and you feel your heart ache.

“No one’s dying,” Michelle replies. When Peter shoots her an inquisitive look, she adds, “Y/N thinks she’s going to perish if she doesn’t find someone to hug.”

You scowl at MJ, biting the inside of your cheek as you try not to let the embarrassment show on your face. It’s one thing to have this conversation with MJ - your close friend and number one confidant - but Peter? It’s an entirely different story. He may be your best friend, but your feelings are far more than simply platonic when it comes to him.

“Oh…” Peter looks at you curiously, his eager eyes darting over your face. He leans his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands, looking utterly adorable with his face pulled into a cute smile. His grin widens as you meet his gaze, and he nods knowingly. “Hugs are nice.”

You nod in appreciative agreement. “Exactly!”

MJ just rolls her eyes. “You guys are so weird.”

Ned joins the table and begins talking to MJ about a chemistry project, and Peter turns to you properly.

“Hey, so, are we still on for that study session later?” He asks you, his teeth briefly gliding across his lower lip. You try not to focus too much on the curve of his mouth, but it’s very difficult.

“Um, yeah,” you squeak, feeling your cheeks heat up a little as you remember the arrangement you’d made with Peter earlier in the week. “Mine or yours?”

“Yours?” Peter suggests.

“Okay. My parents are still away on business, so it’ll just be us. Is that okay?”

Your friend nods his head, his fluffy brown curls shifting around his face. “Sounds great.” Peter gives you a nervous smile, and it sets your heart racing. “I can’t wait.”

-----

Peter turns up a little after 7pm, a box of pizza in his hands. You spend a while chatting and watching Star Wars, and then eventually pull yourselves around to studying. You opt for your bedroom, with its very comfortable fluffy carpet, and you spread out all of your notebooks and pens around you before lying on your stomach and lazily flicking through your notes. But you can’t quite focus because something is amiss.

Peter is acting very oddly tonight. And he’s normally a little hyperactive, but it’s as if he’s on another level entirely. He keeps glancing up to you, then looking away the moment you bring your eyes up to meet his, and he hasn’t stopped drumming his fingers over the front of his maths textbook all night. You’re already nervous enough being around him, alone and within such close proximity to him, and his antics aren’t helping you at all.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on Peter Parker. Possibly. But you’d never tell him that.

“Pete,” you say, reaching breaking point when you catch him staring at your face for the fifth time in one minute. You sit up and turn to look at him, meeting his guilty, rose-tinted face. “What’s going on? You seem so unsettled. Are you okay?”

Peter opens and closes his mouth a few times, his eyes meeting yours nervously. His voice is more a squeak than anything else as he says, suddenly, “Do you want to cuddle me?”

You blink, totally blindsided by the change in topic.

“Uh, cuddle you?”

“Um, I mean, sorry, that’s such a weird thing to just come out and say, I- I just remembered earlier, with MJ, what she was saying, and I was wondering if you’d want to hug me, if you- if you want a hug so badly.” Peter breaks off, a disgruntled groan coming up his throat as he buries his flushed face in his hands. “I’m sorry, Y/N, shit, that was such a weird thing to ask. Can we just pretend I never said anything?”

You chuckle, your lips pulling into a wide smile. “You would let me hug you?” You ask gently. Peter parts his fingers and looks at you through the gaps, nodding slightly. “I’d like that, Peter.”

He looks so shocked by your statement that it brings another quiet laugh from your mouth. “O-Okay.” Peter clumsily opens his arms. “Um, here?”

It’s painfully awkward at first. He’s sitting at the foot of your bed, his back resting up against the mattress, so you have to do a weird sort of crawl over to him, feeling his wide, anxious eyes pressing onto your figure the whole way. It doesn’t help that you’re practically shaking from nerves now.

You’ve known Peter since the start of high school, but you’ve not really hugged him before. The most you’ve shared is a brief celebratory high-five after acing a biology presentation together, and even that contact had lingered in your mind for days after. The concept of crawling up to and hugging your crush makes your palms sweaty and your mind a numb anxious mess, but you do it, because it’s Peter, and the opportunity to cuddle up next to him is so enticing you think you’d do anything just to feel his arms around your body.

The angle is difficult, but Peter spreads his legs out across the carpet and pats his thighs, and you realise he wants you to straddle his lap, so you clamber into his hold gently. He’s sturdy beneath you, with a pair of dark denim jeans stretched over his firm thighs, and he’s quick to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you in. You let your hands find his sides, and then you settle into a very close, very intimate hug with your best friend.

It’s lovely.

He smells of soft bubbles and peppermint, and you bury your face in the crook of his neck, partly because it’s comfortable, but mostly because you don’t want him to see the massive, embarrassing grin fixed to your mouth. Your heartbeat’s going crazy - you can feel it pressing against your ribs almost painfully, and it only doubles in speed as Peter’s hands move slowly across your back, rubbing large, soothing circles over your hoodie. You savour the moment, your eyes closed as you enjoy just being held by your best friend.

“Is this okay?” Peter asks, after a few moments.

You hum against his neck, squeezing his torso softly. He’s wearing one of Midtown’s navy hoodies, and it feels particularly soft against your forehead. “Thanks, Pete,” you mumble, enjoying the moment entirely too much. “You’re really good at hugs, you know that?”

“You’re also a very nice hugger,” Peter replies. You swallow deeply as you feel him tighten his grip on your sides and pull you even closer.

“Sometimes it’s just nice to be held,” you find yourself saying. You’re starting to feel really comfortable now, and find yourself relaxing and shifting further into him.

“Definitely.” His voice is still ringing at a higher pitch than you’re used to, but you put it down to the late evening hour. “Um, Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“If you, uh, ever need another hug, you can always text me.”

You’re so glad you have your face buried in Peter’s warm neck because the grin latched to your lips is so large you think you’d die from embarrassment if your friend could see how giddy his words make you feel.

“Okay,” you say. “Thanks, Pete.” You pause for a moment, and take stock of the way he seems to be clinging to you just as tightly as you are to him. “You can always text me too, if you ever want a hug. Or anything, really.” You manage to collapse your smile so it’s more of a weak grin, and you pull back to look at Peter. His hands fall down to loosely grasp at your hips, and you find him looking at you with warm, attentive eyes and a wide smile hanging from his pink lips.

He looks so cute, and relaxed, and perfect, and you really can’t believe your luck that you’re sitting holed up in his arms just now.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he mumbles shyly, eyes flittering across every part of your face. “You’re a great friend.”

You deserve an Oscar for maintaining the smile on your face, despite the way his words stab painfully at your heart.

“You too, Pete,” you mutter. “The best friend ever.”

The air between you holds just a little too much tension, so you shift and push your face back into his shoulder, hugging him again. Peter’s arms tighten around your waist, and you sigh softly, revelling in rare the feeling of him so close to you, even if it isn’t under the circumstances you crave. You’d take anything Peter could offer you, even if it makes your heart ache.

------

It easily becomes a habit.

Soon enough, it’s been three months, and you’re spending almost every evening with Peter. The more you meet up, the more natural folding into his arms becomes, and soon you find that your favourite parts of the day are the moments you share curled up together.

Sharing affection with Peter is easy, but it comes at a cost - it ties your heart up in knots to spend so much time pressed up against his chest, acting so intimately with him, but then to pull back and go back about your day like nothing really happened. Every second you spend hugging him hurts you because your heart yearns so deeply to have more, but you just can’t bring yourself to tell him how you feel. You value your friendship with Peter too much to risk ruining it all because of a stupid crush, and you’re not ready to stop your evening shenanigans, so you decide to just put up with it and suffer in silence.

A few months into your arrangement, you find yourself at Peter’s when the power across the city goes out in the middle of a thunderstorm.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, shivering as you glance outside and see a flash of sharp lightning cut across the city. The rain pelts down against the pavements so loudly that you can hear it through the gap in the window. You turn and look at Peter, wide-eyed. “Bet you’re glad the Stark internship let you leave earlier than usual today. I’m not looking forward to walking back in that later.”

“Y/N, you can’t go home in the middle of a thunderstorm, especially if the power is out,” Peter tells you firmly, his arms crossing over his chest. He looks so cute with his eyebrows scrunched into a caring scowl that you can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Stay here tonight. May’s out of town, but I can sleep on the sofa. I don’t want you to go across the city by yourself at the moment.”

You bite your lower lip, eyeing the slants of rain that pour over Queens. “It does look pretty horrible out there,” you admit. Your expression shifts into guilt as you eye Peter closely. “You can’t sleep on the sofa, though. I will.”

“No, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“Peter, it’s your apartment, I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”

“Then join me.”

“In your bed? With you?”

“Yes.” Peter’s face is a bright red as he flusters, “Um, only if you’re comfortable with that though, Y/N. You don’t have to. I just thought that- because, y’know, we’re kinda… close now, you might want to. But you don’t-”

“I want to,” you say, the words tumbling out before you can think them through properly. You’re rendered utterly incapable of sensible thought, because Peter’s looking at you so intently that it whips the breath straight out of your lungs. “Really, Pete, that would be nice, if you’re sure you don’t mind..?”

“No! I want to,” he replies. Peter runs his delicate fingers through his brown waves, pushing his strands away from his face easily. His smile is gentle, and it grows as you return it shyly. “I’ll go get you some clothes.”

You make light conversation as you both get ready for bed together. Peter even finds you a spare toothbrush in the cabinet beneath the sink, and you pull faces at him in the mirror as you brush your teeth together side by side. It feels so domestic, but also incredibly comfortable and normal, and you decide that you feel more at home by Peter’s side than you do anywhere else in the world. You realise that maybe you’d just been deluding yourself each time you’d dismissed your feelings for him as simply a crush. Maybe, your feelings run a lot deeper for your friend - far deeper than you’d ever intended for them to grow. Because you realise, as Peter laughs loudly when you pull a face at him in the mirror, that your feelings for the boy have taken firm root in your heart, and you’re absolutely fucking in love with him.

“So, um, I normally sleep on the left side, but I can swap if you want that side,” Peter tells you. The power has finally come back on and the weather has cleared up, but neither of you comment on it as he closes his bedroom door behind you and gestures at his nice, gingham-patterned bedspread.

“I can go on the right side,” you offer.

Peter turns off the light and you both shuffle to your respective sides of his bed. You’ve been in his room a thousand times before, but you’ve never ventured beneath his lovely soft covers, and you find yourself sighing slightly as you shuffle beneath the duvet. His pillows are light and feathery, and your head sinks into them easily.

He seems intent to stay as far away from you as possible, and he clings to the far edge of the mattress. It brings a frown to your mouth, but you let him be; if that’s where he has to be in order to feel comfortable, then you’ll let him stay there. Just because you feel something else fluttering about in your heart for him, does not mean he feels the same way - even if you were sure he’d been hugging you a little closer, recently, and staring at your lips more than he used to. But maybe that was all in your head.

“Do you need anything?” Peter asks slowly. You stare up at his ceiling, your eyes taking in the dark curves of his smooth roof.

“No,” you reply. “Your bed is very comfortable.”

You hear the sheets ruffle as Peter slowly turns over. You fold over onto your side and find yourself facing him, his bright eyes twinkling slightly beneath the light that streams in from the city outside. He looks very cute, with the duvet bunched up beneath his chin and his fluffy hair all messy and waved out across his forehead, and it makes you happy to see him so relaxed and free. Sometimes it feels as though Peter carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, and you’d give anything to see him gentle and carefree like this. It makes you feel a surge of pride to know you can give him just a little bit of peace.

“Yeah, I dunno where May got the mattress but it’s amazing.” Peter breaks off, shifting around a little, and you freeze up when you feel his hand brush against yours beneath the covers. “Oh, uh, sorry,” he mutters, immediately jerking his hand back. You can just about make out the dark flush of his cheeks.

“‘S okay,” you murmur, biting your lower lip. A beat passes, and then you add, “We hug all the time, Peter. You can touch me, y’know.”

He takes it as an invitation, and he tenderly reaches out. His warm hand finds the curve of your waist, and you stay remarkably still as he slowly shuffles a little closer.

“Is this okay?” Peter whispers into the air.

“Yeah.”

Finally you unstick, your heart beating rapidly in your chest. You shift towards him, as if magnetised, and your hand goes up to rest on his side, too. His t-shirt feels soft beneath your hold, and you find your mind reeling as you take in his warmth, his scent, his touch.

Peter’s face is very near you now. Your legs are tangled together. Your head shifts onto his pillow, and suddenly he’s holding you flush against him, your noses almost touching.

“Y/N,” he says slowly. His eyes are wide and nervous, and they keep dipping down to settle on the curve of your lips.

“Pete,” you respond, your voice fragile. You can hardly keep still, for how nervous you’re feeling now. He’s pulled you right against him, and for the first time, you question whether your feelings are actually one sided. His warm fingers burn against your side, tracing delicate circles over the material of your borrowed shirt. “You’re really close.”

“Do you want me to move?” You’ve never heard him like this before: all warm, and gentle, and inviting. It ignites a whirlwind of butterflies inside your chest, and you really can’t stop yourself from saying, quietly,

“I want you to kiss me.”

Peter’s lips are on yours before you know it. Soft, at first, and a little bit bumpy and awkward. But he loosens up as you reach up and wrap your fingers around his hair, and you kiss him back with all that you have. Peter pulls you closer as you kiss him deeply, savouring the feeling of his warm, pillowy lips and enjoying the way your heart blooms in your chest as your best friend kisses you back. He releases a small noise of enjoyment into your mouth as you nibble over his bottom lip, and then he’s pushing his tongue into your mouth, and you’re making out, your figures lazily intertwined.

It feels so right to be kissing Peter that you briefly wonder why you’ve never tried this out before.

“I, um, I really like you, Y/N,” Peter whispers against you, when you finally pull back. Your lips tingle as you giggle into the air, your fingertips trailing through the soft strands of his chestnut hair. “In fact, I… I’ve been in love with you for months.”

Your mouth runs dry, and all you can really do to stop the tears of relief from slipping out of your eyes is lean in and kiss him again, hard. You kiss him like you’ve been dreaming about for months: slowly, passionately and lovingly - growing in tempo as you fervently try to convey everything you’ve kept hidden away inside your heart.

When you break away, you keep your lips nuzzled against his and breathe out a deep, “I love you too, Peter.”

You giggle together, and you feel so overcome with adoration for the boy that you simply have to kiss him again.

“D’you want to go on a date with me?” Peter asks gently, between gaps in your soft kisses. You finally move away from his lips and settle nearer, your forehead finding his chest as his arms encircle your waist and he holds you close in a warm, consuming cuddle.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Peter,” you mumble against his front. You smile softly as you feel his lips trail across your forehead, and your heart stirs happily in your chest.

“Okay,” he says, sounding immediately relieved. “I’m excited.”

You hum sleepily into his chest, your fingers curling around his strong back. “Me too,” you mumble.

“Night night, Y/N,” he says, his voice already being carried away as you drift further into dreamland. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Pete,” you reply. You know nothing else will compare to the feeling of being holed up in your best friends arms, with his lips scattering a dusting of kisses across your forehead, and you try to cling desperately to every single moment and sensation. “Sweet dreams.”

Peter leaves a final kiss on your forehead, and then you drift off to sleep with him, your figures entangled, and, for the first time, your hearts beating together as one.

------------

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[devil-in-those-eyes]

Invisible String Part 3

Good morning, guys! Honestly, i didnt think me posting was in the future but here we are lol. Ultimately, finishing the series in one part was the winner but last night my whole week fell apart and changed so I might not be able to write when I had planned too. So, I figured I’d share part 3 with you guys, to hold you over until I can get my hands on some free time to write. 

Parts: One, Two

Warnings: Swearing, maybe once. 

A/N: Italics are end of previous chapter

~~

           Mat was the first to speak, glancing up at you and taking his airpods out. “Hey,” his greeting came out on a pant, his chest heaving as if he just got done with a work out. His body was glistening with sweat and the t-shirt he was wearing was sticking to his skin, his hair falling everywhere as he ran his fingers through it.

           The sight alone had you squeezing your thighs together.

           “Hi,” you managed to squeak out, paralyzed in your spot on top of the counter.

           Mat walked towards the fridge and got a water bottle out, glancing over his shoulder and at you, “late night snack?”

           As his question filled the air, the ball inside your stomach continued to build as his eyes took in your shorts and t-shirt. The color in his eyes started to heat up and you felt a fire rise up, starting in your toes and flickering up your legs until it filled every inch of you and flamed inside your cheeks.

           Remembering he asked you a question, your hands tightened around the bowl and you cleared your throat. “Yeah. Late night work out?”

           Mat grabbed out a water and turned to face you as the fridge closed with a soft click. He moved to stand beside you, his back resting against the edge of the counter. “Just couldn’t sleep,” he answered, his deep voice filling your ears.

           As you moved to place the bowl on the space beside you, the outside of your thigh brushed his hand that was pressing into the counter by his hips and it almost stopped you in your tracks, suddenly thinking about how his hand trailed up your thigh while he slowly thrust into you. Shivers raced up your spine at that thought and you tried covering it up by asking, “got something on your mind?”

           Mat turned his head to look at you, leveling you with his gorgeous eyes and making your throat close up. It was hard remembering that you should be feeling guilty about sleeping with your best friend’s brother when he was standing this close, his cheeks rosy and hair sticking to his forehead. All those nights you let horrible and disgusted when you scrolled by his posts, or posts containing his face, just floated away in that moment and that should annoy you but it somehow didn’t.

           Mat didn’t answer but settled for silence and took his eyes off of you. You figured you poked too hard and sucked in a deep breath, looking down at your hands in your lap. You weren’t close with Mat, so you didn’t blame him for not giving you insight of something that was bothering him but you didn’t want any distaste between the two of you because you couldn’t go avoiding him the rest of your life.  

           “How come we were never closer?” Mat asked suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

           You’d be lying if you never thought the same thing while growing up, but the answer was always pretty obvious. “You were always busy with hockey,” you answered, smiling nervously.

           You both stared at each other for a second. His eyes taking in every inch of your face, like he was trying to memorize it for the moments you two spent apart and you just couldn’t look away from him.

           “Would things between us be different if I didn’t leave that morning?” he whispered, his deep voice giving you goosebumps.

           You wanted to shake your head no because you two couldn’t go back there. Even if he didn’t understand or know about the promise you made to yourself, you would die if you lost Liana’s friendship over her brother.

           But instead of shaking your head no, you just stared at him, your lips parted and breathing in short puffs of air. You both played a part in the aftermath because he left in the morning, but you didn’t pick up when he called a few days after, and that’s when he didn’t bother to call anymore because it was clear you thought it was a mistake.

           Mat’s gazed turned down and you followed his eyes just as the edge of his pinkie finger brushed the skin of your thigh, moving slowly and softly, almost like you’d burst into thin air if he kept touching you.

           “Y/N,” Mat whispered.

           You were almost scared to look at him because when you did, it meant it was all over for you. Every second that ticked past meant you were that much closer to forgetting everything around you, how it could hurt his sister and how it would make you feel like you weren’t any better than the other girls that used Liana.

           You were afraid to acknowledge the possibility that Mat could block out the world around you.

           Mat murmured your name again and you watched his body turn towards you.

           “Mat,” you warned, your voice breaking with a gasp but the sound coming from your mouth caused more sudden movements from him, like his hand coming up to cup your jaw.

           He turned your head to face him, tilting you until his lips found yours in a mind-numbing kiss.

           You were right, he really could block out the world. The kiss pushing your scary feelings away as his body twisted until his hands were reaching down and pushing your thighs apart, making room for his hips.

           As his hands sent more flurries of shivers up your spine, yours reached to his chest, twisting his shirt and begging for him to be closer. The real shock to your system was the low groan he let out when your tongues touched, that was when his kiss got heavier and more tense. You could feel this ball building in your stomach, the ache between your thighs just growing until it was swallowing you.

           “Y/N…” His whisper fell into a moan when his big hands gripped your hips, holding on tightly.

           As his hands went up the length of your body, skimming over your ribs and brushing gently over your boobs, your hands fell down to his stomach, feeling his muscles tighten under your fingertips, behind his flimsy shirt.

           You moaned softly when his fingers wrapped themselves in your hair, tugging your head back so his lips could press against your neck. His lips felt like fire against your skin, the kind that didn’t stop unfolding and growing. The tip of his tongue dragging so slow it was like Mat had no where else to be, except in that moment with you.

           The vibration from your phone, followed by the ding, sounded like a canon going off but Mat just didn’t jump away, and his body swallowed up your jolt against his skin. The only thing he did was pull his lips away from your neck, bringing them to your ear.

           Despite just finishing up a work out, his cologne mixed with his sweat and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant but you didn’t get much time to enjoy the softness of the moment, feeling the sexual tension in his muscles melt away because you had to come back to reality.

           “We can’t do this,” you whispered, your voice shattering even though you tried to sound tough.

           “I want too,” Mat argued back, the sound soft and calming, his hand moving from your hair to cup your jaw.

           You pulled back as your hands pushed against his stomach but he didn’t give you a lot of wiggle room. He stared down at you with those heart melting eyes and you were left with nothing to say except his name, praying he understood.

           “We could be something,” he whispered, his frown and the pain in his eyes caused your stomach to drop further.

           “Liana,” was the only thing you said.

           His eyes shut as his jaw tensed, turning his head to the side. For a moment you thought he’d have another argument and maybe he did, but right now his brain wasn’t really comprehending anything other than he couldn’t have you. The hand on your jaw pressed deeper as he turned to face you, your eyes fluttered shut as his lips dipped down to graze your cheek.

           There were no words that could have been said to make this situation better and nothing he could say that would ease your ball of guilty anxiety, so he let his lips linger than what was necessary but you both felt the need for it. When he pulled away, he put full distance between the two of you and forced his eyes to watch you slip down from the counter.

           You could have sworn you heard a creek in the stairs but there wasn’t much you could hear over Mat’s soft breathing, part of you wishing you didn’t have to walk away from him. Despite your heart begging you to take the leap, be with him, your feet forced you away and you took the less than twenty seconds to calm your racing heart and to put on a happy face.

           When you opened Liana’s door, she was sitting on her bed, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, “dude…. Where’s the snacks?”

           Oh, fuck. “I ate them,” you quickly lied as he moved to sit on her bed. “You took too long.”

           Liana snorted with a laugh, which then caused you to laugh.

           “What an ungodly sound.” You teased.

           “Oh, please, you snort too!” She argued, reaching over to smack your arm.

           “Not like that,” you argued, shaking your head as you both continued to laugh.

[angstyaches]

Space

From 🍄 anon after I basically begged for angsty requests:

hello flick, if you want to write hunger with little to no comfort,,,,, consider this,,,, shayne,,,, not letting himself eat back when he still lived with madeline and watson,,, and not telling charlie,,, because he doesn’t want to worry him,,,,

This is closer to a whump fic than a hurt/comfort fic, so be warned. Also, just a reminder, these OCs are 19-20ish at the time. Shayne gets a little comfort, just not the right kind.

CW: emotional whump, disordered eating, low self-esteem, hunger with pain and affecting cognitive function, little/no comfort, psychological abuse.

___

He woke for what seemed like the fiftieth time that night, groaning as he took in the appearance of his room. He sluggishly rolled over, frowning in the direction of the little clock that sat on top of his set of drawers.

5:35am. An acceptable time to give up on sleep.

He sat up slowly, trying to gauge how much he could move without making himself dizzy. He rubbed his eyes, the stray ends of sleep disappearing and leaving a stabbing pain in the pit of his stomach. He pressed a hand over the pain, frowning when he felt his stomach rumble under his palm.

Maybe that’s what had been keeping him from sleeping.

Are you hungry, Shayne?

A shiver ripped up his spine. He stood up, shaking his head to chase out the phantom voice; he couldn’t deal with the Madelyn in his head, especially not while she was also in the house with him.

He tried to remember what he’d eaten recently. He’d been shaky after school yesterday, and he’d tried to eat a cup of instant noodles, but he’d only managed a few mouthfuls before starting to feel nauseous, and the cup had ended up in the bin along with most of its contents. Before that, he’d had a granola bar for breakfast, and before that –

No, wait, the granola bar hadn’t been yesterday. It’d been the day before that. It was definitely that week, for sure…

He swallowed, wondering if he should have breakfast today. It was always a gamble; he never knew when Watson or Madelyn would expect him to work, and it was always much messier and more painful when he had food in his system.

Not to mention that food always came with a side helping of judgment in this house.

He took his time getting ready, though there was little to relish about the morning. He crossed the dark hallway to the bathroom, took his usual lukewarm shower and brushed his teeth, towel-dried his hair, put on the grey-and-navy uniform that would keep him relatively invisible for most of the day.

In this house, though, it was impossible to stay invisible.

Madelyn was in the hallway as he made his way downstairs with his backpack. His stomach dropped, her gaze making the hairs on his forearms prickle. He quickly tugged his sleeves down from his elbows to hide the goosebumps that sprung up.

“Morning, Mads.”

“Good morning,” she snapped, eyeing him up and down as he stood, silent, on the last step, gripping the handrail. She had piercing amber eyes and dark, silky hair that fell to her waist when loose. That morning, she’d twisted it into an elaborate structure at the nape of her neck.

Shayne shrugged his backpack a little higher on his shoulder. “Do… Do you need me for anything?”

She scoffed at that, eyes turning away from him. “If it were possible to prove yourself useful this morning, don’t you think I would have already informed you?”

He nodded. “Sure. Sorry.”

“Could you tell me what time you’ll be home after school today?”

Shayne swallowed, only hesitating for a second. “Five o’clock. As soon as the bus gets in…”

“You have no… plans?”

He shook his head. There was no way he’d let Charlie rope him into hanging out at the Mulberry house, not while he was feeling so weak and drained. Even worse, he’d probably be offered dinner if he showed up there.

At just the vague thought of food, his stomach shifted and let off a low growl. He quickly crossed his arms, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat at the same time. With her heightened senses, Madelyn surely heard it, but she didn’t react beyond narrowing her glare.

“Nothing?” she asked. “We’ve seen so little of you recently.”

Shayne shook his head and cleared his throat again. “Do you need me for something then?”

“Full of questions this morning, hmm?” Madelyn shook her head and took a step towards the kitchen. “Just be home when you say you’re going to be home. Otherwise, you know… I’ll have to send Watson out to find you again.”

A chill rolled down Shayne’s back as he watched her step out of his way. It was vague, but it was a threat, not just to him, but to Charlie and his parents. He bit into his cheek, hot streaks of anger flashing through his head and tightening the muscles in his chest.

Madelyn raised her eyebrows. She didn’t quite gesture towards the front door, but it felt like an instruction to leave. He stormed past her and out the front door, letting it slam behind himself in what instantly felt like the pettiest form of rebellion ever.

He spun around and lifted both his middle fingers towards the door; Madelyn had several supernatural abilities, but seeing through doors wasn’t one of them.

“Fuck you,” he mouthed silently, with enough force that he might as well have screamed it. He took several steps backwards before he turned to face the road, proceeding like a zombie beneath the rain-dampened trees.

His hands felt funny. He lifted them slightly and frowned when he found he couldn’t hold them steady. He crossed his arms over his chest and held himself, taking gulps of air into his lungs to try to calm himself.

But even when he managed to tame the fiery, hateful anger, he was still shaking. The centre of his stomach ached as waves of hunger weaved back and forth inside of him. As the rusted sign for the bus stop came into view, its edges seemed to blur, and the road tipped to the side.

Shayne freed one hand from under his own arm and pressed it to his mouth, wondering for a second if he was going to be sick. Instead, it was just a shallow burp that rolled up, churning his stomach and making it growl violently.

“Mm. Fuck,” he whispered to himself. He glanced down the empty road, checking that the bus wasn’t arriving just yet. He held a hand over his stomach, pushing against it and rubbing harshly, hoping to coax the growls out before he was surrounded by other students. He realised he’d forgotten to fill his water bottle before leaving the house, so he couldn’t even get some liquid into his stomach to shut it up. He’d need to remember to go to the water fountain before his first class.

As the bus crested the hill, he shoved his hands in his pockets, staring down at the ground. He always wondered what he looked like to the students looking out the bus windows. He’d never figured out how to hold himself in a way that seemed natural.

The bus driver didn’t even bother to look at him, which was normal. Shayne glared at a first-year student who was staring at him while whispering something to his friend. He was used to hearing himself being talked about, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it. He already hated that he took up physical space; he could barely stand the idea that he also took up residence in people’s minds.

He walked until he reached the seat where Charlie was sitting, staring down at some loose sheets covered in notes while wearing in-ear headphones. He looked up after a few seconds, breaking into an easy smile.

Fuck. That smile. It usually pissed him off so much that he would just look away whenever it popped up on Charlie’s face, but for some reason, Shayne found it hard not to stare this morning.

“You want to sit?” Charlie asked, pulling out his headphones.

Shayne swallowed, unable to bring himself to nod. Charlie’s backpack was in the seat next to him. It would need to be moved if he was going to sit down.

You take up so much fucking space –

Without even waiting for an answer, Charlie pulled the backpack towards himself, propping it on his lap.

The hollow space inside of Shayne throbbed, ached.

You're like a black hole.

"Go ahead," Charlie urged him, nodding to the free seat.

Shayne swayed a bit, though he could pass it off as though the motion of the bus had caused it. He held in a groan and sat down next to Charlie. He shoved his backpack down between his feet. He was tempted to just let his head rest against the back of the seat in front of him. The bus had only been in motion for a few minutes, but he was already light-headed again.

A flutter of panic hit his chest as he realised Charlie had said something else, and he’d missed it.

“What?” he asked, slumping back in his seat.

“I said, ‘how are you?’” Charlie shrugged, still wearing that smile. “You okay?”

Shayne nodded briskly, glad that Charlie provided him with an adjective that he could lie and agree to. It saved him having to fabricate a lie himself.

“You?” he asked, feeling secure in the knowledge that anyone – including Charlie – could easily be distracted if they were coaxed into talking about themselves.

“Yeah, I’m…” Charlie sighed, glancing at his notes. “I’m half-dead this morning. Just hoping my coffee kicks in before second class, for the history test.”

As a fun kick to the ribs when he was already down, Shayne had forgotten about the test. He’d also likely forgotten every word of their history textbook. His found it hard to concentrate these days, and everything that passed in front of his face seemed to dissolve somewhere between his eyeballs and his brain.

“Hey, are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Fuck. Charlie had wasted no time in swinging the focus back towards Shayne.

Shayne felt his heart start to pound, cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. He hated this. He wished he’d found somewhere else to sit. He missed the days when nobody gave a shit, nobody asked him questions like how he was or if he was feeling okay. He’d blacked out in art class the previous term, and nobody had even noticed; they’d all just assumed he’d put his head down to go to sleep.

And yet, Charlie… Charlie saw him.

He wondered what would happen if he told him the truth. If he said that he was scared and ashamed to eat anything, that he was so hungry his stomach hurt, that this was still so much better than the alternatives...

Shayne glared at the back of the seat in front of him, hating himself for even considering burdening Charlie with all of that. Charlie was staring, still waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t exactly look worried yet. One advantage of being a miserable bastard was that Shayne didn’t have to put up an exhausting, cheerful façade.

“Kind of tired,” he said finally.

“Okay." Charlie frowned. "Well, I’m going to read over my notes a few more times, but if you’re really tired, I’ve been told my shoulder makes a good pillow.”

Shayne blinked with genuine incomprehension. The words didn’t stick in his brain long enough for him to dissect them; all he could really focus on was trying to breathe in time with the hunger pangs fluctuating in his stomach. He could usually keep it relatively quiet that way, but being this close to Charlie was making him even more anxious than usual.

“What?” he mumbled.

Charlie’s eyelashes fluttered as he broke into another smile, his gaze flicking away from Shayne’s. “Um, you can sleep on my shoulder, if you want.”

Shayne scoffed under his breath.

“Or don’t,” Charlie laughed, turning his attention towards his notes. “Whatever.”

Shayne’s gaze wandered towards the paper in Charlie’s hands, skimming over the headings that he’d jotted down in his annoyingly pretty handwriting. The topics sounded vaguely familiar, like he remembered them from a movie he hadn’t watched since he was a toddler. Like he’d last heard them from the other side of a thick veil.

His stomach pinched, and he realised he was hugging his waist again in an attempt to ease the pain and muffle any unwanted noise. He swallowed harshly, glancing from Charlie’s notes to Charlie’s shoulder and remembering his offer.

It was so silly. And yet Shayne wriggled a little closer.

The fabric of Charlie’s jacket was cool, unpleasantly so, against his cheek at first, but he quickly got over it. His head instantly felt better, supported by something solid instead of trying to follow the turns of the bus. Shayne inhaled deeply as his stomach squeezed and his shoulders tensed against the pain. A low grumble began to surface, soft enough that he covered it up with a sigh.

“I know I sound like a broken record,” Charlie said, startling Shayne a bit, since he’d thought he’d gone back to revising. “But… you can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Shayne said. The words felt like shards in his throat. He didn’t know – wouldn’t realise for a while yet – why it was getting more and more difficult to bring himself to lie to Charlie.

Charlie nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Shayne closed his eyes and continued taking deep, delicate breaths.