#anyway that was what the phone call was about i'm out of it because the stupid fucking prior auth for my third refill of this medication is

[beansprean]

Sam like 'they keep telling me its their anniversary but when i ask 'of what' they change the subject

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(ID in alt and under cut)

ID: 1. Full body of Charlie, hair in a short curly bob, wearing a tee shirt and jeans, lounging in the drivers seat of a car at night. The seat is tilted back and there is a crumpled flannel shirt on her lap as if she had been using it as a blanket. She has one foot propped up on the dash and one arm behind her head, the other hand holding up her phone. She smiles incredulously at the screen. Text overlay shows her conversation with 'Tall Sam'. Sam: Hey what's it called when a guy is mostly into girls but also sometimes guys? Charlie: Omg Sam r u coming out to me [star eye emoji]? Sam: No it's for someone else. Charlie: Bisexual btw. Other options but lets start there. Sam: Thanks. Charlie: U rly couldnt google this? Had to text your one gay friend for backup lol. Sam: There were a lot of results I didn't want to get it wrong sorry. Charlie: Never wrong when ur labeling urself sammo! And dw ive always wanted to be someones gay Yoda. [gif of Yoda nodding and saying 'learning you are']

2. Full body of Sam wearing a flannel and jeans, sitting on a stool against the kitchen island in the bunker, his laptop open in front of him, both thumbs tapping on his phone with a worried frown. Behind him, Dean and Cas stand close together in front of the stove, Dean - who is wearing an apron - holding out a wooden spoon for Cas to taste from. Cas is obediently leaning forward to take a bite. Text overlay shows Sam's conversation with 'Charlie B' continue from his perspective. Sam: AGAIN NOT FOR ME. I am...gay-Yodaing by proxy. Because I know this person would never ask. Charlie: Omg is Dean finally hopping on the rainbow road with me?? Ive been saving his seat. Sam: Just a friend of mine!! Anyway I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to out someone without permission Charlie! Charlie: Dam u got me. #1 rule in the Gay Code of Conduct. Sam: And I'm insulted you were more excited about Dean being hypothetically bisexual than me. Charlie: I'm sorry. I would welcome you with open arms [sparkle heart emoji] [rainbow emoji]. Sam: Thank you. Charlie: And I know several dudes who would welcome u with open legs. Sam: ENDING THIS CONVERSATION. Charlie: [gif of Yoda saying 'i sense much fear in you'] /end ID

[the-modern-typewriter]

Not an ask, I just wanted to tell you I love, love, LOVE your snippets. It always makes me happy to see a new post by you on my dash, then I know I'm in for a treat. I especially love your villains, they're so much more than just "the bad guy". I always find myself wanting to know more about them, even though they send a chill down my spine and I know I'd be terrified to run into them in a dark alley at night. Thank you for sharing your genius!

"Has anyone ever told you that it's a dangerous idea to walk down dark alleyways alone at night?"

The villain was well-concealed in the crisp evening, leaned slim as a shadow against the wall.

The air stank of a mixture of oncoming snow and the garbage bags piled up and threatening to spill. It wasn't, the hero thought, the sort of place that really suited the villain. They seemed the type best made for pristine conference rooms and expensive penthouse lairs. Spacious. Glittering. Cold, corporate monstrosity.

"Yes," the hero said. "But then I wouldn't have the pleasure of running into you, would I?"

"Is that what this is?"

"You don't think so?"

"I'm always a delight, but few fully recognise that facet of my personality. Most instead, should they choose to see me in a dark alleyway, walk swiftly in the opposite direction."

"Mm." The hero shook their head. "I admit, your general habit of instilling terror in everyone can sometimes overpower other impressions."

"But not with you."

"Oh, I'm crapping myself. Speaking of. If I aim my phone at you so I can see you properly are you going to hiss at me like a feral cat, eyes glinting, and scurry away? Or am I just going to spontaneously combust for daring to look at you? The rumours vary."

"No one would ever dare call me a feral cat, dear."

"Not in as many words. But you are sort of lurking in the shadows and stalking me, so I think its apt."

The villain snapped their fingers. A ball of light appeared shining at the tips, illuminating the few metres between them. None of the usual rats or cockroaches went skittering away from the villain's immaculate shoes, everything was eerily still, so the hero figured they (like most creatures) were smart enough to keep their distance. Vanish somewhere else, if they could. Hold their breath. Hide.

The hero eyed them and resisted the urge to move closer.

The villain offered a soft, mocking, snake-like hiss.

"You wanted to see me," the hero said instead. "At least, I assume that's why you're lurking outside of my workplace and doing the aforementioned stalking routine. You could come inside, you know. I don't bite."

"I do."

"You're not beating the feral cat allegations."

"If I came inside, your colleagues would pass out or start screaming. It would be a whole thing and I'm not working right now."

"Well-" The hero had no good answer to that. 'It would make my shift go faster' was not a good answer. "Anyway. My break is only ten minutes. What do you want?"

"To see you," the villain said. "Talking with you is a debatable experience."

"Wow, rude."

"You followed me out here. I was happy looking."

"Well, I wasn't just going to leave you to it!"

"Most people wouldn't notice."

"Good for most people," the hero huffed. "Do you want an autograph and a picture so you could take it away and maybe the photo would last longer than looking at me?"

"Yes, if you're offering."

The hero stared at them. The villain stared back.

"...I'm not offering," the hero said, after a beat. "God knows what you'd do with my signature."

The villain snorted. Their head tilted as they studied the hero, twirling their fingers idly, making the light shift and cast the world in strange uneasy fragments.

"Come to dinner with me," the villain said, after a long moment. "After your shift."

"I thought talking with me was a debatable experience."

"Yes. And I'm debating."

"Does inviting people to dinner normally work for you after you insult them?"

"Yes."

"Because most people are afraid to say no."

"Yes."

"No."

The villain smiled. At least, in the light, it looked suspiciously like a smile. There and gone in an instant. The hero couldn't tell if it reached the villain's eyes, cast in the alleyway gloom as they still were. It shouldn't have made a thrill run down the hero's spine, but it did.

"Another night," the hero said. "Maybe. When I'm not working."

"You're always working, be it here or in your adorable crime-stopping ways."

"Adorable doesn't win you any points either."

"I'm not trying to win points with you."

"But you're trying to take me to dinner. Why?"

"Novelty. I make a point to invest heavily in my own amusement."

"And I'm amusing you."

"You're...intriguing me. Whether you say yes or no," the villain said. "So entirely up to you if you want the free dinner or not."

"I can afford my own dinner."

"Is that why you're so skinny?"

"Again," the hero said, because the only other option was to be rendered speechless at the villain's audacity. "Rude."

"Politeness is for people too weak to say and do what they like. Dinner on Wednesday then?"

"They say you're horrifying. No one told me you were also insufferable."

"Well, most people are attached to keeping their tongues, so that's not really surprising." The villain continued, waving a dismissive hand, before the hero could possibly respond to that nightmarish gem of a comment. "They say you're generally brave and lovely, but five minutes alone with you already makes it clear that there's something desperately wrong with you or you would never have followed me here."

The hero spluttered.

"Death wish?" The villain asked curiously. "Adrenaline junkie? I didn't think you were especially stupid, but it's hard to tell watching you from the other side of the street."

"You really are something, huh."

The villain flicked the light off their fingers in the hero's direction in response. When the light reached them it didn't hurt, only popped like a bubble against their nose. They were plunged into darkness.

When the hero raised their phone, the villain was off the wall and right there in front of them.

The hero sucked a sharp breath, eyes going wide.

"As are you," the villain said. "Most people would have flinched."

The hero swallowed.

They felt suddenly infinitely aware that the silent darkness was also beneath the villain's power, as much as the light was, swallowing up every inch of space around the two of them one way or another. Who knew what was the villain's and what was just there.

Dangerous to walk down a dark alley indeed, as if it was the dark or the alley that was the real problem.

The hero had never felt so damningly alive.

"Wednesday," the hero said. "Tell me where to meet you."

"It's a date."

The rest of their shift passed in a blur.

[almostfoxglove]

have Javier and reader ever talked about his relations when he was in Columbia? them being best friends and all. did she laugh it off? did she understand? I'm curious ☺️

HI SWEETHEART this made my day when I got it. I'm so sorry it took a while to answer but I hope you don't mind that I got a little carried away with this one... everything's weird and bad right now so I'm gonna post this and try to get some sleep - I hope you're taking care of yourself <3 thank you soso much for sending this ask, seriously it means the world. ily!! here's some tenderness for you.

javier confesses about colombia

an I'LL CARRY YOU drabble

Explicit (18+) | Javier Peña x f!reader | drabble 1.1k words CW: Allusion to canon-typical violence & trauma and two idiots being sickeningly in love.

You never push back on anything but his blame. 

headcanons and full drabble below the cut!

in ICY, javi leaves to colombia (the first time) at twenty-eight (seen in part II). between that moment and when he returns aged thirty-six (seen in part I), they have no contact because her phone number changes, so when he calls her right after leaving (seen in dark heart), he thinks she's icing him out for good. *sobs gently*

we know he disappears again at the end of part I and doesn't return until he comes home for good at the end of part II. between those two meetings, they also have no contact - so his girl doesn't hear a thing about colombia (and by extension, all his sexual escapades), though she follows the news.

in the year after his return (all of part III) I don't think much of what happened down there comes up. javi's traumatized, still acclimating to civilian life while his girl's engaged *sobs harder*, and I imagine he's scared to admit his role in all the death and violence. if / when she asks, I think he keeps it pretty vague and chooses not to talk about the women he was involved with (they aren't together yet, after all)

POST-FINALE HOWEVER, javi tells her pretty much everything in little chunks at a time, including about all the women he slept with and what he knows of what became of them (I imagine the helena story is an especially tearful / difficult retelling, but it's important to him that she knows the truth). he's pretty terrified it'll scare her off, but I think we know her better than that.

here's a peek at what I imagine part of that conversation looked like <3

It’s the middle of the night and he’s not yet buying it, still has that little wrinkle above his nose that folds when he scowls cutting deep into his brow. Propped against the wall in his little twin bed, when you insist Javier’s dark eyes dodge yours and fall to the hands that knot themselves in his lap, anxious. But anxious is fine—just means he’s talking. Cutting off slabs of those missing years like meat from a bone for you to carry.

You’re grateful to be given anything at all. You know how deep trust like this really goes, unseen but branching. Mycelium underground. 

You never push back on anything but his blame. 

“Baby,” you say softly, and his jaw ticks as the word melts him a touch. 

His chin might flicker briefly like his body longs to cry, but if it does he wrestles it back before meeting you with dark, helpless eyes. “You don’t know,” he says, no cruelty in it. His voice not much more solid than a whisper and slaughtered red by guilt.

“Know you though,” you say.

The sigh that cuts out of him could shatter you. Javier turns to stretch out length-wise on the bed, his socked feet hanging off the end. You moved in weeks ago but haven’t gotten around to upgrading to a bigger mattress and part of you believes—though you’d never say it—that he’s waiting to get through all this first. Like the hurt of him needs to be here to do it: in the bed where you both once were small, held. So you allow it, take turns groaning in the daylight hours about your backs and hips and necks, and at night you hold each other ‘cause you have to, to fit in this little thing. Not that you wouldn’t, anyway. Not that either of you know how to sleep without the weight of the other’s body anymore. 

You always did sleep best beside him.

When he’s settled, you slip down to lie against him, propped up on one elbow with your torso folded over his and one arm draped across his hips. Javier sighs, pleased by the weight of you, and closes his eyes. 

“Was different there,” he says, after a long moment. “M’different now.” 

Outside the crickets are rioting again, ribbiting their threaded symphony. You push the hair back from his face—more pewter than ever but so familiar in its waves and curls—and watch the twitching of his face, all the microscopic ways he wrestles with some unnamed memory. 

You give him his time. All this patient, open air until he swallows and starts to say, “Didn’t do right—” 

It isn’t that his voice cracks, just that it stops all at once like someone’s lifted the needle off a record. Though you don’t know precisely what he’s trying to say, you sense its jagged outline. Can feel the memory slicing him anytime he speaks. Below you, Javier clears his throat. “Didn’t do right by them.”

Deep breath, then you push.

“Did you hurt them,” you ask, your voice quiet but solid, firm.

Though his brows fold low, his eyes stay closed. Swallows again. “No,” he says.

“Did you touch them without their consent,” you go on. “Do anything they didn’t want.”

“No,” Javier replies.

“Were you cruel?”

He shifts, uneasy. Mutters back a weak and whispered, “No.” Sometimes he has trouble with this one and stumbles over the answer, but tonight he’s got it right.

You know all this, of course. You’re not asking for you because you already know the answers—know him, whether he wants to admit it right now or not. Doesn’t matter that he’s different now; so are you. So is everybody. Tragedy doesn’t let a goddamn thing stay the same. And while you’ve always known you’ll never see nor fathom the whole, vicious picture—what living down there through years of violence laid ghost and seed beneath his skin—there’s not a bone in your body that believes him malicious. 

At first he worried, but you don’t care about the bodies he lost himself in. All the women he held and had. Sort of surprised you too, but you didn’t learn of them until after you’d found each other again, for good this time, and so what was there to be afraid of? That there’d been, in the worst of his agony, warm hands and welcome bodies? 

No, you don’t care. Doesn’t matter the number. 

You’re glad that at least for small, clustered minutes, he wasn’t always alone.

“Did you try?” you ask. This is the big one, the one you know hurts most for him to hear. “To help them.”

In the turquoise cover of early night, Javier’s face crumples in. Forehead canyoned by lines, his eyes swallowed by miserable, crinkled Vs. You see no glossy tears slip loose but they must be in there, hidden under his lashes when for so long he holds his breath like he can’t trust his own lungs or own mind. While you wait, you lay one palm in the center of his chest and the shimmer of moonlight winks off your hand, reflected in the flat face of a garnet, making silver of red and pearl. It feels, for the moment it’s bright, a little like having his mother back. Like you can feel her in the room, holding him with you.

Javier’s heart hammers beneath your touch, then his hand bolts up to cover yours as if to keep you there. As if you’d ever pull away. “I—”

You press down gently, give him your warmth, your weight, and his hand tightens in kind.

“I wanted to,” he croaks.

“Did you try?”

And it breaks him, chokes him. One wet sound punches out of his chest but he’s tough, soft bits and all. Something in him’s always just known how to hold on. How to take it, for better or worse. But it’s for the better here, you’re certain. Because he won’t survive believing himself evil—you see that clearly, illuminated like a streetlamp casting gold over a night-dark road. If he doesn’t see that he tried, doesn’t let himself feel it, one of these days the guilt will kill him.

It’s just the one ragged breath, then he pebbles apart perfectly still. Steady, you leaden your weight on his sternum, press down a little harder, and Javier grips your hand with greater need. All his warring goes on quietly, invisible in all but his head.

“M’right here,” you tell him gently.

He nods, his eyes still shut. His breaths slow and agonizing.

“Right here,” you say.

Together you wait for the spell to pass, for the storm to clear, until finally the clouds part over him and he sucks one longer, deeper breath, dragging all the room’s air into his lungs. There it is, there he is, solidifying under your palm. Seaming back together, stained glass made new. 

“I tried,” Javier breathes.

His face unfurls and the deep lines once carved with a knife fall smooth. The wrinkles stay of course, all the evidence of his life, but they’re softer now. You trace the crows feet at the corner of his eyes with your thumb and find his skin hot and damp. 

“I know you did, baby,” you whisper to him. “You tried.”

Suddenly his arms fly up and crush you to his chest—so startled, you yelp and can’t help but chuckle as his grip tightens and tightens. You let him squeeze you, your arms trapped under his, and hum softly when you feel his nose against your hair. Carefully he inhales, then slow he exhales: something he’s picked up in his sessions, attended twice a month. Which is how you know that although he’s fallen silent, he’s busy in his mind reminding himself of frivolities. All the tiny bits he must have missed in those long, distant years he spent away from you, believing you hated him. 

You imagine cut grass and July sunshine, beer bottles ice cold on the porch with his pop,

and rolling cigarettes in the bed of the pickup at sixteen, laughing at the sour clouds choking out of you when you couldn’t hold your smoke,

and birthday parties,

and your hand, at every age, in his.

He knows better now, that you never hated him and never could. Knows too that you’ve loved him all the years he’s loved you and will all the years you have left.

Eventually you feel the air shift as he comes home into his body. With his chest smushed tight against the shell of your ear, you’re half asleep, adrift in the deep throb of his pulse. You feel his mustache, the graze of his lips, and the quiet murmur of his voice calling you another name. New, these last weeks. It still surprises you, the sweetness of mi amor on his tongue, in his mouth.

“Get some sleep,” Javier murmurs as his arms go slack around you without pulling away.

“Only if you do,” you mumble in reply, eyes feathering open just long enough to catch the last of the sky’s deep blue. Then they’re closed again. Everything is warm and black.

“M’right behind you,” he says, and soon you’re both asleep.

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3 tag list below!

@pedritosgfreal @thundermartini @guiltyasdave @jolapeno @reluctanthalfwayoptimism 

@myownwholewildworld @sunnytuliptime @indiegirlunited @anoverwhelmingdin @pedrospatch

@bergamote08 @harriedandharassed @casssiopeia @sweetpascal @half-moon16 

@noisynightmarepoetry @theoraekenslover @luxurychristmaspudding @kyberblade @toomanytookas 

@itsokbbygrl @wannab-urs @milla-frenchy @yopossum @beezusvreeland

@katw474 @bluesweaters15 @jessthebaker @encasedinobsidian @ppascalrain

@yxtkiwiyxt @schnarfer @bbyanarchist @amanitacowboy @iknowisoundcrazy

@whiskeyneat-coffeeblack @missladym1981 @ro-nahime-things @helenanell

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Pull the Thread

Fandom: Marvel (Mob Boss AU)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: You and Bucky used to be so in love and so… ignorant of the roles you had to play, which lead to you breaking up. But that didn’t seem to keep you away from each other since you now act as Bucky’s nurse whenever he gets hurt. Based off my mini fic here.

Warnings: mentions of child death

Stitched Together | Bucky Barnes Masterlist

When you wake the next morning, Bucky and Sam are gone. Their sleeping areas are made up and a note is left on your kitchen counter.

Thanks again.

See you around.

-B

PS. call me if you ever need anything

Beside it is a cup of coffee and a stack of bills. You count it out and chuckle in disbelief. Bucky left you two hundred dollars for helping him out.

You grab your phone and type in Bucky's number. You insert a picture of the money along with the text:

You: you didn't have to pay me.

Bucky: I wanted to. For disturbing your night and for your work.

You: It's fine, but thanks anyway.

Bucky: Hope you have a good day, sweetheart. :)

You pause. Sweetheart. You can't help the way your heart beats a little faster when you read that word. He used to call you that when you two were dating. It was never "babe" or "honey". Always "sweetheart".

You feel conflicted. You want to scold him for calling you that...but you also really miss being called that by him.

You decide to not respond back at all, since you still need to eat before you head into work.

_____________

Bucky shows up at your place again a few nights later. This time, he's alone and with a bullet graze on his side.

You frown at him as you let him into your apartment, "Is this going to be a habit of yours?"

He snorts, "You think I purposely get hurt just to come and see you?"

You shrug, "I don't know, Buck! We don't really know each other anymore, so I'm not sure what you'd do!" you snap at him. He looks at you with surprise and you sigh, "Sorry. It's been a long day and I wasn't expecting you."

"I can go. I'll-I can find someone else to help me."

"No. You're here already. Might as well get it over with." You gesture to the couch and he sits down as he waits for you to come back with your first aid kit.

Bucky starts to rethink things. It's true that he didn't purposefully get shot at so he can see you. But he definitely didn't hesitate to start heading to your place as soon as things were handled. He just misses you.

You come back with gloves on. You have Bucky take off his shirt so you can fully assess the wound. Just a bullet graze. He lays on his other side as you clean his wound.

Again, you work in silence. You're focused on getting this done quickly and efficiently so you can go to sleep.

As you dress his wound, you say, "You should get some antibiotics or pain relievers so it doesn't get infected or if the pain becomes too much. Change the dressing often. Make sure there's minimal movement."

He nods, "Alright. I can do that."

You help him sit up and pull his shirt back on.

Once he's dressed, Bucky looks up at you, "Maybe you and I could make an arrangement."

You look at him with a cocked brow and he stammers “Not that kind of arrangement! Business! Strict-Strictly business. You take care of me and my people when we get hurt. I pay you for your efforts and we’re out of your hair until the next time.”

"...I don't know, Bucky."

"We'll be discreet. I promise. I'll make sure everyone knows not to blab about you and to only come if it's an absolute emergency."

"I'm sure you can find an actual doctor or something to help you. Why me?"

"Because I trust you."

"Bucky, my dad is the chief of police. You shouldn't trust me."

"I know you wouldn't tell your dad. Because despite how long it's been, I still know you care about me."

You cross your arms over your chest and look at him defensively, "And how do you know that?"

He gives you a cocky grin, "Because you wouldn't have helped me that first night."

"I was doing my civic duty. I'm in the healthcare field. It's my job to help people no matter where they come from."

"Okay. Fine. All I'm saying is that you do good work and I don't want anyone else fixing me and my guys up, but you. And, of course," he pauses to pull out his money clip, picking out a few hundred dollar bills. He holds it out to you, waiting.

You weigh out your options and then take the money. You agree, because, despite what your father tells you and how Bucky treated you in the past, a part of you still loves him and will always love him.

"Alright. I'll do it. Just let me know when you're coming just so I'm not surprised every time there's a knock at my door."

"Will do," he mumbles, grunting as he stands to his feet, "Get some rest. I'm sorry you had a shitty day."

"It-It's fine. I just-" you pause and start feeling choked up. You let out a sob and you lean forward, burying your face into Bucky's shirt.

His arms immediately wrap around you in a protective, comforting hug, "I got you, sweetheart. It's okay. Let it out." His heart breaks when he hears your muffled cries.

"We lost a patient today. He had cancer. He was only eleven," you mumbled into Bucky.

His arms around you tighten, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. That's heartbreaking. But I'm sure you did everything you could to make sure his last moments were good, right?"

You slowly nod and step away from him. You wipe at your eyes, "Shit, sorry. I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay, Y/N. Cry on me whenever you like," he gives you a soft smile, "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. I've just been keeping that in all day. Thanks, Bucky."

"No problem. You're a great nurse, Y/N. I just know that those kids are lucky to have you take care of them. I know I am." He kisses your forehead, "'Til next time." He murmurs before heading to the door.

"Hopefully, not any time soon."

He shoots you a grin, "No promises." With a wink, he's out the door. You go over and lock it in place. You lean against it and let out a long sigh. Your heart is beating fast again.

_________________________

It's one of those nights where you dad comes over after a shift and you two have dinner. Neither of you felt like cooking, so you ordered takeout instead. You eat out of the styrofoam containers at your small dining table, pausing in-between bites to chat.

"Work's been okay?" your dad asks before shoveling food into his mouth.

You swallow your food, washing it down with water, "Yeah. We lost a patient earlier this week and I-I can't seem to shake it."

Your dad nods in understanding, "I get it. It's never easy and it never gets easy. And you can't even do anything but continue working after it happens. You gotta push through it. In our line of work, it's important to care for others, but also important to care for yourself too. Got that, bug?"

"I know, dad. Thanks. What about you? You said earlier that work's been super stressful lately?"

Your dad gives an exhausted sigh and leans back in his chair, "Yeah. Been working closely with different units. For years there's been word that the Barnes Family has been the head of several crime operations happening around the city. They've been good about keeping their tracks covered, but since George Barnes' passing, I'm hoping to see his son slip up." Your dad gives a disappointed shake of his head, "Still can't believe you were friends and dated his son."

"He wasn't a bad kid, dad."

"Yeah, up until he started being a prick to you. Good thing you broke things off with him when you did."

You slowly nod, "Yeah. Good thing."

___________________________

You hadn't seen Bucky for two weeks, but he'd been texting you here and there during that time.

He sent you pictures of dogs he'd seen while out and about, would ask about your dad, even ordered food for you when you said you were too tired to eat. It was really sweet and kind of him, but you couldn't help but still have your reservations about Bucky.

Did your heart skip a beat every time you received a message from him? Absolutely. But were you still anticipating on the day he'd turn around on you again? Yup.

You kept things friendly, but also not too friendly. You didn't indulge in anything too personal or detailed. For all you knew, Bucky could be using you to get information about what your dad had on him. As much as you wanted to think Bucky wouldn't do that, you had to keep yourself accountable and aware.

[themeraldee]

Can I get a wholesome little thingy of homie comforting his s/o that's like depressed what would he do? And give them snuggles? And although of course s/o giving homie headpats and caresses are top tier this time I want him to have to give headpats. Not because I'm depressed rn or anything (yes it is)

~1k | Homelander x gn!Reader | Established Relationship. Dealing with depression. Homelander's POV. Fluff. Just fluff really.

Something feels off when Homelander enters his penthouse. While he used to welcome the quiet of his home after he came back from events, this has recently changed. Ever since you’ve become a part of his life, any second spent without you feels like something’s missing. So it’s definitely out of order to get the same empty feeling when he's home. Usually you greet him with open arms or at least a ‘Welcome home’ shouted from another room.

“Babe?” Homelander calls out into the penthouse, the questioning tone reverberating through the open plan of his home. He knows you’re here. His question acts more as a reset, giving you a chance to play your role.

At your lack of response he quickly scans the room, seeing you in the bedroom. Very much awake but hidden under the sheets. So why wouldn’t you react to his presence? Shouldn’t that be something you look forward to?

You always do.

His mind runs at a hundred miles a minute. Even with the overwhelming positive effect you’ve had on his life it’s easy to fall into insecurity and despair, worrying about the worst possible outcome.

Homelander stops himself from rushing into the bedroom. But the slow one step at a time sinks the weight in his gut lower and lower. The anxiety of something being wrong has thrown him off-kilter. He doesn’t really know how to approach you when you’re distant like this.

So his over the top bravado will have to do.

“Heyyyy there sleepy head! You know it’s waaayyy too late for a lie in, don't you think?” He waltzes into the bedroom, hands on his hips, acting as if he was addressing a crowd. His voice is loud and clear, carrying a jovial tone that sounds a little too insincere even to his ears. 

He doubles down anyway. “If I knew you were planning to spend the entire day in bed I would’ve never left.” But, you don’t respond. He can hear your heartbeat, the slight rustle of the sheets and even the thud and glide of your finger scrolling down your phone screen.

When the silence gets too awkward for him to bear he peels the blanket from over your head, revealing you down to your waist. Immediately you squirm at the light coming from the outside after having your den of doom broken into.

Over the time that your love has blossomed into a relationship he’s gotten used to receiving comfort from you. You were there to listen to his countless rants and concerns. From the simple work related complaints to the horrors plaguing his nightmares. 

He should be able to do the same for you, right?

“Hmm… I’m just resting.” You sound dejected, empty. 

He swallows at the sound of you being so different. You’re missing the light that usually fills out the dark space in him. Homelander doesn’t know how to approach you. When’s the last time he’s had to comfort anyone? Truly comfort someone. Has anyone ever asked or even trusted him to be there for them?

Whether you’ve asked or not, he needs to be there for you.

It’s the least you deserve.

“Yeah right.”

He unzips his boots, setting them neatly next to each other before sliding under the sheets right behind you. He hooks his arm over you, pulling your back into his chest. And although you’re not reciprocal to his affection like you usually would be, the warmth he feels is enough to ease the anxiety in his gut.

He wedges his head in between your head and shoulder, watching with you as you mindlessly scroll through social media.

“How long have you been doom scrolling now?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head lightly against your shoulder.

 “I don’t know. A while I guess.” While you squirm in his hold your tone is still just as impenetrable.

“You’re not even looking at the screen!” When you don’t even react he frowns. “Alright, that’s enough of that.” He plucks your phone from your hands, turning and placing it on the bedside table away from you. He acts as a barrier between it and you, giving you no chance of getting it back. He rolls over back to you, greeted with the sight of you facing him.

Instantly he pulls you into him, both arms tightly around you with heavy comfort. It’s what he would’ve wanted in times of despair. It’s what you do when he seeks comfort. The whole body embrace where all he can focus on is you. It always grounds him.

He hopes it has a similar effect on you.

“What’s wrong?” He says. This time in a soft, low voice. No longer trying to put on a show. He’s meant to be there for you, not for a crowd.

“I don’t really know how to talk about it… Or if I even want to…” While you don’t sound like yourself, part of him is glad to hear your sadness. It’s better than the dejected empty voice. The closer you are to revealing your true sorrows the closer he is to getting you to feel better.

“Okay. You can… I don’t know, at least try to tell me something about what’s going on. Orrr, I will be reciting all of the amendments to the Constitution of the United States.” He’s gambling with the teasing tone of his voice but it pays off when you groan and giggle.

“Oh god no, not again!” 

“Welp, it’s your choice.” By now he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his lips. He gives you a soft squeeze.

“Alright, I can try.” You concede with a calm defeat.

“Good. That’s a start.” He kisses the top of your head, still holding and caressing you.

But most importantly, actually listening to you.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander fic):

@rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade @littlegaaby @jokesonyoupup

@nommingonfood @infinetlyforgotten @nervoussystemss

[cherryblossombankai]

Word Count: 1.1k Warnings: angst, seriously it's just angst, alcohol, mentions of anxiety and trauma, sort of implied toxic relationship, breakup, sad, depression, jealousy A/N: I'm so sorry for this :) Tag List: @pixelcafe-network, @actuallysaiyan, @helloiamadrawer, @satorustar, @sweet-chocolate-sweet

You knew deep down that breaking up had been for the best, or at least you’d believed Aizawa when he said it was for the best. Aizawa was still trying to overcome his trauma, and you're no walk in the park to live with either. Stubborn and moody on the best of days, paralyzed with anxiety on the worst of days. You knew it took him some patience at times to navigate life with you, but he wasn’t a walk in the park either. You thought you were each other’s person until he asked for space. You gave it in hopes he would eventually realize that he needs you.

It had helped you along the healing process when you believed he was as miserable as you. You took comfort in the image of him curled up in bed, mourning the scent of your perfume fading from the pillow. At the very least, it made you feel less pathetic for still sleeping in his shirt every night and refusing to wash it because he'd no longer be lingering in the stitches. 

You were fine, truly. Most days you only cried a couple of times, and you hardly ever typed up a text you'd never send anymore. At least not when you're sober. The things you’d never sent while knee-deep in a bottle of wine, well that’s a different story. It ranged from “I miss you so bad” to “Why don’t you love me anymore?” but you never sent them, and that’s what matters. 

 "I'm on the path to healing. thank you very much,” you'd bragged to your friends over dinner. You meant it! Things were really starting to fall into place. 

Until it wasn’t anymore. 

All it took was one event to have your healing facade crashing down faster than you built it up. He didn't even like selfies, that's what he told you over and over. He would scoff and cover his face every time you tried to lean in to catch a snap of the two OF you together. More than once he went on a half-hearted rant about ‘living in the moment’ instead of stopping to photograph everything. You only have a handful of photos to prove that you didn't hallucinate a five-year relationship. 

Yet there he is on your timeline, snuggled up to a pretty girl who called him ‘baby' in the caption. His arm is wrapped around her. He's leaning in...He's smiling. 

Fuck, you love his smile. It was such a rare sight when he belonged to you. You wonder what this girl has that you didn’t.

Later that night, you and your roommate split a bottle of wine. 

"I hope he thinks of me when he fucks her," you ranted to your roommate. 

You were pacing the living room like a caged tiger. A caged, drunk tiger anyway. You were angry. How could he? What right does he have to be happy when you still whisper his name when you make yourself cum?

"I'm going to call him!" 

Your roommate thankfully finds your phone before you do. She swipes it OFF the coffee table while you're digging around in your pockets.

"Nope, that is a horrible idea," she says.

"Why? Don't I deserve answers? Closure?" you sit beside her on the couch. Your puppy eyes were almost enough for her to change her mind, but she didn't. 

"Of course you do, but not like this."

After your ranting and raving becomes sleepy, your roommate — No...your hero — tucks you into bed. She covers you up with a soft blanket and pushes your hair off your face. 

"Do you think he misses me?" you whine. "I want him to miss me.”  

"He'd be stupid not to miss you,” she says, too kind to break your delusions for now, “Get some sleep."

~

It felt like your heart was ripped out. Seeing a stupid selfie was one thing. Being face-to-face with the happy couple in the produce section of your favorite grocery store is another rotten thing entirely. Aizawa doesn't even live in this neighborhood. You can’t fathom why he’d decide to date someone from the same neighborhood as you. 

You're frozen to the spot. Your nails dug into the fragile flesh of the peach you were testing for ripeness moments before your worst nightmare came true. Aizawa doesn't notice you but, to your surprise, she does. Her smile falters and she quickly looks away as if making eye contact with you was painful for her. It was odd to see. You want to look away too, but seeing them is like watching a car crash. No matter how badly you want to look away, you just can’t.

"Oh, hello," Aizawa says when you finally shift into his line of sight.

"Hi," you fake a smile. You were hoping maybe you’d be able to seem genuinely unphased. 

It’s hard to be unphased when he doesn't have to fake a smile. His smile is real and you know she’s the reason for it. 

You clear your throat, "How are you?" 

"I'm good. Uh, this is my girlfriend, Ami."

"Nice to meet you." you lie for the sake of friendliness but refuse to shake hands. 

"I've heard so much about you." Ami says. "About your hero work, of course!"

“Right, of course. Thanks."

“We should get going, babe," he says and places his hand on her back. 

Babe? When did he become a guy who said something like 'babe'. It makes your stomach turn as you walk away. You used to make fun of people who said ‘babe’ together. 

"Why was I not enough for you?" you text him that night. Your eyes are so blurry with tears that you don't even think you could read his response. Not that he will ever respond, you figure. 

You roll onto you side, letting the tears flow from your eyes into the pillow. You clutch on tightly to the fluffy teddy bear he’d bought you for the last birthday you’d spent together.

"Don't do this," he texts back

.You drop your phone onto the bed, and you bury your face against your teddy bear. The muffled scream you let out is full of pain. You still love him. You know you shouldn't, but you want him back. You can taste him on your lips still. 

“Why? Because it's not on your time? Because you're not in control?" you text back.

"No! Because you're being emotional again.” 

“Again? God forbid I have feelings.” 

Aizawa was always so controlled. It was infuriating to know that no matter what you say you will never get under his skin the way you want to. He doesn’t respond for the longest time, and you decide to try once again to get to him. 

“Of course I'm emotional. I fucking love you."

When he doesn't respond, you get the message. There's nothing else to say. He's over you, or he wants to be. All you can do is pick up the pieces.

[skeletboi]

Part 8 of the intridimensional au!

New? Start here!

Silly extra about what Fiddleford is doing during all of this here.

_______________________________________

“We're going to have to stop before Arizona.” Ford said after about thirty minutes of driving.

“That is not a good idea.” Stan replied, his voice thick with pain. “But I wouldn't say no to some whiskey right about now.”

Ford glanced over at him and noted the sheen of sweat over his face.

“What you need is a hospital, not whiskey.” Ford replied.

“Not worth it. Hospitals ask questions and call the police. Whiskey would never do that to me.”

Ford sighed, but couldn't really argue with that logic.

“Fine, but we have to stop before Arizona. I didn't bring my first aid kit so I will be needing some supplies.”

“Let me get whiskey, first. Taking the fabric off the wound is going to be extra shitty if I'm sober.”

Ford dug the map from his pocket and threw it towards Stan.

“Find us a rest stop. I'll go in to purchase supplies and call Fiddleford to let him know what's happening. He's most likely pacing a hole in the floor as we speak.”

Stan picked up the map, but didn't unfold it.

“Fiddleford, huh? That's the guy that picked up the phone when I called.”

“Yes. He's my assistant.”

“Assistant. Is that what they're calling it these days?”

Ford swerved, but quickly righted the car.

“He- he's married, Stanley!”

“That wasn't a denial.” Stan laughed.

“We are not talking about this. Aren't you supposed to be looking for a rest stop?!”

Stan laughed again, but gave in and unfolded the map.

“There's a stop in another 20 miles.” Stan said, glancing at the rear view mirror to make sure no one was following them. “We should be fine to stop there. Which means we have at least twenty minutes for you to tell me all about how you met this ‘assistant’ of yours.”

Ford took a second to glare at Stan, but gave in when he noticed Stan's pained grimace. He needed the distraction, so he figured Fiddleford was at least a distracting topic to start with.

“We were roommates in college.” Ford started, not missing the way Stan winced in his peripheral vision at the word college. “He's a brilliant mechanic and mathematician. I recruited him to help me with my work in Gravity Falls because of his invaluable knowledge of machinery, and he agreed to help for a few months.”

“Invaluable knowledge, huh? Did you say that to him? That's a weird way to flirt.”

“Did you miss the ‘few months’ part?” Ford asked, unable to hide his annoyance. “He plans on going back to his wife and son in Palo Alto in another month or so.”

“So he left his wife and son in California to work with you? That doesn’t sound very casual.”

“We are done talking about this.” Ford said.

“Fine, fine. Tell me more. Why do you need a mechanic? I assumed you'd be hunting bigfoots or whatever.”

“I told you, his knowledge is invaluable.” Ford replied, a bit too quickly.

“Right…” Stan said, not convinced, but ignored it for now. “So you were roommates. You ever drink too much shit beer and check under the hood or…”

“STANLEY!”

“That wasn't a no!”

“We may have- wait! No! We are absolutely done with this conversation! Fiddleford is just a friend, alright?!”

“A friend you fucked in college that left his wife and child to ‘work with you’. Right.”

“I should have left you in that motel room.” Ford mumbled.

“That's what I told you to do! Not my fault you're so damn stubborn!”

“I'm stubborn?! You got caught up in some gang garbage instead of just getting over yourself and talking to our parents!”

“Talking to them wouldn't change a damn thing! You're just a paycheck to Pa, and I'm even less than that!”

“We are worth more than that! Anyway, what about Shermie?! Couldn't you reach out to him?!”

“And what, ruin his life, too? He has a wife and kids! You think I was going to put them in danger! You hate me and I didn’t even want to put you in danger! I just called to let you know I was sorry!”

Ford frowned and glanced over at Stan.

“I don't hate you, Stanley. I'm just angry with you.”

“Whatever. Same shit different day. I ruined your life, I ruined our parents life, I ruined my life and I will probably ruin your boyfriend's life, too. I’m not going to risk ruining Shermie's kid's lives on top of that.”

“Dammit, Stanley! He is not my boyfriend, grow the fuck up! And you didn’t really ruin my life, you just made it ten times harder.”

“Again. Same shit. Different day.”

Ford sighed. He did not get enough sleep for this. He didn't think it was possible to get enough sleep for this. He couldn't just drop ten years of anger in one night, but he didn't want Stanley to think he was worthless, either. He didn't have the time or energy to have this conversation.

“It’s the next exit.” Stan said, tearing Ford from his thoughts.

Ford nodded and took the exit, happy for the distraction.

“I'll park around the side of the building where there is some light to see your injuries. Try to turn towards the door so I can get a better look at your leg, alright?” Ford said, pulling into the parking lot.

“Yeah, yeah. I can patch myself up, ya know? Just get the supplies and I'll deal with it.”

“Stubborn.” Ford mumbled as he got out of the car.

“Takes one to know one.” Stan shot back as Ford closed the door behind him.

Ford grit his teeth and made his way to the store entrance. It was small, but well-stocked, so it was easy enough to find everything he needed.

“Rough night?” The clerk asked as he brought everything to the counter.

“Very much so.” Ford replied tiredly.

“Ya ain't the first one to come in here with a haul like this. Just happens round these parts, I ‘spose. Though, ya don't look the usual type. Ya look more… proffessory.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” Ford said, paying for his merchandise. “May I get some quarters back? I need to make a call.”

“I'm sure ya do.” The clerk laughed.

Ford frowned, but didn't bother asking as the clerk handed him the change.

“Have a better night, friend.” The clerk called after him as he left.

“I'll do my best.” Ford replied.

He walked over to the car and found Stanley sitting sideways, one and a half legs dangling out of the car, and a revolver in his lap.

“Whiskey first.” Stan said as Ford approached.

Ford handed it over.

“Damn. This stuff isn't bad. I assumed you'd get the cheap shit. You holding out on me, bro?”

“It was only $9.00, I wouldn't exactly call it the best whiskey.”

“Usually I get the $3.00 bottle. This is smooth as silk in comparison.” Stan replied, downing at least a quarter of the bottle without taking a breath.

“I doubt most people would refer to that as ‘smooth’.” Ford said.

“I ain't most people, Sixer.”

“No argument there.” Ford mumbled.

“First time for everything.”

Ford sighed but knelt down in front of Stan to get a closer look at his injury.

“I told ya I could do it myself, Ford. Don't you have a boyfr- ‘assistant’ to call?”

“I would feel better if I did it. You're in pain and might miss some crucial disinfecting.”

“Fine, Doctor Ford, but you should still go make that phone call first. It's going be a minute before this whiskey kicks in.”

Ford nodded and handed the first aid supplies over to Stan.

“I'll be back in five minutes. Don't… run off.”

Stan looked up in shock before breaking into raucous laughter.

“Damn, your ‘assistant’ teach you how to make a joke? That was a good one!”

“Stop saying assistant like that.” Ford replied, attempting to look angry, but failing as he started to laugh, too.

“Whatever. Go call him before he calls the police. We don't need more people after us.”

Ford rolled his eyes, but did as he was told and made his way towards the payphone.

“Hiya, Ford. How goes everythin’?” Fiddleford said in lieu of hello.

“Hi, Fidds. How did you know it would be me?”

“I took that caller identification majig and hooked it up to my computer so it tells me who is callin’. I call it call-ification! I figured no one else would be callin’ me from New Mexico.”

“Fascinating. Did I not leave you enough equations?”

“Oh, you done left me plenty. I just needed a break or I was gonna lose my darn mind. Anyways, ya didn't answer my question, how is it goin’?”

Ford sighed and glanced back towards the car.

“Not well. I have an… issue I need to discuss with you.”

“Well that don’ sound good. What's the problem?”

“Stanley is the problem. As I suspected he got himself in some serious trouble, and he has nowhere to go, so I'm driving him back to Gravity Falls with me.”

“Well that's not so bad. It'll be a pleasure ta finally meet ‘im.”

“Hah, you say that now. Either way, we are driving because he isn't in good enough shape to fly back. It'll probably be another day before we get there.”

“Not good ‘nough shape? What happened ta him?”

“I haven’t asked him for details but he's… well he lost a leg.”

“A LEG?!” Fiddleford practically screamed. “Gosh darnit! I thought you were gonna say he was just beat up a bit! That's terrible!”

“It is less than ideal. I'm going to patch him up to the best of my ability and we will be on our way.”

“You're gonna patch ‘im up?! Take that man to a damn hospital, Stanford!”

“I tried that. He refused because, and I quote, ‘hospitals ask questions and call the police’.”

“Ya really got yerself a conundrum there, then, doncha? Well… keep me updated, alright? Does he have a similar build to ya? I bet I can make him a robot leg…”

Ford chuckled.

“He has a larger build than me, but we'll talk about it when we arrive in Gravity Falls. Sorry I didn't leave you with more equations. You'll have to find your own entertainment.”

“Don't you worry ‘bout me, Stanford. I am plenty fine workin’ on my computers. Keep me updated, though, seriously. I’m gonna be worryin’ ‘til I hear from you again.”

“I will, Fidds. I'll call you at our next stop.”

“Alrighty. See ya soon, Ford.”

Ford hung up and turned back towards the car. This was definitely going to be an interesting road trip.

Ford made his way back to the car and found Stanley already removing some of the makeshift gauze on his leg.

“Damn, that fucking hurts.” Stan thought aloud.

“That is not surprising.” Ford responded, grimacing. “I grabbed you a new shirt as well, since you didn't grab any clothes on our way out the door.”

“That's because I don't have other clothes.” Stan said through his teeth as he peeled off the remaining fabric, leaving only the makeshift tourniquet under his knee.

Ford swallowed hard, but leaned down to get a better look.

“Do I even want to know how this actually happened?” He asked, grabbing the gallon of water he bought and opening it.

“Probably not. Even if you did, I don't exactly want to talk about it right now.”

“Fair enough. This is going to sting.” Ford said, then poured the water over the gaping wound.

Stan stuffed the sleeve of his coat in his mouth and bit down hard, trying his best to focus on the fabric in his teeth and ache in his jaw over the screaming pain in his leg.

“Fuck, Stanley.” Ford mumbled, sounding wobbly. “I've patched up some serious injuries in my time, but this is definitely the worst one.”

“Tell me about them.” Stan said, momentarily removing the fabric from his mouth. “And don't pass out, or we'll really be fucked.”

Ford thought for a moment, then started to tell the story of Fiddleford and the Gremgoblin as he continued his work.

“Damn, that's pretty intense.” Stan said as Ford finished wrapping the cleaned wound. “What did he see when he looked into it's eyes?”

“I have no idea. He never did tell me, and everytime I ask about it he just gets this far-away look, so I decided not to push it.” Ford replied, carefully removing the makeshift tourniquet and checking to make sure the gauze stayed clean.

“A mystery you actually let go of, huh? You really must love this guy.” Stan said.

“You know I could rip this gauze off, right?”

“Alright! Fine! I’ll stop bringing it up! I’m excited to meet him, though.”

“Yes, well, he is excited to meet you as well. He said he would build you a robot leg. Knowing him, he probably already has the blueprints ready. He built himself a metal cast of sorts after he broke his arm. He was already wearing it the day after the incident.”

“That sounds badass. You think he can make it look like a peg leg? I’ll look like a cool pirate.”

Ford laughed and gathered the remaining supplies to store in the trunk. “I'm positive that he could. He would probably enjoy it.”

“I already like this guy.” Stan laughed.

“I'm sure he already likes you, too.” Ford said with a chuckle as he finished packing up and made his way to the driver's side. “He honestly likes everyone. It's fascinating. I'm sure he would be a terrifying villain if he wasn't always so nice.”

“Ooh. A dark side. The plot thickens!”

“I wouldn't call it a dark side, exactly. More of an intense side. He built a bunker with a boobytrap room that wouldn't be out of place in a horror movie, but I don't believe he would ever use it to hurt another human.” Ford mused as he got the car started.

“Why even build it, then?” Stan asked.

“It’s to keep creatures in more than keep humans out, although it functions both ways.”

“You think he'll make one of those to keep some asshole gangsters away?”

“It's feasible. You'll have to ask him yourself.”

“I plan on it. We should switch clothes and see if he can tell the difference.”

“You're missing a leg, Stanley.”

“I'll put a boot in my pant leg and we can both stand still.” Stan suggested with a laugh.

“He is extremely intelligent, he most likely won't fall for that.”

“Are you suggesting that he knows you too well? Intimately, perhaps?”

“I will push you out of this car.” Ford said, but laughed anyway.

Stan laughed with him and Ford couldn't help but feel like a teenager again, laughing alongside his brother over some stupid joke. For a moment he swore he could hear the squeak of a swingset, and smell the salty air of the ocean.

___________________________________

I realize that gauze and a tourniquet would not be enough for this wound- he would definitely need to cauatorize it, but suspend disbelief for a moment....

Previous /// Next

Also, what do you mean it makes more sense to go through Colorado?! It's Janurary and they're in an el diablo. Better to go around the bigger mountains! This was definitely planned and not a mistake.

I didn't mean for the backstory to go on this long, my hands just keep typing! I can't stopppppppp! I swear there is portal content eventually!

Also, I know some of you are not here for Fiddauthor, but I couldn't not have Stan being an annoying brother about it. I needed it to happen.

[grogusmum]

TIME AFTER TIME (drabble)

Max Phillips x f!Reader

For @burntheedges Roll-a-Trope Writng Challenge. My trope is reincarnation with Max Phillips .

Of course, I am incredibly late, and it's just a little drabble. More of these two might come down the pike... I don't know just now.

Let me clear up the discourse on Vampires and their need to rest… or not.

Sure, it's very melodramatic to imagine someone who lives forever and doesn't sleep.

All the emo vamps love that headcanon.

Vampires sleep… okay. But we don't dream. We sleep like the dead. And nothing’s going on in there.

Until I did.

I'm Max, by the way. Max Phillips, Aries, vampire, award winning sales manager.

I have to say, it was disconcerting. It was always the same, well, not really. It was always a vivid dream about some couple. One from the 40s, a GI coming home from war and his wife meeting him at the train.

Some newly weds with heart eyes for each other, 1920s from the clothes… over and over, doing just everyday things.

So domestic.

So quaint.

So boring.

Here's the thing, whether gay, straight, black, white, whatever, one half of every pair, was me. And that other person, the love of my life, is the same person no matter what they look like. Sometimes I'm watching like it's a movie, sometimes I am in the action.

I don't know much more than how much I love them. And they love me.

It's weird.

Anyway, one night, I'm out looking for a bite of something, and this sweet little morsel is walking on their own. So soft and delicious looking…

Walking along, you know you should keep to the more bustling streets, but if you cut across Manard to Wells, you'll be home so much faster. It's been such a long and trying day. It's not like it's some dark alley, you justify to yourself, and you hop off the curb and cross to the side street.

At this, Max smiles, a wide thin smile. Perfect, he thinks.

Max allows you several yards. He's in no hurry. No fear that you'll slip away. Then he crosses Manard and turns onto Wells.

It's lit, residential window glow from the lights of reading lamps and televisions from within. But it's quiet. Probably more quiet than you anticipated when you chose the short cut.

Tsk tsk, always stay on the path, Little Red, he thinks, short cuts through the woods never bode well for sweet morsels like you, poor lamb.

Under a street light, he sees it, the moment you realize he's there. The telltale tension in your shoulders. A hesitation in your step. A head turn, not all the way, of course, you know better than that, just enough to listen. Trying to decide if he is following you or just on his own way home.

Almost at the halfway point, you know your step stuttered for a beat, to your annoyance. Maybe this is the guy's street, maybe he didn't notice. You too far in, you can't double back, so you press on. You put your phone to your ear, no, you're not calling anyone - just making it seem so.

“Nice night.”

You would have jumped in surprise if you had time, but you are pulled off the street so - well, quickly doesn't come close. It's like you appeared suddley in the alley

Your gasp, though, almost makes Max feel bad.

Almost. Because the fear is his favorite part, and now that your side is pressed up against him, you smell even more delicious. Your breath comes fast and shallow.

“Well, well, Little Red, how far you've strayed from the path.”

“I-”

Max breaths you in, and his brows knit, then turns you to face him. His large hands firm on your upper arms. Like the temperature dropped several degrees, you shiver, teeth chattering - you slowly bring your eyes to meet his.

Max does not gasp, but he doesn't not gasp.

In your eyes he sees lifetimes. Yours and his. The GI and the USO volunteer, the flapper and her beau… All of them.

And he loves you. To his horror more than he loves himself.

“You-”

You continue to tremble, twisting your shoulders arms, but breaking free is not happening.

Suddenly, this man, this assailant's dark eyes are soft, wet even, though a moment before you could almost see a red glow in their coal blackness. Then he is gone before you have time to fully register his vice-like grip had softened.

Confused and relieved, you return to the sidewalk under a streetlamp, he his nowhere. Did you imagine it?

Max watches from the rooftop, as you pull yourself together. Without thinking he follows, not as before to stalk his prey, but now as a protector.

You pull your key from your bag and with a look to the left and right, you push the door open and enter. The door clicks as the lock catches and you are safely inside. Max exhales.

"I'm fucked," Max concludes, as he stands sentry until he hears your apartment door close and the deadbolt and chain.

THANKS FOR READING 💚