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astaroth1357 · 4 years ago

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Demon Brothers Getting Possessive at the Club

… I can explain. Or, well, no I can't. But this exists now anyway so enjoy?

Warnings: Possessive Behavior, Yandere-ish, Violence

Intro: The MC and their favorite demon were just trying to have a fun night out at The Fall. The lights were going, the music was blaring, and the two of them were by the bar but there was a problem. Their demon noticed a sketchy creep who'd been eyeing their human all night long… and that simply won't do. So when their human left to use the bathroom…

It was time to take care of the problem.

Lucifer

Though Lucifer was usually less than into the club scene, the MC wanted a change of pace from their usual dates and he did so want to make them happy… At first, he thought he'd just be dealing with the loud noise and crowded atmosphere but then he noticed something else…

A demon had been following them through most of the night, always keeping his distance but staring at the MC far too much for his liking…

This put Lucifer in a bit of an odd position. He didn't exactly want to leave the club because the MC didn't look tired yet, but he also didn't like seeing that cretin following them around…

Yet, of course, it also rubbed his pride the wrong way to go tell him to stop directly. Lucifer would never admit to feeling bothered by some pitiful lesser demon… Never.

But by the time the MC left him to use the restroom, he was at his wit's end. He could see the man had taken a seat at the other end of the bar just to watch them and he was growing irritated… So he had to devise a new strategy.

It's unusual for demons to walk around in their true forms. It's not that it's frowned upon or anything, it's just that it's normally something reserved for big events… or for displays of dominance and control.

So when Lucifer slipped into his demon form in the middle of The Fall, it turned quite a few heads. Truthfully, there was only one head in particular that he wanted his way, and once he got it, he stared the guy down…

It was a taste of the lowlife's own medicine, but so much worse coming from him… The feel of Lucifer's bloody-onyx eyes and chillingly cold smile from across the bar could have made even the strongest men run for the hills…

Needless to say, the demon didn't last very long under the eldest brother's gaze. In fact, he wilted almost immediately before slinking away as quickly as he could…

A guy not even able to stomach the firstborn's stare? Truly a pathetic coward if Lucifer ever saw one.

He was totally back to normal by the time the MC returned and went back to dancing with them like nothing ever happened… Though his human couldn't help but notice the crowd kept their distance from them for the rest of the night...

Eh, Hell is just weird sometimes isn't it?

Mammon

Look, Mammon had been trying to have some fun the whole night and for the most part he'd been succeeding except for one thing…

He could sense that asshole still hadn't left them alone. He'd just hover near him and his MC like a hellhound stalking prey… It was annoying. It was creepy…

And it was reeeaaallly getting on his nerves.

When the MC left for the restroom, he was leaning back against the bar scanning the room for their abhorrent admirer while using the tint of his sunglasses to hide his eyes.

It didn't take him long to see the gross fuck sitting alone at a table. Who knew what he was planning... following them home? Taking candid shots of MC? Either way, he wanted to sock him in the jaw…

But, of course, Mammon knew he had to play it just a little smoother than that to stay in the club.

Mammon sauntered over to the man's table and invited himself to sit, kicking his feet up to look casual but knocking his boots against the surface so roughly it made the guy jump... Pathetic.

"Oi, so I've seen ya lookin at my human… Real work of art, eh?" He flashed the guy a fanged grin and watched him sweat for a second before cutting off any answer.

"-'course they are. Don't need to tell me. But I gotta say, you're really ticking me off, bud… We're just tryin to enjoy ourselves but I keep seeing your ugly mug wherever we're at."

He pulled his legs back from the table and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a deck of playing cards.

"Tell ya what, I'm feelin oddly generous so let's play a game. You and me. If ya win, I'll let ya have a night with'em…" He fought the urge to punch the guy when he saw his eyes light up, "but if I win…"

Mammon put the deck on the table then leaned in real close, "I'll flay your skin off and gild ya skeleton in the 4th circle myself… Gold skulls are selling like hotcakes right now." He put every bit of malice he could into the threat, even barring his increasingly sharpening fangs.

The guy must of had a good head on him because he paled immediately before getting up and running from the table. If there's one thing everybody knows about Mammon, it's never play cards with him if he can make even a single Grimm… Chances are, you're gonna lose.

When the MC came back, Mammon flagged them down to their new table and pulled them onto his lap for a little chat before getting more drinks. They're his human. His.

Leviathan

Of course Levi noticed this creep the second that they walked in. He's Envy. He had been hyper-vigilant of all the attention the MC had been receiving since their first step inside. But this guy was… persistent.

He'd been tailing them all night, always finding spots with good vantage points, which of course was sketch as hell but...

Honestly? Levi just didn't like him looking at them. Not at all. In fact, he'd hazard to say he truly hated this complete stranger for how much real estate his eyes were taking up of his precious MC… What gave him the right??

By the time the MC had to use the restroom, he was sitting at the bar seriously contemplating whether or not to just carry them home… He didn't like night clubs anyway, but they seemed to be having fun and they always looked so cute while dancing…

No. He couldn't just take them home. But once they left, he had a much better idea.

It was easy for Levi to slip away from the bar. The asshole was leaned back against a nearby wall and pretty much pulled his phone out the second the MC was out of sight. From there, Levi only had to do what he did best, blend into the background, until he was right next to the guy...

He didn't say anything. He didn't give him any warning or threat. No, no he was far too ticked to be that charitable…

The only indication the man got of how royally he fucked up was the searing pain of Levi's fangs digging into his shoulder, the thirdborn's gloved hand muffling his screams until the venom took hold of his prey.

The last thing that man ever saw, propped up and paralyzed against the wall, was the MC coming back to their docile otaku, who now pulled them into his arms… still shooting the occasional smirk in his victim's direction.

And the last thing he ever heard was the same word his killer whispered to him after his throat became too tight to scream… "Mine."

Satan

This always seemed to happen whenever he took the MC places… They could be walking together in the park and he'd still see lesser demon eyes following them around...

Frankly, it did piss him off to a degree. He knew they never asked to be stared at like a piece of meat, but if he'd go on a rampage every time it happened then they'd never have a quiet date again. So he learned to put up with it… to an extent.

The demon that had been following them that night was really testing his notoriously short patience...

He had tried several tactics to shake the guy as they were dancing but he'd always come right back. He even got more handsy than normal to show, "Hey, this one is mine!" but that had gotten him equally dismal results… It was bordering the line of disrespect now.

He did his best to keep up a friendly face while the MC was with him, but they must have noticed he'd gotten tense. They told him to try and relax a bit before they left for the bathroom…

Oh, he was going to relax alright.

The second they were out of sight, Satan's smile broke into a glare he leveled right at the offending scumbag's table. Of course, seeing the MC had left put the guy's attention elsewhere, but that was his funeral.

Satan knew his time was limited, so he skipped the pleasantries and marched right over to him, slamming his foot down onto the edge of the table with such force it threatened to tip it over then grabbed him by the neck.

"Back. OFF."

It really didn't take much, his reputation preceded him. He felt the guy's pulse skyrocket between his fingers before he let him go.

It was hard not to get a little satisfaction when watching the worthless creep scramble away from him like his life depended on it (as it very much did). He almost considered giving chase just to amp up the fun, but the MC returned sooner than he expected…

A pair of arms around his waist and lips against his cheek were enough to evaporate his anger right then… but it didn't settle his sudden need to mark them in the slightest.

Ultimately, the real question was whether he could wait until they got home to show the world that they were his or if they needed to find somewhere… quieter. No promises, MC.

Asmodeus

Asmo had dealt with his fair share of admirers, the stalking kind included. Fortunately, dealing with them had always been relatively easy for him (he is a ruler of Hell after all) but one targeting his beloved human…? That was far less acceptable in his eyes.

He caught sight of the beady eyes of the creep while he was dancing with the MC. At first, he thought the guy was looking at him (who wouldn't?) but then he followed his eyeline right to his lovely human companion…

Though he couldn't exactly blame him for staring, he and MC made a fantastic looking pair, he definitely couldn't sit idly by either. People like this are usually bad news and he refused to let any harm come to his MC…!

He was as tactful as ever, though. He liked The Fall and would rather not be banned from returning… He waited patiently for the MC to go to the bathroom before making his way over to the creep, his perfect smile still sitting on his face.

"Excuse me, cutie." He waited for the stalker's eyes to leave his phone and settle on Asmo's own. "Ah, there you are! Good. I had a question for you, I think… oh no, I must have forgotten it! Silly me."

Though he could see the demon was growing annoyed, Asmo stalled for just a few moments longer… just long enough for his bewitching charm to set into his victim's mind.

"Ah! Now I remember. Do you like dogs?" He smiled in satisfaction to see the creeper's head nod slowly. "Oh good! Because I know a very hungry dog right now… Cerberus is his name and I don't think he's had a meal today. Would you be a doll and go feed him for me? He lives in the cave behind the House of Lamentation. You can't miss him."

The demon's head nodded slowly yet again as he rose from his chair and walked out of the club quietly. Quick, painless, and with no messy cleanup!

Well… none that Cerberus wouldn't clean up for him anyway. Asmo returned to the bar with a newly giddy grin on his face... His MC wouldn't be seeing that man ever again~!

Beelzebub

Beel is very patient. Beel is very kind. Beel is very forgiving. Beel is… really not about this right now...

Unlike his brothers, Beel's easygoing nature made him less quick to pick up on the lingering glances that the MC gets from others. Even when he does notice, he can usually let it slide if looking is all they do (he's the only one who can touch after all).

But even he couldn't miss how wolfishly that demon was staring at them… It made him uncomfortable and the guy just refused to leave them alone…

By the time the MC left Beel at the bar to use the restroom, he was on a level of irritated usually only reserved for when someone denied him food… It was like that jerk had taken a cheese grater to his patience and it was wearing thin…

As much as he knew he could deck him, he didn't want to get them kicked out… The MC was having such a good time, despite the creep's ogling, so he used a different approach…

Being so high up in Hell had its perks and one was that anywhere in town that offered food also had a secret menu… A Beelzebub Only menu (as a precaution so that he wouldn't wreck the place whenever he stopped by). Anything on his menu always had huge portions and The Fall was no exception.

The bartender didn't seem too surprised when he ordered a Drakon Leg, but he was very surprised when he asked to get the full bone too… Not with the meat on it. Just the bone.

Fun Fact: the bones of Drakons are supremely thick and strong enough to be used as clubs.

Even More Fun Fact: it takes an incredible amount of force to snap these bones…

...which Beel did without breaking a sweat… and maintaining eye contact with the creep The. Entire. Time. The sound of the bone snapping in two was almost as deafening as a gunshot and he didn't even flinch.

The demon went running out of the club with his tail between his legs and quickly got swapped out for the MC running back, worried about what made such a loud noise…

Of course, by that time Beel had the bone thrown away and was chowing down on the meat like nothing ever happened so they dropped the subject soon enough...

He may not be as open about when he claims someone as the rest of his family but that's because when push comes to shove, who in their right mind would want to challenge Beel anyway...?

Belphegor

Nope. Nope. Nope nope nope, he's not having this. Not one bit.

Belphie lacks a lot of the good-natured patience of his twin... Chances are if there's something happening and he's not stopping it, it's just because putting up with it is the path of least resistance…

But there are always exceptions and those are usually reserved for the MC.

Strangers trying to get close or even imagining themselves being with MC really makes his blood boil… He knew them the most. He loved them the most. On just what grounds did some random moron think he could take his place?? Wishful thinking? Keep dreaming, buddy.

So, of course, he wasn't happy when he noticed some asshole staring at the MC like Beel does when he sees a havoc roast...

He kept his poker face up while he was with the MC, but he was devising a plan to take care of him the entire time… One he finally got the chance to enact once the MC went to the bathroom.

He's even better at going unnoticed than Levi, so sneaking his way over to the asshole was a piece of cake. He didn't notice until Belphie casually draped his arm around the guy's neck, hanging his clawed hand dangerously close to the scumbag's heart...

"Having a good time…?"

He could feel a shallow swallow against his arm as he began to slowly apply pressure to his trachea.

"I bet you were… and I was too until I saw you following us… Care to explain yourself?"

"I-I uh-Gah!"

The guy's voice gets cut off by Belphie's arm getting even tighter, the sharp tips of his claws drumming directly over the man's thundering heart.

"Ugh, that's what you actually sound like? Never mind, it's not worth knowing…" His fingers stopped drumming and slowly began to dig into his skin...

"I'm only going to say this once… If I ever see you tailing my human again, you won't be needing this-" his claws drilled a little deeper into his chest, "-anymore. Am I clear?"

The demon's head nodded as much as his strangled throat would allow and Belphie finally retracted his claws, wiping the blood off on the guy's shirt before letting him go. He fell forward onto all fours before attempting to scramble away as fast as he could...

Belphie watched him go with disinterest on his face, but satisfaction in his heart. Yet another threat to his human dealt with… And they could go back to enjoying their evening together. Alone. Just where his human belonged...

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #tw: yandere #tw: possessive behavior #tw: paralysis #tw: violence #tw: mentions of death

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marauderundercover · 3 years ago

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Taking Chances Ch. 28: Summer Changes (School)

AO3

A week after the Disney movie marathon, Marinette was finally back on patrol. No thanks to her dad though. If it was up to him, she’d probably never patrol again. Luckily for her, (unluckily for him) her brothers were adamant on her coming back to the field. Which led to her current problem. Hanging upside down from a gargoyle near Wayne Enterprises.

“Ukht, what have you done?” Damian asks, and though she can’t see his face, she can tell by his voice that he’s exasperated. Join the club, she thinks, at least you’re not upside down.

“Why do you automatically think I did something?” She asks, trying desperately to turn around so that she can talk to him. It was really awkward talking to someone when you couldn’t see them but you knew they were near you.

“Because you are the one hanging upside down,” Damian says flatly. She huffs.

“It’s not like I want to be, Robin. It just kind of happened,” She says.

“And how exactly did it happen? I have never seen your yoyo betray you like that before. Not even in the videos when you were still very new.” Damian says, and she swears he’s smirking. He’s definitely laughing at her on the inside, and as much as she wants to be frustrated, she can’t. It wasn’t easy amusing her little brother (unless you were an animal) so she wasn’t about to ruin it.

“Hood made a bet relating to this exact gargoyle and I’d never been this way before and I just, I don’t know. Somehow I misjudged where my yoyo was going and next thing I know, I’m tied up and Hood is gone.” She says, sighing.

“Where did he go?” Damian asks.

“Over here so I could record the dumbass trying to untie herself.” Jason says with a snort, she manages to turn just enough so she can see him and stick her tongue out at him. He chuckles. “You’re the one who somehow tied herself up with a magic string, I’m just getting the proof so I can show Wonder Woman.” He says and Marinette’s jaw drops.

“You wouldn’t dare!” She screams, struggling against her yoyo, finally able to get the string to loosen slightly.

“Oh, I’d dare.” Jason says and Marinette just knows he has a huge smirk underneath his stupid helmet.

“But Wonder Woman is the coolest person ever and she can’t see me like this!” Marinette complains, trying not to grin when she feels the string start to move the way she needs it to. She ignores Jason’s next remark, instead focusing on the string and- yes! She free falls for a moment, laughing at her brothers’ panic before she swoops up and jerks Jason’s phone away from him.

“You little shit!” He calls after her, starting to chase her.

“You’ll get it back once I delete the videos!” She calls back, laughing as she continues swinging through Gotham, a warm feeling in her chest as she looks over the city that has quickly become her second home.

---

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” A voice screams, making Marinette jump out of bed with a yelp. She clutches her hand over her heart, glaring at her oldest brother.

“Are you trying to make sure I don’t make it past my fifteenth birthday?” She asks with a huff. Dick just grins.

“Happy birthday kiddo! I can’t believe you’re already fifteen!” He exclaims, picking her up in a giant hug. She wants to complain, ask him to let her down, but it’s nice, so instead she returns the hug the best she can. Until she glances out the window.

“Richard Grayson.” She says in a tone she usually reserves for enemies. She feels him stiffen, the hug turning into more of a restraint than a cuddle.

“Yes?” He says.

“Did you honestly wake me up, before the sun, because it’s my birthday?” She asks.

“Yes?” He says, his voice cracking slightly. She purses her lips and lets out a long sigh.

“Dad has a no killing rule.” She says, and suddenly she’s back on the ground.

“Oh would you look at the time, Mar’i needs another bedtime story loveyousomuchgottagobye.” Dick rushes out, practically sprinting out of her room. She just smiles and shakes her head. She’d learned intimidation tactics from Jason and Damian, who both claimed her size made her an easy target against bad guys. They were right, of course, so she was fine with a few extra lessons. Seems they were working. Deciding to call her Maman and Papa since she’s already awake, she frowns as it goes straight to voicemail. It would be nearly eleven in Paris, so the bakery shouldn’t be too busy. She quickly checks the Akuma Alert App to make sure she hadn’t missed anything while she slept. Nothing. So why weren’t they answering? She had assumed they would be waiting for her call since it was the first birthday she’d spent without them. Sighing, she lays back down on her bed, closing her eyes and trying to fall back asleep.

As she lays there, she frowns as a realization hits her. This was the anniversary of her birth mother’s death. Her mood instantly sours and her stomach churns. It was the first year that she could do something about it, the first year she could visit her grave. Quickly making a decision, Marinette throws on a pair of black leggings and an oversized black hoodie. Hopefully no one would spot her.

“Kaalki.” Marinette calls out quietly, not wanting to wake Tikki (who had somehow slept through Dick’s intrusion).

“Oooo, Guardian, are we sneaking out?” They ask, an amused smile on their face. Marinette frowns.

“Yes, but it’s for a good reason.” She says, and Kaalki snorts.

“Whatever the reason, I’m happy to be of assistance.” They reassure her. Marinette smiles and calls the transformation, opening a portal in the cemetery where her birth mother is buried. Her Maman had taken her once, right after telling her she was adopted. It was extremely hard to avoid being akumatized that day, and Marinette steels herself before dropping Kaalki’s transformation. Today would probably be even harder. Pulling the hood over her head to try and hide her identity, she glances around the cemetery, unsurprised to see the small place empty. Despite its small size, it was well taken care of, with beautiful trees adding shade and creating a melancholy feeling. Taking a deep breath, she walks over to the tombstone in the far corner, underneath the Willow tree. Bridgette Le. Died July 9th. Marinette barely notices the tears that start to form as she sits down, tucking her knees into her chest.

“Hi Mama. I-I’m sorry I haven’t really been by to see you much. Did you know I’ve been spending the summer with Dad? Sometimes, I wonder if you would’ve been okay with that. None of us really know why you left, why you didn’t tell him. I’m not blaming you, I just wonder if you would’ve been okay with me knowing him.” She talks, though she knows she’ll never hear a response. And she tries to pretend that fact doesn’t hurt her. “I have brothers. Four of them. They’re all great in their own ways, but they all also make me want to rip my hair out. Three of them are older, Damian’s younger than me. He kinda acts like a big brother at times though. And I have a big sister, Cass. She doesn’t say much, but she’s awesome. She’s in Hong Kong right now, so most of our conversations have been video calls. I have a niece, too.” Marinette stops, wiping furiously at her eyes. She didn't want to cry. At all. But knowing her birth mother would never be able to be part of her life, would never know any of these people like she did- it was hard.

“Guardian, please breathe.” Kaalki says, floating up to sit in front of Marinette’s face. Marinette blinks at the Kwami before listening to them. If they were worried, then Marinette was more lost in her head than she originally thought.

“And today’s my birthday. I was excited at first, and then I remembered the other thing that this day was. Remembered that it’s also the day you-” Marinette pauses, and grits her teeth. “I am so sorry, Mama. I am so sorry that I caused your death.” She chokes out, dropping her head onto her knees, trying to suppress the sobs threatening to break out of her chest.

“We need to go. Marinette, we need to go.” Kaalki urges, patting her cheek urgently. Marinette calls the transformation and falls through a portal, closing it quickly to keep the butterfly that was surely after her from following. She definitely didn’t need to test how far the victim had to be to be akumatized. The second she lands, she lets the transformation drop and the sobs break out.

“Shit Pixie.” Jason curses, and suddenly she’s wrapped in a warm hug, sobs tearing through her as she continues to apologize.

---

Jason Todd had been through a lot of weird shit. Waking up in a pool of green water after being fucking murdered by the Joker, was weird. Emotional baby sister falling through a portal into the room and sobbing? Also weird. But also heartbreaking. He grabs onto her and just holds her, desperately trying to give her some type of comfort.

“Shhhh, it’s okay Pix. I got you.” He mumbles, holding her close. Damian rushes in, sword drawn, face scrunched up when he sees them. Jason shakes his head, this wasn’t something that they could fix with a sword. He wasn’t exactly sure why his baby sister was crying so hard, but he had caught a couple of muffled apologies, so whatever it was, he didn’t think it was something that he (or Damian) could kill. Or, rather, maim, since she was against murdering people that were against her for some reason.

“Has anyone seen Mars, she’s not in her room-” Replacement starts, freezing as he walks into the room.

“Excellent situational awareness, Drake.” Damian mutters, glaring at him. Jason shoots both of them a glare, now was not the time to be fighting. Especially since the kid’s other parents were on their way to celebrate her birthday. If they showed up and she was sobbing, they’d take her home and never let them see her again. And Jason was NOT going to let that happen.

“Anyone know if M’s decided to not kill me yet?” Dick asks, walking into the room with a huge grin that falls the second he sees what’s happening. Jason resists the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently none of his brothers could read a fucking room. Instead of staying at the edge of the room like Damian and Tim, Dick walks over.

“Hey kiddo, it’s okay. We’re here.” He says softly. The kid pulls away from him, though he can tell it’s a little reluctantly, before launching herself at Dick, her sobs starting to die down. Jason lets out a short huff, running his fingers through his hair as he tries to think of what could have set her off. There were no akuma alarms, but she fell out of a portal. Which means she was out of the manor when she got upset. He watches as Dick pats her hair gently and whispers to her. God, he’s such a dad. Then again, he’s been mother henning him and their other brothers for years, so it’s not really a surprise.

“I’m sorry guys.” Marinette says suddenly, her voice small as she stays hidden in Dick’s arms.

“No need to apologize, Pixie Pop.” Jason reassures her. She finally pulls away from Dick and Jason’s heart, honest to god breaks at the broken look on her face.

“She died in childbirth, you know.” She whispers, and suddenly it makes sense. Why she was sitting there sobbing on her birthday, why she’d fallen out of a portal.

“That is not your fault.” Damian says firmly, walking over and standing face to face with Marinette, something Jason knew annoyed the girl. Damian was two years younger, but a little taller than her. She didn’t seem to mind now, though.

“But it was. If I hadn’t been born-” She starts and Jason frowns at the thought.

“The world would be a much shittier place.” He says with finality, not leaving room for her to argue. “Pix, you’re amazing, and the world would really suck without you. Never be sorry you were born.” Jason says firmly, stumbling slightly when she launches herself at him, wrapping her arms around him tightly.

“Thank you Jay.” She mumbles, and he can tell she’s crying again, but this time it’s not sobs, so he thinks it’s fine.

“Come on, let’s all watch a movie.” Repla- Tim suggests and Jason raises an eyebrow at the idea, briefly wondering what kind of movie he’d pick. They all pile on the giant sectional that Bruce had bought specifically for impromptu movie nights as Tim sticks the DVD in. Jason just snorts as the title card for “The Addams Family” comes on, settling back in the couch, ready to watch one of the greatest movies ever.

---

“Thank you again for flying us out here for her birthday.” Sabine says, smiling at him. Bruce returns the smile and nods.

“Of course, thank you for letting her spend the summer here. I know she’s appreciated the break from her classmates.” He says, his smile quickly fading at the confused look on both Sabine and Tom’s faces.

“What do you mean?” Tom asks.

“Marinette hasn’t told you?” Bruce asks, suddenly regretting bringing it up. Why hadn’t she said anything? They were her parents too. Sure, she’d made it clear they couldn’t know about Ladybug, but her class wasn’t a hero problem. They were a civilian problem.

“We knew that she wasn’t hanging out with them as often, and that she didn’t talk about her class as much as she used to. We just assumed that she was busy.” Sabine says, her face a mixture of sadness and anger.

“My apologies, I assumed she’d talked to you.” Bruce says, feeling as if he had crossed a line. Would they be mad at him, for her telling him something she hadn’t told them?

“She’s always looking out for others first,” Tom finally sighs, a tired smile on his face. “She probably thought she was saving us from being akumatized.” Bruce’ jaw clenches. Had Marinette really suffered in silence to avoid being forced to fight her parents?

“We can continue this conversation later, right now we should focus on her birthday.” Sabine says, placing a hand on Tom’s arm. He nods and Bruce makes a note to talk to the two about the possibility of her switching schools.

“She’s probably in her room.” Bruce says, leading the two towards the stairs.

“Actually, Master Bruce, the children are all in the informal sitting room. I believe they snuck down to have a movie night after Master Dick woke Miss Marinette to wish her a happy birthday.” Alfred says, Bruce watches his face and knows that’s not all, but doesn’t press. It had to be something that he couldn’t talk about in front of the Dupain Cheng’s.

“Of course they did. Thank you, Alfred. Alfred, this is Sabine Cheng and Tom Dupain, Marinette’s parents. Tom, Sabine, this is Alfred Pennyworth. He’s the man who raised me.” Bruce says, smiling at him. The three exchange pleasantries and soon Bruce is leading the two to the sitting room. He pushes the door open gently, careful not to let it slam. He spots a sword on the floor near Damian and quickly grabs it, moving it away. If he was woken up suddenly, he would still panic and attempt to fight his way out.

“She looks so peaceful.” Sabine whispers, and Bruce smiles, a genuine smile, he didn’t have to fake a smile when most of his children were together and safe and happy. Or, quiet, at least. It was rare.

“I’ve found them like this several times.” Bruce admits, pulling out his phone to show the two all of the pictures he’d taken of the kids piled together sleeping. Sabine and Tom smile widely at the pictures and Bruce quickly sends them their favorites.

“B, I swear to god, I can sense you in here. Let us sleep.” Jason mumbles grumpily.

“Sorry Jason, Marinette’s parents are here so it’s time to get up.” Bruce says, amused at the way his son’s hair was attempting to defy gravity. Jason looked around sleepily, waved lazily at Sabine and Tom, and then collapsed back on the couch. Bruce sighs. “Would the two of you like to have a cup of coffee while we give them a few more minutes to sleep?” He offers.

“That would be lovely.” Sabine says, and Bruce leads the two to the kitchen, hoping Tim (who had sat straight up after Jason flopped down) would take the hint and wake up the others.

---

Marinette sighs happily as everyone sits down at the table for dinner. The day had been amazing, despite the rough start. And her Dad had even flown her Maman and Papa out to spend the day with her. They couldn’t stay for long, they had the bakery to run after all, but it was still nice to see them. Marinette glances at the end of the table where a place was set, but no one sat.

“What’s with the extra plate?” Jason asks, turning to Alfred who was sitting in the chair next to it instead of his regular seat.

“It is for Miss Le.” He says, and she can almost feel everyone freeze. Her throat tightens, but she still smiles at him with watery eyes.

“Thank you, Alfred.” She says quietly. He nods.

“You are quite welcome, Miss.” He says. She clears her throat and looks back at her Maman, noticing that her smile was also a little sad. It had been all day, but Marinette was certain it wasn’t anything to worry about. Bridgette had been close with her Maman, surely she was just mourning her today, openly for the first time in a long time.

---

Marinette groans at whoever is trying to wake her up.

“Five more minutes.” She mutters, burrowing deeper under the covers. It was summer break, why wouldn’t anyone let her sleep?

“Come on sweetheart, your Papa and I want to talk to you and Bruce.” Her Maman says, and she immediately sits up. Was she in trouble? Had her Maman figured out the whole Batman thing? Had she figured out the Ladybug thing?

“Uh, okay.” She says, sliding out of bed and stepping into slippers. She wasn’t sure how serious the conversation was, but since her Maman didn’t stop her from walking out of the room in her pajamas, she relaxed slightly. It couldn’t be that serious, right? She follows her Maman into her Dad’s study, glancing wearily at the clock in the corner. Her Maman was often too observant. Hopefully she didn’t notice anything odd about the clock. They all sit in silence for an entire minute until Marinette can’t handle it anymore.

“Am I in trouble?” She asks hesitantly, looking between her parents’ faces.

“Of course not, we just- We noticed how different you are.” Her Maman says and Marientte frowns, furrowing her eyebrows. Different? She was different?

“How?” She asks.

“You’re happier than I’ve seen you in months honey. Your smile reaches your eyes, you talk freely, you seem peaceful.” Her Maman says softly, and Marinette blinks in surprise. Had she really been so easy to read in Paris? Had her parents really been able to tell? She’d wanted to hide it from them, not let them see how everything was piling on her, crushing her. She didn’t want to worry them.

“What do you- how-” She stumbles over her words, trying to figure out where she messed up.

“We didn’t know why until we talked to Bruce.” Her Papa says and she turns to glare at her Dad, feeling a little betrayed. He holds up his hands in surrender.

“Marinette, you didn’t tell me not to tell them about your class.” He reminds her, and she huffs.

“Guess we can cross mind reader off the list of things you can do.” She mumbles, making her Papa snort.

“It wasn’t just that though. We’d seen how restrained you had become, how you never went out with friends and you stopped talking about them.” Her Maman says softly. Marinette grits her teeth, hugging herself to try and hold herself together.

“I didn’t want to worry you.” She says, her voice barely audible. That wasn’t the main reason though. She didn’t want to fight her parents, and if they knew everything going on with Lila, they’d definitely be akumatized. She couldn’t fight them. Not if she could help it.

“What would you say about transferring schools?” Her Maman asks suddenly, and Marinette jerks her head up, looking at her with wide eyes. Transfer schools? It would be great, amazing, fantastic, but- but her classmates would still come to the bakery. Still give her the same odd looks they’d been giving her since they found out that she’s a Wayne.

“What school?” She asks, because yes, that makes a difference. Chloe had transferred schools not long ago, and Marinette did not want to trade Lila for Chloe. She’d rather not deal with either of them, if she was being honest.

“Gotham Academy.” Her Maman says, and Marinette feels lucky that she wasn’t drinking anything, because she would have definitely done a spit take. Gotham Academy? As in, live in Gotham year round? What-

“Are you giving me up?” She asks, suddenly hurt. Her Maman’s eyes widen and her Papa pulls her into a giant hug.

“Of course not honey.” He says, rubbing her back gently and squeezing her lightly.

“We asked Bruce if he thought Gotham Academy would be a good school for you. He offered to let you fly home some weekends, and any of the breaks you want. Or to fly us out here if you have time off school. You don’t have to say yes, and you don’t have to make a decision right now.” Her Maman reassures her as her Papa lets her go. Marinette turns to look at her Dad, his face unreadable.

“Would you really be okay with that?” She asks, and he nods.

“We all just want you to be happy, Marinette. Wherever that may be. And we’re all willing to work together to do that.” He says and she smiles, letting out a soft sigh.

“I- I’d need to think about it a little more,” She says, running through the idea in her head. It seemed perfect, besides the whole ‘bouncing back to Paris for attacks’ thing. But she’d been doing it all summer, it had been fine so far. And maybe, maybe, Hawkmoth would even be defeated by the end of summer. No matter what, things were changing and Marinette was trying her best to keep up.

Tag list: @maribat-bdbwm @vixen-uchiha @stainedglassm @liquid-luck-00 @laurcad123 @waiting247 @jayjayspixiepop @mizzy-pop @jjmjjktth @trippingovermyfeet @queenz-z @thepaceperson @iloontjeboontje @toodaloo-kangaroo @ritacrow-blog @deathssilentapproach-blog @kittenmywaythrulife @nerd-nowandforever @tazanna-blythe @jaybird-and-co @jumpingjoy82 @lady-bee-fechin @corporeal-terrestrial

#maribat #maribat fanfiction #maribat fic #mbdbwm2021 #maribat bio dad! bruce wayne month 2021 #maribat bio dad bruce #maribat bio dad au #maribat bruce wayne #maribat jason todd #maribat dick grayson #maribat damian wayne #maribat tim drake #platonic dickinette #platonic jasonette #platonic daminette #platonic timari #maribat marinette dupain cheng #day twenty eight school

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storiesforallfandoms · 4 years ago

Text

childhood secrets ~ hannibal lecter;hannibal

word count: 1711

request?: yes!

shady80smusicsingercolor “Hey! Can i request something

Hannibal l x reader

The reader kept her childhood a secret from everyone,until she was watching news about a teen getting bullied,she remembers her childhood and just cries.Hannibal notices and goes run up to her,ask what's wrong.She explain what happen,that her childhood friends used make fun of her,or calling her weirdo.Hannibal comforts her

Hope is okay❤”

description: after hearing the story of a teenager’s tragic passing, unwanted memories are brought back to her

pairing: hannibal lecter x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of suicide and suicidal thoughts, mentions of bullying

masterlist

“Did you hear about the Thompson girl?” Zeller asked as we examined some DNA for a case.

“Who’s the Thompson girl, first and foremost?” I asked.

“She was friends with Abigail Hobbs when she was sent to that psychiatric facility,” Price explained. “They were room neighbors I think.”

“Oh! That Hannah girl! What happened to her?”

“Her parents found her dead in her room. Suicide.”

I was so shocked at the response that I dropped the tool in my hand. Both of them looked at me for a moment as I just looked down at my hands. I was trying to calm the growing PTSD rising in me.

“The poor thing,” I finally managed to say.

“Yeah,” Price said. “I think she was in the facility because of mental illness. Her parents put her in there after her first attempt.”

Zeller shook his head. “Poor thing. They shouldn’t have let her check out so soon. (Y/N), are you okay?”

I was still staring down at my hands. They were shaking and it was getting hard to breathe. I could barley register the fact that Zeller had asked me something. They were both looking at me, expectantly.

“What? Yes, I’m fine,” I responded. “I gotta get some fresh air.”

I threw my coat and gloves on a nearby table and quickly raced for the exit. I had to wait for the elevator to take me to the ground floor, but the wait was antagonizing. My chest and throat felt tight, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

When the elevator door opened, I was faced with Jack Crawford, Will Graham, and Hannibal Lecter.

“(Y/N),” Crawford said. “Are you okay?”

I couldn’t respond this time. I had to get out, I had to be away from there.

The breathe of fresh air in my lungs was just what I needed, but I was still feeling panicked. Flashbacks were running through my head, things I had repressed for all those years coming back all at once, hitting me like a freight train. I sat down on the sidewalk, trying to calm my breathing enough to go back inside.

“Miss. (Y/L/N)?”

I looked up to see Hannibal stood behind me.

“I’m fine, Dr. Lecter,” I told him. “You don’t have to check on me.”

“You’re very obviously not okay. You’re breathing is abnormal and you look as though you’ve been crying.”

I felt my cheek and was shocked to find that Hannibal was right, I had been crying. I hadn’t even realized it before.

“I’m fine,” I repeated, but the crack in my voice gave me away.

Hannibal sat next to me. I tried not to let him see my face, but I knew there was no turning back now. He had seen me in the elevator, he saw how unhappy I was at that moment. Any other person would just think I was overwhelmed from work, or maybe one of our discoveries had upset me, but Hannibal was a talented psychiatrist. He probably already knew what was wrong with me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

I chuckled. “How often does that one work?”

“Enough times to keep me employed.”

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. “Zeller and Price were telling me about a girl that used to be friends with Abigail, Hannah Thompson. She...she...”

“I know,” Hannibal finished for me, luckily. Just thinking about having to finish that sentence made my throat tight again. “I wasn’t aware you knew her so well.”

“I didn’t, but I know...the feeling. Like you’re trapped in your own mind and there’s only one way out of it.”

Hannibal was looking at me, waiting for me to continue but not pushing me to go any further than I felt comfortable with. I wouldn’t have to go any further with my explanation if I didn’t want to, I knew he wouldn’t force me. We could’ve dropped it right then and there.

But my mouth moved before my mind could comprehend what I was sating, “I was the weird girl in school. While other girls wanted to be princesses or astronauts, I wanted to be a forensic scientist. I always had a fascination with crime and forensics and such. At first, I was just an outcast with no friends, until a group of girls took me in and added me to their group in high school. They weren’t super popular girls, but they also weren’t my level of outcast or anything, so, understandably, I was excited.”

“I’d assume it wasn’t as ideal of a situation as you were led to believe.”

I shook my head, tears forming in my eyes again. “They only befriended me so I could be their verbal punching bag. It started mild at first, just some friendly jokes that I could throw back at them. Then they started calling me the weird girl, the freak who liked death and murder. They’d make fun of me for reading stuff about unsolved murders, or even just murder mystery novels. They told me I’d probably grow up to be one of the unfound murderers in those stories. They put me down at every chance they got, but they were the only friends I had so I just...I dealt with it. I even gave up the opportunity to shadow at a police department during my senior year because I was afraid of them making fun of me more.”

“What was the tipping point?” Hannibal asked. “Obviously they are no longer around. I assume either you got rid of them or...they left themselves.”

“A bit of both really,” I responded. “One day, their bullying just got too much for me. My parents never liked the group, so I felt like I couldn’t go to them because they’d just tell me ‘I told you so’ - not because that’s how my parents are but because that was my irrational fear - and the teachers and guidance councilors and principals at school were garbage. They did nothing unless they actually witnessed the bullying first hand, and even then it was always a slap on the wrist punishment. So, I thought...I thought I only had one way out.”

I was still half conscious when my parents found me. My mother’s screams were permanently etched in my head, her sobs breaking through the otherwise muffled sounds I was hearing. Even when I blacked out, all I could hear in my head was my mother.

“They sent me to the same hospital Abigail was in,” I continued, skipping over the nasty parts that I couldn’t bare to relive. “My parents said I needed actual, medical help, that they couldn’t ignore my mental health issues anymore. I was there for months. I met people just like me, people who understood what I was going through. I made friends with a lot of them, and they’re all still in my life right now. My high school friend group came to visit me at one point. They seemed genuine enough with their apologies, saying they didn’t realize how much I took their words to heart and how they didn’t know how dark of a place I was in mentally. I don’t know how true any of that was, but they put on a good act. When they finished their groveling, I told them to go fuck themselves and to never contact me again. They were...offended, to say the least. Apparently they spread rumors about me at school, but I finished my senior year at a different school so it didn’t really matter to me. Went off to do forensic science in college and...here I am.”

For a moment, a look of pride passed over Hannibal’s face, as if the end of my story made him feel proud for me. I guess it made me feel proud, too, but sometimes I kicked myself for sticking around with that toxic friend group for far too long.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” I admitted. “Not anyone who didn’t know me at the time, anyways. I tried to keep it repressed, but hearing about Hannah Thompson...it brought all those memories back for me. Maybe I’m not over it like I think I am.”

“Mental trauma when your brain is still developing is not something one can easily get over,” Hannibal said. “It takes years, and even then those painful memories could follow you to your grave.”

I winced at the thought of having to battle with those memories until the day I died. Part of me was still worried that they would be the reason I would eventually die.

“But it is important to know that your old friend group was wrong,” he continued. “There is nothing wrong with being interested in something that the masses aren’t interested in. I’d argue that being interested in murder and police work is much better than wanting to grow up and be a princess or an astronaut. Your job helps the police to find serial killers and to save innocent people from being their victims. There’s nothing weird about that, not in my eyes.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter. I think I just needed to hear that when I was younger and...no one really said it to me before.”

“I’m saying it now,” he said. “If you ever feel overcome with those memories again, please do not hesitate to call me. A beautiful and brilliant mind such as yourself should not be worrying over what irrelevant people have to say about you.”

I felt myself blush, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the reassurance Hannibal was giving me, or if it was from the compliment.

“I want to sit out here for a little while longer,” I told him. “I still need some air, and to come down from what happened back there. You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I don’t have to, but I will,” he decided. “I want to make sure you’re okay before I join my collegues again.”

I smiled at him again. I definitely wasn’t about to fight him on staying there with me. Quite the opposite, actually. If there was anyone I wanted with me in that moment, it was Hannibal.

#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter imagine #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal #hannibal imagine #mads mikkelsen #mads mikkelsen imagine #mads mikkelsen x reader #imagine #one shot #request #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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bumblebear30 · 4 years ago

Text

The heights you take me to.

Rita Calhoun x Casey Novak

Established Calvak

Warnings: Discussion of fears around heights, No smut but allusions to. Language. Casey Novak being so fucking adorable she’ll steal your girl and you’d still thank her.

The heights you take me to.

Not that anyone ever did ask, but if anyone had ever been brazen enough to raise the issue, Rita would categorically deny that she was scared of heights.

And she would win that argument. Even a polygraph test on the subject would be passed with flying colours. She was entirely content on those shallow balconies at the opera, mezzanine floors in apartments in Paris posed no hindrance and, thankfully, even the thought of flying in planes didn’t bother her. So truly heights weren’t the issue.

If you were going to get technical about it, maybe, possibly, perhaps, she had a mild concern – an often valid mild-concern – about falling from unstable platforms. Honestly it just seemed common sense to avoid such scenarios. An intrinsic urge of self-protection that had served her well through life so far. So much so, the issue very rarely came up at all.

And yet, somehow Casey, so typically enthusiastic, utterly wonderfully childlike in her glee and adoration of things somehow put Rita in a situation where she had to confront that maybe she should have voiced her concerns much earlier in their relationship.

It had all come about because Casey had won their most recent head-to-head case and they'd long since set up and agreement that after a case where they been up against each other whoever won got to choose whatever date it was that they went on as soon as they could.

Sometimes it was as mundane as choosing which wine and takeaway combo would go with whatever mindless TV or comfort film they'd watch as they settled back into their domestic selves, or something like Casey making Rita join her on a walk around the park when the seasons were changing so she could point out the beauty of the leaves changing colour or the blossom scattering the footpath. She was always such a romantic; as much in love with the natural world around her as with the woman stood next to her holding her hand. Despite her apparent grumbling Rita actually loved those walks, just getting to have a glimpse of how Casey saw things always made her fall for the redhead even more.

Other times, if she'd won, Rita would go all out spoiling Casey with a quick weekend away, or lavish meal out – not to gloat, never to gloat - but to simply spoil her girl as she deserved to be spoilt.

One time Casey had made Rita go camping... Despite the defence attorney trying her best to cope with it all after several tantrums Casey learnt quickly that camp life did not hold the same joyful relaxation for the brunette as she’d hoped, and had hastily found them a glamping resort nearby to save the long weekend.

But, given the nature of some of the cases, and just how passionately Rita would defend her client and Casey would fight for justice for the victim, sometimes there simply had to be a cooling off phase of a couple of days before either one was quite ready to think about indulging the whims of the winning party.

The longest they'd gone through such a détente had been ten days. It had just clocked over to the eleventh when Rita had woken to the sounds of Casey sniffling, trying to muffle her tears on the couch where she'd been sleeping, self-imposed it had to be said. Wordlessly Rita had left the warmth of their bed and padded across the apartment simply to cuddle up with the redhead: wrapping her arms around her and cradling her head into the crook of her neck. The unspoken love and comfort in the gentle touches, the light peppering of kisses against her hair, had initially just made Casey sob even harder. It was exactly what she'd needed ten days ago but her own smarting pride and anger at the world's injustices had meant she denied herself from seeking out from the one person who could truly console her. Rita had continued to just hold her though and rub her back, letting Casey get it all out without judgement.

Exhausted Casey had eventually fallen asleep, utterly spent after finally letting the emotional dam burst. With great care Rita had slowly manoeuvred them (an impressive feat she was quite proud of really) so that she could lie down on the couch properly with Casey draped comatose over her hip, her face pillowed on Rita's chest. She knew she'd inevitably end up with a drool mark on her satin sleep shirt but making sure Casey was comfortable was far more important - and for the first time in weeks, fell asleep holding her love.

Waking up being held so tenderly by Rita, who had spent the night on the couch with her simply because Casey had needed her, almost made Casey cry again. Although this time because her heart was so full. She'd laid there for a little while completely content to just listen to Rita's soft snores (she only ever did when she slept on her back, Casey always thought they were adorable), until she could resist no longer and started to trail her hand across the top of Rita's shoulder and down her arm a little.

So absorbed in the sensation of the satin under her fingertips, and the incomparable softness of Rita's skin where it had slipped more open on her chest, Casey hadn't realised the gentle snores had stopped till she felt an answering hand come up to run across the back of her head gently. Looking up she had been greeted with such a soft sleepy smile from her girlfriend that Casey just wanted to remember it forever.

The woman was just so perfect for her. Rita would of course argue with a smirk across her face that she was perfect, full stop, but Casey always simply pointed out that she loved Rita’s imperfections just as much anyway. It usually earned her a sweet kiss, or three. But that morning it was Casey who poured as much love and gratefulness into the kisses she pressed to Rita’s cheek before offering to cook one of Rita’s beloved egg-white omelettes.

At this precise moment in time though Rita wished with every fibre of her being that she was back in their apartment, safely sat on the couch which was so securely resting on the ground.

Casey had won their most recent professional battle – Rita was secretly relieved, the guy creeped her out too – and the redhead had promptly declared that she wanted to go to Coney Island. Initially Rita thought she was joking, and had laughed in her face. She thought it went without saying that fair ground rides, fried foods and screaming children were not her idea of a fun evening with her girlfriend. But upon seeing the puppy dog worthy pout that was now gracing said girlfriend’s face she had immediately relented, although only once securing a promise that she could wear Casey’s clothes. She’d be damned if her designer wardrobe was going to be sacrificed along with her professional court win-rate. Chanel and cotton candy did not mix.

So, a few days later she’d subsequently found herself dressed in Casey’s jeans and old softball team hoody. When she’d left the bedroom and when Casey had caught sight of how her ass filled out the jeans let alone seeing Rita with ‘NOVAK’ emblazoned across her shoulders? She was reduced to an absolute puddle of adoration and affection.

Rita had recognised the gleam in her redhead’s eyes and it had buoyed her confidence, loving to have the chance to flirt and spoil Casey to her heart’s content. Although really with the small fortune she’d spent on letting Casey try to win at the coconut shy she would’ve expected a higher quality prize than the little plush tiger the redhead eventually chose. But when Casey had then only slightly bashfully presented it to her, saying that it reminded her of her courtroom persona Rita surprised herself with how much she immediately treasured it, able to picture where it would rest 'on-guard' on top of her jewellery box on the dressing table.

She’d tried to counter how the moment got to her by quipping that she’d need to work harder if Casey saw her as soft and cuddly in court, but Casey had simply rolled her eyes and laughed, quickly tugging Rita towards her to press a quick kiss to the side of her head before leading her further down the boardwalk and onto the next distraction.

Rita had been all too happy to follow. With the quite fierce and regal looking little tiger securely tucked under one arm, and her free hand safely and lovingly entangled with Casey’s whenever possible – only releasing her when Casey wanted to play a stall, or to tsk as she had to untangle Casey’s hair as it got caught on whatever food stuff the redhead kept on encouraging her to indulge in, Rita actually found herself not just tolerating the date, but actively enjoying it.

Cotton candy tasted sweeter when stolen off of her girlfriend’s stick of it. The gleam of Casey’s eyes in all the bright lights made the neon flashing bearable. The screams of hyperactive and wayward children were relegated to the background as Casey laughed and joked with her, muttering sweet nothings into her ear as they watched the sunset, and decidedly naughtier comments when they indulged in ice creams and hotdogs. It had all been going just swimmingly. But then Casey had legitimately squealed and bounced like an excitable golden retriever as she bounded towards the one thing Rita had been determinedly ignoring:

That fucking Ferris wheel.

As she covered her unease – all those different treats suddenly bubbling inside her stomach suddenly felt like such a bad idea – with an attempt at an indulgent smile and joined Casey in the queue, Rita couldn’t help but consider how they’d managed to get so far into their relationship without the discussion about Rita’s concerns – definitely not fear, Rita Calhoun was not scared of anything or anyone thank you very much – but unease, about being up on something so rickety and unstable that just went unnecessarily high and when was it last inspected and god did the damn seats have to sway so and oh shit was it just a bar across their laps that was meant to protect them? She was Rita fucking Calhoun, surely there was something more robust and reliable than a single metal 2x4 to stop her from plunging to her imminent dea-

Oh.

Rita glanced down at where Casey had taken her white knuckled grip from the metal safety bar and now held her hand in both of her own in the warmth of her lap,

“Babe, you should’ve just said if you didn’t want to go on the ride.”

Rita was glad that Casey was so close and so beautiful, it meant she could safely focus on her rather than how the ground, nice safe terra firma, was getting smaller and smaller the higher up they went. She made herself focus on the brightness of her eyes – how they seemed to radiate such love and warmth at her, to take in how there were a few more smile lines at the corner of those eyes than there were when she’d first found herself getting lost in them.

She dropped her gaze (oh god, wrong choice of word she chided herself), to the top of Casey’s cupid bow lip, able to instantly conjure the countless memories of how that lip felt pressed against her own, tracing down her throat and across her body drawing out and bringing her such pleasure. Right now though, the corner of those lips were curling up in one of those soft, ever so slightly teasing smiles that still made Rita’s heart beat faster despite how long they’d been together– although she was glad to notice that actually this time it actually slowed her racing pulse, letting her breathe deeply once more,

“I’m not scared,” she finally huffed out, even though she tried to shuffle closer to Casey in the same moment and instantly froze wide-eyed as the seat seemed to swing at her movement. With a roll of her eyes Casey lifted her arm to come round the back of Rita’s shoulders, encouraging the brunette to cuddle into her side,

“Of course not darling. I never said you were.”

Rita’s sigh this time was in apparent exasperation but truly, she felt inexplicably safer with Casey’s arm wrapped comfortingly around her. She finally felt brave enough to look past Casey’s face, being pressed so closely against the crook of her shoulder she could smell the distinctive scent of Casey’s perfume from where she’d applied it to her pulse point. It made her smile. She’d bought the redhead the bespoke scent for their second Christmas together, and it had been her go-to ever since. With the familiar hints of bergamot, blood orange and nutmeg swirling through her senses and Casey’s low voice pointing out the different sights that surrounded them Rita actually felt herself relax and begin to enjoy the experience.

Until the blasted wheel groaned and ground to a stop just as they came round to the top once again,

“Fuck! What’s happening? Is it breaking? Casey!”

With a gentle chuckle Casey ran her thumb over Rita’s knuckles and the back of her hand to calm her,

“Sorry sweetheart, I didn’t know you were going to be not scared so I slipped the operator an extra $10 so we could stop at the top for a bit.”

Rita turned to face her aghast,

“And why would you do such a thing!?!”

“Maybe because I wanted to look at all the different sights with my girlfriend,” she reached out to tuck some of the fly-aways of Rita’s classic half-up do back behind her ear, “Or maybe I wanted to make out with the love of my life on the Ferris wheel like a horny teenager…”

The wickedly teasing smile and gleam to her eyes elicited the exact knowing and playful laugh from Rita that Casey knew it would,

“Well, when you put it like that darling,” Casey loved how Rita’s usual confidence seemed to exude from her once the redhead had focussed her attention, already leaning forward as Rita beckoned her with her fingers curling under her chin, “C’mere you.”

So maybe Ferris wheels weren’t so bad after all.

In fact, sharing such sweet kisses that tasted like candy as the fair lights flashed, oblivious in their own world as children screamed and parents yelled all around them, meant Rita thought she could just about say she was a fan of the mechanical monstrosity.

Just.

#Rita Calhoun #Casey Novak #Rita Calhoun X Casey Novak #Calvak #established calvak #fluff #fairground fun #fear of heights #fanfic #my writing #Excuse any inaccuracies to actual Coney Island #I have never been #and live many thousands of miles away #so my bad

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pyroclaststan · 3 years ago

Text

CW: body horror, gore, graphic depictions of injuries, Nanosurge event

The two of you had been running and you made it so far—you were going to get away, you were going to make it, but then Syrah started screaming.

She hit the ground flailing, howling, peeling apart. It was like her skin was disappearing from her limbs, and she kept yelling, pieces of her mouth starting to disappear, too.

There are no words you could ever use to describe the noise of someone gargling on blood and bile and those things as they ate through her lungs and chest and throat.

To describe the sight of your lifelong best friend sloughing apart and disappearing before your very eyes as she tries to scream and call out, only to be unmade.

In her final throws she reached out for you.

It hurt.

Now it feels like burning, and stinging, and itching all at once.

You cannot look away as the horror settles into you, freezing you in place. You watch as your left leg peeled, layer by layer, and eaten like the many before you—like the many around you.

It hurts, but you cannot scream, you cannot sob: you saw how they got into your best friend’s mouth that way. It ended quicker for her than the others but you do not want an end at all.

You kick the remnants of your leg in futility, as if to shake them off with sheer willpower as they eat their way closer. It’s all you can do. The swarm on you is multiplying; you see them like a hive of ants, now beginning to eat away at your fingers.

No one will be coming for you.

There is a chorus of screams a few yards away.

“NO!” a bloodcurdling howl of a voice echoes out.

It is the wretched, horrible scream of someone desperate out there, and your head whips around for the source despite your situation. Someone is close enough that they might see you—you might live.

Further across the field three—no, a body, just two—of the Rangers are gathered. One of them is actually not a Ranger at all but that vigilante you’ve seen, Sidestep, who is standing over the writhing form of Marshal Charge, hands out.

In the fields around you, you see the swarms of those creatures coalesce and gather, all stopping mid air before moving towards Sidestep, floating up and over their head like a rippling ball of shimmering black water. A river Styx of souless little creatures.

Looking down you realise that your leg is no longer being flayed by the microscopic monsters, flesh and bone gone like it was never there; your hands shake as you desperately peel off your shirt to tie around the stump, hoping through your panic it stems the bleeding as your adrenaline fades. You’ve never done anything like this before—your hands are shaking awfully. Blood loss and possible shock making you run cold.

In the few minutes more that follow the pause of those things, as you clutch what’s left of you, you hear more screams and the sounds of heavy footsteps: everyone left is being evacuated and before you know it Charge himself is beside you, scooping you into his arms before sprinting along with the crowds of survivors as if he weren’t screaming earlier. You were just close enough that he saw you; you clench his shoulders with your tremoring hands, unable to stop the tears that pour down your sweating skin. You’ve never known death this closely. You don’t know if your fear or relief is greater.

Surrounding the two of you are the desperate, the pleading, the injured, but you cannot tear your eyes away from their target to see all of them. Your hearing is muffled by a ringing of tinnitus, even as Charge hands you over to another person before running back to save others struggling out there. As all the heroes get to work while they have this new advantage.

You can’t stop watching Sidestep.

They stand there, alone, hands held to the sky as if to hold a barrier around the writhing mass of murderers. You think of the class last week: the Titan Atlas holding up the heavens. You see the way their arms and legs shake, muscles sure to be straining, their heavy breaths under their super-suit. There is no dramatic lighting or music to highlight their effort, this dire situation is all too real. They’re too close to those swarms but they don’t budge an inch, a hand coming to their head as they let out a bellow of pain.

The man holding you is trying to flee with you, but you can’t stop twisting in his arms—you need to see this: you need to witness what Sidestep is doing, what Sidestep has done. Someone needs to remember that they are alone amongst those… demons.

Others are watching too, crying, and after some time when Sidestep’s knee buckles and their hands fall to brace themself the entire crowd flinches as one. The swarm wavers looking like they might escape and spread again, but Sidestep’s hand quickly rises back up and they fall back into their synchronised swim. The terror is palpable, the air is thick, the smells of the dead nauseating in the breeze, but you all cannot stop watching. Even the reporters are keeping a silent vigil, unable to believe any of this.

A hero is saving you.

Time passes and you’ve all huddled together, taking care of each other, locating family, slipping out silent prayers. A nurse who was among the survivors has helped you with your leg so far: medical should be arriving soon, you won’t be saving that leg. You might have lost too much blood, or you will. She’s just waiting for the shock to set it now, holding your hand so you’re not alone through it.

But you don’t care because out there so many have lost more than you. Others are still fighting so you all don’t lose more, even now. And one is stemming the tide.

Charge is behind Sidestep as they keep on despite being brought to their knees and struggling, posted like a sentry but gripping his own arm, and you can almost make out the look of abject horror on his face as he watches the swarm hovering before them; small flickers of static arcs when the hive moves or breaks synchronisation.

Medical has arrived and you are being carted off to a rescue vehicle while containment is still on the way, but you still don’t look away—you can’t look away. It has been hours and they are shaking and they are struggling but they are holding. You burn that sight into the back of your head before the ambulance doors close. Your hero.

Your dream always ends there: you were gone before they’d collapsed. Before it was over.

———

Today is the anniversary of that awful day; the persistent nightmare that haunts even your days through all the scars. It’s hard to go outside most days, hard to watch the news and catch a glimpse of that silver woman that scares you so much. It’s hard to do much of anything that isn’t sitting locked in your workspace, building, tinkering, or fixing. But this day is an exception to all those great fears.

You stop by the florist with the modded hand: she remembers the day as well as you, sometimes the two of you talk about it while you work on her hand. She’s bundling up Syrah’s yearly bouquet, handpicking each flower by some meanings you’ve never gotten around to learning about them, stopping only to help a haggard looking man she also seems to know well with a bundle of white chrysanthemums. You can smell the alcohol on him from here, but that’s none of your business: today is a hard day for more people than you and Maritsa.

She tells you to give her love to your old friend; she never goes herself, no matter how much time passes. She lost too much to that nightmare—a wife, two kids, some family.

Your eyes linger on one of the few white chrysanthemums that man left behind, scratching the scar tissue buildup on your finger’s skin weave, something telling you to pick one of those up, too. Her garden hardy mums cost a lot but you know anything she grows in her greenhouse is well worth the price.

Heading out with your newspaper bouquet in hand, you fall into step with the Los Diablos crowds, easily able to pick out who in the crowd is headed the same way as you. You can see it in their heavy steps and weighted shoulders and you wonder if you show it, too.

The memorial isn’t a plot of headstones—too many were lost for that—but instead a large stone and steel wall, covered from one end to another with names and birthdays of victims. Flowers, candles, teddy bears, liquor, and photos rest on the ground here every year, and every year the crowd and offerings grow smaller. Everyone eager to forget.

You take your place in front of Syrah’s name, fingers sliding quietly against the stone that’s too cold for having sat in Diablos’ heat as long as it has. To your right you see Desiderio placing his usual marigolds—also from Maritsa’s—against the stone, then falling into prayers as he always does. The flowers in your hands begin to feel too heavy so you set them down, quietly sit in prayer with Desi, and hold each other once the tears that always come arrive.

It’s a small, distant family you’ve made out of this place and the only other people who could understand your loss; no matter how much time passes between gatherings you all know you have each other. But you cannot stay all day, lost in the memories: you have one more important stop to make.

At the gates of your destination a man in a grey hoodie and a larger man in a blue one passes you, and once again you are hit by a wave of booze. Looking after them, you notice the back of the smaller, hunched over one: it’s that man again, being escorted by someone you hope is his friend. A few moments more and you draw in a deep breathe, gathering resolve before heading in.

So here you are at yet another memorial. Not the memorial to that scarred, barren earth you pointedly avoid looking at but the memorial to the hero you’d lost, gone after another even that shook the city to its core before they ended it. The hero this entire city lost. The dark headstone that’s all that’s left of Sidestep.

The black and teal hoodie you’ve worn in over the years always feel likes the only thing appropriate to wear as you sit here, sitting before the looming stone in your usual spot, staring at the bundle of white flowers and the half-full beer can beside it. Chrysanthemums bundled up with Maritsa’s trademark twine. A smaller bunch of white lilies next to it, from somewhere else. That man’s modded friend maybe; you know the signs like you know the smell of the dead. All too well.

You scratch the phantom itch crawling along the former calf and thigh of your modded leg, unable to chase away the ghost of a life past. Unable to turn back the clock. Unable to say thank you.

You set your flowers down next to that man’s, hoping that he found peace in his visit here like you do. Hoping that someone’s there to help him through that event and its scars, too. You really hope that was a friend.

The picture of your masked hero is peeling from all the rain and heat, the flowers and offerings dwindling as folks try to forget those terrible events, but you remain. Year after year.

Living is the only thanks you can give them.

#the mischief scribbles #MC: Kingsley Chrysanta #(I mean—technically)#FH:R #I’m not really going to tag Ortega since this person wasn’t aware that it was him #Nanosurge #a FH:R NPC #pre-Rebirth #Fallen Hero: Rebirth #NPC: Ifama #hmm… don’t care for this one tbh

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marril96 · 4 years ago

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Out of the Woods

Chapter 1: Runaway

Characters: Rowena, Sam, Dean

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: An explosive argument leads to you running away and puts Rowena in danger.

A/N: Huge thanks to @hotdiggitydammit for helping me with the summary!

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

You and Rowena were screaming at each other, which wasn't nearly as common as people tended to think. You didn't care that you were in the middle of nowhere. You didn't care that Sam and Dean were looking at you, that they were focused on nothing but the two of you screaming your lungs out in each other's face like rabid beasts.

Let them watch.

After all, they were the ones who'd gotten you into this mess.

"I didn't wanna come here in the first place!" you yelled, wildly flailing your arms around to emphasize each word for there was nothing you could possibly say, could possibly do, to encompass just how much you didn't want to be here.

"Nobody held a gun to your bloody head!" Rowena argued.

Right. Because it was that easy. Because saying no was a walk in the fucking park.

"Was I supposed to let you come alone? With-with those two idiots—" you pointed at Sam and Dean, who both scowled, but you didn't care "—who've endangered your life more than once? One of whom is fated to kill you?"

"I don't need a nanny!" she snapped as she always did when you were protective. Because why acknowledge she wasn't as all-powerful as she thought when she could keep playing tough girl? "I've survived well enough on my own for over three centuries!"

"This is different!"

Back then she wasn't acquainted with hunters who'd managed to piss off God himself. She hadn't been fated to be killed by one of said hunters, who, for some reason you couldn't comprehend, happened to be her best friend. Hadn't suffered at the Devil's hand — more than once — and had the scars forever etched into her soul.

Back then she didn't have anyone who cared about her.

She didn't have you.

To your surprise, Rowena echoed it exactly. "Of course it's different! I didn't have you to nag at me every time I got a bloody paper cut!"

You stared. Swallowed a lump that had formed in your throat. Did she really just say that? Everything you'd done for her — all the love you'd showered her with, the tears you'd wiped away — and she had the audacity to trivialize it. To make you out to be a nagging wife.

"Wow." Because what else was there to say? She'd made her feelings clear, and quite loud. Louder than any fuck you she could have shouted. "You suck, you know that? You're a shitty girlfriend. I don't know why I even bother."

Two could play this game. You'd learned that from the very best.

Hurt flickered over Rowena's face; she instantly smoothed it out, covered it up with indifference you'd gotten to know well. "You're not exactly a walk in the park, either."

"I've done everything for you, and it's not enough. Nothing is ever enough with you."

Not the sleepless nights. Not the hugs and words of love. Not the promises that it was okay, that she was okay, that she was safe from the monster who'd hurt her — promises you'd kept to the very last word.

Not you.

You were never — would never be — enough.

"Maybe you're just doing a shoddy job," she said in that nonchalant tone she used to hurt people, to show them she didn't care.

It stung like a slap to the face. "Fuck you, Rowena!"

"Right back at you, dear."

You screamed. Stomped your foot like a child. Your nails bit into your skin as your fists tightened. Turning on your heel, you started walking in the opposite direction.

"Where in hell are you going?"

"I can't be around you right now." You looked to Sam and Dean, to their faces that told you they would rather be anywhere but here. You could relate. "I can't be around any of you."

If you were to stay for another moment, you would do something you would regret. Your magic was already boiling, fingertips sparking, eyes flashing purple. You needed to breathe. Needed to calm down. Needed to, for the first time in five long, long years, be away from your girlfriend.

"You can't just walk away!" Rowena said. "We aren't finished!"

A bitter chuckle escaped your mouth. "Why? Because that's your thing?" You meant for it to hurt, to make her heart ache as much as yours did. To pay back what you were owed for she was the last person you expected this kind of treatment from. "Don't worry, I'm not stealing. Just borrowing a page out of your book."

If she had a reaction to your words, you didn't see it. You just kept walking. One foot in front of the other, eyes straight ahead. You didn't look back until you were sure you were far enough away that the only thing to return your glance were trees.

Making sure you were alone — truly, blissfully alone — you wept. You sobbed and cried like an inconsolable child as your heart pulsed and pounded in your chest. A hammer beating against your ribcage, crushing it, tearing it apart.

You didn't want to be here. Didn't want to join the Winchesters on yet another case no different than the others before them — the ones they'd begged Rowena to help with as shamelessly as this one. The softie she'd become, she said yes, as she did every time they called. What Sam Winchester asked for, Sam Winchester got. Regardless of your objections.

You knew Rowena had changed. Understood her need to redeem herself for her past misdeeds, to make up for every life she'd taken and ruined. Helping the Winchesters gave her a sense of peace, of happiness. Of hope that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't irreparable, that the evil she'd inflicted could be negated with good.

The fact that she was putting herself in harm's way didn't seem to dissuade her.

So you went with her. If you couldn't talk her out of it, at the very least you could go with her to keep an eye on her, to make sure she was okay. Rowena welcomed your company, and had made it clear to the Winchesters the two of you were a package deal. Not that they minded. After all, two helpful witches were better than one.

Today was no different than any other day. A seemingly difficult case. Murdered women thrown out like trash, their naked bodies littered with bruises and welts, reminders of the brutality they'd succumbed to. No suspects. No leads. Nothing but a pentagram cut deep into each victim's chest.

A witch perpetrator, it was suspected. Or one that had been hunting witches — or women they'd suspected of being so — branding them loud and clear for the entire world to know their sin like a twisted scarlet letter.

Your bet was on the latter.

It only made you hope for the bastard to be found sooner.

At the same time, it made your nerves go off like fireworks. If there was an insane hunter out there, it wasn't safe for you and Rowena to work this case. What if one of you were to be taken? What if one of you were to be brutalized in the worst ways possible and thrown away like trash?

You both bore resurrection sachets, but still.

You'd already been through the aftermath of a similar ordeal with Rowena once. It would destroy you (and, despite how nonchalant she acted, demolish her) to go through it again.

Rowena, ever the contrarian, disagreed. Or rather, she didn't care. She wanted to help. Wanted to make the bastard who'd been doing this pay for ever putting his hands in a witch. You would be okay, she assured you. She wouldn't let any harm come your way. If he were to even look at you wrong, she would make sure the ordeal that waited for him in Hell would be Heaven compared to what she would put him through.

As if that was the point. As if that made your worries — for her, for her wellbeing — subside for even a sliver.

But, as always, Rowena was stubborn, and were you, and soon you were screaming in each other's face.

And now here you were, crying your eyes out in the middle of an unknown forest, your back against a tree, nothing but a sea of trees and overgrown weeds around you.

Gods. That woman would be the death of you. As impossible as she was, as much as her words hurt, you couldn't make yourself hate her. You never could; not back when she was a heartless bitch, when she cared about nothing but herself, and certainly not now, four years into the relationship you never thought would happen.

Rowena had changed. She truly had. But, gods, sometimes it was a struggle to handle her. She was difficult to love. Impossible, almost, but you managed it. Sometimes, like now, you wished you hadn't. Because hating her would be easier. It would make her words sting less. Would make her disappointment in you, her lack of appreciation for all you've done for her, hurt less.

Being in love was a bitch.

Being in love with Rowena was one of massive proportions.

That was what you got for falling in love with someone who used to brag about being unable to feel anything remotely close to affection.

That woman was long gone, but remnants of her still lived on. A perfect weapon Rowena happily utilized, aimed it straight at the heart for maximum damage.

If you weren't enough, who would be? What was it that she wanted you to do? You'd given her your all, and more, so much more. Had pushed yourself to your limits for her sake. Mistakes were made along the way, and learned from. You'd always strived to do better, be better; a better carer, a better girlfriend.

Clearly not the best. Lacking. Not enough. Never enough.

Knees trembling, you allowed yourself to slide to your knees. You buried your face in your hands, muffled the sobs that kept tearing from your throat. Willed them to silence.

You couldn't understand Rowena like Sam. Couldn't make her PTSD go away. Couldn't make her better, happier. There was nothing of value you could give her. A few soft words, kisses, and hugs could only do so much.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you were doing a shoddy job.

But still, you tried. You did your best. Gave your all; blood, sweat, and tears. You weren't perfect, nobody was, but if that was what Rowena had an issue with, well, it was her problem.

You could only give her so much.

Was it too much to ask for the smallest shred of gratitude in return?

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @oswinthestrange @songofthecagedmoose @apurdyfulmind @getthesalt-sam @metallihca @salembitchtrials @jay-eris @hellsmother @elizabeth-effie @shadowgirl-vsb @rowenaswife @wonderifshelikesroses @xfireandsin @liddell-alien @hotdiggitydammit @lae-lae @darkhumorsblog @angel7376 @cherrypierowena @evil-regal-vampiress @hellbentredhead @angel-e-v-a @a-queen-and-her-throne @carryon-doctor-lock @fangirlxwritesx67 @mintymarshmellows @midnight-lestrange @osterhagen @impala-1979 @gracib16 @feelsandotps

#rowena #rowena macleod #spn #supernatural #spn family #rowena x reader #rowena macleod x reader #angeleva #fanfiction #my fics

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octothorpetopus · 5 years ago

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Yesterday Came Suddenly (Aaron Hotchner x Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid)

A disastrous car accident changes four lives forever.

A/N: this has a happy ending, I promise!

Tags: @rxseinbloom @cha0ticbisexual @starsandsupernovae @agenthotchner @ange-must-die

With the way both of them drove, it was a wonder it had never happened sooner. That being said, it wasn’t either of their faults, not Derek’s behind the wheel or Hotch’s in the passenger seat. It was no one’s fault when a deer came out of nowhere and Derek swerved on instinct, wrenching the wheel right without remembering they were riding the edge of a cliff. He slammed the brakes, but it didn’t matter, they already had enough momentum to carry them over the edge. The car was weightless for a moment, a moment that seemed to last forever. But the moment did end, and the car tipped, glass and metal crunching where they hit earth, first on the front right, then turning so they were rolling, rolling way too fast down the side of the hill, shattered glass flying as the world turned in a nightmarish carousel. It seemed like they rolled for hours down that hill, although it was probably only seconds. They never really knew, because Hotch was knocked unconscious upon first impact, and Derek smashed his forehead against the steering wheel sometime after that. At some point between blacking out and waking up, the car came to a stop, thankfully right side up. Derek woke with a start, gasping for air as if he was drowning. For a moment, he didn’t know what had happened, and all he felt was warm, sticky blood dripping onto his cheeks from a wound over his eye. Then the pain from his legs hit him, and he squeezed his fists so tight he felt the skin on his palms break, but it didn’t matter, it wasn’t anywhere near his legs. When the pain subsided (still, only slightly), he opened his eyes, and at first saw everything through a haze of red. Every window was completely shattered, but the cab of the SUV had held up surprisingly well. The hood, or at least as much as he could see, was crumpled, and the roof was full of dents, but the airbags and seatbelts had saved them from the almost certain death. They’d both have concussions, and Derek was fairly certain his nose was broken, but he was awake and alert, which was a good sign. His hands shook almost comically as he patted himself down. He’d have bruises where the seatbelt cut into his shoulder and waist, but his upper body was mostly fine. His legs, though, were a different story. His left leg bent nauseatingly at mid-thigh. Broken. The lower part of his right leg hung loosely from the knee. Definitely broken. With wavering hands, Derek unbuckled his seatbelt, wincing as it snapped across his bruised ribs. That was the first time he noticed Hotch. Hotch was still passed out, his chin resting on his chest. Derek couldn’t see much of Hotch, except that his left shoulder was sharply out of place and his face was dotted with tiny red cuts where the shattered window had slashed his face.

“Hotch.” He reaches over as much as he could to shake Hotch’s leg. “Hotch. Wake up, come on, Hotch, wake up!” Hotch woke in much the same way Derek had, panting and gasping for air.

“What- what happened?” His eyes scanned the car wildly before coming to meet Derek’s, and they were more terrified than Derek had ever seen him.

“There was… there was a deer, I think. In the road. I swerved, and we must have gone over the edge. The car’s pretty busted up. I’m mostly fine- well, no. Both my legs are broken. Other than that, I’ve got some bruises, a broken nose, probably a concussion, and possibly a broken finger. You look like you’ve got a dislocated shoulder, can you see what else?” Hotch, still slightly bewildered, unbuckled his seatbelt with his right hand.

“My legs are a little bruised up, and so’s my face, but my shoulder looks like it’s the only-“ he went silent, and Derek’s heart dropped.

“What?” He followed Hotch’s gaze down to his stomach, where a growing patch of red surrounded a narrow cut in his shirt. Gingerly, Hotch pulled the fabric away. A cut surrounded by glittering pieces of glass was leaking blood, having previously been camouflaged by the seatbelt. It didn’t look like it went all the way through, but there was already a significant amount of blood.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” Hotch’s head fell back against the headrest. “Wait. Can you get your cell?” Derek found his phone on the console, but it was completely busted.

“Try yours.” With his okay hand, Hotch pulled his out of his pants pocket.

“No. It must have gotten crushed between me and the door.”

“Damn it.” If Derek had been any less practical of a person, he would have started crying. He certainly felt like it. But crying wouldn’t help Hotch, who was bleeding out from his stomach. “Hotch, we have to fix your arm if we’re going to have any hope or stopping the bleeding.”

“Okay. Do you know how to do that?”

“I’ve had some first aid training. But I’m also your only shot.” Hotch didn’t hesitate.

“Do it.” Derek turned as much as he could, giving a muffled cry as his legs burned under him. He braced one hand against Hotch’s ribs and grabbed his shoulder in the other. “I’m gonna count to three, and then you’re gonna say ‘wishbone’. Got it?” Hotch nodded, on the verge of hyperventilating but still somehow making an effort to stay calm.

“One… two… three…”

“Wishbone!” Hotch yelped as his shoulder cracked back into place.

“You good?” Hotch, panting, nodded. “You’ll need a better fix down the road, but that’s not our most pressing issue.” Derek, attaining with the effort, pulled off his leather jacket and hoodie. He handed Hotch the hoodie. “I need you to put pressure on the cut. I’m not sure, but the glass might have cut your aorta. If it did, we’re going to have a problem. I would get you out of there and try to hold pressure myself, but my legs-“

“Don’t worry about it, Morgan.” Hotch held the hoodie to his stomach. “We should get those legs set.”

“How?”

“I could try to find some sticks or something-“

“Hotch, you can’t go anywhere.”

“Give me your jacket.” Hotch, still holding the hoodie to his stomach, wrapped the jacket around it, holding the hoodie in place. “Voila,” he said, wincing.

“That’s not gonna last.”

“No, but there’s a first aid kit in the back. I’ll help you get your legs set, then you help me.” Hotch got out of the car, but didn’t shut the door. “There are a few trees down here, I should be able to get decently sized branches and make some splints.” Wobbling slightly, he walked away, disappearing into the underbrush. Derek sighed and sat back, waiting for him to return. Their phones were both dead, and depending on how much damage they’d taken internally, it was possible the trackers could have been destroyed. The same went for the car’s GPS. So if their electronic tracking was out the window, then what? They had been en route to the unsub’s house from the police station. JJ and Rossi had been interviewing the latest victim’s family one last time when Hotch had called and told them where to go. Emily and Reid had been at the coroner. The road that Hotch and Morgan had been driving on was a narrow road along a ravine, which they were now at the bottom of. No one else had been coming from the same direction, so there was no chance of anyone just seeing them on their way. It hadn’t been very long, but it was probably long enough that someone had realized something was up, and once they realized they couldn’t get in contact, it would be an all-out search. That being said, they wouldn’t worry about them until they arrested their unsub, which could be another hour or more, if he ran. And even once they realized something was wrong, they would have to search a significant amount of road. It was possible they could be stranded at the bottom of this ravine for a very long time. Their best bet was to get a fire started, and pray that some poor soul saw the smoke.

“I’m back.” Hotch was breathless, his forehead was shimmering with sweat, and his shirt was deep red around Derek’s hoodie, but he held two sturdy-looking branches in his arms. “Can you turn around?” Derek put his weight back on his arms and tried to swivel out towards the car door, which Hotch had just opened. He managed to turn his hips, but couldn’t manage to move his legs.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice straining.

“Then I need to move your legs, otherwise I won’t be able to get access.” Hotch loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. “Bite down.” Derek took the knot between his teeth and clenched his jaw. He screamed into the purple tie as Hotch seized his leg, even as gently as he could, and turned it out the door. “Just one more. You’re doing great, Morgan.” His other leg burned with a searing, white-hot pain, even after it was fully turned. Hotch pulled his jacket off, gasping as he wrenched the wound on his stomach. He ripped it into strips, which he draped over his shoulder. “This is going to hurt. Really bad.”

“Just do it,” Derek replied, muffled. Hotch lifted his left leg from the calf so that it sat in a completely straight line. Derek yelped, screaming curses into the empty, echoing valley. Hotch tied one of the branches to his leg with strips of his jacket. When he was done, he cupped Derek’s face in his hands, both of them panting heavily. It was a platonic gesture of affection, but a rare one from Hotch. It seemed like if there had ever been a time for it, it was now. The other leg hurt almost more, but Derek held onto consciousness. He would not pass out.

“Your nose might heal a little fucked up, but I’m not going to risk making it worse.”

“It’s fine, Hotch. Could you grab the first-aid kit? Don’t hurt yourself too much.”

“I’m fine.” But his pale, clammy face and the growing red patch gave him away. There wasn’t much Derek could do to stop him, though, was there?

Hotch wasn’t paying that much attention to his own injuries, frankly. He knew that was stupid, especially because Derek was right and if the glass had cut his aorta, he was screwed, but there wasn’t much they could do so far. The most there was in the first aid kit was gauze and bandages, which wouldn’t stop bleeding from a major artery. He could feel himself getting more and more lightheaded with every step towards the back of the car. The trunk wouldn’t open, but the window was completely knocked out, so he was able to reach in and pull out the first aid kit without scratching himself on the glass. From the front of the car, he could hear Derek groaning softly. Maybe there were some painkillers in there, even if it was just Advil. But first, they had some other stuff to handle.

“I have to get you out of there.” Morgan’s eyes narrowed.

“Why?”

“At least until the sun sets. It’s way too hot out here, if we stay in the car we’ll just get dehydrated that much faster. Also, it’ll be more comfortable for you when you’re patching me up.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“I’m going to have to lift you out of there.” Before waiting for a response, Hotch slid an arm under Derek’s arms and grunted as he lifted Derek over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He set him down so he was sitting against the side of the car. “This is where we’ll have the most shade.”

“Ow.” Derek prodded his ribs. “That hurt.”

“Yeah, whatever. Can you help patch me up?” Hotch unbuttoned his shirt and let it fall to the sandy ground along with Derek’s jacket and hoodie. A few drops of blood landed in the dirt alongside them. As he sat down on the ground, he handed Derek the kit.

“Let’s see… we’ve got gauze, band-aids, rubbing alcohol… nothing for sutures.”

“That’s fine, it wouldn’t have done any good if I’m bleeding internally.” Derek swiped a cotton ball soaked in alcohol across the front wound. Hotch hissed, but didn’t flinch. He allowed Derek to wrap gauze around his stomach, and then slumped against the car beside him.

“So… what do we do?” Hotch just shrugged. He didn’t know what else to do.

“I have no idea. We sit. We wait. And we hope.” Out of the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Derek begin to shake. His first thought was that he was having some sort of seizure from hitting his head, and Hotch’s gut dropped. Then he realized he was crying. He lifted his aching arm, but not the one that was dislocated, and wrapped it around Derek’s shoulders. He wished he could move his other arm enough to fully encompass his friend, but they’d have to settle for this for now. “They’ll find us.”

“God, I hope you’re right,” Derek said through his tears, which cut streaks in the blood and dirt on his face. “I know it’s stupid to be thinking about all the things I wish I’d done, but there are too many.”

“Yeah.” Hotch leaned his head against Derek’s shoulder, another uncharacteristically affectionate gesture, but then again, if there was ever a time for affection, it was now.

Derek was thinking about his house. It was a two-bedroom cottage in the DC suburbs, not the kind of place anyone would have expected from him. He tried his hardest to take care of his garden, but he was always gone too long and the flowers dried up. Who was watering the flowers? For that matter, who was feeding Clooney, his 11-year-old German Shepherd? If he died, would anyone remember to go check on him? He thought about the photos that lined the clean white halls, which he had always meant to paint a bright green but never gotten around to. There were pictures of his mom, his sisters, his dad, his friends. He thought about the tins of cookies stacked up on his counter, which Penelope brought over about twice a week. He thought about the episodes of Storage Wars piling up on his DVR. He had never planned for dying like this. He had a will, every FBI field agent he knew had a will, so that wasn’t an issue. But there were so many things he had never thought about before now. And then there were the things he always planned on doing, like taking Penelope to Thailand, which they’d always talked about, or learning how to weld, or-

“Hotch, can I tell you something?”

“What?” Hotch perked up, but he looked worse than ever. His hand was freezing on Derek’s arm, and the gauze on his stomach was already soaked through.

“I’m talking to you as a friend. Not as FBI agents, and you can’t be my boss about this.”

“Derek. We’re friends.”

“Okay.” Derek swallowed, his throat dry and dusty, but still began to speak. “I wish I’d told all the people I love that I love them.” His heart felt like it was twisting itself in two, but he kept on. “My team. My family. And… Spencer.” Hotch turned just slightly to look up at him, not as surprised as Derek had expected him to be. “I always thought I’d tell him later. I had a plan. I was going to wait and ask him to that French film festival next month. And then I was gonna walk him home and tell him how I felt. I had a whole plan, and now even if I make it through this, I’m still gonna have two broken legs. So no film festival.”

“I’ll be honest, Morgan… I kind of figured.”

“What, you knew I had feelings for him?”

“I didn’t know, but I had my suspicions.” Hotch chuckled and then groaned.

“How’d you know?”

“Well, you always loved to tease him, but last year, you really picked up on it. And I know you well enough to know that’s how you flirt.”

“Wow. You know how I know you’re a better profiler than me? Because you figured it out last year, and I barely got it five months ago.”

“That’s why I’m your boss.”

“So, what, you’re not gonna yell at me for falling for another agent?”

“No. Not right now, anyway. Morgan, don’t ever let this job stop you from loving someone. That’s where I’ve always gone wrong. Those rules exist for a reason, but sometimes… well, fuck the rules sometimes.” Hotch shivered, and Derek pulled him in tighter. It was unbearably hot out, but Hotch was still freezing. That was bad. That meant blood loss. “Still. I wish I’d said something.” He sort of hoped Hotch would say something like “We’re going to make it out of here,” but that wasn’t in the cards. Of course it wasn’t. Hotch wasn’t the kind of guy to make empty promises and Derek wasn’t the kind of guy to believe them. For the first time, he really looked out at the landscape around them. They were somewhere in the Nevada desert, surrounded by nothing but red dirt and the odd tree. The sides of the mountain they had been driving on sloped up around them, steep but not steep enough that they couldn’t have climbed up if not for their various injuries. They were far enough down that someone just driving on the road wouldn’t have seen them unless they noticed the tire tracks and stopped to check it out. His phone was busted, and so was his watch, but judging from the sun’s position in the sky, it was closing in on six o’clock. They had only been down here for a half an hour, an hour max, but who knew how long it would take the rest of the team to catch their guy? And even then, they had about 35 miles of road to check out, and the darker it got, the harder it would be for them to notice the tire tracks. The longer they were down here, the better it was looking that none of the major arteries in Hotch’s body had been harmed, but if they weren’t found within a few hours, that wasn’t going to matter. He’d bleed out anyway. And although his broken legs wouldn’t kill him, Derek realized if he didn’t get water, he’d die of dehydration, or starvation, or heat exposure, or hypothermia, or just plain old hungry desert coyotes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, only he didn’t know who he was apologizing to. Hotch, maybe. Or God. Maybe it was to his father, who he’d always tried to be as good as, or maybe it was to Spencer for never telling him about his feelings. There were too many people Derek had to apologize to, and for the first time in his 30-something years of life, he was realizing he really might never get the chance.

Meanwhile, Hotch was considering his team. He found that that was how he spent most of his days, at least when Jack wasn’t around. Who else was there to think about? Haley? He didn’t like to sound callous, but there wasn’t much more to think about with her. Beth? Beth, who had left him and gone to New York? Again, what more could he say? There was only Jack, the team, and, well, her.

“Morgan, while we’re on the subject…”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not the only one.”

“Not the only what? Person in love with Reid? ‘Cause if you say you are, I’m gonna-”

“No. Not Reid.”

“Good.” Derek paused. “Wait, then who?” The way he looked at Hotch, he really didn’t know. Then again, Hotch supposed he had always been better at hiding his feelings than the rest of them.

“Emily,” he said simply. “It’s always been Emily.” Beside him, he felt Derek’s head turn to look up at him.

“I- like, our Emily? Emily Prentiss? Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss?”

“No, the other Emily we both know- yes, Emily Prentiss.” Hotch let his head fall back against the car, his hand resting over the gauze on his bare stomach, which was warm and damp with his own blood. He was really bleeding out. It was only just beginning to click, but he pushed it down. Those were feelings he couldn’t afford to deal with right now.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell her? You know she loves you, right?” Hotch sighed.

“Maybe. I don’t know, maybe I know she does. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m her boss, and even if I wasn’t, we still work together. Our jobs rely on us being able to be impartial, and if we’re together… it clouds my judgement, and my judgement is all I have.”

“Hotch, not five minutes ago, you told me to fuck the rules. That was your exact wording. Your judgement if you and Emily love each other out loud instead of in that broody silence you both love so much isn’t going to change, because you’ll be feeling the same feelings you are right now, except then you won’t have the pressure of pushing them down that you’ve had to hold onto for so long. Fuck the rules, right?” Hotch turned to look down at Derek, smiling as much as he could despite the fading black at the edges of his vision.

“Yeah. Fuck the rules.”

Hotch didn’t look so good. Derek didn’t have much to think about, so he thought about that. Hotch’s breathing had slowed. A lot. And there was a lot of blood soaking through the gauze wrapped around his stomach, enough that another layer wouldn’t help. The sun was finally beginning to set, the signal that their chances were about to dim significantly. Even as bad as he looked, Hotch still managed to stand up.

“Where are you- Hotch, what are you doing?”

“I have to grab something. I’ll be right back.” Derek heard him open the door on the other side of the car and rifle through the glove compartment. He returned with a notepad and a pair of pens. Slowly, and with a lot of effort, he sat back down and ripped a sheet off the top of the notepad. He handed it to Derek, along with one of the pens.

“What’s this for?” Hotch grinned, but it was more like a grimace.

“Write him a letter. Spencer. Just… just in case.” With trembling hands, Derek took the paper and pen. He had to brace it against his own hand, so he wouldn’t hurt his leg, but he found he could steady himself enough to write what he needed to. Beside him, Hotch was writing a letter of his own. In shaky, splotchy chicken scratch, Derek began to write.

Spencer,

Don’t worry about me, kid. I know you, I know how much you love to beat yourself up for things. Don’t. What happened was no one’s fault but mine and that stupid deer in the road’s. Things happen and if you’re reading this, the worst thing happened. And if the worst happened, that means I never got to tell you how I feel about you. This is pretty clearly not how I wanted to tell you, but I wanted you to know. This letter is so you don’t have to see my face every day, knowing how I feel about you, and never get to say anything to me. I’m telling you you don’t need to. However you feel about me, just knowing that I love you is all that matters. Don’t feel bad about never telling me if you felt the same, and never feel bad about letting me die loving you if you didn’t. Loving you was all I needed, kid. But oh, man, the things I wish I’d gotten to tell you. I was going to ask you to that French film festival in Baltimore next month. I learned some French for it and everything. You were going to be so impressed with me. Actually, you’d probably shake your head condescendingly, smile, and tell me all about how wrong my pronunciations were, probably. Still. I’m sorry we’ll never get to do that. I’m as sorry that I’ll never get to hold your hand or kiss you in the rain as I am that I’ll never get to make fun of your hair or give you an awkward fist bump. You were my friend long before I ever fell for you and you’ll be my friend even when I’m gone. I’m running out of space to write. I love you.

Your friend,

D. Morgan

When he finished writing, he finally noticed the tears bleeding through the paper, mixed in with smudges of blood from his broken nose. He folded the letter and shoved it in his pocket. That letter would survive the sun and the elements. Even if he didn’t.

Hotch was writing his own letter. At first, he didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? I’m sorry I’m dead, I love you? But then again, that was probably better than saying nothing at all. So he started writing, really having no idea where he was going at all.

Dear Emily,

This isn’t an apology. I think I should say that first. Although I have a lot to apologize for, I only have a little room and I don’t want to take up your time with the things that won’t matter if you’re reading this. The long and the short of it is that I never told you how I felt about you. How I feel about you even now as I write this letter. I know I said this wasn’t going to be an apology, but I am sorry about not telling you sooner. There was just too much to think about. There’s less to think about now. All I can think of is Jack and you. If I ever get out of here, I swear to god I’ll tell you that myself. I didn’t tell you because you deserve so much more than me. You deserve the entire universe and then some, so much more than one tired old man who can’t even save himself. I have a few requests for you, if it’s not out of line for me to ask. First, don’t blame me, don’t blame yourself, and if Derek gets out of here and I don’t, don’t blame him. It’s no one’s fault. Second, Haley’s sister can and will take Jack in, but make sure he knows the team is as much his family as any of his blood relatives. I don’t worry about him forgetting me, but I don’t want him forgetting you either. My last request is my biggest. They’ll have to fill my position as soon as possible, and I want them to give the job to you. You’re the best suited to take over, and I trust you to keep the team on track. Strauss will put up a fight, but there’s a document in my desk that outlines all of my reasons and wishes for the team following my death. Your promotion is the first thing on that document. If you don’t want the job, I obviously can’t make you take it, but if your only reason is because you think I only want you to have it because of my feelings for you, it’s not. My faith in you as an agent, as a person, and as a friend is never-ending.

-Hotch

Before putting the letter in his pocket, Hotch turned to Derek, his face and tone stern.

“Derek. If anything happens to me, if you get out of here and I don’t, you make sure this gets to Emily. Promise me.”

“I promise, Hotch, of course. You’ll do the same for me?”

“Yes.” Hotch held his hand out for a shake, but Derek just took it and held it, his hand warm and firm against Hotch’s. “We should start thinking about a fire. It’s going to get cold out here before too long.”

“I don’t think so, Hotch. I can’t walk, and you’re not looking too good.” Hotch couldn’t see himself, but he didn’t feel good either. His heartbeat was thready, but fast, like a hummingbird’s. His vision spun, and his grip was weakening by the minute. If he had been a praying man, Hotch would have started praying about now. But he didn’t really believe in God, so who was there to pray to? He turned his head up towards the darkening sky and thought of Emily.

It was fully dark now. Stars unlike anything Derek had seen in Chicago or D.C. lit up the sky, and he would have marveled at their beauty if not for the cold that was beginning to dig deep into his bones. Between the two of them, they had three jackets that they had sort of formed into a patchwork blanket over them, but it wasn’t enough. Hotch shivered against him, and Derek felt more powerless than he had at any point since the crash. His friend was dying, like it or not, of blood loss and hypothermia and god knew what else, and there was nothing he could do except wait for them to be found. They were both still awake. That was good. But they hadn’t seen a single car pass by in five hours, at least. That was bad.

“Come on, buddy, stay awake.” Derek shook Hotch gently, careful not to touch his bad shoulder. Hotch blinked rapidly, but he looked more exhausted than ever. In the dark light, he was ghostly pale.

“I’m up.”

“Good.” Together, they watched the stars for a bit. “Spencer taught me some of the constellations.” He pointed as he recognized them. “That’s Gemini, the twins. And Columba, the dove.”

“I never knew anything about astronomy. I always had a plan to learn, but then…”

“Time gets away from you.”

“Yeah, it does.”

“I was going to learn how to bake.” Hotch didn’t respond. “Hotch?” When Derek glanced down at him, Hotch’s eyes were just fluttering shut, and his muscles relaxed. He looked like a rag doll. “Hotch, come on. Come on, buddy. Come on.” Derek shook him more aggressively now, caring less about whether he hurt the busted shoulder. Hotch could recover from a dislocated shoulder, but he wasn’t going to get the chance if they didn’t get some help, and soon. “Help!” Derek screamed, his voice ripping through the empty black fabric of the desert. “Someone help us, goddamnit!” Other than an echo off the side of the ravine, there was nothing. And then there was something. At first, he thought maybe he was imagining it, or that it was just the stars reflecting off the red rocks. Then it got closer, and he realized what it was.

Headlights.

If he could have stood up, he would have, but he settled for screaming. “Help us! We’re down here!” The headlights slowed, and Derek saw them glance off the shiny black finish of the Lincoln SUVs he recognized so well. Four silhouettes appeared in the lights, and one of them shone a flashlight down. Derek flinched at the brilliant light, but still, he smiled, tears pouring down his cheeks.

“Morgan?” Rossi’s voice bounced off the rocks to reach him.

“You gotta get us out of here!”

“We’re coming down!” Carefully, but as quickly as they could, the four silhouettes clambered down the side of the cliff, which wasn’t so much a cliff as it was a steep, rocky hill. JJ reached them first, her eyes wide.

“Oh my god, what happened?”

“There was a deer in the road, I swerved… you get the rest. Look, we have to get Hotch out of here, he’s lost a lot of blood and he just passed out.”

“Hotch!” Emily, who had just arrived, rushed to him. “Rossi, give me a hand.” Together, the two of them managed to secure Hotch’s arms over their shoulders and begin to carry him out. Spencer was the last to arrive, passing Emily and Rossi on their way out. He gave a short, pained cry when he saw Derek sitting on the ground.

“I’m okay, kid.”

“No, you’re not! I- your legs!” Derek ignored this momentarily.

“JJ, call 911. I’ll have to stay down here until the ambulance comes, there’s no way you can get me out without a stretcher.”

“I have to go back up to get service.” She looked between Derek and Spencer nervously.

“I’ll stay with him. Go.” She began the climb back up, and Spencer knelt in front of Derek. “Derek, follow my finger.” Spencer held up a finger and waved it back and forth in front of Derek’s eyes. “What’s the date today?”

“February… uh…”

“Derek.”

“I can’t remember.” Spencer paused, his brow furrowed in focus, but relaxed.

“You’re almost certainly concussed, but so far, it seems like you’ve avoided major brain damage.”

“Oh. Good.” Despite the pain that hadn’t subsided since the crash, Derek managed a smile. “It’s good to see you, kid.”

“What the hell happened?” Spencer asked, uncharacteristically tender. His face was weary and ten years older than he had been this morning.

“Deer jumped into the road, I swerved. The car held up better than I would have expected.”

“You could’ve died.”

“I’m aware.” Spencer hesitated, searching Derek’s face with those big hazel eyes, the eyes that saw everything, like he had some kind of superhuman x-ray vision. “Spencer, I-” He was cut off by the sound of sirens. “Christ, that didn’t take long.”

“Well, we’ve kinda had a whole search party going for the last couple of hours.”

“You found me.” Spencer squeezed his hand, and if Derek’s heart hadn’t already been pounding, it would have started.

“I found you.” They were joined by a series of EMTs with a stretcher, who carried Derek out of the ravine, noting as they went the cleverness of the splints Hotch had made. No one said anything about Hotch.

Hotch woke up in a quiet, empty hospital room with sunlight streaming in through the windows and an oxygen mask over his face. The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t in pain. They must have loaded him up with painkillers for his shoulder. Also, he wasn’t dead. That was nice. The door opened, and Emily stepped in, holding a Starbucks cup and looking dead tired. She didn’t seem to notice he was awake at first, and she leaned against the door, breathing slowly and deeply.

“Come on, Aaron. Wake up. Please.” He cleared his throat as best he could, and she jumped. “Oh my god!” He smiled.

“Hi.”

“I- hi.” She sat down in the chair beside his bed. “We were worried about you for a while there.”

“Yeah? Last thing I remember was Morgan telling me about constellations, and then…” He gestured to the room around them.

“You lost a lot of blood. If we’d gotten there even a few minutes later, I don’t-”

“You didn’t. You got there in time. Don’t think about what didn’t happen.” She brightened at that, a brilliant smile spreading across her face.

“Oh!” She jumped again, this time in recollection. “Your clothes are kind of ruined, but they found this in your pocket.” She pressed the letter, the one he’d written to her in what he thought were his last moments, into his hand.

“Did you… did you read it?” She shook her head, completely innocent to the letter’s contents. Good. He had hoped she wouldn’t have to read it. He hoped she would never have to read it.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just a contingency plan, I guess.” She nodded, as if that was enough explanation, although Hotch could tell it wasn’t.

“Listen, Hotch-”

“Emily, I-”

“You go first.”

“No, go ahead.” Emily folded her hands as if to steady them and stared at the spot just above Hotch’s head. Hotch recognized that well. She couldn’t bring herself to look into his eyes.

“You flatlined in the ambulance. Twice. And I’ve never been as scared in my life as I was those two times I thought you were gone for good.”

“Em-”

“No, let me finish. I know… there’s a lot of things we’ll have to figure out, but Hotch…” Her pleading, earnest eyes bore into him. “I think maybe I love you. I think maybe I have for a long time. And it’s not worth it for me to stay quiet anymore. If you need to transfer me to a different unit, um, I-”

“Emily.” Despite his gentle tone, she still looked up at him, shocked. “You’re not getting transferred.”

“Hotch, I can’t ask you to-”

“No, Emily. You’re not getting transferred and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.” Slowly but surely, he reached over to take her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.

“...oh.”

“All I could think about out there was you and Jack. I’m not staying quiet anymore either.” Emily tried and failed to bite back a grin.

“We’re going to have to talk to HR.”

“Yep.”

“Strauss is going to flip her shit.”

“Strauss isn’t going to find out, and if she does, she’s going to have to take me down.”

“We’re doing this?”

“I’m up for it. Are you?” Emily didn’t hesitate. She just kissed him, careful to avoid his arm and stomach injuries. Hotch was honestly pretty sure it was the best kiss of his life. Almost made the near-death experience worth it.

Derek also woke up in a sunny hospital room, only his wasn’t empty and it was far from quiet. The first thing he heard was Spencer yelling.

“...I know you did an MRI, but you need to test his TBI and monitor his ICP! Christ, where did you get your medical degree, the internet?”

“Spencer.” His voice was low and raspy, but it got Spencer’s attention well enough. “Let the doctors do their jobs.”

“But they’re not, they’re not running all the tests they should be, and-”

“Spencer.” Like a petulant child, Spencer quieted, and the doctors took their chance to leave. He didn’t stay annoyed for long, he couldn’t help it.

“How are you feeling?” Derek sighed.

“Well, I’ve got one hell of a headache, but the painkillers seem like they’re doing their jobs.”

“You got lucky. Only one of your legs was a total fracture, and neither one caused much internal bleeding.”

“How about my nose? Is my face gonna be all fucked up?”

“It took a little plastic surgery, but your nose will be good as new.”

“Good. One of us has to be the pretty one, and we both know it’s supposed to be me.” Spencer tapped a nervous melody on his bony knee, which bounced like what Derek liked to call Restless Leg Syndrome On Steroids.

“You should have driven with us. I know you hate sitting in the backseat, but-”

“Spencer. It’s not your fault. Or mine.”

“Yeah. I got that.” Derek’s brows furrowed. What the hell did that mean? Spencer brushed his curls off his forehead, trying not to smile and failing desperately. He hugged Derek tightly, and Derek let him, despite his bruised ribs screaming.Derek unbaked deeply, taking in the scent of coffee and lemon soap he knew so well. He had nearly fallen into a trance when Spencer spoke. “So, French, huh?”

“What?” At first, Derek thought maybe he had gotten some severe brain damage. Then it clicked and he pulled out of Spencer’s arms, eyes wide and heart in his throat. “...you read it.”

“It fell out of your pocket in the ambulance. I thought…” Spencer laughed, a little bitterly. “I thought maybe it was your will.” Derek didn’t know what to say. He really was at a loss for words. Everything he had meant to say was in that letter, which Spencer had already read.

“Then you know how I feel about you.” Derek opted for confidence, with just a touch of defiance. He was daring Spencer to make the next move. Spencer, who had never been particularly daring in Derek’s eyes, made his move. He kissed Derek, so fast Derek didn’t register it until Spencer’s teeth grazed his lower lip, and his hands were already tangled in Spencer’s messy curls. When the kiss finally broke, Spencer flushed from his neck to his ears. “So. It’s probably a little late to ask if you feel the same way.”

“Sorry. I just… I thought I was being obvious for so long, and you just never noticed. I figured I couldn’t get more obvious than that.” Derek reached up to cup Spencer’s cheek, running his thumb over Spencer’s perfect pink lips.

“Je veux faire ça depuis longtemps,” he said, his face scrunched in concentration.

“Vous auriez dû le faire il y a des années,” Spencer replied.

“Yeah, I don’t know what that means.” They stared at each other in affectionate silence and then burst out laughing. It was the same easy warmth they had had between them for the last nine years, only now there was more. The love had not replaced the friendship, it was just another layer. Derek took Spencer’s hand and squeezed, smiling gratefully. “You saved my life, Spencer Reid. Not just because you got me out of that ravine. Not just because you bullied the doctors into giving me all the tests in the book. You saved me because I had something to fight for out in that Nevada desert, and I’ll always owe you for that.”

“You’ll never owe me anything.” Spencer shrugged. “Isn’t that kind of the point?”

“I’m sorry we won’t be able to go to that film festival.”

“Who says?”

“Uh, the plaster casts that’ll be on my legs for the next six to eight weeks?”

“So you’ll go in a wheelchair. You’re taking me out, man, just like you said you would.” Derek hesitated.

“Take me for a walk.”

“Huh?”

“Take me outside. Then we’ll talk.” Spencer shrugged.

“I’ll check with the doctors, but that should be fine. One second.”

Momentarily, they were outside. Across the street from the Nevada hospital, there was a decent park. Spencer pushes Derek in a wheelchair, tossing his hair in the cool winter breeze.

“Are you enjoying being home?” Derek asked.

“Alright, out with it,” Spencer said, ignoring the question. “What’s the deal? Why don’t you want to go?” Derek sighed.

“Come look at me.” Spencer circles around him and crouched so he was at eye level for Derek. “I don’t want to go because it’s in Baltimore.”

“And? What’s wrong with Baltimore? We go to Baltimore for drinks once a week.”

“Yeah. And how do we get to Baltimore?”

“Derek, whatever you’re trying to say, will you just say it?”

“I don’t want to get back in the car!” Derek shouted. “I don’t want to go to Baltimore because I don’t want to drive there.” Spencer stared at him analytically for a moment, then smiled softly and patted Derek’s knee.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ll just watch action movies at your place.”

“And you’re… okay with that?”

“Yeah. I feel like I owe you that much, at least.”

“You’ll never owe me anything.” Derek pulled Spencer down to kiss him quickly, but sweetly. “Isn’t that kind of the point?”

#criminal minds #cm fanfic #cm fan fiction #cm fic #cm #cm angst #moreid #hotchniss #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #emily prentiss #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic

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sexualdynamo · 4 years ago

Text

Wet Dreams

posted on AO3

Have you ever jumped into a pool the wrong way, maybe didn’t time the exhale right, and the bubbles straight popped you in the face and rushed up into your sinuses and made you see stars for a second?

This was how Billy had been feeling for the past … however long it’d been, not the whole time of course, just off and on, but it was an odd kind of sneeze-inducing torture that he was strangely starting to find himself getting used to, and he wasn’t sure what that meant. That was when, and possibly why, the dreams began.

At first they were filled with murky violence, the expected flashbacks to his–no, His–victims as they begged him to stop: the goosebumps on Heather’s perfect-tan forearms as she attempted to extricate herself from the vinyl rope binding her wrists; her father’s guileless eyes watering as he pulled heavy breaths above the duct tape plastered over his mouth. Billy fell into these dreams easily, though not without struggle; he didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to do those things in the first place. He was a “bad boy,” not a bad man, and he’d assumed if he ever were to kill a man it’d be Neil or an accident, and he’d long made peace with both options. Nice, upstanding types had never really registered on his radar, and he’d never thought enough about any of them to hold a vendetta there, other than maintaining the healthy distance of all teenage boys to rule-abiding citizens. So when the dreams appeared, he grit his teeth and bore down on the guilt and shame and fear as he’d always done, and like the feeling of chlorine rushing through his nose, it wasn’t great but he’d be fine eventually.

Sometimes his mind drifted, though. Sometimes in the midst of the nightmares, other visions would shoot through that had been flitting around somewhere in the shallows, like a time Neil was nice to him, or the way his mother’s eyes had crinkled at the corners as he raced after her on the shore. Greedily, desperately, he’d run behind his younger self, trying to hold onto the memory for longer. Why couldn’t that have been its own dream? Why did it have to get chased so quickly by the sound of Heather's mother's muffled screams coming through his backseats from the trunk of his Camaro? Another pain to shove down, the bitter bile rising again as he continued to float listlessly, uselessly down this purgatory Lazy River.

Now he was inside that creepy Byers’ house, the messy one with the sketches and broken plates scattered across the floor, and him too, later on, but not yet, because he was still on top of King Steve right now, laying him out with one nasty cross hook after another. He remembered how he’d felt that night, like he’d wanted to get the whole ordeal with Max over with quickly so he could get get back to his date, yet not a little part of him had desired this, had wanted to blow off steam from his "chat" with Neil, had needed to feel something else break besides just him. This time though, Dream-Harrington was bloodily matching his grin, was mirroring his exact expression as he turned his head from side to side, was examining him closely as Billy leaned in and peered into his watery brown eyes, pupils blown with head trauma and … arousal? Was he as hard as Billy? The realization that Harrington could be into this, into being hurt like this, washed over Billy, leaving behind a curious hunger in its wake. Now their eyes were closed, but Harrington’s right hand held Billy’s face down to his as his mouth captured Billy’s in an obscene kiss, his tongue deftly stroking the underside of Billy’s until suddenly it was Billy’s cock he was laving, Billy now throned on King Steve’s chest with his buttonfly open to a bloodied mouth softer than any woman’s and his hands tightly gripping brown curls, his shirt having come untucked in the fight.

There was no way Harrington could be comfortable like this, his arms forced above his head in this position, but then his arms were back below Billy’s legs as he fondled his balls, pressing on his perineum in the way Billy liked and squeezing the base of his cock with the other hand. Harrington’s tongue worked Billy expertly in a steady rhythm, his jugular bobbing until Billy pulled out to lean over him more directly, then pushed his cock down again past Harrington’s tight O into the wet heat of his mouth, breaching his throat and feeling every minute choke and gasp and gag vibrate through him as he pressed further and further in. Fucking Harrington's face into the floor wasn't going to be enough. He needed more, was feeling so cold before this, realized he needed to get as far into Harrington as possible until suddenly, seamlessly, the two of them were back on Billy’s bed, or rather, Harrington was on his back, naked save his Casio watch, his head tipped off the bed with Billy standing bent over him, painting those swollen red lips with his dripping cock. Billy absently wondered what would happen if he just held it down Harrington’s throat; would he fight it, thrashing and gulping for air below? Or would he relax into it, take it, give himself over to Billy? How long could King Steve go without taking a breath?

He realized a second too late–in the view from his bedroom mirror–that he was doing exactly that, keeping himself firmly planted in the quavering depths of Steve’s throat. His own hair unruly and his eyes wild, Billy took a second to admire the way his muscles glistened from where they peeked through his unbuttoned shirt in the mirror. He moved to let his jeans ruck themselves down a bit until he could see the top of the curve of his own ass, firm and enviable; smugly, he had the thought that he looked like a young god taking what was his. Below him, Steve had started to shake, swallowing frequently around the head, saliva spilling out of his taut lips, so Billy held him down and punished him with hard, thorough strokes directly into the tight squeeze of his aching throat. Steve's sobs felt like heaven around Billy and he nearly swooned, dizzy with the knowledge that for the space of a dream, Steve was his completely, his to control and please and hurt.

If Steve couldn’t take it, he was rallying, giving up on his attempts to stop the onslaught of Billy’s hips and reaching down to grab his own impossibly stiff cock as Billy pulled Steve’s ankles up in a bruising grip towards his own shoulders, timing his thrusts to Steve’s strokes without ever taking his eyes off of Steve’s perfect little asshole. The next time they’d do this, Billy would tongue his way in until it was just wet and loose enough, and then he’d slam his way into Steve until he’d never be able to leave this bed, it would hurt so much to walk. This idea had Billy reeling with feelings of possessiveness and conquering; thoughts of consuming his rival, roughing him up, making him cry, owning him. Before he knew it, his cock was welling up and he was pouring himself directly down Steve’s throat, watching Steve’s hands fall away and his eyes finally roll backwards into their sockets, and then they were back at the Byers’ and Billy’s head was swimming as he leaned away, teetering over a passed-out Steve on unsteady legs with a syringe in his neck and a determined horror in his sister’s eyes,

until he wasn’t.

Billy awoke slowly, softly in a room that was much too bright and a bed that smelled of bleach. Next to his head a steady beep kept time and a few feet down the hall, an exhausted medical staff worked the phones, but here in bed, Billy was preoccupied with a thousand worrisome revelations. Since when did he have a crush on Harrington? Was intimacy the reason he could only call him King Steve? He raked a hand through his hair as the thoughts of what they did together, the need to find him and do those things in real life, bubbled up inside him and made him feel as though he were drowning. Just what kind of drugs did these doctors have him on?

He froze as he realized he wasn't alone in this room; in his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of red hair. Feeling caught, he slowly turned his head to see Max creepily, delightedly watching him from the chair in the corner, stars in her eyes.

“So, Billy. Did you know that you talk in your sleep?”

#harringrove #good morning billy #steve harrington #billy hargrove

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geraltofriviasleftbuttcheek · 5 years ago

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eat your heart out, lover

geraskier | 2.5k | teen | modern witcher au, canon-typical violence

he reads, again, the string of messages from one of geralt’s followers, describing a beast that looks like a cephalopod of some kind that floats in the air, attacking with quick strikes and engulfing its poor victims in its tentacles, leaving them half-eaten if they’re lucky, and brain dead if they’re not.

jaskier shudders, and it’s not from the cool bite in the air. it sounds a bit unbelievable, a flying octopus-squid that eats people, but jaskier has been with geralt long enough to know all manner of creatures roam the earth.

( read on ao3 )

“So, what are we hunting again?”

“Not sure,” Geralt replies. He sweeps his flashlight across the edge of the beach, illuminating the waves gently rolling in. Their steps are muffled in the sand as they walk.

There’s no moon visible tonight, just a sky full of stars, and Jaskier thinks it might be considered romantic if not for the lingering smell of rotten flesh and overall atmosphere of death now permeating this once-tranquil place.

It makes Jaskier roll his eyes, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Oh, joy,” he mutters, pulling up Twitter, “Just what I wanted to do for Valentine’s day: sneak around a beach in search of something we don’t even know. Excellent! We could be at home, eating dinner and making love, but no!”

Geralt just grunts, and Jaskier looks up long enough to imagine the smirk Geralt throws back at him, because it’s too dark for him to see it properly. “Like you don’t get all hot and bothered watching me get covered in gore.”

He’s not even wrong, that’s the thing. Jaskier sputters in offense anyway. “That’s—! Wholly beside the point,” he finishes lamely, and Geralt snorts. “Shut up.”

Geralt does, and Jaskier looks back at his phone, muttering under his breath. He reads, again, the string of messages from one of Geralt’s followers, describing a beast that looks like a cephalopod of some kind that floats in the air, attacking with quick strikes and engulfing its poor victims in its tentacles, leaving them half-eaten if they’re lucky, and brain dead if they’re not.

Jaskier shudders, and it’s not from the cool bite in the air. It sounds a bit unbelievable, a flying octopus-squid that eats people, but Jaskier has been with Geralt long enough to know all manner of creatures roam the earth, mostly keeping to themselves until humans start intruding on their spaces.

Either way, the description of this particular monster is absolutely hideous, and Jaskier makes a face. They drove all the way to the coast for this one, two restless days in the car with maybe nine hours of sleep between them. They’d crashed at a little bed and breakfast about three miles from where the sightings had been to wait for night, when the creature was most active, according to the owner.

And, well. It is now very dark and very spooky on this particular beach, and Jaskier wraps Geralt’s hoodie he’d stolen on the way out the door tighter around his body, moving closer to Geralt.

“Scared, Jas?”

Jaskier scoffs, bumping his shoulder into Geralt’s. “As if,” he says haughtily. “Disgusted, mostly. Nothing about this thing sounds even remotely interesting. A cephalopod that eats people? Talk about the tables turning. Do you think they call us sushi?”

It makes Geralt laugh, and Jaskier smiles to himself. They might be on a deserted beach in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, searching in the dark for a creature that supposedly might eat them, but at least they’re together.

They walk a handful of steps further, and the temperature suddenly drops, a freezing sort of chill engulfing them, much more ominous and unsettling than before. Geralt is immediately on high alert, swinging the flashlight toward the rocky outcrop ten or so meters in front of them, where a faint, almost indiscernible glow pours into the night.

“Stay behind me,” Geralt says, and Jaskier huffs, but does as told. He’s not useless—he can put Geralt on his ass three times out of seven in their practice spars at the gym, and he’s been taking self-defense classes for almost four years now—but he supposes with unknown creatures, it’s better safe than sorry.

Satisfied that Jaskier is going to listen, Geralt pulls out his sword—Jaskier hears the shing! of it leaving the sheath—and they creep closer to the outcrop. Jaskier’s skin crawls, and the stench of death gets stronger, curdled milk and rotten eggs and sewage that’s almost suffocating. There’s soft, low growling, and something squelches in a way that makes his stomach turn and his insides squirm uncomfortably.

A sudden screech pierces the air, and Jaskier stumbles back as something rushes out of the rock, presumably emerging from its cave. It’s only by sheer reflex that he catches the flashlight as Geralt tosses it to him, and he immediately points it at the thing hovering—actually floating—several feet before them.

Tentacles—actual tentacles! Holy shit!—undulate beneath an almost humanoid upper body, graceful and hypnotizing in the most bizarre way. Its arms reach toward them, billowing what almost looks like sleeves behind them, and it screeches again. It leans back, and Jaskier has a bad feeling as he watches the tentacles twist and wind up, his heart beating fast against his ribs and blood rushing to his ears, and he wants to close his eyes so he won’t see whatever’s coming but he can’t—

—and Geralt is in front of him, sword braced against the lunging attack, the tentacles hitting the silver and flying apart as the creature is forced back with a simultaneous burst of Aard from Geralt’s palm.

“Get back!”

Jaskier doesn’t have to be told twice—he turns and runs, hopping lightly over the sand to put as much space between him and the creature as possible while Geralt stays on the offensive and attacks. He doesn’t go as far as he probably should, because as utterly terrifying as that thing is, he won’t leave Geralt alone, and heightened witcher senses or not, having an actual light source does help, thank you very much.

He keeps the flashlight trained on Geralt, adrenaline pumping through him and making him itch to move. The creature has retreated a bit, tentacles calm once again as it watches Geralt approach, feet placed precisely where he means, stance solid, sword raised.

It really is a hideous thing—the description was spot on about the octopus-squid parts, but Jaskier is mildly intrigued by the almost human upper-half, the way it almost looks like it’s wearing a high-collared coat typical of pirate period fashion.

He is, inexplicably, put in mind of Davy Jones, and this is truly shaping up to be one of their weirder hunts for sure.

He must laugh or make a noise of some kind, because the creature suddenly jerks its head in his direction, and Jaskier has only a beat to think before it’s coming at him, a horrible sound erupting from it as it lunges, and Jaskier scrambles back, nearly dropping the flashlight.

It opens its mouth, and Jaskier is frozen in place as a fine, chilled mist pours from it, immediately engulfing him. He lets out a yelp, fingers twitching and his skin stinging, eyes watering and doubling over. When he breathes it in, he chokes on the sickly sweetness of it, saccharine to the point of tasting sour and rancid.

“Jaskier!”

He coughs, falling to his knees, trying to avoid the tentacles as he crawls away from it. The creature’s attention is drawn back to Geralt, and Jaskier claws at the sand to pull himself out of the mist.

“I’m fine!” he shouts back, though it’s very much belied by the hacking retch that follows. The sting in his skin is abating slowly, and his eyes don’t hurt quite so much, though there’s now a deep ache in his bones. “I think it’s just meant to stun! Not poisonous!”

“Oh, so now you’re an expert? You were the one complaining we don’t know what it is!”

Jaskier hears Geralt grunt as the thing launches itself at him again, screeching when it comes up against the silver sword and another burst of Aard. He huffs, spitting up the taste of rancid sour candy, and manages to roll his eyes. His witcher sometimes, honestly.

“I’m still alive!” he shoots back, gripping the flashlight he’d dropped when the creature came at him. “That’s got to mean something!”

“Yeah,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier can hear the eye roll, “it means you’re fucking lucky, you idiot!”

When Jaskier gets the beam of light trained back on where he thinks Geralt is, he sees him taking swings at the creature, aiming to cut off the tentacles or even one of its arms when it makes to grab him. He lands a solid hit to its chest, knocking it back, and it roars in outrage, backing away and floating higher in the air.

Jaskier sees its next attack in slow motion—the beam of the flashlight catches its attention as he moves to follow the creature, to keep it in his sight. It looks directly at him, face contorted, and rears up again, tentacles twisting beneath the tails of its coat. Jaskier is rooted to the spot, watching it with wide eyes, unable to move, foreboding and fear gripping his limbs and keeping him still.

“Jaskier, move!”

But he can’t—and the creature dives, an ear-shattering screech piercing the air, and Geralt is quick but not quick enough, not this time, and Jaskier forces his legs to work, to move, to run—

—but it’s too late.

Cold, slick appendages wrap around him, dripping with mucus or slime or some combination of both, Jaskier isn’t sure, but it makes his skin crawl and his stomach heave as he’s pulled from the ground. He wants to yell, to scream, but his mouth is full of the slick-mucus-slime as the creature pulls him into itself, and tiny, razor-sharp needles latch onto him like teeth, piercing his skin and drawing blood, and he’s suddenly very dizzy, and it feels as if his brain is on fire, being pulled out of his ears and nose and mouth and eyes, suffocating and choking on his own spinal cord, and he hurts, he hurts so much, please stop just stop please please please just stop stop let go let go—

“JASKIER!”

There is a roar, and a squelch, and a squeal, and Jaskier is suddenly falling, dropping back to the ground, the wind knocked from his lungs as his knees buckle beneath him. He gasps for air, coughing and spitting out the rotten taste of dead flesh, and he wipes away the sticky substance from his eyes to try to stop the burning. His face and neck sting, as well as his hands, and he can tell he’s bleeding.

Gods, he’s going to need so many bandages and Neosporin.

The dizziness has abated, thank the gods, and he can think clearly. He looks up, squinting in the dark, and the flashlight has fallen so that it illuminates the space in front of him where Geralt stands, steel sword now drawn, held protectively in front of Jaskier’s head while the silver sword is brandished in his other hand.

The creature drips a sickly colored substance—blood, maybe—and cries out, lunging at Geralt in one last, desperate attempt at an attack.

Quick, graceful as a dancer, Geralt brings the steel sword up and forward, shoving it into the center of the creature’s chest.

It screeches, thrashes, arms swinging wildly, and makes another grab at Geralt—

—and Geralt shoves the silver sword through its head, deep into its brain. He breathes heavily, muscles tense, braced in the sand, and with a yell he brings the swords toward himself, cutting through the creature and yanking blood and organs and meat and flesh along with it, and the creature dies with an agonized sound, dissolving into the air in a mist of shimmering blue dust.

And it’s over.

The tension stringing through his own body snaps, and Jaskier sinks towards the ground, unable to hold himself up. A long, silent breath leaves him, heart pounding against his ribs, and he closes his eyes as the adrenaline fades.

Warm hands cup his cheeks, trailing gentle and feather-light over his skin, and Jaskier melts into Geralt’s touch, melts into Geralt.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks, and his voice is tight and thin, worry and anger threaded into his normal rough tone. “Jaskier. Are you okay?”

“I’m alright,” Jaskier says, and enjoys the attention. He’s absolutely shot in the brain, is what, and he doesn’t want to think. “Looks worse than it is, I’m sure.”

Geralt growls, something dissatisfied and upset. “It looks like you were mauled, Jas. Gods, I’m so sorry.”

“Battle scars,” Jaskier says, waving it off. He reaches up to grip Geralt’s arms, hanging on tight—grounding himself. The slime from the creature squishes between his fingers and he makes a face. He’s disgusting right now. “I’ll heal.”

Despite being covered in strange muck and probably half an intestine, Geralt leans forward and presses his lips to Jaskier’s forehead, lingering and inhaling the smell of him. It can’t be pleasant, not covered in monster goop like he is, but the tension leaves Geralt’s shoulders and he relaxes too, wraps Jaskier in his arms and holds him close.

They stay like that for a long moment, feeling each other alive and breathing and well, if not covered in strange substances and blood. Eventually, Geralt pulls away, no doubt looking over Jaskier with his heightened witcher sight. He makes a sound in his throat, but at Jaskier’s exasperated look, he bites his tongue and doesn’t comment, which Jaskier appreciates.

They’re alive, and the monster is dead—Jaskier will take his victories where he can.

Geralt puts his arm around Jaskier and they hobble to their feet, ready to head back to the little bed and breakfast. They pause so Geralt can look at the remains, mostly just entrails and blood, and Jaskier holds the flashlight pointed at the mess on the sand, wrinkling his nose when Geralt steps over to inspect it.

“If you touch any of that, you’re sleeping on the floor tonight,” Jaskier warns him, shuddering in revulsion.

Geralt, standing back up from where he was poking around in the gore, gives him a cheeky grin and holds out his hand. In it, crusted in drying blood, and oozing something out the side, is what looks like a lump of grey matter, and Jaskier thanks his lucky stars he hasn’t eaten in almost twelve hours.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Geralt says teasingly, and Jaskier realizes it’s the thing’s heart that he’s holding out to Jaskier.

It’s disgusting and vile and Jaskier wants to set it on fire so the ooze doesn’t get on his shoes—

—and it’s probably the most romantic thing Geralt could have done for him on a night like tonight.

With a shake of his head, Jaskier reaches out and takes the gross thing in his hands. It feels as slimy as it looks, and Jaskier kind of wants to throw up at the smell.

“I hate you,” he says, with feeling, “and I love you, you insufferable witcher.”

Geralt just laughs, and Jaskier supposes it’s only in the spirit of the day that he shut him up with a kiss that tastes like creature ooze and stale breath mint.

#the witcher #geraskier #fics.

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platypanthewriter · 5 years ago

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Strangest 1: Pandora’s Trunk

Strangest takes place the same night as the climax of season two, after Steve and Billy’s fight and Joyce Byer’s BF died. (Did Tumblr eat chapters 1-3? Did I never post them? I do not know! I couldn’t find them, so here’s the first!)

It totally made sense that Max would stay with Lucas and Dustin in the blanket fort that was taking over the living area of the Byers house. And of course El and Mike had laid claim to the table, where it looked like they were assembling crowns and helmets, of Will’s design.

Mrs. Byers and Hopper had taken over Adulting, which was a relief, and Steve had ducked out amidst a general explosion of affectionate profanity and hair ruffling. Through the window, he could see them tearing hot chocolate packets open--he watched Mrs. Byers teasing the kids with different mismatched mugs, and cocked his head. He didn’t really fit in there, he thought, in the blanket fort, or in the tense kitchen after the kids retreated to their realm. He definitely didn’t belong wherever Jonathan and Nancy had disappeared to. It made sense for him to leave.

The fog had lifted, and he willed his shoulders to unclench, all the while trying to figure out the closest place to his bed to hide his bat. An evening project to keep him from thinking about his completely empty house. His house was also fine, since he was not injured, or twelve years old, and had working light switches. Logically, it was over. His brain just wasn’t catching up to breaking news.

He sat more heavily against the Camaro, and it thumped back, which provoked an, again, entirely logical windmilling tumble as Steve tried to keep the bat and both eyes pointed at it all the while scrambling away on three limbs. After a moment of eye-burning terror, he recognized the pattern of sound as kicking and a lot of things Max’ brother probably didn’t need to be calling her, and he stood with a nervous spin, yanking his jacket straight.

He took a breath and held it, rolling his shoulders as he looked back at the cheerily lit Byer’s house with every light on, and back to the car bouncing with the booted feet slamming against the inside of the trunk. After several paced circuits of the car, Billy’s voice had stopped threatening. He was laughing, slamming himself around in there, his voice getting higher. Steve scrabbled at his hair, sliding his hands down to cover his face. He really wasn’t sure any kind of logic applied to Billy Hargrove.

If he let Billy out here, he might just run in there and Hopper would have to shoot him, in front of a ton of little shitheads who had barely escaped being eaten by monsters today. If he just...drove him to his house, somebody would eventually let him out, and...would Max let him out?! Steve groaned to himself, long and slow, because if they were anything like Steve’s parents, Billy Hargrove’d be no trouble to anyone ever again, after he died because nobody looked for him and Steve Harrington knowingly left a human being in the trunk of a car.

Steve took a few deep breaths, idly walking back around to regard the open car window, and the keys on the seat. He looked back at the house for one long hopeful moment, to see Hopper patting Joyce on the back as she threw weak punches into his shoulders, flailing before he caught her against his jacket. They swayed there in silhouette, their shoulders shaking. Steve sighed. He kicked the trunk. The thumping stopped, then exploded again, and Steve banged again.

“Listen,” he started, and the banging stopped, for long enough that Steve thought it would have been better if he had something to say. “I didn’t leave you in there, and I can’t let you out--” the banging started again in earnest, along with a lot of “fuck”s, “bitch”s, and demands about Max--it was a good thing Hopper’d put music on in the house. “Max is fine! She’s inside--I’ll let you out somewhere else, do you want me to take you home, or--” the thumping stopped.

“Where the fuck is that freak, I’ll kill her, I’ll kill you, you fucking--” Steve banged the trunk again, and Billy pounded back, screaming incoherently.

“Mrs. Byers called your house, Max is staying over!” he tried, on the off-chance this could just suddenly turn into a normal, post-monster, partially kidnapped conversation. “I’LL TAKE YOU HOME, THEN,” he said loudly into the seam of the trunk, and Billy started struggling again.

“Max has to go home,” the muffled, furious voice yelled back, pounding and scraping at the inside of the trunk loudly enough that he was probably injuring himself, and Steve thought it was completely unfair the death threats were still audible. “I’ll be back here the second you open this fucking trunk, Harrington, I’ll drag her back by the fucking hair, I’ll tie it to my car, I’ll run over her corpse, I’ll drive through their fucking house--”

Peaceful options exhausted, Steve climbed in the car, leaning his face on the steering wheel as the car shook with Billy’s screaming fury, and took another deep breath. Count on Steve Harrington to forget how to breathe, he thought, only been doing it for sixteen years. Only Steve Harrington wouldn’t have figured it out enough to let it run in the background. By the time they were halfway to Steve’s house, Billy’d stopped yelling. Occasionally there’d be another kick.

By the time Steve pulled in the garage, he was worried enough about exhaust fumes as a new method of involuntary manslaughter he ran right around and banged on the trunk about six times. “Hargrove! William Whatever Hargrove, you answer me, say you’re alive.” He leaned against it, panting, feeling like he’d aged sixty years in body and vocabulary. The trunk thumped back, and Steve slid down to sit against it, reminding himself to breathe, which was apparently something he did now. He’d probably fail his remaining classes, trying to study while remembering to breathe. How would he hold down a job? He’d show up for the interview and have to say “I’m Steve Harrington, and sometimes I forget to breathe.”

The trunk was silent again, and after a while getting his lungs some breathing practice again--maybe they’d take to it--Steve thumped it again. “We’re at my place. If I let you out and call for pizza will you please not kill anyone.” It came out tiredly even.

“What the fuck,” came from the trunk. “Gonna get the police here, tell ‘em I attacked you like a psycho, have your mommy and daddy hold yo--”

Steve banged the heel of his hand on the trunk again. “Nobody else is here. Look, it’s pizza or trunk. We can figure this out in the morning. Promise you won’t do anything to Max.”

The banging in the trunk was taking on a rhythm, and Steve banged over it. “Fucker. Tell me you won’t rat Max out, I’ll let you out.”

Billy began screaming lyrics to his beat, and Steve groaned, letting his head thunk against the trunk, before doing the math on how long Billy’d been in there, and how little he knew about the random syringe Max had shot him up with, and he opened the trunk. Billy’s ankles and wrists were duct-taped together, wedged in, and he swore roundly as he tried to cover his face. “Come on,” Steve sighed, standing to the side where he hoped he was out of range, but reaching over to rip the duct tape off Billy’s ankles. Billy was laughing, inexplicably, holding his arms over his face.

Steve sighed. “Can you walk.”

“Anyway you want, Princess,” Billy giggled.

“Come on,” Steve stood over by the door, arms crossed as he watched Billy kick a bit out the side of the trunk, then get himself rolled sideways. He scrabbled before landing on the cement with a thud, and lay there, laughing harder. It was starting to sound growly again, and Steve rethought his impulse to offer help. “I’m getting pepperoni. With olives.”

When Billy finally staggered in from the garage, Steve had called for the pizza. He turned to see the door slam shut, and Billy slide down it, gnawing at the duct tape around his wrists. His hands were purple.

Steve slammed a few kitchen drawers and stalked over with the carving knife, and Billy went very still, watching him crouch, and allowing him to pull the duct tape close enough to slide the knife up.

When Steve finished slicing, he tossed the knife behind him at random, grabbing one purple hand and rubbing it until it felt like a hand again and not a dissection frog. “Jesus. Max thought you were gonna kill me. And Lucas. Don’t sell her out.”

Billy drew a shaky breath. “And you’re not gonna tell your fancy lawyer dad I broke your face.”

“...my dad’s not a lawyer,” Steve frowned at him, --“Hopper’d probably have locked you up.” He placed the warmed hand on Billy’s knee, and moved on to rub life back into the other one.

“So I behave,” Billy sneered. “Be a good little cunt.”

“Wish the fucking pizza would get here,” Steve muttered, sinking down against the arm of the couch that let him see the whole living room, kitchen, and stairs. When the pizzas arrived, his kidnapping victim shoved by him to drop into that favoured spot on the couch, and Steve sighed.

When morning came, Steve called Max, and she agreed to Billy picking her up for a ride home. After he left, Steve stood in his silent house, getting a little more breathing practise in as his vision started to haze around the edges, thinking of all the things Billy Hargrove wasn’t, like an underground tunneler, or a demogorgon. Billy Hargrove was from Risky Business, not Alien. He was the sweaty “enhanced human” Khan.

Steve forgot about his breathing regimen entirely as he imagined Billy Hargrove in the cast from Grease, and laughed ‘til he choked. Shaking his head, he leaned back against the door, and rubbed his face. All day at school when his brain started to remind him of the previous week, he’d imagine Billy Hargrove as Danny Zuko, shimmying down his Camaro with Tommy behind him trying to carry a tune.

Hopper called that day, to tell him that Mr. Hargrove had called the cops the last two nights on Billy driving around at night, and they’d escorted him home from close to Steve’s house. “In case he ran somebody over drunk. I hear stuff, kid.” The doubt came clearly through his voice. “I don’t know that he’s headin’ for you, but I don’t know that he’s not.” Steve took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, completing the line for himself--maybe keep that bat handy.

“Thanks, Hopper,” he tried the nickname aloud.

Hopper huffed a laugh and hung up.

Billy Hargrove was back at Steve’s house three nights later, serenading under his window. Steve looked longingly at his ski boots, but lifted the sash without projectiles in hand. “What the hell,” he shouted back.

“Lemme in or I’ll tell my dad you offer rides to Max all the time!” Billy yelled up. “Alone!”

Steve, who had gone to an in-class-only new sleeping schedule, suddenly wished his vocal cords could produce the earsplitting rage screeches from Ghostbusters, but let his head thud against the glass in surrender before he went down and unlocked the door. “The fuck do you want, Hargrove,” he squinted up at the moon. “Are you a werewolf, is this where I die.” Later, he’d think, that moment would have been the time to call Hopper.

Billy shouldered him aside as he opened the door, cigarette in hand and reeking of sweat, cologne, beer, and...cooking sherry? It was both reminiscent of and an improvement on Steve’s great-aunt, who usually smelled like baby powder, cat pee, and creme de menthe. Steve’s lungs apparently appreciated it, because they decided to do their job for once without his constantly reminding them. He scrabbled angrily at his hair, before tromping into the kitchen to start making some Folger’s. When the microwave beeped, he stirred in about half the remaining jar of crystals, and went to see why there was no noise happening anywhere.

The couch was covered in Violent Highschool Stranger, under a blanket. Steve dropped into a chair, watching the knee-lumps and elbow-lump stay very still. He wondered whether he’d sleep better upstairs with an unpredictable problem on the couch, and whether suggesting a movie would get his face beaten in--with admirable calm, he thought.

He also thought of not living alone--having a mom like Mrs. Byers, or a sister like Nancy, and imagined what they'd do if they came in and saw he'd brought Billy Hargrove, the guy who almost beat him to death, into his house twice. They'd probably murder him, he thought, and then murder Billy. And then him again--this had to be at least a three-murder event on the Stupidity Scale. Hopper would probably have even more to say. It was a strangely comforting thought, except they weren’t here, and Billy Hargrove was. He didn’t seem to want to break Steve’s nose again, but then he hadn’t given that much warning the first time, either.

Between Steve’s new not-sleeping regime and thinking about the Byer’s ceiling, map taped everywhere, Billy’s fists hitting his face, the world had just started to tilt a bit when the blanket said “Take a picture, Princess, you can jack off to it at night,” and Steve lifted his coffee stew and breathed in the smell.

“What didja think I did with that blanket,” he tried, and watched it get flung as Billy scrambled as far from it as possible, thudding onto his back off the side of the couch, and Steve realized he was laughing again, wheezing with his hand against his face. When he finally looked up, Billy was brushing himself off, straightening his jacket, and Steve imagined the look on his own face after his trunk had thumped back. “Nah, I didn’t.” He patted his lip where the grin had stretched it, glancing down to check for blood. “Much.” When Billy’s hackles raised further, Steve shouted over his rising glower. “How about Star Wars?”

“Hell is wrong with you,” Billy muttered, but settled in the corner of the couch, apparently waiting for Steve to set up the movie. By the time C-3P0 was trying to get to Obi-Wan, Billy’d passed out against the arm, his boots tucked up between the cushions. The smell of cooking sherry intensified, and the glint Steve noticed against the black leather and laces proved to be a hunk of broken glass. There was more in the boot treads, and he could see a couple very small pieces caught in Billy’s shirt and hair. It was hard not to imagine the bank-robbing explosion Billy Hargrove would be walking away from, but his car was parked right out front, hard to miss, if the cops were looking for him. Steve had never seen a SWAT team. Count on them to miss out on actual monsters and chase Billy Hargrove to his house, he thought, indignantly sleepy, and shivered awake hours later, to fogging breath and the white noise of the TV. He groaned, leaning forward to flap one arm at the remote, and switched off the TV. In the dark, he realized the slight rasp of Billy’s breathing had stopped.

“...don’t die on my couch,” he mumbled, frowning into the darkness, which remained dark, but the normal, fridge-humming kind of dark, not the strange blue fluttering darkness where Dustin had screamed. He breathed in stale cigarette smoke and cooking sherry.

Billy snorted. “Just for you.”

He was back in the safer kind of movie, again, Steve thought muzzily, kids having sleepovers. There were movies where killers interrupted sleepovers, but they were humans, not monsters, and anyway he was not actually having a slumber party with Billy Hargrove: Probable Bank Robber. He felt around next to the couch for the blanket, and pulled it clumsily over them. It occurred to him he hadn’t actually asked. “Sooooo...you rob a bank?” he tried, keeping it casual.

“Sure did,” Billy scoffed, “--shot four guys, too. And there’s a stolen police car out there.”

“Oh, it’s that kind of movie.” Steve squirmed down against the back of the couch, letting his head fall against his arms in the safe darkness. The blanket fell over his face.

“You’re not going to call the cops and tell them you’ve got a bank robber?” Billy kicked him, and Steve batted weakly at his foot, eyes sliding shut again.

“Watch it, you--broken glass...shoe.”

He woke to the fading smell of cooking sherry, and blinked slowly at the ceiling, the sudden deep sleep disorienting after he’d thought he’d never sleep again outside of Biology class. “...wha--um,” he muttered, scrambling to look around. There was no sign of his home invader. He wondered how many murders “falling asleep with Billy ‘bank punching’ Hargrove a foot away” rated on the Idiot Scale, he had to be up to, oh, at least four. He felt a weird temptation to ask Nancy before first period. He fiddled with his locker, considering it. The line between her brows deepened, and probably became downright thunderous as he grinned awkwardly at she and Jonathan, turned on his heel, and walked off.

That day after basketball, in the showers, Tommy guffawed at the hand-shaped bruises on Billy’s upper arms. “Where were you last night? All night long, huh?” He leered, shifted to making long groans and grunting noises, and before Steve could catch himself, words fell out of his mouth.

“Those are huge, though, is your girlfriend Sylvester Stallone or--” he yelped as Billy shoved him against the wall, grin manic.

“What you trying to say, pretty boy King Steve?”

“I think he’s calling you a--” Tommy smacked the wall and showerhead on his way to the floor as Billy shoved his face. “A fucking faggot,” he yelled triumphantly, from the floor, as Steve wondered why he was allowed to open his mouth, ever, at all, and Billy tried to swing around and punch him and almost fell on his ass.

“It was my fucking dad, okay, it’s no big deal. My dad,” Billy was screaming between them, as they both dodged around, until the teacher and half the class shoved their way in and pulled him away. Steve fled. He dressed wondering how many more deserved Stupidity Murders he’d earned, getting in the communal shower with the guy who’d beaten his face in, and then opening his dumb fuckhead mouth and suggesting he’d had sex with Rambo. Nancy was in the hall listening to Billy yelling inside, when Steve ducked out of the locker room with his pants on but half his head still soapy, and she helped him rinse his hair in the drinking fountain.

“I think you and Hopper and Jonathan’s mom need to murder me about eleven times,” he told her, laughing, as he wiped water from his eyes. “I think I just asked Hargrove if he was gay, in the shower.” Her mouth fell open.

“Uh,” her eyebrows drew together as she looked at the locker room, but her mouth quirked, “--should we be running, then?”

“I probably should carry my bat,” he laughed, feeling around his ears one more time for soap, then grimacing and digging around in his bag for a sweaty gym shirt to rub on his head. When he pulled it out, she looked even more disgusted than he felt.

“I’ve got dry clothes in my locker. You can at least use a clean shirt.” She stuck her tongue out, trotting confidently off. “Bleah.”

Steve’s unfriendly neighborhood home invader didn’t reappear for over a week, but falling asleep to movies apparently worked, so he re-watched the beginnings of Rambo, Tron, and The Last Unicorn, discovered he could not fall asleep to Monty Python, and bought a much larger jar of Folger’s for mornings when even the dulcet tones of Winnie the Pooh hadn’t let his lungs work through the night without reminder.

The next time Billy showed up he just banged on the door, startling Steve out of the haze he’d fallen into during a Secret of NIMH song. Steve groaned, flapped unproductively at the remote to stop the animated mice, and then stumbled to his feet to make the door-abuse stop. The pounding continued through his shouted “I’m coming! I’m coming! ” until Billy Hargrove nearly fell in on top of him, half naked, and began hopping into the other half of his jeans.

“...what the hell.” Steve stared.

“What is that noise.” Billy scrambled to pull his jacket on, shivering, and nearly elbowed Steve in the face.

“...uh, it’s, um, mice?” Steve blinked at Billy’s face, which looked like it needed some frozen peas. “Uh. Lemme get you some frozen peas.” Billy tried to slam by him as usual, but Steve wasn’t good at basketball for nothing, and slid by the predictable motion on the way to the freezer. He tossed over the peas, proudly not adding to his Stupidity Gauge by getting within five feet of the half-naked feral in his kitchen. It seemed unlikely Billy had accused anyone of having sex with Sylvester Stallone in a communal shower, but the parallels to his Eleven On The Stupidity Murder Scale day were hard to discount. The shiner he was sporting looked exactly like Steve would have gotten if he hadn't escaped to the hallway. Focus, he thought.

“Make me some of that coffee,” Billy was shivering, glaring at the peas. If he’d been anyone else, Steve would have teasingly explained how to press frozen peas against a black eye, but given their last interaction, he just let his lips thin.

“Hot chocolate? I’ve got marshmallows.”

The furious disbelief Billy had focused on the peas turned to Steve’s face, amplified. “Did you just offer me marshmallows.”

“I have some,” Steve sighed, taking down his blue mug, and one that said Happy Anniversary. After a pause, he returned the anniversary mug to the cupboard, and grabbed one with a robin on it, filled them both with water, and stuck the robin in the microwave.

“Marshmallows.”

“Look, if you don’t like marshmallows, don’t eat any.” He pulled out the bag, the Swiss Miss, and the instant coffee.

“Rainbow marshmallows,” Billy observed scornfully. “You’re girlier than Max.”

“Everyone’s girlier than Max, except Hopper and Mrs. Byers,” Steve sighed. “Coffee or chocolate. I mix them sometimes.”

“You rebel,” Billy snorted. “Gimme some marshmallows. You call the Sheriff ‘Hopper’?” He held out a hand, finally lifting the other to his face, and wincing as he placed the peas against the swelling bruise. Steve had seen enough marshmallow bags absconded with to just drop some in the outstretched hand, the bag protectively at his side. He watched Billy start to drop the whole handful in his mouth, wince as he tried to open his mouth wide, and begin eating one at a time. “...kinda got to know him. Me and El and the, y’know,” he held his hand at waist level, picturing Dustin’s indignant protest, “Muppet babies.”

“Yeah, how’d that happen?”

Steve reminded himself to breathe. “Barb died. Bob died. You should be careful, you’ve got half the ‘b’s in your name.” He turned away as the microwave beeped.

“What.” Billy’s eyes narrowed.

“Is it raining?” Steve asked. “Why are you all wet?”

“Fuck off,” Billy said around his mouthful of marshmallows, and Steve shrugged, presenting the steaming mug, a spoon, the box of chocolate mix, and the Folger’s.

“I give you the bird,” he said grandly, tossing his mug in the microwave. Billy snorted, dumping three chocolate packets in the mug, and making grabby hands for the marshmallows.

Steve surrendered the bag, leaning against the counter by the microwave. He watched Billy wipe the water away that was trickling down his neck, and try to pretend he wasn’t shaking, dripping wet, in November. Steve stomped off for a towel, returning to throw it to Billy just before the microwave beeped. “Gimme back those girly marshmallows,” Steve began dumping powders in his mug, stirring industriously, before topping it with a pile of rainbow.

Billy stalked off to take Steve’s spot on the couch, before sliding off to flip through the laserdiscs. “Gonna punch these mice,” he muttered, lifting one, and flipped it to read the back. "You have movies for grownups? Whaddaya do when there aren't, like, singing frogs, you just fall asleep or--?"

"Oh no, not that one," Steve breathed, horrified. "That's Nancy's, it gave me nightmares."

"...IRA bombers?" Billy frowned up incredulously.

"No! It's a romance, it's awful, the guy falls in love with the girl and she has a dick and she thought he KNEW--"

"What," Billy's voice had gone flat.

"That night I dreamt I was in bed with Nancy for the first time and she took my clothes off and I was dickless with a secret pussy--"

"Everyone knows that, Harrington--"

"Shut your face, it was horrible, she just kept patting my hand sadly and she's a problem solver, you know, she kept going to the kitchen and getting, like, a banana, and the pepper grinder--"

The laserdisc sleeve drummed softly at Billy's head as he shook with laughter.

"And she just looked more and more disappointed and finally she said she had to leave, she couldn't cope with a relationship where she had to satisfy herself with a garlic press, and she was sure I'd be happier moving on--" Steve had been laughing too, at the image of Nancy earnestly presenting him with carnally unsatisfactory kitchen gadgets, but he sighed, rubbing his face. "Usually when I dreamed she'd dump me it was because I was invisible, or she was the president and she caught me setting up a kegstand in the--"

"I'm gonna call you 'Secret Pussy' forever," Billy interrupted.

"You will the hell not--"

"What?!" Billy laughed harder.

"I'm not a secret pussy, I'm secretly Kurt Russell, all my..." he slid further down in the couch, curling around his snickers, "--ten out of ten trick-or-treaters agree."

"You telling me you're half-blind, because it'd explain--" The doorbell rang, over and over, like a blaring red alert, along with voices and the thump of bicycles against the side of the house, and Steve scrambled up to reach the entryway before Dustin, Mike, and Will all fell in at once. "We need hot chocolate," Dustin said confidently, and Steve grimaced, thinking fast, before inwardly throwing his hands up and outwardly yelling "BILLY! Put on the kettle for hot chocolate!"

Silence fell, all three kids going still, but after a few seconds the couch creaked, and Billy walked into the kitchen, and the sink turned on.

“Is he holding you hostage,” Dustin whispered, eyes wide as he leaned around Steve’s shoulders.

“He’s probably eating marshmallows.” Steve raised his eyebrows at them, wondering whether it was stupid or just evil to allow the kids around Billy, who’d settled in, in a weird way, but also probably bit occasionally. Unprompted. He didn’t want any of his stupidity murders to be because someone got actually murdered.

“Will came for a sleepover,” Mike reported, glancing into the kitchen warily. “And we were gaming, and it was fine, but then there was a short in the kitchen and sparks and--”

Will sniffled, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve. “I can’t call my mom,” he rolled his thin shoulders back, firming his chin as he looked up at Steve, “--she’ll never let me out again--”

“He started crying all crazy,” Dustin put in, ever helpful, to a general elbowing, “--and I said, Steve has hot chocolate, and a bat.”

“...ah,” Steve glanced at the kitchen. “Did you guys let her know you were coming here? So she doesn’t call and find you guys--”

“We called,” Mike laughed apologetically. “We said you invited us over.”

Billy tromped back out to the living room, presumably to sneer at singing mice, as Steve herded the tiny assholes towards hot chocolate.

“Why is he here,” Dustin whispered, very loudly, with his usual degree of subtlety. Mike and Will nodded, and Steve laughed, rubbing his face.

“It’s fine, we have classes together, he’s not going to do anything,” he tried weakly, and Will’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you need a distraction while we phone Hopper?” he asked softly under the noise of Steve getting more mugs and batting Dustin away from stress-eating all the marshmallows.

“Dustin could get your bat,” Mike suggested.

“Thanks, man, send Dustin out there,” Dustin sighed loudly.

“Dustin, get more marshmallows out of the garage,” Steve pointed, trying to channel Nancy’s no-nonsense tones. He flipped off the stove, opting for the hot chocolate prep that kept them all in the kitchen for a longer time. “Will, fill these up and microwave them one by one for two and a half minutes. Mike--” he glanced around, “--get spoons and see if there’s still whipped cream in the fridge.”

They slowly moved to obey, watching him closely as he began rifling the cupboard for candy canes. Steve vindictively didn’t point out the spoon drawer to Mike. It was one thing, he thought, expecting his stupidity assessments from Hopper or Nancy, but he was not having it from children that did things like try to raise demodogs in turtle cages.

Billy had settled in Steve's spot on the couch, as always--Steve rolled his eyes--and Steve headed for the other end, before noticing the kids standing in strained poses like awkward chainsaw art. "Ugh," Steve sighed, before dropping next to Billy, whose shoulders hunched around his hot chocolate.

"Okay, Will, you pick," he pointed.

"Pick this, Will," Dustin held up the animated Lord of the Rings.

"Shut up, Dustin," Mike threw a pillow at him, and Will yelped, dodging aside, before grabbing it and swiping Dustin.

Steve grinned. “I found the candy canes,” he told Billy, who turned another disbelieving look on him, as Will smacked Mike with a pillow, and it turned into a free-for-all between the three of them until Dustin crawled under the melee and put on The Hobbit. As soon as it loaded up, he plonked himself down next to Steve. Will sat cautiously next to him, and Mike dropped at the end, the quieter two studying their chocolate as Dustin elbowed Steve.

“Man, I been wanting to watch these without Lucas, he hates Return of the King--”

Mike grimaced over towards Billy at the sound of Lucas’ name. “Well, it is kinda silly. It’s for little kids.”

“It’s for Steve. He has to have the singing in there,” Billy put in, and Dustin leaned around to stare at him.

“You’re another reason I’m glad Lucas ain’t here, man, you a Nazi or what?”

“Neo Nazi,” Mike corrected quietly. “They’re called Neo Nazis, it’s not 1945--”

“Look, it’s Hobbiton,” Steve sighed into his mug.

“Or the Ku Klux Klan,” Will put in, “Like in the South.”

"No," Billy said finally, and after several seconds Dustin laughed.

"No?! No, you just slammed him into a wall? No, you just told Max to stay away from his kind?"

"I didn't say that."

Steve could feel Billy's entire body going tense, and shut his eyes, breathing in the blended chocolate, coffee, and candy cane smells from his mug. Twelve murders worth of stupidity, today, he thought, wondering whether he'd make it to the phone, and whether one of the kids would save him with the bat, and whether any of his Idiocy Tally would hit them, in a permanent sense.

"Why'd you beat him up, then?" Mike asked pointedly. Eleven's boyfriend felt no physical fear, apparently. Reasonable, if Eleven were actually present.

“Okay,” Steve tried to think of what Mrs. Byers would say, “--uh, whatever reasons he had, they weren’t good enough, can we all say ‘aye’ on that one?”

“Aye! ” proclaimed Dustin and Mike in a shout, Will firmly, and, thankfully, Billy, sounding a little rough.

“And unless he does it again, it’s between he, Lucas, and Max?” Steve continued, pushing his luck.

“Aaaaye,” came the sullen chorus from Steve’s right, and a fervent “Aye,” in low tones from Billy.

Steve sat back, wide-eyed, as his heart slowly stopped pounding. An hour later, his head was draped back over the couch as he snored softly, and Mike had quietly left and returned to drop the bat full of nails across the coffee table. Dustin pointed at it, speaking in his louder-than-speech stage whisper.

“That’s Steve’s bat. Look, it’s got blood on it. That’s bully blood.” He grabbed it and pointed it at Billy, who slammed his elbow into Steve.

“Harrington. Harrington. Is that blood on that bat.” Steve tried to roll sideways, growling, but Billy elbowed him in his chest, this time. “Harrington. Did you kill someone.” He glared around. “Did you guys cover up a murder?”

(I think Tumblr ate my posts for chapters 1-3, so I’m reposting them!)

Strangest chapter 1/chapter 2/chapter 3/chapter 4/chapter 5/chapter 6/chapter 7/chapter 8/chapter 9/chapter 10/ But really I’d recommend reading it on Ao3 under peterqpan, scrolling through it on Tumblr sounds crazymaking

#Strangest #platypan #platypan fic #Harringrove #stranger things #Fix-it #After season 2 #WIP #They grouch around each other like wary cats #Eventually they fall asleep on each other #It's soft

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paintingwithdarkness · 5 years ago

Note

First of all I just wanted to say how awesome your drabbles are! I love reading them. If you’re up for it, 41 with bluepulse?

“Go back to sleep.”

Bart knew it was a bad night. They both still had them occasionally. With as much trauma as they faced on the daily being superheroes, it was expected that they would have nightmares from time to time. Some nights it was only a quick scare that would cause he or Jaime to bolt up with a gasp, and the fright could be soothed away with a few whispered words of comfort and a kiss. Other nights the dreams persisted, and one of them would wake up screaming, crying, and shaking multiple times throughout the night. On those occasions, there was usually nothing that could be done. Comforts and cuddling helped, but as soon as he or Jaime (whichever one of them happened to be the victim on that particular night) closed their eyes again, the horrifying images flooded back, and the process began all over again.

Tonight, Jaime was the one who had been struck by the dream terrors, and Bart was left to the responsibility of comforting his boyfriend and soothing him in the aftermath. Already, Jaime had had two scares, and Bart was praying that there wouldn’t be another. He hated seeing his lover so upset over something that had been constructed by his own mind, and something he had no control over. If it were up to him, Bart would barge into Jaime’s nightmares and fight whoever or whatever was causing his boyfriend such anguish.

The first dream had been the omen telling Bart that tonight would be a bad one. He and Jaime had only been in bed together for about an hour when Jaime started to toss and turn, whimpering in his sleep. Being the lighter sleeper of the both of them, it had immediately woken Bart up. At first, he had just watched to see if the moment would pass, but when tears started leaking out from under his boyfriend’s eyelids, Bart knew it was time to wake him up. He gently shook Jaime’s shoulder, trying to rouse him from whatever terrifying situation was playing out in his head. It took a minute or so, but when Jaime finally did awake, a sob escaped his lips and he immediately broke down.

Bart had wrapped his arms around him, gently rubbing his back, and pulling him close so that Jaime could press his tear-soaked face into the curve of Bart’s clavicle. The younger man gently ran his fingers through the older’s raven locks, whispering sweet nothings into his ears, and trying to bring him back to a state of calm. By the time Jaime’s eyes had dried, and his grip on the back of Bart’s shirt no longer threatened to rip the material, fifteen minutes had passed.

Bart had gently wiped the rest of the tears away, placed a comforting kiss to Jaime’s temple and then rolled them both into a more comfortable position to fall back asleep. Usually Bart preferred being the little spoon, and it was easier that way with their height difference, but he knew on nights like this, Jaime liked to be held, and he felt a sense of security encased in Bart’s arms, rather than the other way around. With a whispered, “I love you,” and another kiss to the top of Jaime’s head, both of them had drifted back into sleep.

The second time was arguably worse because there were no tears to hide the haunted look in his boyfriend’s eyes. Jaime had scared himself and Bart awake with a blood-curdling scream so loud, Bart was sure all of their neighbors had heard it as well. The older man had sat there, panting, cold sweat slicking his skin, and a tremble wracking him so hard the bed was shaking as well. In situations like this, Bart knew he had to be careful about touching. Despite his boyfriend having just been asleep, Khaji Da was usually pretty active, and responded to all of Jaime’s vital signs accordingly. With Jaime still in a fight or flight mindset and physicality, Bart had to be cautious, otherwise he might just wind up having his arm blown off by a plasma cannon.

“Babe, do you want me to help you?” Bart asked him. It was the default question they both resorted to in this situation. “Are you okay?” was a dumb thing to ask because they both already knew that the answer would be no. Waking up from the kinds of nightmares they had, neither of them were ever ‘okay’ in the direct aftermath.

Bart tentatively raised his hand, hovering it in Jaime’s line of vision to prevent any surprises. Going slow and making sure Jaime (and the scarab, by extension) knew what he was doing would ensure he didn’t end up with a plasma cannon pointed in his face.

A shaky sigh escaped Jaime and he nodded. Bart placed his palm on Jaime’s bicep. Immediately Jaime slumped sideways into him, a great deal of tension leaving his body. Bart wrapped him in his arms, not minding the sweat, and held him until Jaime managed to get the trembling under control.

They sat in silence. Bart knew that if Jaime wanted to talk about it, he would. They respected one another enough not to ask, knowing from personal experience that sometimes talking about the nightmares made things worse. Besides, Bart already knew the general course Jaime’s dream had probably taken, anyway. No matter which one of them was suffering on a given night, the Reach was always to blame.

When Jaime’s erratic breathing had finally evened out, and the sweat on his skin had evaporated in the cool evening air filtering into their room from the window, the older man turned his head and kissed Bart’s neck. Bart smiled a little as he continued combing his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair.

“Sorry I keep waking you up, Amorcito,” Jaime apologized. He sat up a little to take some of his weight off of Bart, but the speedster kept his arms wrapped around him, preventing Jaime from moving away completely.

“It’s not your fault,” Bart reassured him. He used a hand to guide Jaime’s face towards his own, kissing him sweetly. Jaime nuzzled his head into the crook of Bart’s neck when they pulled away.

“I used to be normal before I found this stupid scarab,” Jaime mumbled.

Bart gave a little laugh. “I’ve never been normal, but I would rather be abnormal with you than be normal by myself. Besides,” Bart added cheekily, “what’s the point in hiding how crash we are?”

It got a small chuckle out of the older man. “I love you,” he muffled into Bart’s shirt.

The auburn-haired man smiled, kissing Jaime’s head. “I love you too, Babe. Now go back to sleep. I promise I’ll be right here beside you.” Bart levered them both back down to the mattress, pressing one last kiss to the nape of his boyfriend’s neck before closing his eyes. He felt Jaime relax against him, and drifted off with a smile on his face.

Bart wasn’t sure when exactly the third nightmare occurred, but when he woke up, Jaime’s side of the bed was empty and cold, and the flashing green lights on the alarm clock read 4:22 am. It had been 3:12 am the last time they’d fallen asleep, which meant that Jaime had likely started having the nightmare as soon as he’d hit his first REM cycle. This time, he’d managed not to wake Bart, and had left their bedroom so that he could sleep. The whole situation filled Bart with worry. He needed to make sure that Jaime was okay.

He sat up and rubbed his bleary eyes before swinging his legs out from under the duvet. Sleepily, he shuffled his way across the carpet of his and Jaime’s bedroom and pushed the door (which Jaime had left cracked) out of his way. Quietly, Bart tiptoed out into the hallway and peeked into the living room once he reached the end of it.

Jaime was standing in front of the sliding glass door which lead out to the little balcony attached to their eigth story apartment. Moonlight was spilling in through the open curtain, illuminating his features, casting a silluotte against the wall behind him. Jaime’s raven hair looked blue in the twilight, his tan skin glowing, while shadows darkened the dips and contours of his body, making him appear like some beautiful ethereal creature out of a fantasy novel.

Bart approached him slowly. He didn’t know whether Jaime could see his reflection in the glass, or whether Khaji Da would alert him to his presence. The last thing he wanted to do was give Jaime another scare tonight. Three nightmares was already enough. Bart’s goal was to help his boyfriend feel better; not worsen his fear.

When Bart was finally standing right behind Jaime, he saw the older man tense. Bart wrapped him in his arms, pressing his face into the warm skin between Jaime’s shoulder blades, just above Khaji Da. Jaime’s hands came down to rest over Bart’s own where they were sitting flat against his abdomen. Normally, Bart would take the time to admire Jaime’s toned abs and sculpted chest, but right now, all he cared about was making sure his boyfriend knew that everything was going to be okay and that Bart loved him and was there for him.

“Want to talk about it?” Bart put the offer out there, letting Jaime know that he was willing to listen, but he would also respect Jaime if he didn’t want to divulge the details of his last nightmare. Either way, he was there to support him.

Jaime shook his head. Bart pressed a kiss to the older man’s back in response. He laced their fingers together, keeping his arms firmly wrapped around his boyfriend in a comforting embrace.

“That’s okay,” he said.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, illuminated by the moon and stars shining from outside. Bart knew Jaime was watching them, his thoughts likely as scattered as the tiny glowing specks themselves. They were probably just as distant too.

“I want to see you,” Jaime said after awhile. He turned his head over his shoulder so that he could see Bart.

Bart released Jaime and allowed him to turn around before rewrapping him in his arms. Jaime’s hands drifted up to frame Bart’s face on either side before he leaned in for a kiss. Despite being caught off guard by the levels of desperation and passion Jaime was pouring out into it, Bart tried to return the kiss with the same level of intensity. He pressed his palms flat against Jaime’s back, pulling him flush against him and tipped his head, getting a better angle to deepen the kiss.

When they pulled back for air, Jaime pressed his forehead to Bart’s, staring into his chartreuse eyes with such determination and love, Bart found himself overwhelmed. He could see his own reflection shining back at him in tears at the corners of Jaime’s cocoa orbs.

“I kept losing you,” Jaime whispered. His voice was so wracked with pain, it made Bart’s heart break. “I kept losing you, and it was all my fault.” The tears fell down Jaime’s cheeks and he shook with a silent sob.

Immediately Bart reached up to wipe them away. “You could never lose me, Jaime.”

The older man shook his head, more salty droplets running down his face to replace the ones Bart had just cleaned up. “T-they made me hurt you. K-kill you over a-and over again,” Jaime sobbed. He broke down, and Bart pressed his head to the curve of his clavicle, gently swaying them back and forth.

“Shh,” the speedster cooed. “It’s not your fault. You know that.” He gently ran a hand up and down his boyfriend’s back, trying to soothe him. “I won’t ever let them mode you again, Blue. I promise. I would rather die fighting them than live long enough to see you like that again. I’m only yours, Jaime. And you’re only mine. Neither of us will ever belong to the Reach again.”

Bart continued holding Jaime and whispering assurances and comforts into his ears until the tears stopped falling. Bart wiped the tears from his cheeks and kissed Jaime again, this time more gently and less desperate than the first. He wanted to express to Jaime that they had all the time in the world. He wasn’t going anywhere without a fight.

“I love you,” Bart said when they broke away. “I love you so much, and I will do EVERYTHING to make sure that you never mode again.”

“Te amo tambien,” Jaime whispered passionately. “I was so scared I’d lost you.”

Bart cupped either side of Jaime’s face, looking into his eyes tenderly. “I’m right here. You haven’t lost me, and you won’t lose me any time soon. I promise.”

A small smile worked its way onto Jaime’s lips. Bart returned it.

Out the sliding glass door, over Jaime’s shoulder, Bart could see the sun beginning to rise. It had been a really rough night. He was just glad he’d at least been able to give Jaime some peace of mind. He really didn’t want his boyfriend going a whole night without sleep though.

“It’s really late, Babe. And I know you don’t want to, but you should go back to sleep. I promise, I’ll be right here with you.” Bart gently tried to herd Jaime back towards their room. He wasn’t sure whether Jaime had seen the sunrise yet or not, or was aware of it, but he wanted Jaime to get the chance to at least get a few hours of decent sleep, free of nightmares, before trying to take on the day ahead.

Jaime reluctantly shuffled towards the hallway. Bart stayed right beside him, an arm wrapped around Jaime’s waist until they made it back to bed.

“We can both call in sick,” Bart said, as he pulled the duvet over both of them.

“The team,” Jaime mumbled, referring to their other jobs, as he cuddled close to Bart.

The speedster waved him off. “They’re superheroes, too. They’ll understand.” He pressed a kiss to the top of Jaime’s head. “Now go back to sleep. You have a whole day off at home with me to look forward to when you wake up.”

Bart heard his boyfriend give a weak laugh. “Te amo,” Jaime whispered, already half asleep.

Bart wrapped his arms tighter around Jaime and whispered back, “Love you too, Babe. Sweet dreams.”

Here you go, Anon! Sorry it took me a little while to get to. Also, thank you so much for the compliments! They mean so much to me.

Hopefully you like your Drabble!

#young justice #bart allen #jaime reyes #blue beetle #kid flash #yj #bluepulse #100 ways to say i love you #nightmares #comfort #poor jaime

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the-scalemail-system-blog · 4 years ago

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I'm just going to make this a post unto itself. For those who don't want to see the content discussed, here's your warning for trauma-related issues.

What confuses me the most, is why anyone would think I or anybody else would want to pretend to be abused. Why anyone would think people would want to lie about being traumatized. Do you even know what that entails, when you say that?

It means I flinch hard enough to pull/strain muscles when there's a loud noise such as a door being slammed or someone hitting the wall. It means I get anxiety and panic attacks from the wrong tone of voice or from subtle behaviors. I will cry if someone washes a dish at me wrong. I will shut down if I think someone is raising a hand to me. I get the shakes so bad that I cannot hold a glass of water without spilling it if I hear in someones tone that they might be mad at me. Just a few days ago I had such bad anxiety that I was in tears because I felt guilty over not being able to finish a plate of food and had to ask if they'd be mad at me for not finishing it. I can't wash dishes without blasting music into my ears at the highest volume because the sound of them clanking together mentally sends me right back where I had escaped and makes me panicky. There's clothes I can't wear anymore because they still have the smell of that place ingrained in them. Sometimes I still smell or hear things from that place even if I have nothing from it around me and it reduces me into a shuddering, sobbing mess, and it's hell.

It's hell talking about this.

And I shouldn't have to defend that this is my reality, anyways. I shouldn't have to out my trauma and it's side-effects in this way to be taken seriously. I shouldn't have to make myself cry now, to prove a point. And nobody else should, either. But I know they have, because the mentality around this stuff is still full of stigma and denial. Nobody wants to accept that someone "like that" could be in their friends list or their neighborhood or even their family.

Because it's scary and hurtful to think about, isn't it. It's scary and hurtful to think it was happening right under your nose and you didn't know, didn't stop it. It's scary to think you might have any kind of connection to an abuser. It's scary to think about what kind of impact that might have on your own social image. I get it. It's terrifying to think it's real, for you. It's threatening your idea of the world.

But it's more terrifying to those of us who lived through it, ok? And denying the abused any chance of being believed, that's hurtful too. It's silencing. Silencing out of your own personal comfort, and I get it. If I wasn't a victim, I'd probably end up doing the same out of a defensive reflex. I get that for those who had no part of it, it's nearly an instinct, to push it away and have no involvement with it even after the fact.

But me, and the rest of us survivors, we need you ok? We need support, because some of us don’t survive. Please don't ever push away someone who tells you they were hurt. They're asking for help, when they tell you, and it takes so so SO much effort and courage to open up about this kind of stuff. I have not nearly gone into everything yet, and if you know someone who's opening up to you, they probably haven't said everything yet either. Because healing is a very long process. And I'm nowhere near done even though I've finally gotten far enough to be able to have the guts to denounce things thrown at me and stand up for my own damn self.

So when somebody tells you about their abuse and trauma... Please don't make them have to explain themselves like I did here. Don't push them away, don't tell them or even insinuate that it wasn't real, because that hurts almost as much as the trauma itself did. Offer your support, a shoulder to cry on and a pack of tissues. Maybe chocolate. That's all you have to do, you usually don't even have to say anything, just let them talk and listen and be there for them.

This was highly upsetting for me to make, and relive, but I still hope it can raise awareness and if it can change even one persons outlook on abuse survivors and the treatment of trauma, then it'll be worth it. Because I don't want anyone else to have to go through this anymore, and while this is painful, I know my pain can be the sword and shield that helps someone else in their darkest hour. When I speak out, I'm not just speaking out for me. I'm speaking out for everyone else who went through the same, who either can't or never got the chance to speak out themselves. I'm fighting for more than just me - I'm fighting for my brothers and sisters and siblings of neither or both who have shared my pain and tears, because in my mind, salted water is thicker than blood. And I well know the unholy refrain that's composed of silent sobs and muffled screams. We've sung it together.

We'll fight together, too. So please fight with us, not against us.

#-nil #tw: trauma #tw: abuse #serious talk

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lefaystrent · 6 years ago

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LeFay’s Masterlist

Here’s a list of all of my Sanders Sides stories. There’s a lot down there. Lots of pairings, lots of genres. Don’t get lost.

ONE-SHOTS

20biteen??? – Patton’s really confused and Logan’s just trying to make a sandwich.

A demon? In my attic? More likely than you think -- “Well that’s what happens when your dad asks you to clean the attic and it’s filled with a bunch of junk from his wiccan days,” Virgil explained, though from the demon’s pinched expression the explanation left a lot to be desired.

A Dire Situation - Logan tries not to make a single move or sound. His whole body coils tight with tension, knowing that the animal can strike at any moment. (additional parts can be found here)

A Storm Rolled into Town - It’s not like Virgil meant to become famous anyway. It just sorta happened. And now he’s shopping in some small-town mom-and-pop store on a weekday morning. Despite wearing the hood of his jacket up and perhaps looking the more conspicuous for it, he can sense that someone somewhere in this store is watching him.

Ashes –Three months ago, Roman returned home to find the house that he shared with his younger brothers up in flames.

Baby you’re a Firework - “Patton is MY best friend!” you screamed, and then you looked to me with those eyes. How else was I supposed to react other than to tell you that we would be together forever? Logicality

Beneath the Boughs –The feeling of tender fingertips tracing from his jaw to his temple made him want to run through fields, but he wouldn’t move an inch away from this spot for anything in the world. Royality

Curiosity – Deceit’s mission to annoy Logan somehow involves sharing a bed with him and refusing to leave. Logan doesn’t really mind. Loceit

Death of a Bachelor - Virgil invites a bunch of billionaires to his fake wedding with his roommate, Logan. He doesn’t expect one of them to actually agree to go.

Dino – Patton visits his local library one day and meets the librarian Logan, a man who loves dinosaurs.

Down by the Pier – Patton lives by the ocean. He likes to go sit out on the pier because the view is sweet but the company is even sweeter. Moxiety

Every Friday Night – “There’s a cat? In the sink?” Virgil said. platonic LAMP

Existentialism – Patton is a demon and really bad at it.

Five Times – There were five times that Virgil’s path crossed with Logan Sanders. Each time memorable, each time helping to shape Virgil into the kind of person he wants to be. platonic Analogical

Flutter and Fall – Virgil doesn’t believe in love at first sight, but he wonders if you can fall in love with a moment. Prinxiety

Happy Birthday, Virgil – Logan tends to take things literally.

Heartbeat – Roman’s out on the hunt for prey. He gets more than he bargained for.

Heartbeat AU – More info on the story.

Hello Mr. Spider - He’s heard the screams of people whenever they lay eyes on him. They take one look at him, this monstrous being with too many limbs and eyes, and they quiver in fear and tears. He doesn’t blame them. He hides himself away, hoping to never hear those horrified screams. Moxiety

Hello Again - Humans trespassed into the church occasionally. Some during the day, most of them at night. Never did humans come two nights in a row. Moxiety (Sequel to “Hello Mr. Spider”)

Hold On - He felt someone grip the sleeve of his shirt. Logan looked to his side where Deceit stood, holding onto him. platonic Loceit

How to be a Good Person - “There’s an unconscious man in my flowerbed. What should I do with him?” Dee should be used to getting phone calls from his brother needing help. brotherly Moceit

I got to pet the dog - Patton gets distracted easily. Virgil doesn’t have the heart to tell him he’s supposed to be working.

I met God last night - Predictably, Patton looked up to stare at Virgil. He set aside his scrapbook, clasped his hands together, and said, “Okay, I’m listening.” platonic Moxiety

I wanna intimi(date) you — Virgil teaches Patton to be more intimidating. It doesn’t go very well.

In a magical kingdom far away… — The evil Lord Of Logic descends on the land, forcing all it touches to obey the laws of physics.

It’s hot – Virgil won’t take off the jacket.

Love Isn’t Blind – Patton notices a lot more than what people think he does.

Never Too Old – Patton worked as a manager at a toy store in the mall. Lately, the employees were noticing a reoccurring customer. Well, if you could call him a customer. He never actually bought anything. platonic Moxiety

Picture That – “What are you doing?” Patton says between a flurry of giggles. He lifts the book he’d been reading to half hide his face. Roman dances around him snapping pictures as if Patton is a model. Royality

Piggyback – It’s late, and Patton’s falling asleep on the couch. Virgil’s not used to being the responsible one. Moxiety

Potatoes – Virgil has worries for days, but there’s only one thing that truly scares him. Moxiety

Rewrite – So here Roman is, lying by the sidewalk, very much not okay. Not because the local squirrels ostracized him, and not because he’d tripped or some such unfortunate mishap. No, he just has a lot on his mind. Prinxiety

Ribbit – Two lab partners and one dead frog do not make for the most romantic atmosphere but Roman tries. Logince

Roamin’ Nights - Not that anyone’s looking right now, but Virgil’s glad that it’s dark in the kitchen, lest the color in his cheeks show. Roman’s not usually this affectionate with Virgil. Makes him wonder if he even realizes that this is Virgil he’s basically trying to use as a pillow. Prinxiety

Round and round we go – Logan stood there long after the commotion began outside, the one where everyone realized what had happened and were running to help and call an ambulance.

Sacrificial rituals and other fun activities – Virgil was a mage—one of the best. He’d seen a lot of things, but a handsome man chained up in the middle of a field? Even he had to take a moment. Prinxiety

Shark Attack! - “I could be wrong here, but I’m pretty sure sharks don’t attack their victims with hugs.” platonic Moxiety

Sicky Icky – Most people assumed Roman would eat up all the attention he could get even when sick. They’d expect loud dramatics and Roman acting like he was dying every minute of it. That’s not how he was at all. Logince

Side-by-side – Virgil’s tired. Moxiety

So help me, I’m not moving from this spot – Virgil has the day off from work and chooses to spend it in true Virgil style. Queer platonic LAMP

Soft Prinxiety – Literally just a softy prinxiety scene. Prinxiety

Some Days – Some days are better than others, and some aren’t. These are Virgil’s days in the mindscape.

Someday I’ll find my way home - Love cut deep and left scars on the heart. The heart never quite beat the same way again afterward. Analogical

Supposed to be – People get locked into a certain kind of perspective and decide what kind of person you’re supposed to be. Patton is frustrated.

Take Over the World - There’s not much else to do in the Mindscape for Deceit and the Duke.

That one time Deceit played hero in the mindscape – Deceit goes to the common rooms to find that everyone…is acting too much like themselves.

The Hug Booth - In Patton’s free time, he had a booth set up somewhere on campus and he’d go sit there. The booth advertised ‘free hugs’.

The Ties that Bind – Everyone has a soulmate. Even the ones who probably shouldn’t. Logicality

This is the police! – “This is the police! Open up! Tell me something about yourself, don’t be afraid.” Prinxiety

Ties - Roman and Patton try to persuade Logan to wear a bow tie. Logan is uncooperative. romantic LAMP

Trances – The sides go into trance-like states sometimes.

Trouble in Tiny Town - Logan is six inches tall. And somehow the human is the one cowering in fear.

Useless gays are useless – Patton is shirtless and Roman and Virgil are very, very gay. Roman/Patton/Virgil

Stil Gay - Roman and Virgil are still thirsty gays, and Patton is a tall drink of water. One night of tv watching with his roommates leads to none of them paying attention to the tv. Roman/Patton/Virgil (Sequel to “Useless gays are useless”)

Wake up call - There’s a muffled siren blaring from outside somewhere. He can feel the time slipping between his fingers.

We are family~ - “Patton,” Logan called. He stood in the doorway, stern-faced for a moment before slumping forward with a pout. “I require physical affection.” platonic LAMP

MULTI-CHAPS

Analogince - What started as a list of headcanons became a story of how three men fell together. part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Dog Days – In the midst of grieving for his beloved pet, comfort comes to Thomas in a curiously small form. platonic LAMP/Thomas, borrower!sides

If you have nightmares, we’ll dance on the bed - Fae thrived on chaos and the fear that came with it. Well, most of them anyway. Virgil never really shared that sentiment. (Or alternatively, the story of how Virgil loves humans so much that he makes stupid decisions because of it, like save princes from attempted assassinations.)

Kid!Logan AU – Logan somehow finds himself back in time, waking up in his eleven-year old body.

Reverse Kid!Logan AU – Roman just wanted a normal babysitting job. Now he’s caught up in debunking why he sees five-year-old Logan Sanders as if he were a grown man. part one , part two

Lifeline – Long ago, when his sides first started showing up, Thomas had pondered long and hard about reality versus imagination. But this? It became more apparent that Patton was carding his hand through Thomas’s hair. It was as if any of his friends were doing it, so tangible it was. Tangible in a way that shouldn’t be possible. platonic LAMP/Thomas

Nursing Home AU - Patton had seen Virgil during the hiring process, and his personality didn’t seem like a … good fit. Too closed-off and kinda gruff, and probably not a good bedside manner, right? Plus there was that criminal record to consider… But he’s hired anyway, and Virgil joins the staff.

Psychic Therapist Virgil – Virgil’s not your run-of-the-mill therapist. part one, part two

Roses – The humans steer clear from the forest, warning their children with every generation, “Do not stray into those woods. They will devour you.” But it’s modern times now, fairy tales aren’t real, and Virgil and his friends have just moved into town and want to investigate the ‘haunted’ forest.

Variants – Patton was surprised by the mutant breaking into the jewelry store one night. And by break in, he meant that they seeped into shadows and appeared on the other side of the windows without breaking anything at all.

Weclome to the Neighborhood –Virgil’s really bad at peopling, or so his new neighbors find out. Prinxiety

Witch Way - Virgil just wants to live a quiet life with his familiar, Logan. But we can’t always get what we want.

#lefay's masterlist #sanders sides

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thesoundofnat · 6 years ago

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After the second or third snap

ENDGAME SPOILERS AHEAD

Tony/Pepper, Peter, Morgan, Rhodey, Harley, Nebula, aka his family

Summary: Tony wakes up after the second or third snap and finds himself with a prosthetic arm and four kids.

A/N: A super self-indulgent post Endgame fix it fic where that one thing didn’t happen and Tony suddenly has four kids. Enjoy!

Warnings: Endgame spoilers, nightmares, hints at trauma and PTSD.

Words: 2 258

So you’d saved the universe, almost died, gotten resurrected and were now living your life with a mechanic arm like some sort of Winter Soldier 2.0 and also found yourself with four children instead of the one you’d had before? Yeah, Tony had had a busy year.

He’d woken up at the hospital a week after the snap. The second snap, that is. Or was it the third? The one that had fixed it all, anyway.

(He still couldn’t believe it had worked.)

No one was leaving him out of their sight and apparently hadn’t since he’d ended up there. He wasn’t complaining, though. He had a hard time believing they were real and that this wasn’t an elaborate prank Thanos was pulling off. Despite being dead. They were telling him he was dead. That Tony’s snap had killed him, or whatever being turned to dust meant.

“Can you stand?”

Tony wanted to roll his eyes so badly, but truth be told he wasn’t entirely sure he could. He looked at Rhodey for a moment, unblinking, jaw working. Rhodey got the hint and took a step closer, letting Tony hold onto him as he slowly moved off the hospital bed, the two of them pulling him upright. His body would most likely never be the same again. He could probably use his prosthetic arm just as well as he’d used his flesh one - once he’d figured out all the quirks because it wasn’t as easy as it looked - but the rest?

He groaned, every muscle straining, screaming, as he and Rhodey put more and more weight onto his legs. They’d been doing this for the past week, slowly testing his body and preparing it for the eventual separation from the bed. Tony was weak, but he was getting restless. Needed to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Don’t overwork yourself, Tones,” Rhodey said, a gentle reprimand. They all knew Tony would break his own legs in an attempt to seem strong enough to leave.

He deflated, suddenly falling back onto the mattress. “Shit.”

“Don’t.”

“I-”

“You shouldn’t even be alive and you’re mad your body hasn’t recovered in a month?”

“God, I hate it when you’re right.”

Rhodey let out a laugh. He’d been doing that more often recently.

The door pushed open slowly, a face peeking in. “Mr Stark?”

They all ignored the heart monitor acting up. It always did that when Peter walked into the room; his mere presence always a surprise. His existence still not something Tony was used to. Could barely believe.

Tony sent him a tired smile. “School let you out early?”

“It’s Saturday,” he said and opened the door fully to pull a dimpled Morgan in with him.

It still got to him, seeing his kids together, after thinking he’d never be able to introduce them. It still made him tear up so violently he sometimes actually shed tears. No one - but Morgan - ever commented on that either.

“Hi, kiddo,” he said as she bounced over, careful not to touch him like she’d been instructed. God, Tony couldn’t wait to hug her so tightly they became one. “Did you have fun with Peter?”

She nodded. “Uh huh.”

“What did you do?”

“Got ice cream.”

“Ice cream, huh.” He ran his palm over her cheek. “He’s a nice babysitter.”

He also had nightmares, but Tony only found that out several months later.

Peter had stayed over so many times after Tony was able to go back home that they installed a whole new room for him.

“That way you won’t have to fight everyone over the couch,” Tony had said and used all his strength to punch him lightly on the shoulder.

Peter had been beaming for days.

On most nights, Tony slept well, if only because he was constantly exhausted. But on the occasional restless neverending turning and tossing fest, he would wander the house just to remind himself of the people who occupied it. Remind himself that they were all there, safe, asleep.

It was a night like such that he first heard Peter crying.

He paused, ears straining, practically pushing himself against Peter’s door in order to hear him better. It wasn’t necessary. It was the type of sobbing that you couldn’t really muffle.

He entered, panicked. “Pete.”

Peter untangled from the heap beneath the covers. “Tony.”

“Kid, what’s wrong?”

Peter wore his emotions on his sleeve. Tony had always admired that about him, but he’d never seen him break down like this before. Not even his panicked rambling before the snap was on this level of hysteria.

Tony held him as he cried that night. Reassured him that everything was fine and he was here and Tony was here and everyone was all right. In the end he almost believed it himself.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said once he was calm, his breathing regular.

“Don’t,” Tony said, running his thumb over Peter’s cheek to wipe the tears away. “Don’t apologize for feeling.”

“I don’t really feel as if I have the right to feel like this.”

“Stop that.”

“You’re here, right? You made it. We’re all back. I don’t know why I’m so-”

“Peter.”

Peter leaned forward, pressing his face into Tony’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

Tony wrapped his arms around him. “Please stop.” Stop repeating the last sentence you’d said before vanishing. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Morgan found them like that, eyes blinking in a way that told him the noise had woken her up. “Daddy?”

Peter tried to push away from Tony’s embrace, something he often did whenever Morgan was around. Assuring her he wasn’t stealing her father.

Tony almost rolled his eyes. “Come here, bean,” he said, opening one of his arms to let her crawl into the hug. “There’s plenty of space.”

He noticed Morgan seemed much more attached to him now after his hospital stay. Every morning she would wrap her hand around the fingers of his uninjured hand, hold them for a moment, before allowing him to continue making breakfast. As if she, too, needed to remind herself that he was real. That little mind and heart of hers. They were bigger than all of them.

“I can’t regret anything that’s happened,” he told Pepper one evening, the two of them curled up on the couch, alone for once thanks to Happy taking Morgan to the movies. “Not when it brought her to us.”

Pepper hummed, her fingers in his hair in that soothing manner of hers. “I know what you mean.” A pause, and, “I’m happy you can finally have some peace of mind, now that they’re all back.”

He squeezed her. “On a scale of one to ten, how angry are you at me for doing the snap?”

Her lips twitched. “I would’ve been angrier had you not survived.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m around to face it then.”

She laughed. He laughed. The topic slowly getting easier to talk about, as did everything.

Pepper kissed his prosthetic knuckles and said, “So when are we inviting Nebula over for dinner again?”

Nebula. Tony had been worried that they would only remind each other of the time stuck in space, starving and hopeless, but they didn’t. In fact, he felt even more protective of her once they were on Earth. She’d been one of the few people who semi regularly visited him after Morgan was born. She respected his choice to lead a quiet life and never asked anything of him. Rhodey had once called her his second daughter, which was ridiculous but… well, he couldn’t deny it. She was in such obvious need of a good parental figure, after everything.

“You don’t have to adopt everyone, you know,” Pepper had once said, but there was no malice in her voice. Only fond amusement.

“I know,” he’d replied, bouncing one year old Morgan in his lap. “But I know all too well what it means to not have that kind of support in your life.”

That had been the last time Pepper had brought it up.

Nebula told him she wasn’t on Earth when he called, but that she’d come over as soon as she was back. Tony asked her to be careful, and she rolled her eyes.

“You’re such a dad,” Peter told him, having been sitting quietly on the couch doing homework during Tony’s call.

Tony snorted, giving him a poke to the ribs. “I’ve never heard you complain.”

Peter grinned. “Oh, I’m sure I’ve complained. Remember the baby monitor?”

“I don’t regret that one a bit.”

“Of course not, pops.”

When Tony had nightmares, he dreamt of Peter and Morgan and Pepper being torn to pieces. Not dust. Pieces. The time Harley appeared in one of those dreams, was the first time he called him in five years. He’d tried to, after the first snap, but he’d been one of the victims. His world felt so small after everything, and he had a hard time imagining people having lives outside of his bubble. People being back when he couldn’t see them.

Harley told him he’d heard Tony had saved everyone, after he’d returned. He was about Peter’s age now, both of them teens even though they should’ve been in their 20s by now.

“You wanna come over?” Tony asked. “Or can I come see you?”

“I’ll come over. Old men like you shouldn’t travel.”

“Brat.”

Harley was laughing on the other end, and Tony felt his heart soar. He’d missed their phone calls.

No one questioned Tony flying a kid they’d never met over. They’d heard of him, of course, but Tony had a feeling he could bring just about anyone to the lakehouse and no one would say a word. Saving the world - and almost dying - had its perks.

“Peter offered you to have his room for the weekend,” Tony said.

Harley, taller than Tony now that bastard, put his bag down. “Is Peter your son?”

“Something like that. But don’t you worry.” Tony nudged him in the ribs. “You were my first born pain in the ass.”

Morgan adored him, just like she’d adored Peter and Nebula. They all had an obvious soft spot for her too, but Harley fell in love. For two whole days, he wouldn’t stop carrying her. Tony jokingly asked if he was gonna try to sneak her into his bag before leaving.

“Don’t tempt me,” Harley had said, giving Morgan a squeeze.

His weekend turned into a week, which just so happened to be the same week Nebula was coming over. Suddenly their lakehouse felt a bit smaller, but his heart so much fuller.

“I can sleep with Harley and Nebula can have Peter’s room and Peter can sleep with you,” Morgan was saying, and Tony had to laugh at Peter’s scandalized face as he said, “The couch works just fine, really.”

They compromised. Morgan slept with him and Pepper, Nebula got Morgan’s room and Harley stayed in Peter’s while Peter took the couch, stating that he could just go home but chose to stay, therefore he wasn’t forced to sleep on the couch.

Despite all the love in the house, Tony had a nightmare that night. He woke up trembling, heart beating so wildly that he was scared he was dying. He wasn’t dying. Not anymore. He was merely reliving it; dying.

He rolled over to find Pepper and Morgan asleep, breathing calmly. Unaware of his breaking heart. He watched them for a moment, willing the sight to fix it, before he left the bed, left the room, and let his feet steer him to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass of water, he walked to the living room and watched Peter sleep, mumbling something, but it didn’t seem to be because of a nightmare. Tony hadn’t caught him crying again, but he knew it didn’t mean he never did. He himself was a living example of people not always noticing when you were cracking.

He took a sip of his water and moved on, toward the room were Harley was sleeping. He stopped before the door, listening. Opening it just a crack to find him curled up, back toward him, but breathing deeply enough that Tony knew he was asleep. He had no idea how Harley actually felt. If the snap had been traumatic. If he felt like he’d missed out on things. They hadn’t talked about it. Maybe they had to.

Another sip. He closed the door.

It took him longer to enter Nebula’s room. He felt that, out of everyone, she was the most likely one to be lying awake, thinking and overthinking. Maybe that was why he should enter. Give her some sense of peace in not being alone in that.

He cracked the door open, sticking his head in. She’d never looked so calm as she currently did. Her ever present frown all smoothed out, her mouth half open. Tony left immediately. Couldn’t bare the thought of accidentally waking her.

He took another sip and by the time he re-entered the kitchen his water was gone. He felt better. His heart felt more whole.

He was aware it would always be like this, but for once his reality was enough to make it worth it. He had his wife, best friends, and four kids. He’d saved the world for them and was grateful for it every single day. Life after the second or third snap was more than he could’ve asked for, really.

He went back to bed, Morgan claiming his prosthetic arm immediately.

#tony stark #avengers fic #post endgame #iron fam #iron dad #tony and peter #endgame #tony and morgan #pepperony #tony and nebula #tony and harley #tonyrhodey #fix it fic #mine #after the second or third snap #nat writes

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