#at some point he swapped our body pillows. i have no idea which time i got up it was. i didn't even notice for so long | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

grimey--gal · 5 years

Text

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NONNIE

It starts very slow, almost unnoticeable. He is an old soul anyways - he has always assumed some aches and pains would come with becoming human again. At times, his neck would be sore, or his joints would feel tender, and he passed it off as trivial, taking a drink to mask the pain. He does not mention anything to Andy, who he assumes would not care much anyways. They are barely even roommates, let alone friends. And Andy has problems of his own.

One morning, he can’t quite get out of bed right away. He feels hot and shivers when he finally sits up, and he sweats and chills at the same time. His heart pounds erratically in his chest, but it goes away with a shot or two. He goes about his day, smoking more than he probably should.

A week passes, and a day comes again where he is almost paralyzed in bed. When he finally manages to sit up, he calls Tiffany. He tries not to sound too desperate, but he is beginning to panic. He does not want this to keep happening.

“I’ll look it up,” is what she says, “but that doesn’t sound familiar in any way to me.”

“Oh and you’re the expert on transferring human souls, I guess?” he snaps, and immediately regrets it. He apologizes.

“I’m afraid, Tiff,” he admits quietly. His back is aching so much. He can feel a fever coming on again. “I don’t know the answers and I’m fucking pissing myself right now.”

“I know,” she replies, and then hangs up, leaving him alone again. He knows she still loves him, and she will try her best, but he also knows that talking to him is still a sore chore for her to do. He lays back down, rubbing his temples and wanting to cry from frustration. He doesn’t.

Later that evening, when Andy comes home from work, he immediately notices. “You’re acting different today,” he sniffs, eyeing Chucky curiously. “You look different.”

“You’ve been staring after me long enough to know, haven’t you?” Chucky bites, almost whimpering at the pain just to speak. His jaw feels stiff and tender at the same time. He clenches his teeth and regrets it. Andy just stares at him, not responding with some equally biting quip for once. He doesn’t say anything more though, and just turns on the television, lighting a joint.

Chucky goes to bed early. Andy doesn’t ask after him. Which he wouldn’t of course, Chucky knows this. His panic grows.

The next morning, he feels a little better, but he is still a bit woozy. He gets up and waddles slowly around the kitchen, when suddenly he feels a hot acid rising up his throat.

A multitude of heaving and retching later, he rushes for the phone as fast as he can with a sore stomach, dialing Tiffany again. She does not pick up this time. He throws the phone across the floor, watching it shatter. The noise causes his ears to ring, and he groans and collapses to his knees on the linoleum.

He is in bed before Andy comes home. His throat stings and his nose is running. Andy does not come in to check on him, despite the apartment phone still broken on the floor. He is alone in the dark, and he is terrified. He grips the sheets and the small moments of sleep he gets are fitful.

Things begin to escalate faster after that. Within days, he barely ever leaves the bed, except to painfully run to the toilet, every inch of his body screaming in pain from each move he makes. He thinks he may be dying, and begins to hope he dies soon.

Tiffany has no way to call now, unless she finds a way to contact Andy. He tosses this thought around a lot, and his anxiety rises. He sleeps less and less.

He starts to wake to a voice, raspy and pleading. “Please, please, please,” it croaks, high-pitched and desperate. He looks around the room every time, but he never sees anyone. He is going insane.

He thinks he hears a knock on the door at some point. “Fuck off, Andy!” he screams, even though that is exactly what he does not want to happen. It hurts everything in him to say it. He sweats in bed while shivering. He sees and hears things around him constantly tormenting him. Saying his name. Saying Andy’s name.

He dreams that he is healthy and fine, and wakes to hell each time. He dreams of other things too, but he does not like to think about it. It doesn’t take long before he clings to those dreams, though, them being the only distraction he has from the exponentially growing pain.

It is a week later, but he does not know it. He is not keeping track of time. It feels like a lifetime. It is a week later when suddenly he’s waking to the raspy voice again, and he realizes it’s him - it’s been him begging some unknown for mercy.

He should pray to Damballah. But he has no offering, and no way to give it even if he has it. He prays anyways, desperate. Helpless. Lost.

He prays, and then he is burning, and everything feels as if he is tearing from the inside out, and he is screaming. He couldn’t stop it if he tried, or if he wanted to, and he finds that he doesn’t want to stop anyways. It seems to be the only thing he can do. He is screaming and he is so imbedded in pain that he does not realize that he is crying.

He is convulsing, and he is screaming for mercy, and none comes. For a fragment of a moment of sanity, he thinks he may be in hell. This is what hell would be like, and it is what he would deserve.

He is screaming, and he has no idea what he is saying. He is out of his mind. He wants water, he wants to shower, he wants to be able to enjoy walking through the small apartment again, to hunger and to taste food, he wants something - anything. The touch of a human being. The coolness of sheets at night. Anything.

He wants to die. He wants the pain to stop.

The bedroom door opens, but he doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t hear much at all at first. And then barely, he can hear a voice, calling his name.

“Please...” he’s hoarse, he’s exhausted from screaming, he’s reaching in the dark. This feels like his last hope. “Please, please - make this end. I’m begging you.” His voice cracks. “Kill me if you have to. Just make it end.”

Then he’s screaming again.

Kristen settles in the bed next to Jess, hair frazzled from work. “I’m not getting up until two, so don’t you dare even think about waking me up before then,” she groans into her pillow. She can hear Jess snickering under her breath before she feels slender fingers finding their way through her curls.

“You’re not even going to shower, babe? You’d feel better,” Jess chastises her. Kristen shakes her head, feeling Jess’ fingers tangling in her hair.

“They’re going to get lost in there,” she grunts, and she’s right. One of Jess’ rings catch in a clump of curled tangles, and they’re both giggling, despite Kristen’s exhausted irritation.

“What’re you still doing up anyways? Surely you weren’t just waiting on me,” Kristen asks when they finally disentangle, peering up at Jess critically.

Her girlfriend shakes her head, tapping a small book. “You know I’m always awake for you, lady-love, but alas, you’re right. I’m writing our next single for the band. We’re opening for a show in Boston next Friday, and it’s my hometown so I thought I’d do something special.”

Kristen smiles up at Jess dopily. “That’s so exciting, Jeevie,” she slurs out. It is true; Jess has worked hard and is very talented at what she does, and Kristen believes she deserves the world. But now, she is beyond exhausted from closing at her small cafe, and she yearns for sleep. She yawns heavily. “I love you. Good night.”

She lays down again and Jess turns off the lights, save for a small desk lamp. She feels the dip of the mattress and Jess’ hand scratching her neck and back gently as her girlfriend settles back down, scribbling away.

Moments later, her phone vibrates, and it shakes her awake. She ignores it at first, but when it continues to buzz under her stomach, she finally pushes herself up on her elbows, aggravated.

“Merda, quem é isso - tome no meu cu,” she curses under her breath, and Jess laughs. Kristen wipes her eyes, feeling mascara and eyeliner smear. She should have showered. Shaking the thought away, she blinks at the harsh light of the phone.

“Oh- it’s Andy,” she murmurs aloud. “I wonder what he wants at this time of night?”

“He’s finally decided he wants to dick that doll of his down and he needs our help, since we’re totally dicking-down experts,” Jess states, eyes not leaving her page. Kristen gives her a look and shoves her.

“He’ll never decide that, turd, unless he’s suddenly possessed by his own repression,” she huffs. “We’ll be in walkers swapping fake teeth when that happens.”

Jess snorts and keeps writing.

Kristen swipes the phone open, ignoring any of Jess’ further snarky commentary and holding the phone up to her ear. She can feel her eyes closing again already. “Andy?” she croaks into the phone. She can hear a lot of noise in the background, but it’s muffled. “What’s going on? You know it’s like,” she checks her phone screen, “almost three in the morning, right?”

“You’ve gotta help me - I don’t know what to do!” Andy’s panting into the phone, and the last time Kristen had heard him like this, he had been on the bathroom floor, crying his eyes out. Immediately, her maternal instinct comes into the fray, clawing anxiously in her chest. “Please, I- I don’t know what’s happening and I don’t know who else could come...”

“Okay, okay, I’m coming - you’re not hurt are you?” she asks, alerted to the severity of the mystery situation. She lowers her voice, despite Jess not being entirely naive of their old friends living situation. “Did he kill someone near you?”

There’s a shuffling sound. She can hear more now. Someone is screaming in the background. She and Jess share a look, and Kristen is already up, throwing her shoes back on. Jess snaps her book shut and jumps out of bed, grabbing the car keys from the chair Kristen had thrown them down on earlier.

“Andy?” Kristen asks again, panicking. She can not seem to tie her laces fast enough.

“I’m fine- it’s not - he isn’t hurting anyone,” Andy finally responds again, and she exhales loudly in relief. He sounds worn out. “It’s him. He’s hurting. I don’t know what’s going on - but he won’t stop screaming and... Kristen, he looks terrible... I don’t know what to do.”

They’re out the door, Jess opening the car and Kristen jumping in beside her. She keeps Andy on the line, asking whatever questions she can think of and assuring him she’s on her way. Jess peers over at her every once in a while, worry crossing her face.

“Dude - what’s going on over there?” she asks carefully when Kristen hangs up. Kristen just turns to her, wide-eyed and speechless. Jess reaches over to squeeze her hand, feeling the pulse of Kristen’s heartbeat in her palm. Kristen shrugs, the background noises still echoing in her head.

“I… I don’t know, Jeevie,” she whispers, finally. Then, “He sounds absolutely miserable though.”

She sits back against the chair, trying to focus on the hum of the car. “For once, I won’t mind if you speed through here. Just… get us there…”

She can hear the screaming and crying just outside Andy’s door when they arrive, Jess reassuring her to go on ahead while she parks the car. He’s opening it before she can even knock, eyes wide and red from lack of sleep - or from crying himself, she doesn’t ask.

“Where is he?” she asks, and he waves his hand weakly, walking back to his guest room, which she supposes is where he has let Chucky stay since their strange arrangement. She has not been here to his apartment in a long time. Not since Chucky had moved in.

She walks in the room, and she can smell the fever. The vomit. It smells very much like death.

On the bed, Chucky is convulsing, in a spasm, and upon coming closer to observe, she can see harsh and ugly bruises along all of his joints. His eyes are wrecked, red and bulging with dark circles underneath. His nose and mouth are bleeding, and he’s babbling, only managing a single human word every once in a while. He is the epitome of a mess, as if he were breaking and reforming continuously in a loop, mangled.

Beforehand, she had been wondering why Andy had even cared. After all, Chucky has his fair share of comeuppance due. She definitely has not changed her mind about him; she still distrusts him and would rather him out of their lives. But this - this is beyond what she would wish on anyone. And looking over at Andy’s tear stricken face (he has been crying, she can see it better now), she can see that he feels the same, conflicted about his heart breaking for someone who he has years of hurt and hatred for.

He is at his wit’s end, calling her for help. And she does not know what to do either.

“We can’t- we can’t take him to a doctor right? This isn’t any kind of disease...” Andy is babbling to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Jess with a bottle in her hand, coming over to pour Andy a drink and rubbing his shoulder. She smiles, hoping her gratitude to her girlfriend radiates through her demeanor, just happy that she has a partner who has her back.

“No,” she says finally, looking back at Chucky. His screams have subsided, but merely because he is wearing out. He’s still crying and pleading to no one in particular, gripping at the air with mangled fingers.

“He’s been like this for how long? Just since earlier tonight you said?” she asks. She touches his forehead. He howls from her touch. He is burning. She can see veins pulsating madly just beneath his skin. “

She feels his wrist, gentler this time, but he still whimpers and jerks under her touch. He’s very tender, his skin molds under where her fingers are, and the impression of her touch is still embedded in his wrist when she removes her hand.

“It looks like... he’s literally growing human parts,” she murmurs after a while in quiet observation, looking up at Andy and Jess in soft awe. “I can see his veins - the blood going through them.”

She gives Jess a look. “Can you get some water?” she asks. “I want to try something.”

Jess gives Andy one last comforting squeeze before disappearing. Chucky starts to twist and scream in bed again, his cries growing. Andy’s face contorts, and he lets out a soft whine, covering his face and kneeling over in the chair he’s pushed close to the bed. Kristen puts her arms around him, resting her cheek on his head.

“I’m sorry this is happening,” she whispers, despite still feeling animosity towards the doll-turning-human. “We’ll figure out what’s wrong- we will. We’ll help him.”

Jess returns with the water. Kristen lifts Andy’s face. “Can you help me with something?” she asks softly. Andy nods weakly, shaking himself into action.

“It might hurt him a bit still,” she warns. “But I think - look at him with me.” She points at his skin. “He’s dehydrated. He didn’t need a lot of sustenance before, as the doll, but now that he’s... I don’t know, forming a human body I guess? He needs nutrients. Starting with water.”

She bites her lip. “Maybe,” she adds. She is not entirely sure what he needs. But they have to try.

She waves at his head. “Lift his head up a bit,” she tells Andy, who is shaking but gingerly cradles Chucky’s head in hands. Chucky cries, begging in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” Andy is chanting under his breath. His eyes are watering, his lip quivering. His voice trembles. “We’re trying to take care of you, I promise...”

Kristen is not as apologetic. She’s more interested in propping his mouth open to pour water in slowly. Chucky seems to vaguely register what’s going on, swallowing in between moans. He coughs through most of it, but eventually takes all the water down, mouth open and panting in desperate wait for more.

Kristen turns to Jess. “Get more,” she directs her, holding out the empty cup, “and get a lot of it, please.”

Jess rushes out the door. Kristen puts a hand on Andy’s shoulder, trying to steady him. Chucky still cries, head nestled in Andy’s hands. He is still babbling incoherently, but certain words are coming through: please, hurt, stop, die. And then: Andy.

Andy looks as if he is going to break when he hears his name. He kneels down weakly, Chucky’s head still in his hands, and puts their foreheads together.

“I tried,” Andy says softly, almost unheard with Chucky’s sobbing. “I tried to get him to talk to me, to get him to drink, or eat. Everything seems to hurt him.”

“I know,” Kristen replies, as gently as she can. “He’s going to keep hurting if we don’t push him now though.”

“But how do you know this is going to work?”

She doesn’t. “I don’t,” she admits. “But we have to try. It’s better than nothing.”

Jess returns, water jug and cup in her hands and a look on her face. “There’s someone at the door,” she says, eyes searching Kristen’s face. “Should I... open it?”

Kristen nods. “Check who it is first,” she says, then takes the water from Jess’ hands. “And check around the kitchen. Look for anything like soup or broth that we can push down his throat.”

Jess nods, looking as pale and panicked as Kristen feels. But Andy has been dealing with this for hours already, and somebody has to be strong. It looks like it is going to have to be her. She sighs and forces Chucky’s mouth open again, slowly pouring in more water.

Andy looks up after a while, wide-eyed. “Wait - wait, give him a break,” he pleads, gesturing with his head frantically. “Don’t drown him.”

Indeed, it looks as if Chucky is struggling to swallow the water. Kristen blanches, and puts the water down to pull Chucky’s limp body up.

It’s a serious mistake. It’s as if Chucky is literal putty in her hands, and if they’d thought his screams were loud before, they are insane in that moment.

Kristen and Andy share a horrified look. “He doesn’t have any...?” Kristen starts, alarmed.

“Bones, no. Well not really yet, anyways,” a voice, low and smooth, interrupts. Andy and Kristen turn to see Jess at the doorway, with another woman by her side. Her coat is pulled tightly around her, and she is already tying her hair back, ready for work.

“Ms. Valentine?” Andy barely gasps out, immediately recognizing her.

Tiffany looks at the scene before her, bracing herself for how long the night is about to be.

Chucky, head nestled against Andy’s chest at this point. A young woman with dark curly hair and wild eyes, with a cup of water in one hand, and Chucky’s arm in another. The woman next to her who had let her in, a box of broth in her hands. Everyone looks about as lost as she feels.

She sighs and adjusts the books in her arms. “I brought the twins,” she announces to Andy, who nods numbly. He looks worn out.

“That’s fine,” he rasps. His hands are threaded in Chucky’s hair, she notes, but she doesn’t say anything about the sudden unexpected intimacy. She just holds her itching smile and approaches them.

“Here’s the broth,” the taller girl says, holding out the box. The curly haired one stares at her in disbelief.

“Well, warm it up, babe!” she says, a bit exasperated. “I might hate the guy but I’m not a complete bitch.”

The girl behind her stifles some kind of snort, and then she’s gone. Tiffany watches in amusement as the curly haired girl continues to gently pour water in Chucky’s mouth. If it weren’t such a dire situation, Tiffany would find it all rather endearing.

“You were on the right track,” she reassures, in an attempt to alleviate the terseness and anxiety in the room. “He is turning human- so now he does have human needs.”

The girl looks at her in relief. “What’s your name?” Tiffany asks, curious. She seems to have a strong head on her shoulders, fiercely independent and confident despite the situation. Almost as if she innately knew what needed to be done in the moment. Tiffany finds herself drawn to her almost immediately, despite knowing little to nothing about her.

“Kristen,” the girl sighs out. She finishes giving Chucky water and lets him relax back in Andy’s hands. “And you’re Tiffany, right? Andy’s mentioned you before.”

Tiffany nods. Kristen grins half heartedly. “Sorry we’re meeting like this,” she says, gesturing to everything around them. “It’s not how I expected to be introduced to you.”

At this, Tiffany shrugs. There’s not much they can do about it now. There’s no helping the situation. She places a hand against Chucky’s neck, and he moans, tossing a bit and almost trying to sink into Andy’s hands.

“You dramatic little bitch,” she teases, but her voice is tense. Then she looks at Kristen. “He’s burning up. You were smart to give him water. But unfortunately, from what information I gathered, we can only try to make the process easier. We can’t speed it up. He will be in pain until it is over. In fact, right now is the hardest part, if my understanding of the text is correct.”

“So how long will he be like this?” Andy asks. Tiffany had almost forgotten he was there, he had been so quiet. His head rests on the pillow next to Chucky, hands still cradling him as if he were the most fragile thing in the world. Given the situation, he probably is currently. She gives him a sympathetic glance.

“I’m not sure - it was a little unclear,” she admits. Andy’s eyes fall, and he seems to forget himself, pushing his nose against Chucky’s ear, eyes screwed shut. It pains him, she can tell. She’s not sure if it is because he truly cares about Chucky now for some reason, or because they’re all facing this storm together. Either way, he is hurting, and it almost appears instinctual, the way he grabs for Chucky in the same way he probably had when he was younger.

The other girl returns, bowl in hand. “It’s not too hot,” she says, and Kristen holds out her hands for it.

“Alright, lets see how you do with this,” she mutters, taking a spoonful of the broth. “Andy, lift his head again.”

Chucky’s still crying and moaning, but it seems that for now, the pain has subsided. His voice is smaller and weaker, and he seems fine enough to have his head lifted when Andy positions himself just right so that Chucky is leaning against him. His eyes are opening, but it doesn’t appear that he is recognizing that there are people in front of him. Tiffany can see the glassy shine in his eyes; he has the look of someone who, mentally, is very far removed from the current world around them.

Kristen pulls his jaw down again, tilting the spoon into his mouth. “There,” she asserts, a little self-satisfied. Tiffany is slightly amused at her almost calloused way of handling him, despite feeling a bit guilty about taking pleasure in it. “And if it doesn’t bother him, we’ll give him some more.”

The girl behind Tiffany grins. “He seems a little, well, not so tortured now,” she finally settles on.

It is indeed hard to describe. Now that he is calmed a bit, Tiffany can see his bruises and swelling all over his body, and the dried blood from his nose. It seems the blood and mucus is coagulating around his nose and mouth. She can see the trail going down his chin and neck, staining his shirt.

“Poor little thing,” she muses aloud. She turns to Kristen. “We should clean him up, don’t you think?”

Kristen nods. “Jeevie, come help me find some stuff to clean him up with,” she says to the other girl, who is quick to take her side.

“Do you need me to help?” Andy asks. Kristen begins to speak, but Tiffany responds first.

“I think you’re helping a lot actually, just by being right where you are,” she says, her tone insinuating something behind her words. She doesn’t know Kristen or this Jeevie at all, but the look the three of them share feels as if they could communicate like old friends would. She wonders if they see what she sees, if they know what she’s known. If they’ve been friends with Andy or Chucky long, she can’t imagine they wouldn’t already be aware.

When they walk out in the hallway, her two twins are eyeing them worriedly, Glenda more than Glen. Glenda twists their hair anxiously around their finger. Tiffany had almost forgotten she had brought them here, and is surprised that they hadn’t run into the room earlier. She walks towards them, putting a hand on their shoulder.

“Is Dad okay?” Glenda asks, their eyes a pure storm.

Tiffany doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t want to frighten her children, but she also doesn’t want to lie to them. They have had enough lies in their life for her to bear to add anymore.

“Hey, you guys like dominoes?” Jeevie’s voice cuts in, throwing everything for a loop. She kisses Kristen and gives her a comforting squeeze before approaching Tiffany’s children with ease. “Why don’t we go to the kitchen and play a round?”

The twins seem significantly calmed and satisfied for the distraction, already clambering after this intriguing woman with tons of questions. “Did those piercings hurt?” Glenda asks, already reaching to touch Jeevie’s ear. The woman leans down with a grin so Glenda can reach. “Not much - just a pinch,” she replies, and Tiffany knows that Glenda will be begging for piercings like those later. She heaves a sigh of relief. A little more time to get a better idea of Chucky’s situation.

She follows Kristen through Andy’s apartment, helping her gather things they might need. Kristen is stone silent. Tiffany can tell there is a lot on her mind. She has already observed a little bit about her - that she is one of Andy’s dearest friends, that she is strong willed, and most importantly, that she harbors an animosity for Chucky. Understandably, Tiffany thinks to herself, as she has the same feelings sometimes towards her ex-husband. Doing this must be hard for her as well- to care for someone she wishes was not even here to begin with.

“It’s very kind of you to help him,” Tiffany instigates carefully, trying to be subtle. Kristen gives a small grin, but Tiffany can feel it. There’s something underneath, dark and powerful, twisting and growling. Something ancient.

Chucky has told her before that this girl Kristen intimidates him. She feels it a little bit when they lock eyes. There’s something about her she can’t place, but it makes her fear to make the wrong step.

“To be honest, I’m only doing it because I’m helping Andy,” Kristen murmurs, and her face twists. The conflict is written throughout her expression. She pauses, as if debating if she should continue. For a brief moment, Tiffany feels as if a storm is about to crash through them, from just a twitch of Kristen’s fingertips.

“Listen, I know he was like, your lover and all, but I’m sorry - I don’t... I don’t like this situation at all. I don’t trust him.”

Tiffany folds up some towels she’s found. “You’re talking to someone who had to deal with his shit for years,” she responds. The air changes. It’s crazy how she seems to feel that just from this girl’s demeanor. “I hope you can trust me when I say, I find it hard to trust him too. I find it hard to like him some days.”

Andy seems intimidated by her too, she noticed, and they have been friends for a while now. She wonders what it is, what hides underneath this girl. She doesn’t do anything particularly violent, and that is observable now. She has every right and opportunity to smite Chucky and say it is for Andy’s good - which if very well might be - and yet, she does not. It’s something within and around her, something almost electric.

Tiffany wonders if Kristen even realizes this, her power. Her influence. It’s more than likely that she does not.

Kristen seems to calm around her though, and she wonders what she has done to so quickly gain favor. All she said was words - this girl has no way to know how much she means them. “I guess you’re right,” Kristen concedes. She picks some rags out of the hallway closet. “I just - I know that it’s hurting Andy, for some crazy reason, to see him like this. And I don’t want Andy to be hurt.”

She sounds a little bitter. “He’s had enough pain,” she adds. Tiffany can only nod dryly, knowing now is not the moment to pry. Especially with another more pressing task at hand.

“Well, then,” she replies, shaking the invisible weight from around her shoulders. “I guess we better get to it. How about this: I’ll explain everything that I know, and then we help Andy find a routine to follow during this process?”

Andy is, to say the least, sick and panicking.

He should have come in to check on him earlier. That’s all he can think about. He should have come in sooner, despite their awkward and tense relationship. The first time he heard the slightest moaning, he should have come to see what was going on. Hell, he should have come in when he started seeing less of Chucky. It hadn’t been normal for him to not be around, but he had chalked it up to him being out and about for some reason. He should have known better. He should have known better.

Chucky whimpers, face scrunching in pain. Andy can see just from his posture that he’s worn out from crying and convulsing, but his body moves on its own. At the moment, Chucky is a slave to the process. They can only hope for mercy throughout it.

“I don’t know what to do, buddy,” he croaks out, and for a brief moment he thinks that this is the first time in a long time he’s spoken so casually with Chucky. But the thought is quickly overtaken by his worry again. He slides further up on the bed, now only half sitting in the chair. “I don’t know how to make you stop hurting so much.”

“I can’t make the pain go away,” he stutters out, and his eyes are watering, and he’s tired and dizzy. And this is beyond pain that anyone should go through, right? Surely this is why he hurts so much for the man near him. Otherwise, he would not care so much.

Otherwise, he would say this is what Chucky deserves and leave it at that.

But deep down, logically, he knows that technically Chucky deserves this, and yet, he can’t help but feel all kinds of heartbroken about it. He tries not to focus too much on this though, and instead burrows deeper into the pillow. Chucky immediately turns into him, his cries growing again. His hands twitch, as if he is trying to clench his hands around Andy’s shirt, but there is hardly any movement; it is merely the attempt.

“Andy...” Chucky is whimpering, eyes open, looking right at him. Andy doesn’t know if he really sees him or not, but he’s looking at him - tear stained face, bruised and bloodied. “Andy, please...”

“I wish I could, I’m sorry!” Andy gasps out. He doesn’t know why he feels guilty. He didn’t bring this on him, and he doesn’t have the power to stop it. But oh, how he wishes he could. It seems a never-ending nightmare. There is a strange crunching sound that makes his ears curl, and Chucky is screaming again, body contorting helplessly.

Kristen and Tiffany appear then, and not a moment too soon, he thinks.

“I can’t,” he wheezes out to them, falling apart. He feels as if he is going to explode into tears. “He’s screaming my name and begging me for something I can’t give... I... I can’t! I’m not strong enough...”

Kristen is shaking him. “Stop, stop Andy,” she hushes him. “It’s not your fault, it’s not. He’s in a lot of pain, and you’re here, that’s all.” She presses her forehead against his, and he tries to focus on her breathing. His grip is still on Chucky, who’s now buried into his chest, still sobbing uncontrollably. “You’re just going to have to be here for him. It’s all you can do.”

She leans back, holding out a wet cloth. “It’s all we can do.” She’s grimacing, and he knows why. He knows she doesn’t like Chucky in the least bit, and it pains her that he is so pained by Chucky’s suffering. He wonders if she would care at all, if she were in his place. He finds himself defensive for Chucky suddenly, and almost laughs at how crazy he is. How crazy he’s become. He blames it on the lack of sleep and the events before them.

“Go on, Andy, it’s alright,” Kristen is coaxing him. She ushers the cloth again in his direction. “Wipe him up a bit, now. The rag is warm. Do it before it gets cold.”

Andy twists inside. Moving Chucky in anyway is only going to hurt him, but as Kristen and Tiffany have both mentioned, he will hurt either way. He takes the rag and begins to wipe Chucky’s face and neck, trying not to let his screams discourage him.

Tears are forming in the corners of his eyes. This time, he lets them come. He cleans the blood away, and the dried vomit from the corners of Chucky’s mouth, and he cries.

When Kristen and Tiffany leave him in the room, alone with Chucky, he doesn’t notice. He slides himself completely in the bed next to him, tossing the dirtied rag to the ground. He encases Chucky in his arms, holding him as he trembles violently. The crunching noises continue, a strange crushing and breaking sound. Chucky’s face is pressed against his shirt, screaming into it as if his life depends on it. Perhaps it does, he wouldn’t know.

Holding him tightly seems to help the convulsing, though, and he tries not to lose himself as he watches more bruises from and grow. He shuts his eyes and tucks Chucky into him, murmuring whatever comforting things he can. Hoping that he can hear any of it.

When Kristen returns, he is falling asleep, and wakes to her tucking them in together. He almost feels ashamed that she is having to mother over them when he is not in nearly as much pain as Chucky is, but his attention is still concentrated on the way Chucky’s cries grow and subside, and on how he can ease him in some way.

“Here,” Kristen yawns out. Her hair is a mess. Her eyes are bloodshot. Andy sits up slowly, arm still around Chucky, who is clinging to his shirt hoarsely weeping. He puts a hand on her arm.

“Thank you for, uh… for everything,” Andy whispers, eyes downcast, sheepish. “I know you couldn’t care less if he rots or not - so I know this is for me. I’m sorry...”

Kristen makes a face. “You’re right, I don’t like him,” she starts stiffly, crossing her arms. “But…” her expression softens, “...this is insane. I can’t watch a person in torment like this either, regardless.” She flinches as Chucky howls, screaming again. She hands Andy a piece of paper.

“Listen, I have to open in the morning, and Jeevie has to meet up with her band. I think Tiffany is going to stay for tonight, but I think she’s leaving in the morning,” she says. Andy takes the sheet and opens it, seeing Kristen’s neat handwriting. It is a drawn out regimen of sorts, with times and descriptions and explanations.

“It’s a list, for you...” she explains, as his eyes peruse the words. “...while we’re gone. I know I can be back around tomorrow afternoon, but until then… just something for you to follow. We don’t think it will make this process any kinder for him, but we’re pretty sure he won’t die.”

Andy pales at this. “You’re pretty sure?” he asks faintly, already tightening his grip subconsciously. His heart rate increases, panic flashing through him. Kristen gives him a sad squeeze on his shoulder, and there is genuine pain in her eyes.

“Just take care of him as best as you can,” she says, watching him for a moment. Watching them. It looks as if she wants to say more, but does not, instead merely adding, “You can’t control everything.”

Almost as if on cue, Chucky is writhing again, and Andy steadies him, holding him still. His grip controls Chucky’s movement, calming the convulsions. Chucky does not cry as loud this time, and Andy likes to think he has helped in a small way. At least this way, with Chucky’s body imprisoned in his embrace, he does not shake so violently.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, smiling softly up at Kristen. “I’ll just do my best.”

He can feel the crumpled up paper in his hand from where he had been clenching. He had not realized. Chucky quivers against him, but other than this, things are unexpectedly calm. Kristen inhales sharply, but holds her tongue from whatever it is she is going to say. She leans in to give him a hug, and then she is gone again, leaving the door open only a crack.

He turns his face onto the pillow. Chucky is bleeding again; this time, also from his ears. He is blubbering and twisting. Andy sighs heavily, heart in his throat, and pulls Chucky’s already ruined shirt off slowly, carefully. Wincing through his hoarse and weakened screaming. He wipes at the blood with his shirt, tossing it on the floor as it subsides.

“I’ll do my best,” he whispers to him, pulling him close again, even as he drools and his nose runs against his neck.

It is unbearable. He feels barely sane, consciousness hanging only by a thread. He does not have the energy to speak, but screams against his will anyways, when they grow inside him. The bones of his victims. He feels their creeping hands underneath his skin, sharp and cracking. Tearing him open against his will. It does not end either, pausing only for a brief heartbeat and then starting again.

He feels when hands bandage him. Tiffany? He thought he’d heard her voice. But he hears many voices, and it is hard to tell what is in his head and what is in the world above him, so seemingly far away. Whoever it is, they wrapped him tightly, and now it is harder for the bones to take him so much. It still hurts, but the growling has subsided. He knows he will not be able to escape it for long.

If Andy were dead, would his bones be here too, clawing at him until he burst?

“I’m sorry...” he wails, when the pain grows again. His tongue is dry again. He had felt the presence of Ayida-Weddo, her stern but merciful face granting him water while he burned. He felt her hands forcing him up from the dead, dragging him out of his fiery misery, and for a moment, the crisp freshness of the water rushing through him gave him hope. But then she was gone, and the hope went with her.

His fever is rising again. He feels as if he is suffocating. Someone wraps him tightly again, and he realizes he had been shaking once more, the growth on the move. His fingers are twitching, and he can move them at last, gripping onto whatever he can. He can feel smooth fabric; and to feel anything other than immense pain is wave of relief. The fever still rages, but he clutches the cloth, sobbing and clinging to this one piece of salvation.

“Help…” he barely makes out. His jaw and teeth cut through his gums. “Please… saveme…”

Cool hands are touching his face, pulling him up, and he grits his teeth through the pain, still whining at it despite his efforts. He can feel arms around him now, his skin prickling at every sensation, both painful and wonderful.

Something brushes at his lips again, and he feels water once more. He turns to look for Ayida, but she is not there.

He does not look too long though, as he is parched and desperate for anything. The water slides down his throat, thick and cool, and he feels it spreading through his entire body. His body falls against a soft cushioned surface as he drinks, the water never enough even as it comes. His cheek is malleable; he can feel it molding to the surface it is on. He does not know what this means. It does not seem to hurt the way he hurts on the inside, the cracking and stretching continuing.

“It’s going to be fine,” he hears, barely. The voice is soft. He has to attune his ears towards it, focusing only on it. He wants to believe what it is saying is true. “Everything is going to be alright.”

He feels something being urged into his mouth again. Warm. Filling. Some sort of sustenance; he cannot tell what it is. He takes it anyways, just hoping it will help in any small way. There is someone holding him; he is sure of it now. Supporting him as he swallows. He is still overheating, but the warmth from the arms around him is still cozy and welcomed. Penetrating despite the overwhelming pain he still feels.

“This should help,” he hears. He knows for sure it is not Ayida now. It is a man’s voice. But it is not Damballah either; when he looks up he only sees wings and the brightest lights. At times, Damballah comes in the form of a serpent, but he does not feel the scales of a snake. He feels human hands, human skin, human clothes - all brushing against him.

An angel, he thinks. But the Loa are not angels. Perhaps they have sent someone for him, and heard his prayers after all. He does not know what he has done to deserve it, but the gratitude that grows inside him is immense. If he ever truly escapes this perdition, he will be in a deep debt. He wants to thank this angel of mercy who holds him now, gently nursing him to health, but he does not know his name, nor can he see his face. And his pain grows again, and he is once again rendered mute by his involuntary crying. So he clings to him and weeps, and hopes the message is translated.

When the angel’s wings close around him, he wants to believe it is.

This does not mean that suddenly he is graced with all of his pain taken away, unfortunately for him. A sudden burning acid rises up within him, and he retches out everything that had just been put in him. Fear, an intense biting fear, grows and stretches. He has dirtied the angel. His one ticket out of this pestilence he is suffering from, and he has greatly disrespected him. He has soiled him with everything contemptible and depraved from inside himself. Surely, he will be left behind now. He is doomed to this anguish of his own design - trapped in his deserved Gehenna. If the Loa have sent him this angel as a last chance, he has ruined it now, and they will assure his reincarnation is nothing but despair.

He can feel the bones rattling again, and the voices grow, screaming, howling. Signaling his impending doom. He has never cried so much in his entire life; ironically, it is as if every tear he had never shed and should have are ripped from him now, and he is heaving sobs, eyes dry but voice wet with sorrow.

“I’m sorry…!” he wheezes out. But the angel is gone, and he is alone again, surrounded by only his suffering. ��

He cries out anyways, just in case. He cries out because his life depends on it.

Andy did not want to leave him, especially not after hearing the way he was crying after him, voice so broken, a fawn left alone in a harrowing forest. But his shirt is ruined, and Chucky is a mess. He has to find a way to clean them both up. This is an absolute misery.

He looks at the list Kristen had left him, and he does not see bath listed anywhere. But the smell is becoming too much, and even if Chucky is too far gone as of now to smell it, Andy is not. It reeks. He has to rid himself of it before he goes insane himself.

Tiffany is still in the kitchen, hands around a steaming mug. She perks up as soon as she recognizes him in front of her, her eyes full of questions. “I assume the little shit is still in pain?” she asks, joking weakly. Chucky’s crying does not come through the walls for Tiffany to hear them, but Andy feels as if the sounds surrounds him, still echoing in his mind. He nods, and Tiffany puts a hand on his arm.

“The kids are asleep,” she says, and gestures her head down the hall. “I let them sleep in your bed; I hope you don’t mind. Your friend Kristen said it was alright.”

Andy doesn’t respond to this. It is perfectly fine, of course, but his mind is away on other things. “We have to clean…” he starts, then waves helplessly towards where he’d left the room. “Just… all of it. Everything.”

Tiffany grimaces. “You want to do that now?” she questions, her face twisting. “How does he look? Does he seem like he can move at all?”

“He’s starting to,” Andy replies, thinking. Chucky really hadn’t been moving much, but he seemed more solid in his arms just before he’d let him go. “He was gripping my shirt like … I don’t know. Like I was pulling him out of perdition.”

At this, Tiffany snorts. “You probably were,” she muses, before shaking whatever thoughts she had away. “Well, if he’s able to hold onto you, he has to be forming some kind of skeletal structure, so I can’t see why we can’t at least try it. I’ve got to leave with the kids; it’ll be Monday and I’ve got to send them to school, but I’ll help you out this first time, just so we can see what it’s like.”

Andy sighs in relief, knowing for at least a little while longer, he won’t be entirely alone in this strange journey. Tiffany pushes her mug aside and rolls up her sleeves, leading the way as Andy stumbles behind her, awkward and unsure, and into the dark they go, where Chucky is as miserable as he has been, still beside himself.

Tiffany wrinkles her nose. “You weren’t kidding - he smells like he’s been dead for days,” she manages between coughs. She flips the light on, taking in the damage, before sighing and rubbing at her face. Andy can see lines of anxiety slowly carving into her forehead and corners of her mouth. As much as she appeared to know, it is clear she is just about as lost as he is in this situation.

Andy moves before she does, unbedding Chucky from the comforter and sheets, which are ruined with blood and sweat and other unmentionable excretions. Chucky is already thrashing about, almost as if attempting to force his body upwards. It is to no avail, as it is apparent his body is still molding into a solid structure of any sort. He collapses back again, but Andy has caught him and lifted him from the bed, holding his limp body out towards Tiffany. He waits for her approval to move forward.

“My angel…You, Pitya, Pitya, I’m sorry - I’m so-sorry,” Chucky is gasping, hands already clutching at Andy’s shirt.

Tiffany’s green eyes are sharp on him, and Andy exhales heavily. “He’s been saying crazy stuff like this since last night,” he explains, gently shrugging Chucky onto his shoulder. Tiffany moves to fold up the sheets and comforter on the bed, switching between fascinated and downright disgusted.

At her ambiguous expression, Andy feels himself growing uncomfortable and itchy just under his skin. “I- I assumed it was some kind of Voodoo thing…?” he stammers out finally.

Tiffany snorts at this. “There are no such things as angels, really, at least not in how we practice Voodoo,” she starts, then hums under her breath thoughtfully, mood changing swiftly. She hoists up the sheets and blankets in her arms, face crumpling at the smell. “He is muttering something in Haitian, though, so we can only assume there is some kind of connection there.”

And he is, babbling just one word, over and over- pitya, pitya. And then, angel, my angel. He cannot make out enough words for anything he says to make sense, but Andy feels a rising anxiety screaming at the core of his Adam’s apple. He has to bite his lip to make sure he is not actually screaming himself. He turns towards Tiffany, to ask for assistance, for guidance, but she has already traipsed out of the room, muttering to herself and leaving a scented trail of Virginia Slims behind her.

He is left again, with Chucky folded in his arms, and on the precipice of panic.

He should have filled the tub first. He should have prepared ahead of time. Now he has Chucky again, and his arms are tied and Tiffany seems uninterested in participating. He cannot even call Kristen - although he is not entirely sure she would be gentle. He has a sinking suspicion she would not be. Kristen has had the hunger to tear Chucky apart since she first knew he was in the apartment with him. He has heard it rattle from her tongue. The desire to eradicate him.

He does not blame her. He knows his compassion - his pity - is otherworldly. It is alien. A foreign language even to himself. But he speaks it anyways, carrying a dripping, molding, poor excuse for a body into his dimly lit bathroom, dropping to his knees, ushering Chucky into the tub, removing his soiled clothing. Trying not to let the maddening rise and fall of his sobbing drive him away.

He tosses the clothes away, and now he can truly see underneath Chucky’s skin, the layered bruising and bloodiness of what Tiffany and Kristen had accurately guessed as the formation of bones. He can eye out a rib cage, a sternum, the hints of a pelvis. What is the most striking is how contorted it all is still; the femur and fibula in particular, almost as if they want to protrude right through the skin and grow eternally. He sucks in a deep breath and tries not to drown, and turns on the water.

Slobbering, Chucky is still moaning for him - or for whoever Pitya is. Andy wonders if his sould is in Hell, and he is wandering back to them. He probably would have never been one to believe in the supernatural if it were not for his childhood with this very same person. But it is hard to imagine what else was occurring deep down, for Chucky to be saying what he says. It is as if prayers of a most fervent kind are falling from his mouth, and Chucky is not a begging man.

The water is already dark. He sighs and drains the tub, and tries again. Chucky seems to calm when the water touches his skin, thanking him. Making promises that he suspects are empty, but perhaps they are not. He does not know. It doesn’t matter much anyways, he is here nonetheless, to get the job done. He cups warm water and wipes at Chucky’s face, seeing his where his past scars have reopened. He supposes he will have to tend to the wounds as well, following this.

“What do you want? I’ll give you anything.”

It is the first complete sentence he has spoken in a while, and his voice is slurred. Andy, out of a morbid curiosity, nudges his upper lip up with his index finger and sees his gums, his teeth. Still inflamed, but not bleeding. He gently hoists Chucky up on one arm and wedges his mouth open, prying and feeling. His tongue is lacerated, possibly from him biting it in his agony, and he can see that even there, it will need stitching.

Chucky whines, and Andy removes his fingers quickly, hot. He should not have done that. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He could have made things worse.

“I’m sorry,” he stutters out.

“It hurts,” Chucky whimpers.

“I’m sorry,” Andy says again. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.” He’s flushed, and he feels like an idiot. He grabs a washcloth off the bar and fights with his soap before lathering the dirt and blood away, watching it pool into the water. Chucky hisses every time he rubs at any tender blossoming muscle, so it is an encore of apologies and soft cries. Andy does not realize how tense he is until he speaks again, and his jaw unclenches.

“Let’s get you dry,” he murmurs. He wants to feel relief at how Chucky seems to have finally passed through the valley, but he is afraid that it will only start again soon. The stench of Chucky’s clothes still poison the air. He decides to leave it for now.

He lifts Chucky from the tub, forgetting to drain it this time. Not worrying. Trying not to worry about anything. Chucky shivers and soaks his clothes, sputtering. Andy walks by the guest room, and never thinks twice, letting his goose-prickled naked body down on his own bed instead, trying not to think too much about it. He pries Chucky’s fingers off of his sleeve before hunting down a towel, drying him up. Seeing his fingertips pruned like true human skin.

And then Chucky blinks at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“Andy?” Chucky chokes out, a wellspring in his throat. He is aching, he is spent, he feels as if every part of his body has been mutilated, but for once, the cracking and piercing and moaning has stopped. There is a hushing silence as Andy stares back at him, rounded hazel eyes doused in exhaustion. As if he had walked there with him in the shadows, and ripped him from it and brought him back home.

Home. He has begun to call Andy’s apartment home too many times now. But after what he has just been through, this does not frighten him as much as it used to.

Andy dabs at him with a towel, and suddenly he realizes that for the first time in what felt like a century, he feels cold. There is no burning from within, no brink of death conundrum. Just very human hunger, thirst, tiredness, cold.

He cries, but for the first time it is of sheer relief. He cries and he clings to Andy’s shirt, sobbing in gratitude, thanking Damballah, thanking Pitya, thanking Andy. He feels Andy awkwardly putting his arms around him and rubbing his back, but the warmth of a human is more welcomed than he’d ever imagined it could be.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Andy murmurs, and he believes it. “You’re going to be okay now. It’s over - I think.”

Chucky shivers and sneezes in Andy’s arms, and it tears in his ribs, but nothing more happens, other than his low groaning and runny nose. He knows for sure he has some sort of fever, and there is still a nausea grumbling at the pit of his stomach, but for the most part, he feels it is over. Perhaps. He sees a light at the end of the tunnel.

“I don’t have any other clothes for you…” Andy is muttering, up and now digging through his drawers. Chucky feels an odd tingling just beneath his skin. A phantom itching. Andy turns with a t-shirt, coughing awkwardly.

“I guess we’ll have to stitch all these up first,” he continues, gently plopping down on the bed next to him, touching his scars. Chucky shivers again, a little less from the cold, a little more from the pain and intrusion. Andy winces apologetically. “It’s going to hurt though.”

Chucky laughs until he coughs up blood, and Andy is wiping away at the corners of his mouth.

“D… don’t tell Tiffany about this, okay?” he finally sputters out, gesturing to all of him. Andy grimaces.

“She’s already been here, through the worst of it,” he admits. He’s back to shuffling around in his room, returning with a sewing kit. Chucky leans back against the pillows moaning in a low pain. It is a relief when it is not as strong as everything he had felt. Andy snags a bottle off the table and takes a large swig.

“So my hands don’t shake,” he explains. Chucky just watches, a little amazed that this is something Andy seems to understand. He shouldn’t be surprised, he supposes, considering that Andy has had to patch himself up before. Andy is threading the needle, and Chucky finds himself wondering just how far Andy had gone for him. How much had he cared for him while he was away?

His heart flips. He swallows. It’s hard to do. Andy lightly taps his fingers against the first scarring that has split open, starting from the inner side of his ankle and climbing up his leg. He’s looking at Chucky with the most tender expression in his eyes, and Chucky cannot quite fathom the reason why until Andy threads the first stitch and he inhales sharply, wincing.

“Oh - you’ll probably want this too. I’m sorry, I didn’t think of it before,” Andy says suddenly, handing him the bottle he had just drank from. Chucky feels an eternity of gratitude, and he feels as if he owes Andy a very deep blood debt. Even more so now than before, when he’d awoken to life again with Andy Barclay - of all people - by his side.

Andy’s fingers are very dexterous, carefully pulling tiny stitches through his skin, over and over again. Chucky cannot stop his skin from humming every time Andy touches him somewhere. His gentleness is appalling. The thread appears delicate compared to the work he’d had done on him before, and as much as it hurts, he is drunk and fascinated enough to keep watching. He can clearly see them still, but they are not as pronounced and loud.

Quite the opposite of Tiffany’s work, although he was sure she had just been eager to put him back together after years alone in search for him. Back when their lust was high and the nights seemed forever. He can still remember the first time he saw her face when she brought him to life, glowing in the candles of their old trailer home, and he smiles wistfully.

“You gonna ask me to marry you yet?” Chucky chuckles out, lost in memory. Andy flushes and gives him a perplexed look.

“What?” he asks.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good joke to make aloud. Andy would have had no context to it. Chucky just coughs awkwardly and takes another swig. “Nothing, nevermind…” he mutters, looking away, cheeks heated. He is fully human now and he can feel everything. He thinks he might hate it. He can feel shame again, pooling through his veins, to the point he worries a stitch will pop loose again.

Andy pricks a wound in his lower stomach, and the pain shocks him. He grunts and chews his lip, shaking hands grasping for the bottle again. The needle squelches through his skin and pinches and stings. God does it sting. The thread is just as intrusive and cruel. He whimpers and clutches at Andy’s sleeve, panting, and whimpers again as he continues the sutures.

“Just breathe, just breathe,” Andy coos softly, and Chucky doesn’t know if he is talking to him or to himself. Andy pauses his threadwork for a brief moment, and cups his cheek - although Chucky does not know why. They have never been remotely close to being kind to one another, and Andy is behaving in an exceptionally tender manner. Their eyes connect too long, and Chucky tears his gaze away.

“Just… just get it over with, kid,” he grunts out, stuffing his hand into his mouth when the next stitch goes in.

“It’s almost over with,” Andy responds, and the tone of his voice is a soothing distraction from each prickling jab of the needle. “This one will hurt the most, but it’s almost over, I promise. Just breathe.”

Chucky rolls his eyes. It’s cliche; he feels as if he is on a poorly produced telenovela where he’s a patient with amnesia and an attractive doctor is nursing him back to health. The kind of show Tiffany would get him drunk to watch with her, despite him giving out biting remarks every couple of minutes, until she got aggravated and shooed him away. But here he is, and he feels safe - with his worst human enemy, of all people. He feels safe and weak and he wants to lie down, but he is still a bit damp and unclothed, and Andy is still stitching him back together again.

After a grueling couple of hours, Andy has finally finished most of the sutures, and he’s looking over his handiwork, and Chucky follows his eyes, feeling cold and exposed. Andy touches his stitching, presumably checking to see if everything is tight and sturdy enough so that his wounds will heal, but his calloused fingertips brushing against his skin leaves behind a trail of lightning, and Chucky quivers despite himself, exhaling sharply.

“I’m sorry… you’re probably freezing,” Andy whispers, gathering up one of the t-shirts he’d taken out of his drawers from earlier. He’s already dressing him despite Chucky’s protests, tugging the shirt over his head and pulling his arms through the sleeves.

“I can do this myself, you know,” he near growls. But his heart is pounding fast. Too fast.

“I don’t want you to tear your stitches,” Andy says to him, and there’s that look again. As if Andy sees him as some wounded baby animal. Chucky wonders just how he was behaving, when he was being rebirthed like some kind of caterpillar to butterfly, to make Andy behave like this around him so suddenly.

“Or some kind of moth, more like,” he mutters aloud, amused.

And then Andy is giving him that look again, as if he’s lost his mind. He probably has. He knows he can’t be blamed though, all things considered.

Andy is tapping his nose, and he’s shivering at his touch again. He doesn’t understand it. He blames it on the fact he is fully human, finally, and every sensation feels like fire. He wonders if this is what newborn babies feel like, sending everything for the first time, and as he tears up yet again, thinks that must be so. That must be why babies cry so much. Everything is so intense.

“This one shouldn’t hurt as much, but it will still be uncomfortable,” Andy explains, as he’s threading another needle, and Chucky realizes he had forgotten his face. His ruined, beyond repairable face. He chuckles bitterly, choking back the disappointed and despairing sobs. He truly is an eyesore, he’s sure. His ugly sins have made their way to the top, for all to see. This is his comeuppance.

Then the needle pokes into the skin on his face, and he screws his eyes shut, breathing heavily. He knows he is tearing up, but he focuses more on not making any noise. He has been through hell and back, he can handle this. Surely.

Andy wipes his tears away with his thumb, and for some reason, that makes him want to break down more than the needle piercing back and forth through delicate, hyper-sensitive skin. Everything is so bizarre. He wants to find counsel in Damballah. He does not understand anything right now.

“Last one,” Andy says, and he looks vaguely uncomfortable when Chucky looks at him. He doesn’t know why. If anyone should be uncomfortable if should be himself. He is the one in someone else’s home, wearing someone else’s clothes, letting someone else touch him and care for him and nurse him to health. And that someone else is his - claimed - worst enemy.

Andy shifts awkwardly, and Chucky watches his hair fall over his eyes. Has Andy not cut his hair during this whole time? His beard is thick too. He has the appearance of a savage forest animal; a bear awoken from a winter’s slumber. He’s fumbling with the needle; these same hands that have hurt him and maimed him in the past are here now, mending and caressing. From tough to tender.

What happened? he wants to ask. But his tongue hurts so much to move it, and he feels it bleeding still. What did I say that made the whole fucking world spin backwards suddenly?

“I… you’re gonna need to give me your tongue,” Andy coughs out, scratching the back of his neck. Chucky blanches, mid-thought, mind screeching to a halt.

“You’re… we really gotta do that too?” he finally croaks out. It’s not just that it’s going to hurt. He knows it is going to hurt, and he can accept that. He’ll brace through it and be grateful. But he does not feel like the stitches will hold, and he does not know if he will be able to hold still long enough. It is intrusive. Something that Andy has been almost the entire time since he’s first come back to life.

Not that he’s meant to. Chucky is aware of this as well. Despite that knowledge, he still hesitates when Andy nods, finally grunting in consent and leaning forward.

Andy catches him before he falls completely over. “It’ll be easier for me if you’re leaning forward, but if you feel tired, just hold onto me,” he says, not looking at him. The air is incredibly tense. Andy threads the needle one final time. Chucky resists his offer for a fraction of a second before immediately resting against Andy’s knees, eyes shut again, unable to watch. They’re too close and Andy is too gentle and this is all wrong. He feels mortified and fate is cruel.

Chucky is bracing himself for the first puncture of the needle. He hears Andy take a deep breath as he takes ahold of his jaw with one hand. “Okay, just let your tongue hang out as far as you can,” Andy murmurs, and his voice sounds strained. He sounds unsure. “I just want to see how much I actually have to stitch.”

Chucky complies, mentally rolling his eyes, but his heart is pounding. There is a shuffling. And then a soft chuckle that Chucky recognizes and immediately feels his heart leap.

“Jesus, should I give you two some privacy? I leave to get the brats together and wash your dirty sheets for a few minutes - you’re welcome, by the way - and you’re already getting down to some kinkplay while I’m away, huh?”

Andy squeaks and drops the needle, cursing under his breath, and Tiffany snorts under her breath. Chucky cracks open his eyes are her, scowling, but he doesn’t reply. She assumes it is because he is still weak.

“Ms. Valentine… I’m trying… to do something very nerve-wracking right now,” Andy grits through his teeth. His cheeks are flushed, like she has actually caught them in the act. Two schoolboys in a back hallway between classes. Chucky seems in a much better state and things don’t seem quite as dire as they had earlier, and so she allows herself the liberty to snicker mischievously.

“I take it you’re not lost in your own personally deserved hell, huh, Sweetcheeks?” she asks Chucky, who mutters something colorful and contrite. His speech is slurred and sloppy, and she takes notice of the way he still grips onto Andy’s shirt. He clearly does not have any intrinsic strength yet, and by the tinting across his face, he is still under a heavy fever. But other than this, the worst of it seems to be over, and she is free to leave whenever she pleases. Which she hopes to do as soon as possible.

“I’m sorry, Andy my love,” she says, with still the sweetest lilt in her voice, but she means the apology for much more than teasing him. She is leaving him in the den alone again, to nurture none other than his worst enemy. The lion to the mouse. She has no interest in being around Chucky long though, as much as somewhere in her heart, she still loves him. It still stings being around him, hearing his voice. She remembers the words he’s said to her, and the biting tone he’s held against her before, and she is instantly repulsed. This is who she is leaving Andy with. This is why she is apologizing.

Andy, however, has no earthly clue that she is undergoing this inner-turmoil. He is muttering to himself nervously and dedicating himself to the task of stitching up Chucky’s tongue, apologizing profusely every time Chucky hisses in pain and jerks his tongue away.

“You’ve got to try and keep still, or this is going to take longer,” Andy presses. He’s patient and enduring; Tiffany suspects he’s also lucky Chucky is not at full strength in any way, shape or form. “All of the worst parts will be over after this.”

She sighs and rolls her eyes affectionately, reminiscing. Although Chucky had not been conscious when she’d patched him together, she can see that same amount of meticulous care and tenderness in Andy’s handiwork.

It makes her question just what Andy’s feelings for Chucky are, at this point in their time together. He surely does not hold quite as much animosity as he had once, that is clear. Chucky would have been left for dead, if that were the case. There has to be an amount of attachment or care of some sort for him to be treating Chucky the way he does now. In their time together, something has changed. Whether they admit it or not, they are not merely enemies anymore. Something grows underneath their hateful thicket, blossoming within the weeds.

“I just came to say,” she finally speaks up. Andy hums in response, worrying his lip while stitching. “It looks like things are much better now, and I’ve got to be taking the twins to school tomorrow, so I’ll be leaving out soon. I made myself at home in your kitchen - I hope you don’t mind. I left food for the both of you as well.”

“Thank you,” Andy pauses his work to turn and grab her hand, squeezing. He catches her eyes and it’s as if he can finally rest. As if they now they can all rest. “I know I can handle it from here. You were a lot more help than you realized, just by being here assuring me.”

Chucky grunts, but he can’t make any quip with Andy’s thumb and forefinger gripping his tongue. Tiffany sticks her tongue out at him as soon as Andy turns, and then she leaves them, finding it hard not to smile at the way they bicker softly, even after everything they have just endured for the past several days.

“Is Dad okay?” Glenda barrels her with questions as soon as she steps into the kitchen, with Glen just behind. “Can I see him? Does he look all mangled? Is he going to be a hunchback?”

Glen doesn’t add to it, and Tiffany highly suspects he would rather just leave without even looking at Chucky, but Glenda’s morbid curiosity is high, and they are both dashing into the room before Tiffany can even protest for Glen’s sake.

“Dad, you look like shit!” Glenda screams, and Tiffany hears Andy’s breathless laughter and Chucky’s weak retort, letting Glenda know the twins got half of their looks from him, so they look like half-shit. She huffs and gathers her things, knowing it will only be more of a scene if she does not go in to pry them out soon.

“Glenda, you know you can’t say those kinds of words,” she directs, only to have Glenda turn their blue-green eyes on her with a wicked smile. “You and Dad say it,” they respond. Glen nods in agreement. Tiffany takes note of how they hold onto Andy’s sleeve, against Glenda going straight to Chucky to antagonize him.

“You’re going to take care of our dad?” Glen asks Andy, in a soft, quivering voice. “Are you going to make him all better?” They tug at at Andy’s sleeve again, round eyes watching and waiting for a response. Tiffany wishes she knew which reply Glen wants - for Chucky to be okay, or for him to finally pass and leave them all alone. It is hard for her to love Chucky when she sees the mental scars he’s left on their child.

Andy looks conflicted as well, unsure of what to say. “I’m just… I’m just doing what I can,” he finally settles on, and Glen seems satisfied with this answer. Tiffany notices how they do not acknowledge their father in any way, and it is only Glenda who interacts with him. They’re poking and prodding at all of his stitches, much to Chucky and Andy’s horror, who both plead with them to stop.

“Alright, alright, you saw him. Let’s go so you can be rested up for school,” Tiffany interjects finally, deciding she needs to relieve both of the men. Glenda growls out their disapproval, but huffs dejectedly and complies in reluctance, tugging at Glen to follow along.

“C’mon, we gotta go before we make Dad cry again,” they say, to which Glen finally manages a small smirk and Chucky just buries his face away in Andy’s chest, no doubt holding in a threat. Glenda is the only one of the twins who has the brass to tear Chucky down; Glen is still weighed down a timidness and trauma that Chucky passed down. Tiffany chuckles softly and ruffles Glenda’s hair, putting her arms around both of them and ushering them along.

“Good luck,” she hollers to Andy over her shoulder. He nods wearily, fingers threaded in Chucky’s tangled hair. If she did not know better, she would say that they had both been through hell together, and just barely escaped. At this point, she knows it’s best that they’re left alone to cope, without any sudden distractions or commotions. She can take away two red-headed ones.

She hands the twins their backpacks, tucking in Glen’s various stuffed animals and Glenda’s copic markers in their fore and side pockets. The apartment has an eerie aura settling into it; it is almost hauntingly quiet, considering the hellion screaming that had echoed in its walls for the past few days. She shoulders her own things, and with one last look around the apartment, she nudges the twins out of the door and slides it behind them, shuffling through her keys as they clamber down the stairs.

The drive is chaotic, with Glenda antagonizing Glen in various car games, cheating and denying it. Tiffany finally snaps at them, adjusting her rear view mirror to glare at them until they quiet down.

“Pick something to watch, Glen, and put it in the DVD player,” she commands, gripping the wheel. “And Glenda, leave your brother alone so we can get home in one piece. I’m not playing nurse for anyone else for the next couple of weeks.” Her knuckles are white. Glen shuffles in the back, and then she can hear the sound of a Studio Ghibli film beginning. Glenda mutters something under their breath, kicking the back of the passenger seat, but settles after a time, begrudgingly watching the film with Glen, arms crossed and mouth pouted.

Tiffany sighs in relief, but her mind still wanders, worrying. She wonders if she should have stayed a bit longer and kept the kids out of school. She is sure the worst is over, but she has never seen a full transition once a soul has been transferred. Chucky was always the more knowledgeable one on this sort of thing, and it seemed even beyond his expertise. Way beyond.

I assumed it was some kind of Voodoo thing, Andy had said. She hums thoughtfully. Pitya, pitya. She’s not sure what the word means. It does not sound familiar, except Chucky had cried it in such reverence she is sure it has a significance somehow.

She has never seen him in such a broken state, and they have known each other for many years. Despite the rift in their relationship, she feels a dark shiver running down her spine imagining what he must have seen and felt. She wonders if it will haunt him. A part of her hopes it does.

Her thoughts turn to Andy, who is left to clean up this mess, as he has been countless times before. She has left her job to him. Somehow, she feels like he is better equipped. Especially considering that he has a close companionship with the girl who’s aura reverberated a deep and ancient whisper. Somehow, she knows as long as Andy has her, things will be alright. They will survive, all of them there.

Maybe one day she will have the courage to visit Chucky again, when she has done some healing of her own. She prays she will find him a better man when she does.

He can count the days now, despite a continued pain that lingers beneath his skin. He can count the days and he can enjoy food and drink, and Andy comes to him after work and cares for him in gentle ways that he wishes did not imprint on him so much. He can count the days and he can count how many hours Andy cuts out of work to make sure he is home to take care of him. He cannot quite get out of bed on his own, as his body is slowly regaining strength, and even with Andy’s assistance it feels as if he will never be able to be independent again. But he knows he will, and he knows that if he had become parapalegic at the end of all of this he would deserve it.

It does not change the fact that there is a looming and weary misery that hangs around his neck when he is alone. He does not like where his mind wanders, and against his will, he begins to yearn for the sound of Andy turning the knob and coming home, just to have a conversation with another human being. Just to hear another voice besides his own.

And Andy’s voice is so soothing. There is something about it he had not noticed before, but now notices quite often, uncomfortable as this revelation leaves him. He notices the way it does not seem to change in energy, and while he had found it emotionless at first, the more Andy visits with him and swaps stories with him, the more he realizes that Andy is simply a calm storm. His ways of dealing with turmoil are steady and determined. Even his laugh is low and gentle, never changing.

A hole begins to form in his stomach whenever Andy leaves again, and nothing he does seems to fill it. When he is alone, his thoughts wander into a tangled and desolate place, dry and screeching.

Andy is tending to his stitches again, checking them scrupulously with knitted brows, when finally the idea of the hole seems unbearable. Andy is dabbing at his wounds, changing his shirt, brushing his hair - things that still leave him intensely tingling - and despite how warm it all feels, he cannot help the growing dread. That when the door closes, he will be alone again, and the screams will take over while he tries to sleep. The angel has not visit him in any of his recent dreams.

“Andy…” he croaks out, his tongue still sore and awkward from the stitching. He tickles the roof of his mouth whenever his tongue brushes against it. Out of the entire process of healing, he thinks this part may be the most aggravating.

Andy hums, but his mind is trained on the work between them. Chucky feels his heart stick in his throat watching him. It hurts almost, the amount of care that Andy puts into this. Into him.

“Andy, this is gonna sound so weird and awkward, but…” he chokes, feeling a true flush heat him from the inside out. It should not be hard to do this, after what he has been through. But he feels dry nonetheless. Andy turns his eyes on him. Bright. Something about them is a familiar comfort. He chalks it up to the fact they’ve lived together for a while now.

He reaches for Andy’s arm. His skin feels so cool. He shivers. “I… I really don’t want to be alone…” he murmurs, looking down. He feels dizzy. He wants to lie down. Just not yet. Not here. Not alone. “... can you… can you stay here? At least until I fall asleep…”

He sounds so small. He hates it. But he can’t help it. The dreams are so harsh. And he is so weak. Andy tenderly touches his stitching with calloused fingertips, causing him to shudder and whimper into him.

“I’m cold…” he whispers, voice shaking. “I’m so cold, Andy.”

Andy doesn’t move at first. But then Chucky feels his arms wrap around him, and he feels as if he’s arrived home after a long and grueling journey, and cannot hold in the exhausted and relieved sigh as he clutches Andy’s shirt, feeling tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleads. “I’m so scared…”

Andy tightens his arms around him, hushing him. “Of course, of course,” he coos quietly, tucking Chucky into his arms. Chucky wants nothing more than to hold onto him, to pull him so close he knows for sure Andy will not - cannot - leave him. But he has no strength still, and can only ask and hope that Andy grants it.

Fortunately for him, Andy has chosen to be merciful. He is not sure why, only that he is grateful.

Then he feels himself lifting, and Andy is carrying him through the apartment, cradling him in one arm as if he were a small child. He should feel ashamed, he should feel angry - but none of those feelings manage to come. He is only relieved, thrilled even, that he is here, and he is safe.

Andy gently lowers him onto the couch, adjusting the pillows and a quilt that Chucky is sure Karen had bought for him. The way Andy tucks him in only leaves him more emotionally vulnerable than before.

“You… don’t have to do that… fucker,” he manages weakly. Andy grins at him, and he feels everything inside him melting. Something has changed, and he is not sure he is ready. He feels like crying again, and he does not know why, and he is just not ready…

Andy is wiping at his cheeks, and he’s sobbing out loud, the sheer desperation and relief wafting out of him. The dam is broken, and he is damned and broken. Andy settles next to him, remote in hand, and turns the television on, only to set the remote down and stroke his hair, and it is the most wonderful feeling in the world, and it breaks his heart.

“It’s okay,” Andy whispers, pulling him closer with one arm. “You’re going to be okay. It’s over, buddy.”

His tears dry, and the soup Andy has apparently made has cooled, and while Chucky has never known Andy to be a cook, the taste is welcome, and warm, and Andy has let him rest his feet on his knees. He’s wearing Andy’s socks, so they slip and threaten to come off, but Andy adjusts them and spoonfeeds him the soup, prattling on about work, or his mother, or anything.

They fall asleep together on the couch, and it is the best sleep he’s had since he’s come back to life, swaddled in blankets and tucked beneath Andy’s chin. He falls asleep to Andy’s heartbeat, steady and calm. A vow.

He sees him that night dressed in white and at the edge of a river, where the sun sets just in the distance.

“I need to thank you,” he calls, voice hoarse. The angel turns to him and smiles, soft and warm.

“Of course,” is all the angel replies, and kisses his forehead. Chucky wakes against Andy’s chest, drooling from a well-needed heavy sleep.

The next couple of weeks he falls with a heavy fever, and Andy is beside him then as well. Kristen and Jess come along every once in a while, but it is Andy who stays with him, bathing him and feeding him and tending to his wounds, slowly nursing him back to health.

He can finally rest again, the pain at last gone, but his mind runs amok. He has sleepless nights and dream-addled days, and each time, the same reverie revisits him; he is in perdition, and the gen-pitya angel comes to him, liberating him when all hope seems lost.

He remains alone when Andy is away at work, and he sketches often as he slowly heals, and it is Andy’s face at the end of his pencil every time, with sympathetic-doe eyes and the wings of a dove. He tries not to think too much about what this means, but he cannot stop drawing him, even if he wanted to. His hand cramps from it though, and he knows that he is human.

He is alive.

#being alive #chucky #andy barclay #childs play #writing #fanfic #angst #hurt/comfort #you know the drill!!#sickfic to the MAX #god this is a monster i need to finish ITE now for sure

92 notes · View notes

thecleverdame · 5 years

Text

East of Nowhere - Year Two

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Words: 8.5k

Beta: ilikaicalie

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

YEAR TWO

One Year, Three Days

“This is the one.” You stand beside Sam in the fading light of the afternoon, the wind tossing his hair around his face. Crossing your arms you pull the jacket tighter around you. You’ve been inside every house in the residential area of Shadow Hill, but none of them felt quite right, not until this one.

It’s at the very end of the cul-de-sac, where there’s more room between the houses, not to mention the edge of the forest in the backyard, which flanks your new home with thick pine woods.

You know just by looking at the outside that this one is the right fit. The deep blue siding reminds you of the color of the ocean in books, a rich blue that feels calm and peaceful.

“You sure this is the one? How do you know?” Sam inquires, tilting his head, trying to determine what makes this place different from the other forty houses you’ve spent days inspecting.

“I’m not sure,” you shrug, admiring for another moment more, then grabbing the wrist of his jacket, pulling him toward the steps. “It just feels like us.”

Once inside, your instincts are only confirmed. The living room is warmly lit with a soft fire, filled with overstuffed chairs and rich colors. Leading off the main living area is a grand oak dining table, big enough for an entire family. The kitchen is new and sleek, pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island. This house feels like a home, almost like someone’s lived here before.

“I like it,” Sam nods in approval, pouting his bottom lip. “Let’s check out the second floor.” You follow Sam upstairs, finding several bedrooms with large beds, each more luxurious than the last. It’s a far cry from the shitty little hotel room that you’ve shared for the last year.

“Why are there so many pillows?” Sam squints, “no one person could possibly need that many pillows.”

“They’re decorative. I like them.” You smile at him, swinging your hips like a happy-go-lucky child.

“I won’t even attempt to fight you for a room, you choose the one you want.” Sam grins, nudging open the door at the end of the hall, peering in. You frown, a sudden reality hitting you for the first time. “What?” He asks, his smirk falling at your abrupt shift in attitude.

“It’s gonna be a little weird not sleeping in the same room, that’s all.” You walk past him, inspecting the bathroom, thrilled to see a soaker tub big enough for three people. The look on his face is hard to read, “I’m used to waking up and seeing you right there, talking and farting in your sleep.”

Chuckling, Sam shakes his head “You don’t even want me to tell you some of the noises you make.” You raise your eyebrows and he continues “Yeah, I’m not the only one who talks in their sleep. Oh, don’t stop, harder....lots of sex dreams.”

“Sam!” You yell, slapping his arm. You drop your eyes out of embarrassment, giggling because you have a pretty good idea of who you were dreaming about. When you look up, there’s a broad smile plastered across his face, chest shaking as he quietly laughs to himself. “I hate you,” you grit slapping him again.

“Who am I to say what it was about, maybe you’ve just been dreaming about a really great full body massage.” He cracks himself up, leaning into the wall for support.

“You’re a real comedian.” You sigh, trapped in the space between embarrassment and amusement. “I want this room, the big one.”

One Year, Five Weeks

You think the house will help to alleviate some of the tension between the two of you and, for a couple weeks it does. Sam has one rule above all others, you don’t separate. You get it, you understand why it’s important that you’re always within earshot. In theory, anything could happen, but the fact is nothing ever happens. Your lives become a mundane routine, planned around books and spells and meals that’s wearing you down day by day.

The little things Sam does drive you crazy and not in a good way. Like the way his spoon always hits the side of his bowl when he’s eating soup or how he chews on the ends of all the pens until they’re twisted into mangled plastic. He leaves the toilet seat up and the milk on the counter and he always has to know where you are, every fucking moment.

“It works better if you use the scrub brush,” Sam recommends, sipping his coffee.

“I like the sponge.” You side eye him, elbow deep in rubber gloves and dirty dishes.

“You know, you don’t really have to do that. If you just wait, they’ll clean themselves.” He leans against the counter, seemingly intent on watching you wash.

“No, I do have to do it. Otherwise, they’ll sit here all day and every time I come into the kitchen, I have to stare at a sink full of dishes.” The organized scientist in you has reared its ugly head. Sam’s a wonderful man in so many ways, but he’s obscenely messy.

“Why are you mad?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not mad,” you grit, jaw clenched.

“Really? Because you seem angry.”

This is the point in cartoons where steam blows out of someone’s ears. Every bit of resentment, indignation, and sexual frustration is boiling to the surface.

“I said I’m fine.” You turn away from him, dropping a bowl to the floor where it shatters with a sickening crack. “God, damn it!” You scream, clenching your fists.

To Sam, this seems like a massive overreaction, but for you, it’s about so much more than a broken bowl.

“It’s not that big of a deal. You get the big pieces and I’ll grab the broom.” Sam moves toward the cupboard.

That’s when you erupt.

“Sam, for fuck's sake stop telling me what to do! Jesus, I’m capable of cleaning up broken glass!” You shake with rage.

“What the hell is your problem?” He shoots back, both ready for a fight.

“You’re my problem!” You scream. As if it had been planned, you step with all your weight directly onto a sharp shard of glass that cuts into your foot like a knife through butter. You shriek, falling onto your butt, coming down hard on your tailbone with a sickening smack on the tile floor. “Fuck, ow….ow.”

Sam crouches in front of you, with his hand around your ankle before you have a chance to process what’s happening. He lifts your foot up to get a better view and cringes, “that’s deep.”

“Let me go,” you kick at him, not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to get a point across.

“I need to get it out,” he scoffs, tightening his grasp.

“I’ll do it myself. I said don’t touch me,” you hiss, pulling your leg back again. This time, he lets you go, you wince as you scoot away from him.

“I’m just trying to help.” His tone betrays the words and there’s venom under the surface.

“I don’t need your help, I’m fine.”

He watches from the other side of the kitchen as you inspect your foot. He was right, it is deep, maybe three or four inches sunk into flesh. It’s a thick gash that’s pooling blood all over the light grey floor. Your stomach turns a little when you realize that you’ve backed yourself into the corner and have to pull it out of your own foot.

The pain comes without warning as if seeing the injury triggers the physical response. A sharp ache rises from your foot and up your legs and tears well over your eyes before you can stop.

It fucking hurts and suddenly you’re worried maybe you’ve managed to really injure yourself. What if you hit a tendon or actually did some permanent damage? The distress rises to your chest as you break out into a sweat.

The pain spirals and the blood isn’t stopping. God, you hate the sight of blood, it’s always made you lightheaded.

“Sam…” you panic, voice trembling.

“Here, let’s get you up.” Without missing a beat, he scoops you into his arm and carries you to the living room like he’s done it a thousand times before. That’s all it takes for him to forget what a bitch you’ve been; he hears the fear when you say his name and all is forgotten. After jogging to the bathroom, he reappears with a small bag.

“It hurts,” you spit, covering your eyes with your arm. You don’t want to look, the thought of all that blood and glass makes your stomach turn over.

“I bet,” he raises your leg into his lap, blood dripping all over his jeans. He doesn’t seem to care, though. You feel his wide hand slide under your yoga pants, halfway up your calf, squeezing lightly. “I’ll take care of you.”

With those words, Sam bears down, holding your leg still with a firm grip and rips the glass out. Not only is there pain, but more concerning is the steady stream of blood gushing out that is warm and slick, streaming down your heel. You don’t speak, you just make a strangled noise that Sam responds to by squeezing your upper thigh.

Your eyes pop open and the look on his face makes you feel even worse, “It’s bad huh?”

He nods tightly, “You’re gonna need stitches.” When you whimper, he just nods. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember. Gonna get you real drunk first.”

One Year, Four Months

You twirl spaghetti around a fork, coiling the noodles in just the right amount before popping it into your mouth. “Oh my gosh, Sam” you nod enthusiastically, “this is really good.”

“See, I’m getting better. I used the recipe this time,” he grins and you both dig in.

You’ve been swapping childhood trauma stories all night and now it’s your turn.

“We used to go on these camping trips when I was kid. Every year, my dad would pack up way too much shit in the back of our station wagon and drag us out to the middle of nowhere.” Sam sits back in his seat, sipping his beer. He likes when you tell the stories, he always seems fascinated by what was usually your boring, run of the mill childhood memories.

“Your dad’s an outdoorsman?” he inquires, crossing his ankles.

“Big time. He was in the army and when he got out, he spent years teaching wilderness survival. He’d live outside if he could.” You pour yourself more wine, then you continue. “So, he decides that we’re going to the Smokey Mountains for two weeks. He drags the whole freaking family out there, my mom and sister, my cousins and asshole uncle Ted. I didn’t care about any of them, I was so excited just to spend time with my dad. He’d taught me, what I thought at the time was a lot of bushcraft skills, I mean, I was just a little girl, but I knew how to build a fire and get a fish off a line, so I thought I was hot shit. I was desperate to prove myself. I never wanted to be like other girls my age, I wanted to hunt and fish and chop trees. I don’t know, I guess I thought it was the best way make my dad proud. So, we’d been there about a week when I decided that I wanted to go off on my own adventure. I packed a bag and wandered off. My cousin, Ryan, was supposed to be watching me, but he was too busy reading comics and no one else noticed.”

“Oh no…” Sam winces, rocking back in his chair.

“It gets better,” you promise. “I followed the trail for a while and then decided that I was fully capable of making my own way in the world and I ventured off into the woods. I probably walked for an hour before I decided I wanted to go back to camp, but it was too late; I was so lost. I walked in every direction and had no freaking idea which way was out. I was eight years old, with a ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and a pair of pink binoculars. I wasn’t dressed for anything more than a trip to the park and the sun started to go down….I was so scared, Sam. This huge storm was rolling in and when it started to rain, I just remember curling into a ball and crying”

“What did you do?” Sam’s enthralled, picking at the label on his bottle.

“I started thinking about my dad, he always said that if you aren’t finding a solution, you're contributing to the problem. So, I looked for a solution, which in my case, was finding the thickest pine tree I possibly could and crawling underneath. It hurt like hell, I was all scratched up, but I knew it would at least keep me out of the rain. And that storm, God, I hate thunderstorms to this day. It was so loud and there was so much lightning. I remember being curled up in the mud under that tree, freezing, and telling myself out loud that I was going to be alright. Even as a kid, I knew that I had to make myself believe that I was going to survive and I was capable of handling the situation. It was going to be awful and I was going to cry - but that was okay, as long as I made it through.”

“You were out there all night?” Sam leans forward setting his drink on the table.

“Yup. It was almost twenty-four hours before my dad found me. I was wet and dirty, but I was in one piece. You know he didn’t even yell at me? He just hugged me and told me he loved me.”

“That’s incredible, the whole thing,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’d like to meet him.”

“You will,” you take a sip from your glass, pulling your knees up to your chest, “he’s gonna like you. He’s a ‘get shit done’ kind of guy. You kinda remind me of him.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Sam’s been less and less positive as the months go by.

“Yeah, we will,” you confirm.

Sam’s still for a moment, his eyes shifting as his own thoughts rush in.

“When, ah, Dean and I were kids, my dad was gone all the time. My first real memory is being in this smelly, dirty motel room and crying because I just wanted my dad to stay with me. I didn’t understand why he left, you know? Dean must have gone out or something because I distinctly remember that when he came back to the room, I turned my pillow over because I was afraid he’d see it was wet and he’d know I was crying.” Sam loses himself in that memory for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, four maybe? Young enough that no one in their right mind would leave Dean in charge of me.” He scoffs and takes a drink, “That’s just how it was though. My mom died and dad needed to hunt, needed to fill that void.”

“Sounds to me like he was coping the only way he knew how t,” you suggest. Sam’s talked about his father before and you know there’s never ending layers to that relationship.

“I don’t hold it against him, not anymore. He did the best he could under the circumstances. For a long time, all I wanted to do was everything that he hated. Just be a normal guy, get married, have a couple kids, and be a better father than he ever was.”

“What? You don’t want that anymore?”

“I’m thirty-three and, forgetting for a moment that we’re stuck in Shadow Hill, I’m deeper into this life than my dad ever was. If you care about people, you don’t make them a part of this life.”

“Maybe you don’t get to make that choice for other people,” you shoot back. “Everyone has their shit, Sam, and I’ll give it to you that your shit is crazier than most, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He gulps down the last of his beer, “I’m going to bed.”

One Year, Five Months

You’re going alone, you’re going no matter what he says because you don’t care about his rules anymore.

Sam’s reading in the living room, so engrossed in The Handmaid’s Tale that he doesn’t really hear you when you square off your shoulders and say, “I’m going for walk.”

He just smiles up at you, completely oblivious to whatever you just told him, “Whatever you want.”

If we’re being a hundred percent honest, you know it’s going to piss him off. But, there’s no way you are both going to survive without a little alone time every now and then. If it keeps up like this, one of you is going to kill the other.

You wander down the street and behind the houses to Miller’s Path, leading out of the town and into the looming pine forest that surrounds every side of Shadow Hill. After walking for some time, you veer off the path, heading toward a clearing in the distance.

You maneuver through the brush, the trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind you of seaside waves; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft and damp, yet your fingers come away dry.

You tilt your head upward, feeling your hair tumble further down your back; the pines are several stories tall, reaching toward the golden rays of early fall. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself on your face, rose-pink lips, semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before you know it, your feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it's around noon and you don’t think you’ve been gone that long.

You find the clearing, trotting happily back out into the sunlight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam’s voice booms, snapping you out of your solitary moment. You whip around to the sight of him standing at the edge of the tree line, his chest huffing and eyes wild.

“What, I’m just...out here.” You’re caught off guard more than anything else, stumbling over your words. Sam’s mad, breathless, nostrils flaring, pissed the fuck off.

“Just hanging out?” He throws his arms up, stepping closer to you.

“I was just taking a walk, I told you where I was going…” You step back, he looks like he might throw you over his shoulder and lug you back to the house himself.

“You’re acting like a damn kid sneaking around. What if something happened to you?”

“Nothing is gonna happen to me. What do you think is going to happen, Sam? Nothing ever fucking happens here. It’s just the same shit day after day and it’s driving me insane. It’s making me resent you and it’s not even your fault, I know that. But, I need to be able to take a walk or go to Tolliver’s or do just one damn thing on my own.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m not done! Let me finish. Look, if I could choose anyone to be here with, it would be you, Sam, it really would. I had no idea I needed you in my life before I met you, which I know sounds nuts and makes no sense whatsoever, but it’s how I feel. I like spending time with you, but I need time to be alone, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“What if you decide you want to go for a stroll and you never come back? You just disappear. Huh? What then?”

“If I’m going to disappear, it’s going to happen whether you know where I am or not. I could be sitting next to you on the couch and poof, gone. Just like that,” you snap your fingers for added effect and he winces.

“Okay, sure, let’s just throw caution to the wind. You don’t care, right? Whatever happens, happens!” He’s screaming, pointing at you with an accusatory thrust of his arm.

“I never said that,” you glare, “stop being so dramatic! God, I hate you so much right now!”

“Screw you,” Sam, spits, lunging toward you and the next thing you know his mouth is crashing into yours. You’re still in shock, mouth hanging open as his tongue snakes past your lips, meeting your own. He tastes like almonds and salt and it is fucking wonderful. His arms engulf you, enveloping you in a crushing embrace, pulling your body flush with his. You tip your head to the side, mouth opening further to give him full access, a move which he accepts eagerly, his tongue exploring deeper as this kiss becomes less about rage and more about a year and half of sexual frustration. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that despite how good this feels, you’re still pissed. Groaning into his mouth, you place two hands on his chest and push back, parting in a breathless smack. Sam looks down at you, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.

“You kissed me.” You meant it as a question, but instead you’re just stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” he flexes his jaw, “I did.”

“Well...I...” Just a moment ago there was so much you needed to say, but your head is swimming and you can’t think. “I’m not saying that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t done-”

In the distance there’s a faint noise, growing louder. At first, you both look from side to side, but the closer the sound gets the more you realize it’s coming from above you. By the time you identify the noise as paper fluttering in the air, you can see the mystery object plummeting down toward the ground and it lands with a heavy thud on a patch of grass. You both inch toward it, Sam moving in front you with his arm out, “Don’t get too close.”

You stay behind him until you realize what you’re looking at and step forward as he grabs at the back of your shirt. “It’s alright, it’s just a book.” You bend down and pick up what appears to be a very worn, very old copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“What the..,” Sam’s voice trails off as you show it to him. There’s a feather sticking from between the pages and you open it to reveal a small line of text that’s been underlined by hand.

Glancing up at Sam you clear your throat read the text, “Sometimes the last person on Earth you want to be with is the one person you can't be without.”

“What is that, like Jane Austen?” he asks, completely perplexed.

You suppress your urge to comment on the fact that he recognizes Jane Austen when his face twists. You can watch the flutter of realization cross his face. “What?” You shift the book in your hands, “what’s wrong?”

“Someone’s watching us,” he snorts.

“But,” you hesitate trying to decide what the right questions are, “who?”

“I don’t know, but literature’s greatest hits don’t just rain the from the heavens. That was meant for us.”

“This is freaking me out.” You wipe your mouth, feeling the weight of the novel, and looking behind you.

Sam’s words sink in; someone’s watching.

He looks from you to the book, then up to the sky. There’s a moment of silence before he loses it. “What is this? A lesson?” he shouts, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched. “We’re listening, we’re fucking listening! Hello?” Nothing. He’s fuming, his cheeks bright red and fists clenched. He looks like he’s ready for a fight and not the kind that utilizes words. He wants to break something, frantic for anything to hit and watch his knuckles bleed.

“Sam,” you reach out, grabbing his wrist. He recoils when you touch him, pulling back as if he’s going to smack you. It’s muscle memory, something dormant left over from too many years of staying constantly vigilant and sleeping with a gun under his pillow. He cocks his fist and you stumble back, nearly falling over as he catches you.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to-” his face scrunches, to your surprise there are tears welling up in his eyes, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

What Sam can’t tell you is the combination of emotions coursing through his veins. He’s so frustrated that he can’t even control his own reactions and it makes him feel painfully impotent.

“I know, Sam,” you drop the book to the ground and wrap yourself around him, pressing your head over his heart, “I know you wouldn’t.”

One Year, Seven Months

After the ‘Dr. Darcy Incident’, as you dubbed it, Sam does his best to give you more space. And just like you predicted, your relationship with him begins to heal itself almost immediately. Time away eases the urge to pick at each other and allows you to enjoy your time together again. It’s a morning like any other, except Sam isn’t there when you wander half asleep down to the kitchen. Sam’s always awake before you, a pot of coffee already brewing by the time you crack your eyes open for the first time. You assume he must need the sleep and try to recreate his normal morning routine, so that by the time he wanders into the dining room, there’s two eggs and wheat toast waiting for him.

“Good morning,” you greet him, setting your plate next to his.

“Good morning,” his voice is low and he blinks at his eggs.

“You still asleep over there?”

“I think so,” being the man that he is, he just throws you an appreciative glance and digs in. He spends the rest of the day going through his normal routine; run, weights in the basement, then a shower and off the to the library to grab a few books he wants to add to your growing in-home library. By that evening, he’s looking pale, dark circles forming under his eyes. He tells you it’s just a cold and that he just needs some sleep. You don’t think twice. Maybe he’s not feeling well, but it doesn’t set off any alarm bells. The following morning, you’re up earlier than usual, feeling uncharacteristically rested. Lacing up your sneakers, you hit the snowy pavement as the sun is rising over the horizon. It’s a beautiful morning, too cold for a walk, but it’s perfect as you pick up speed out of the neighborhood and head towards town. For several miles, all you hear is the controlled sound of your breath and your feet hitting the ground. You push further and faster than you ever have before, extending your route up the hill past Hill’s Cinema (the one room movie theatre) and winding back down around the city center park. By the time you’re trotting back to the house, the sun is high overhead and the chill of a bitter winter day is creeping in. Covered in a thick sheen of sweat, you head for the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water and drink it. After a few moments, you happen to see a foot peeking from around the corner near the bottom of the stairs.

“Sam,” you call high pitched. You don’t want to look. The tight grip of fear rises in your chest as you round the corner and find him sprawled on the floor, face down still in his pajamas. Dropping to your knees, you turn him over. The moment you touch his torso, you can feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, he’s drenched. “Sam, can you hear me?” You brush away the damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’s burning up, his whole body is radiating heat. You’re not sure what to do, the only semblance of medical training you have is from watching re-runs of House on daytime cable. Shaking your hands in a panic, you try to mentally put together a list of priorities. At the top of that list is his breathing, so you press an ear to his febrile, damp chest and listen. He’s breathing shallowly, but his heart is galloping a hundred miles a minute. He’s so hot, you know it has to be dangerous, his body temperature must be cooking him from the inside out.

“Sam!” You yell, right at the shell of his ear. He’s three times your size and you know there’s no way you can move him on your own. “Sam! Wake up!”

When he doesn’t move, you do the only thing that comes to mind, you slap him, hard and fast right across the face. He jerks and his eyes flutter open with a groan. Thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” You hover over him, his eyes rolling back into this head for a moment before settling on you.

“What?” he slurs, his face contorting.

“You gotta help me Sam, you have to get up.” You move behind him, lifting him into a sitting position and fuck if he isn’t ridiculously heavy, his limp body doing nothing to assist you. “I can’t do this by myself. We just have to get to the shower, it’s right there.”

You grab his face and turn his focus to the small bathroom just off the entryway. “Okay,” he gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, “I’m dizzy.”

“I know, but we gotta do this now. Come on.” You stand in front of him, taking his hands and pulling with every ounce of strength you can muster. With a minimal amount of assistance, you hike him up, his arm grasping at your shoulders. The two of you shuffle down the hall, his weight threatening to take you both down. You get him into the shower, where he collapses onto his butt with a thud.

“My brain feels like it’s boiling,” he rubs a hand over his face.

“You’re gonna feel better in a minute.” In reality you have no idea if what you’re doing will help in the slightest, but he doesn't need to know that. You climb in the tub behind him and he instantly falls limp between your legs, his back crushing your chest as his head leans back on your shoulder. The fever is practically pulsing through him, his cheeks are bright red and heartbeat still quick, threatening to beat out of his chest. With your shoe, you kick at the faucet until a burst of freezing water erupts from the shower head and gushes over the both of you. You both yell in shock as the icy stream soaks your clothes and washes over your skin. After a few torturous minutes, the drop in temperature seems to calm his body. You’re shaking, teeth chattering as you feel his hand grip your knee. He turns his head toward you, his face at your throat.

“This is not at all how I imagined taking our first shower.”

“First?” You laugh, completely exasperated, chin trembling, “talk about presumptuous.”

You wrap an arm around him from behind, squeezing his wide shoulders and kissing his cheek, “You scared the shit out of me, Sam.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “didn’t mean to.”

Once he’s fully coherent, you give him aspirin, find him a change of clothes, and tuck him back into his bed. He grabs your hand as you walk away, pulling you beside him. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile, patting his chest “It’s what we do, right? You and me ‘till the wheels fall off.”

One Year, Nine Months

Sam has no intentions of going through your stuff, he’s just out of toothpaste and you’re out for a run. He pads into your en suite bathroom, feeling like a kid who’s trespassing in his parent's bedroom. Neither of you have ever said your rooms were off limits, but there’s an unspoken respect for personal space. He pulls open a few drawers, pushing around lotions and q-tips when he sees it. He knows what the pills are the moment he lays eyes on them. Amelia’s were in the same pink, little plastic case she pulled out of her purse every time the alarm on her phone went off. Looking behind and satisfied you’re nowhere nearby, he pops the case open, to find half the pack empty.

You’re taking birth control pills.

If he’d asked you about it, you would have told him that you found them in the pharmacy a year ago, right after the ‘almost kiss’ and figured that taking precautions was the smart thing to do. You didn’t know where this thing with Sam was going, but it felt like it might sneak up on you someday and you didn’t want any more surprises.

Sam looks at the pills again, weighing out several scenarios until he hears you bounding up the stairs. He hastily shoves the pack back in the drawer behind an open box of tampons. He finds the toothpaste just as you swing through the doorway, sweating and breathless.

“Jesus Christ,” you jump startled at the sight of him.

“Sorry,” he smiles tightly, waving a tube of Crest, “just trying to brush my teeth.”

One Year, Ten Months

You slide on sock feet over the hardwood of the living floor and take a seat at the edge of the arm chair. “I’m going to the greenhouse.”

“You want me to come with you?” Sam glances up from his nest on the floor with a pen between his teeth. He’s sitting cross legged in front of the coffee table, books and notes everywhere.

“No, I’m good, I need some quality time in with my African Violets.” You tie your sneakers, watching him as he shakes his head and makes a note on an already crowded legal pad. For a moment, you let your mind wander. The intellectual in you, the woman that loves historical fiction and collects vintage copies of the periodic table, can’t help but be insanely attracted to this man.

He will never know how utterly delicious he looks in a v-neck t shirt, barefoot, and lost in some obscure text. Sam’s always a little sweaty and at this very moment, there’s a sheen layer of perspiration right at the hollow of his throat that’s nudging your mind in a thousand directions. It’s been way too long since you’ve had sex, but you don’t hold onto hope because Sam might as well be the president of the Shadow Hill Abstinence Society.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” he offers, without looking up.

“Sounds good, see you later.”

You hop on your bike and enjoy the ride to the greenhouse. It’s on the far side of town, a little over a mile, and you shiver in the cool morning air, your thin coat doing little for the brisk ride.

Green Thumbs, as the sign reads, is a fully functioning hot house as big as a barn. The heat hits you in a wave as you open the frosted glass door, enjoying the smell of the flowers and earth that overtakes your senses. You check on Sam’s plants first, the ones he asked you to cultivate for spell work. You fuss over the Mugwort and water the Lady’s Mantle before moving to your orchids that require repotting. At first, you didn’t know if you’d be able to grow anything, with Shadow Hill wiping the slate clean, but the greenhouse has proven to be space that allows change to stick. Your flowers and herbs grow tall and strong, perhaps better than they should. You lose track of time, surprised when you hear movement behind you.

“Hey you,” you see Sam and turn to greet him with a sweet genuine smile.

Sam gulps. It’s hot in here and you're in a tank top that’s sticking to your sweaty, glistening body. There’s dirt smeared over your stomach and arms and a little just beside your nose. Your hair is a wild mess, barely contained by the failing ponytail. He’s been having a harder and harder time with his own self control when it comes to you, but this is the moment he knows that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

“Sandwiches,” he holds up a paper bag, looking at you with the familiar yet strange look he gets from time to time. You have no idea what goes in that head of his, but you’d like to find out. You wash your hand off with the hose and join him on the small wooden bench for turkey sandwiches. He hands you a bottle of water as you catch his eyes wandering over your body.

You glare at him, “I know I’m a filthy mess. I promise I’ll shower before I sit on the furniture, okay, dad?”

Sam just chuckles, looking at roses and biting into his food, “You’re so far off base you don’t even know it.”

One Year, Eleven Months, Two Weeks

A deafening crash of thunder rips you from your slumber, as your heart beats nearly out of your chest. The second boom makes you jump, as lightning illuminates your room. It’s so loud, that it sounds as if the heavens might crack open from the power. Rain is falling heavily on the roof as you crawl out of bed and look out your second story window. The clouds look low enough that the far mountain peaks appear claustrophobic at the proximity. Between the flashes of lightning, there’s an inky darkness that sinks into the marrow of your bones. You glance at the clock next to your bed, but it’s black. Great, the power must be out. You don’t like storms. Most of the time, you’re an adult and you can power through it, but this is loud and bright and something feels uneasy and electric all around you. You make your way across the hall and rap at Sam’s door.

After a moment, you hear, “Y/N?” You turn the handle and creep inside as he sits up, shirtless and dazed.

“I um, I just...the storm woke me up,” you shift from one foot to the other, standing in his doorway.

“You want me to get up with you?” he mumbles, trying to shake himself from his sleep.

“No, I’m being a baby, go back to sleep. I’ll read or something.��

Sam throws back the sheets on the open side of his bed, and nods with his chin, “Get in here.”

You don’t hesitate, you crawl in beside him, and he pulls the cover up to your waist. You don’t know if he’s fully coherent or not, but he rolls into you, as if it’s no big deal. His body presses into your side, his face burying into your neck and his hand sliding across your stomach and coming to rest on your hip.

Shit.

You lay like that for a while, now more awake than ever before in your life. Everywhere he’s touching you feels excruciatingly sensitive, like you’re in overdrive. Sam’s breathing hot at your neck just under your jaw and instead of softening with sleep, it’s only getting faster and faster. A crack of thunder roars down from the night sky and you involuntarily jerk. Sam’s hand tightens around your hip, his body pressing into your side as he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

You feel the shift of his head as his lays a soft kiss to the skin of your neck, it’s not a grand gesture, but it’s supremely intimate as you lay here in his bed. He kisses you again, this time moving down a little further, just the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin.

Your breath catches in your throat as you tip your head away, giving him more access. His hand moves from your hip back over your stomach, resting his palm just below your belly button.

“Can I touch you?” he murmurs at the shell of your ear. You exhale in a desperate, fractured moan.

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding.

Sam pulls at the hem of your nightgown and before you know what’s happening, it’s up and over your head, leaving you completely naked. He makes a guttural grunt of approval, pleased to see you’ve forgone undergarments. Still on his side, he leans over and cups one of your breasts with a calloused hand, taking your nipple into his mouth. You gasp, his wet tongue sliding over the hardened bud before tugging gently with his teeth.

His fingers play down your abdomen, barely grazing, as his touch sinks lower. You feel his fingers swipe over your sex, the tip of his fingers delicately stroking over your lips. When he feels that you’re wet, he pushes further, coating his fingers with your own slick. The pressure of his finger shallow inside you makes you quiver, your thighs falling apart.

Continuing to mouth your breast, his finger moves upward, out of your pussy to find your clit with expert efficiency. He rubs over the little bundle of nerves, eliciting a buck of your hips.

For what seems like a lifetime, he works your body just like this. His hand between your legs and nipple between his lips. His finger moves back and forth across your clit, rubbing and coaxing soft moans as you rock your hips up into this hand. Sam rolls his tongue over your nipple, then clenches down sending shocks that reverberate in your nether regions.

“I’m going to taste you,” he explains calmly, pressing a kiss between your breasts, moving downward placing his lips at the crown of your ribcage.

“Sam,” you puff, his words only adding to the anticipation, just a vague outline of what’s to come next, leaving him to fill in the details. The caress of his lips travel down your stomach, stopping for a moment to trace the outline of your belly button with his tongue. As he moves lower, he readjusts his body, crawling between your legs, hooking his hand behind one of your knees and bending your legs, using his shoulders to hold your shaking thighs open for him.

There’s a scrape of his teeth over the mound of your sex and you feel his breath before anything else, hot and warm with his face so close to your apex. Then his fingers; Sam uses his thumb and index finger to peel you open, revealing the throbbing little bundle of nerves.

There’s a tight swell of anticipation building in your stomach, but it’s nothing to prepare you for what comes next. With the tip of his tongue, slippery and warm, he scoops up and over your clit, once, twice, three times.

“Sam,” you groan, your back arching as he repeats the same, slow lick, just his tongue and fingers to hold you open. With his free hand, he reaches up, spreading his palm wide over your stomach, holding you down. Without warning, his whole mouth engulfs you, running his tongue flat and hard over the sweet spot that now controls every inch of your body.

Sam’s fantasized plenty of times about what you would taste like, but it’s different, better than he imagined. You’re salty and metallic in his mouth, making him only want more. He has a plan for this first time, what and how he wants to pleasure you. Between the noises you're making and the insistent thrust of your hips into his face, he knows he’s right on target.

He could do this for hours, incandescently happy with his head in a vice grip between your thighs, with a mouth full of tangy slick.

You don’t know long he’s down there, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? All with his tongue making spine-tingling circles around your most sensitive parts. He knows what he’s doing too, changing his rhythm, adjusting the pressure of his tongue to keep you from coming, he doesn’t want that yet.

He knows you want more, he almost fucks you with his fingers, but he wants the first thing you feel pushing inside to be his cock. He wants you to come for the first time while he’s in you. He wants to watch you pulse and shake while he’s sunk deep. His dick is rock hard, grinding against the sheets as he thinks about it.

“Sam,” he scrapes his teeth over your clit when you call his name, groaning into your pussy. His tongue dips down, teasing between your folds before moving back up to his focus area. All you want is something, anything to fill you up, his tongue, his hand, his cock, the specifics don’t matter.

“You want me inside you?” he asks, looking up from your thighs.

“Please, God yes,” you groan at the sight of him, crawling back up over your body.

He settles his hips between your own, pushing his sweatpants down his thighs. His hand brushes stray hair out of your face and then he kisses you for the second time since you’ve known him. His lips meet yours, diving deep with a scoop of his tongue.

Lost in the bliss of his body weight and mouth, you feel his hand between you, then the head of his cock rubbing over your clit and between your folds. There’s the sweet moment when he presses the tip into you for the first time, slowly sinking as you stretch around him. You moan into his mouth, his kisses deepening as he slides thick and stiff until he’s fully seated.

You feel impossibly full, it’s an incredible sensation that sends pleasure shooting out from where he’s sunk inside you. You wiggle your hips, canting up to his, desperate to take as much of him as you can.

Breathless and panting, Sam’s mouth parts from yours. He reaches up to grab the rung of the headboard for leverage and drops his mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing sweat soaked skin as he moves, pulling out and thrusting back into you with a force that makes your eyes pop wide.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, reaching for the pillows, the other hand clinging to his arm as his veins bulge with tension.

“You feel so good,” Sam groans as he’s trying his best to make this last. He wants you to remember this first time as intense and incredible, but he’s not sure he can last as long as he’d prefer. You’re so tight around him, like he’s balls deep in hot silk. You’re squirming under him, rubbing your pretty little body up into his like your life depends on it.

He looks down at you, your lip caught between your teeth, naked and straining at the sheets. Sam thinks you twisting under the weight of him is the best thing he’s ever seen in his life. He fucks you hard and slow, pushing all the way in and grinding his hips in slow circles that turns you to into a quivering mess of wet, raw nerves.

His mouth is everywhere, at your mouth, neck, biting at the ball of your shoulder. He moves from those mind blowing grinds to a steady rhythm as the rooms fills with the rolling thunder and the wet, carnal slap of his body into yours. You’re both close, the pumping of his hips faster and harder than before.

“Can I come inside you?” he pants, a growing desperation in his voice.

“Oh God,” you sink your nails into his back, frantic to pull him deeper at the very thought. “Yes, Sam, don’t stop.”

He props himself up on his elbows, his hips snapping fast as your breasts bounce with every thrust. Your nipples are still hard and he can’t help but take one back into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand snakes between your bodies.

His thumb presses over your clit, flicking up and down as he slows his movements. He grinds slow, just like before and you tip over the edge. You come in a glorious crescendo of pulsing nerves and taut muscles, clinging to him like a life raft.

Sam feels it, your body throbbing around his cock as you chant his name. You’re so beautiful, head thrashing to the side, mouth open, lost in the pleasure.

Before your orgasm has completely ended, he’s moving again, quick hard thrusts that make your muscles clench. Sam comes with your name on his tongue, filling you with everything he has, rocking slowly as he empties, twitching inside you. His forehead falls to the crook of your neck as his movements slow to a snail's pace. You rub his back, hands trailing up and down until he’s totally still.

Kissing you, he pulls out then flops onto his back and you lay side by side, silent in the dark as the rain continues to fall in sheets outside the window.

Sam brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing softly. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“Me too,” you confess. This has wide ranging implications, none of which you want to think about right now. You’re sated with Sam and pleasure and that’s where you want to stay for the rest of the night. You feel him shift onto his side, his hand over your stomach again, dipping between your legs to feel the wet of your thighs, the product of his hard work and your arousal. “I need to get you into a shower.”

“The power was out…” You glance to his bedside clock which is lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Looks like it came back on,” he sits up.

“Not yet, I want to lie here a little while longer.” When you protest, he moves back to you, pulling you into the crook of his arm where you're both sweaty and overheated. “I just wanna be like this, just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever you want,” he concedes, not five minutes later he’s snoring gently.

But you don’t fall back to sleep. You lie in the dark, as the storm rages outside. You think about Sam and Shadow Hill and wonder if all this will actually last.

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

Tags: @smallgirlbigpersonality @mereka18 @gryffindorable713 @trainlikeawinchester @winchesterprincessbride @bamby0304 @saxxxology @notyourtypicalrose @mariekoukie6661 @little-big-mac2 @emoryhemsworth @mystrie @atc74 @holyfuckloueh @bunnybaby121115 @mogaruke @darkmystress00 @jaspesangriento @kazuha159 @mirandaaustin93 @crispychrissy @schilj79 @wilde-abandon @hennessy0274-blog @bojabee @miss-samantha-winchester @impalaimagining @andkatiethings @astephez @ladycynthia @mrswhozeewhatsis @lenawiinchester @feelmyroarrrr @mrs-meghan-winchester @har-rystyles @mistressofallthingsgeeky @theamuz @maui137 @stars-and-seas @vale0413 @impala67trenchcoat @curly-haired-disaster @ericaprice2008 @livelikeawinchester @althehufflepuff @itsthesamegametoday @bohowitch @spnwoman @just-a-normal-eccentric @gallifreyansass @StoneyGGirl @lonely-skys @81mysteriouslyme @missrandomista @soupornatural @stars-and-seas @natura1phenomenon @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @81mysteriouslyme @likhelbentin @mrooks0205 @zombiewerewolfqueen @winchesterprincessbride @squirrel-moose-winchester @fortisetgloriosusinarduis @closetspngirl @dominodoll @rainflowermoon @cleighwrites @camelotandastronauts @imarockstar45 @thebeastinside19 @courtney-padalecki @itsthesamegametoday @virtualgirlfriendsan @daisymoder72 @fandom-is-my-middle-name @mysticmcu @luciferseclipse @malinda1997 @sunlight-dean @rockhoochie @collette04 @sandlee44 @ohnowin-chester @maddiepants @fandom-princess-forevermore @geeksareunique @femdeni314 @lazinessisalliknow @samwinchesterssexyface @the-yellow-girl96 @that67chevy @that-weird-asian-gorl @lmitchell78 @snffbeebee @fandom-is-my-middle-name @calaofnoldor @prettyinplaid94 @squirrelnotsam @spnwoman @luciferseclipse @daddys-littlewhitegirl @fanfictionjunkie1112

#East of nowhere #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfic #series

275 notes · View notes

mldrgrl · 6 years

Text

What it Feels Like For a Girl

by: mldrgrl Rating: NC-17 Summary: I had several Anons, and one non-Anon, requesting a body swapping story where instead of Morris Fletcher and Mulder swapping bodies in Dreamland, it’s Mulder and Scully. So, here’s the result. Mulder and Scully swap bodies at a very inopportune time. (Or very opportune, depending on how you look at it). Note: I’m going to be honest here and say, I don’t think this is a concept that works well on paper. A visual medium serves this thing a lot better. Oh, well. A big thank you to @kateyes224 for being the first to get through it :D

As the blinding light in the sky hovers closer, Mulder takes hold of my wrist and squeezes. I can’t see past the light, now shining directly into my eyes so strongly that I have to put my hand in front of my face because squinting doesn’t cut it.

There’s a flash and a moment of equally blinding darkness where it takes a moment for my sight to recover itself. Morris Fletcher still stands grimly before us, flanked by military personnel who look a little too trigger happy for my taste.

“Come on, Mulder,” I say, but the strange thing is, I don’t hear my voice, I hear his. When I look to my right, he’s not there. When I look down, he’s still gripping my wrist, except I feel like I’m the one doing the holding. And then I’m looking into my own startled eyes.

“What the fu-?” she says, right about the time I’m blurting out “oh my God.”

“Mulder?” I whisper.

“Scully?”

We’re both interrupted by an impatient Fletcher, barking at us that we are trespassing on government property. She...he looks annoyed, clearly about to make an ill-advised retort and I shake my head at him.

“Come on,” I say, tugging on the sleeve of my own jacket. “Let’s just go.”

There’s an awkward moment of confusion as we move to the car, heading to our usual sides. Mulder stumbles over his feet and then tip-toes towards the driver’s door with miniscule, shuffling steps.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss at him.

“I can’t walk in these shoes!” he hisses back.

I don’t fit into the passenger side. I’ve never not fit into any space ever. But, here I am, knees folded up and knocking into the glove compartment. He’s not faring much better, unable to reach the pedals and clearly distressed about it.

“Maybe we should switch?” I suggest.

“Not until we get out of here and find out what the hell is going on. How do you...Jesus, I can’t reach anything!”

This is surreal. Whatever’s happening feels like a nightmare or a bad acid trip. I keep pinching the skin on my wrist trying to snap out of whatever this is, but it’s not working. Out of curiosity, I reach up and touch my face, feel my fingers scrape across the five o’clock shadow dusting my cheeks. This can’t be happening. This can’t possibly be happening.

*****

We don’t talk much on the way to our motel. I can’t speak for Mulder...well, actually, I am speaking for Mulder, currently, but I think it’s just too damn weird to try to talk to each other and hear someone else speaking. It’s jarring. We do agree on one thing though, and that’s the fact that we need to get back to DC as soon as possible.

Actually, we agree on two things. We get back to DC as soon a possible, and we don’t tell anyone about this until we know for sure what’s going on. To that end, I book a red eye out of Santa Fe and Mulder hastily packs up our motel rooms.

“Don’t you have any flats?” he whines, digging through my duffel bag.

“At home.”

“I feel like I’m going to break an ankle.” He takes tentative steps across the motel room, trips twice, and nearly takes a header into the wall, but I happen to catch him.

“You hurt me, I’ll kill you.”

He stands there wobbling like a baby giraffe. I’m afraid if I laugh at him he’ll think I’m enjoying this situation. Trust me, I’m not. Of all the messes he’s gotten us into, this one surely takes the cake. So, I just stand there, with my arms crossed, watching Mulder hobble back and forth until he can assure us both he isn’t going to fall on his ass in a pair of two-inch heels.

The flight home is the most uncomfortable flight I have ever been on. I prefer a window seat when I fly normally, but my whole body feels too long to fit anywhere but the aisle. Mulder, on the other hand, looks almost pleased with himself and leans back in the seat and stretches.

“This is great,” he says. “I’ve never had so much room before.”

As soon as I get my own body back, I’m going to kill him. Slowly. Using lots of torture.

Maybe it’s crankiness from the unbearable cross-country journey, or the awkwardness of being in someone else’s body, but as soon as the flight lands, I have the compulsory need to be as far away from him as possible. It’s so hard to look at him and see myself, but to know it isn’t me.

“I think we need to stick together,” he says to me as we head to the taxi line. “Just stay by each other’s sides until we come up with a way of fixing this.”

There’s a moment where he starts to put his hand on the small of my back out of habit, but his usual aim is thrown off by our change in height and instead lands directly on my ass. I jump.

“Mulder!”

“Wha-oh! Sorry.”

“Be careful.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“Well how would you like it if I smacked your a...nevermind. Have you come up with any solutions?”

“No. You?”

“None. I do think we need to behave as normal though. Go about our days like nothing unusual has happened.”

“Days?”

“We don’t know how long this is going to last, Mulder. Hours, days, weeks-”

“Don’t say months.”

“Years.”

“Years,” he barks.

“Keep your voice down,” I whisper, bending so our heads are closer together. I don’t think I’ve ever had to bend down to speak to anyone in my life. Why do I have to be so short and why does he have to be so tall? It’s a wonder neither of us has suffered a neck sprain in the past six years.

“How can you be so calm about this?”

“I am far from calm, but I’m not going to freak out in a taxi line.”

“Well, then what do you want to do?”

“It’s Saturday. We go home. We think on it. We come in on Monday, go over our ideas, and hopefully, one of us will have thought of something brilliant.”

“You want to split up?”

“I want to think. Which means, I don’t want to be distracted and I don’t want to get dragged into any other of your crazy schemes until I’ve had the chance to process this.” There’s a taxi approaching and we’re next in line, so I do the gentlemanly thing and open the door for Mulder. He reluctantly slides into the back seat and I hand over my duffel bag to him.

“Oh, and Mulder,” I say, just before I close to door. “Do not, under any circumstances, get me into any trouble. Just remember, I already shot you once.”

“Scully, I really think-”

I slam the door to cut him off. I just want to get home and come up with a solution.

*****

I am well and truly exhausted by the time I get to Mulder’s apartment, my home sweet home for the next...however long it takes to fix this mess. I want nothing more than to lay down, take a nap, and hope I’ve dreamed up something truly amazing by the time I wake up. What I didn’t count on was the fact that Mulder really and truly didn’t have a bed.

All these years, I really thought he’d been joking when he said he never got around to buying a bed since he preferred his couch anyway. He referred to his bedroom as the storage closet, and though I have glanced into it a time or two, all I saw were boxes. Surely there must be a bed hidden under there somewhere, so I thought. Well, I was wrong.

I almost called Mulder to berate him right then and there, first for getting us into this mess, second for not living like a proper adult, but what would that really solve? I’d still be without a bed for the foreseeable future. So, I did what a normal human being would do and I looked up the nearest mattress store in the Yellow Pages and drove down. I probably spent an hour trying them all out, found one I liked, and with the swipe of Mulder’s credit card conveniently located in the wallet in my back pocket, bought him a mattress and bedframe that would be delivered bright and early tomorrow morning. One night on the couch probably wouldn’t kill me.

With that done, I went to the mall and bought some sheets and pillows for the new bed and then on to the grocery store for food. I’ve seen the science experiments growing in Mulder’s fridge and, though I’m pro-science experiment, I’m anti-eating them. It also occured to me, once I got back and fixed myself a nice salad, I had better clear out all that junk in the storage closet so the bed would have a place to go.

In the midst of packing boxes and cleaning, I used the time to think. I don’t know though, something about being in Mulder’s body must have affected my brain, because the only ideas I could come up with were ones that he would’ve thrown at me. We could see a psychic. We could hold a seance. We could try time travel.

By the time I’m finished turning the bedroom into an actual bedroom, it’s past dinner time, and I do the most Mulder thing I can do. I order a pizza and sprawl out on the couch in front of a movie.

At this point, you’re probably wondering why I’m boring you with all this stupid, mundane crap when you must be thinking oh my God, you’re in an entirely different body, why haven’t you inspected it from head to toe and tried out all the...new body features. Well, look, I am curious beyond belief about what it’s really like to be a man, but I’m going to have to look Mulder in the eye again and I don’t know if I can satisfy a curiosity and still maintain a professional relationship after that. There are boundaries.

But, fine, I may have changed into a nice pair of jeans and a sweater within the full length view of a mirror, not that I was looking, but I think the few glimpses I caught will allow me to keep my integrity intact. I mean, and I did have to shower, so that was interesting. I didn’t attempt to shave, but I will compliment Mulder on the body wash he uses. It was very nice and I might try to find some with a more feminine smell when things are back to normal.

The only real challenge I run into is how to use the bathroom. It’s one thing to check out Mulder’s body, but another thing to touch certain parts that need to be touched, I assume, when one uses the bathroom. I mean, I didn’t know what would happen. Do I just stay still and hope it aims itself, or what if once I start it’s like an out of control fire hose situation? I know it’s not very manly, but I opt to sit down to pee. Mulder doesn’t have to know.

*****

It’s late I think, at least past 10pm, and I’m dozing on the couch when my cell phone rings. “Scully,” I mumble out of habit. “Um, I mean Mul-”

“Scully, it’s me.” There’s an edge to his (my?) voice that doesn’t sound good.

“Mulder?”

“You don’t...you don’t happen to feel like you’re dying, do you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh God,” he moans. “Scully...something’s wrong.”

“Mulder?”

“Something is really, really wrong.”

“Mulder, I’ll be right there. Don’t move.”

I’m off the couch in an instant, thankful for my suddenly longer legs that get me out of the apartment and down the block to Mulder’s car in what feels like two minutes flat. I’m also grateful that I gave him a key a few years back and I use it to enter my apartment about fifteen minutes later. All the lights are off. I call out to him and he answers from the bedroom.

I find him curled up on the bed, still wearing the same pantsuit I threw on before accompanying him on that wild goose chase to New Mexico. There’s just enough light filtering in from the street lamps outside to highlight the anguish on his face. Let me tell you, it’s a little disconcerting to see yourself in pain. I crawl onto the bed and put my hand on his forehead, but he’s cool as a cucumber.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You don’t feel it?” he answers, lifting his eyes up to me.

“Feel what, Mulder?”

He bursts into tears and rolls away from me. “Why didn’t you tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“I thought it must be an effect of whatever this thing is that’s going on, but if it’s just me and it’s not you, then it can’t be and it hurts so much. Scully, why didn’t you tell me the cancer was back?”

“What?” If I wasn’t panicked before, I certainly am now. “What the hell are you talking about, Mulder?”

“Your body is dying, I can feel it. I’m dying.”

“What hurts?”

“Everything! Everything, God, my head is...and there’s this pain in my back - I think it’s the kidneys. Scully, I think your kidneys are going to explode. And then the light was too bright and I feel sick and then like right here…” He presses a hand to his hip, a little lower and off center from his abdomen. “It’s like...I don’t even know. Something is happening right there, something bad.”

It dawns on my almost immediately and I do some quick math and think about the date. If it wasn’t so tragic, I’d laugh.

“Mulder, you’re not dying.”

“Do you think it’s appendicitis?”

“It’s not appendicitis either. You’re PMSing.”

“I’m what?”

“You’ll be starting your period tomorrow.”

There’s a monumental silence that follows as he stares at me, silent tears trickling down his cheeks. And then he gasps loudly and starts weeping.

“Why am I crying!” he chokes out.

“Hormones.”

“What am I going to do?”

I try not to roll my eyes. “You’re going to do what every woman since the dawn of time has done, you’re just going to deal with it.”

“But, I have no idea what to do with...the things and the...you know…”

Yes, I do know. And a few moments ago I’ll admit I was feeling a little smug about Mulder having to getting to experience what it’s really like to be a woman, but he’s got to experience that in my body, which means…hoo boy. And of course he’s not going to know how to handle the finer details of a menstrual cycle, which means it’s going to be up to me to show him. What other alternative is there?

I’m never going to New Mexico with him again. In fact, I’m never going anywhere with him again. This is all his fault. If not for his stupid, wild goose chase, Mulder wouldn’t have cramps and I wouldn’t be on the verge of showing him how to use a tampon. Jesus, but there’s another even more embarrassing conversation we’re going to have to have in a minute and it’s going to make the rest of it seem like a picnic.

“Alright, Mulder, I have medication I’m going to get for you,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay.” He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands and I slip off the bed.

I grab the prescription bottle from the medicine cabinet and fill the water glass on my sink. I consider for a moment just leaving it as this - giving him the pills and walking away - but, I can see him behind me in the mirror, doubled up on the bed, probably praying for swift and sweet relief and I know all too well what it’s like and how it feels to just want someone, anyone to come take care of me when it’s as bad as this. So, I have to bite the bullet and get him through this the best that I can because in a way, I’m doing this for myself.

“Take these,” I say, handing him two pills and the glass of water when I return to the bedroom. He sits up, just enough to swallow them down and grimaces as he tries to lay down again onto his back. I put the bill bottle and the glass on the nightstand and stare at the top drawer for a few moments before I sit beside him.

“Thank you,” he whispers, shutting his eyes. That’s good. It might be easier to talk to him if he’s not looking at me.

“Mulder…”

He sort of grunts-slash-whimpers in response. I reach over to gently untuck his shirt from his slacks. “Why haven’t you changed?” I ask. “I’ve-you’ve been in this suit for two days.”

“I didn’t feel right about it.”

I unbutton the top button on the slacks and rest my hand low on the bare skin of his abdomen. I press down, slowly increasing the pressure.

“Oh,” he breathes with a sigh. “Your hand is warm. Oh, that’s nice.”

“I know.”

He puts his hand on my wrist like he’s afraid I’ll move away.

“You need to get undressed,” I whisper to him, making a gentle circular motion with my hand. “You need to get more comfortable.”

He doesn’t move, although he gives a tiny shake of his head and his brow furrows slightly. He grips my wrist a little harder. “I’m good here.”

“Come on,” I tease. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“It isn’t right.”

“You have my permission, Mulder, if that’s what you need so we can deal with this.”

It’s an interesting thing to watch Mulder’s expressions of struggle play out on my face. I can see him even if I’m looking into my own eyes. It’s bizarre. But, then again, I’ve always said I could read his face as easily as I read my own. I just never imagined for it to be so literal.

“How about this?” I say. “You’re the only one that can take care of my body right now and I need you to do what I ask of you because you’ll get sick if you don’t. I trust you.”

That seems to do the trick. He nods a little, but still clutches my wrist.

“I was wrong when I said we should go about our days like everything is fine. You were right, we need to stick together on this, so I’m not going anywhere. I’ll get you through this, I promise.”

“Okay.”

“What’s going to happen right now is, I’m going to go into the other room. You’re going to get undressed. You’re going to open the top drawer of my nightstand and you’re going to take out the blue velvet drawstring bag.” I pause. “Um, I’m sure you’ll figure it out from there. And when you’re doing, take a nice hot bath and go to bed. As for tomorrow...we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Mulder stutters, taking a vice-grip on my arm. “Are you asking...no. No, no, no.”

“It’s okay. You just need to do this and...it helps. I promise.”

“No way. For one thing I’m not...and for another it’s...no, Scully, I can’t.”

“Listen, the medication alone isn’t going to solve everything. I’ve learned over the course of dealing with this for the last 20 years, so you’re going to have to true me.”

“I do trust you, Scully, but I’m not...I’m not you.”

“You do know how to bring a woman to or-”

“Yes! Yes, but that’s different. And it’s...it’s what you said before, this is your body.”

“Which you’re currently occupying. If you think I’m not dying a little of mortification right now that I have to explain all of this to you right now, you’d be wrong. But, I’m telling you, from personal experience, that an orgasm increases the blood flow to the uterus and contracts the muscles, which will ease the cramps you’re having now. It also releases dopamine and endorphins, which are going to make the migraine you’ve got building up to go away and will let you sleep. So, there’s a really nice, really expensive, very trustworthy vibrator in that drawer and if you just...tonight is going to be a lot easier for you to handle if you do what I tell you to.”

“No.”

“Mulder!” God, but his stubbornness is exasperating.

“You do it.”

“I can’t do it. You’re me and I’m you.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly, so-”

“You know what to do. You do the thing with the...thing. That way you’re the one taking care of things.”

Oh my God. “Well, that’s not really…”

“See. You can’t tell me it’s okay for me, but not for you, if your argument is you’re me and I’m you.”

“I mean, that is the argument, but then if I’m involved, it would really be you that’s involved because I’m you and you’re me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, it’s the exact same argument for why you should versus why you shouldn’t.”

“Well, I’m sorry, this is the first time I’ve been in someone else’s body and I don’t really know what’s okay and what isn’t!”

“Scully, I can definitely tell you it’s not okay to ask me to masterbate in your stead because I don’t even think it would technically count as masturbation since I’m not you. So, if you want this body to get off, you’re going to have to be the one to get it off because it’s your body, not mine.”

I realize this argument has gotten a little out of hand and though we’re not quite shouting, it’s louder than it probably should be. I take it back down to a decent level. “Alright,” I say. “I see your point.”

“Good. So, I’ll go ahead and take that hot bath if you get a swimsuit for me and as for-”

“I mean, alright, Mulder.” I know this is insane, but I really do see his point. I also know that if he’s up all night in pain, if he doesn’t get any sleep, if he can’t shake that headache or the cramps, it’s only going to get worse from here. He’s leaving me no choice.

“You mean...wait, I don’t know if…”

“We both agree. It’s my body, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” First thing’s first, we need to get him undressed. Maybe what I need to do is stop thinking about him as Mulder, but as me. We need to get me undressed. “Sit up,” I say.

He does as I ask with quite a bit of hesitation and doesn’t look at me. But then, he lifts his eyes and I sit back as the air leaves my lungs. He’s reclined slightly, hands pressed back behind his hips, a little flushed, hair mussed, smudges of mascara under his eyes, and I have this moment of complete awe. He looks...I look beautiful. It tightens my chest and sends a flutter to my gut.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

Christ, Mulder, I think. I want you to stop looking at me like that. There’s fear there, but also trust, and expectation, like I have all the answers to all the questions in the world. It’s making me feel flustered and incompetent. Is this why Mulder always stutters when we argue?

“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks in embarrassment.

“You are, you know. I mean, you say that like you have no idea.”

“Okay, maybe this really wasn’t-”

“Scully.” He puts his hand on my cheek and it feels soft and delicate, but it feels like Mulder.

“Take your shirt off.”

His hand slides away slowly and then he pulls at his shirt from the back of the neck, typical man. I stop him before he can stretch it out and break any threads in the collar. I happen to really like that shirt. I take it up from the bottom and he lifts his arms to help draw it off. He blinks a few times. I have to lean into him to reach around and unhook his bra. Surprisingly, I fumble slightly, unaccustomed to the length of my own fingers.

“You smell like me,” he says, and I can feel his breath against my neck. It raises the hairs on my arms and stirs my groin. Oh God.

“I had a shower,” I answer, pulling back.

“Oh yeah? How did that go?”

“Nothing to say about it.”

“Did you look?”

“Look at what?”

“It’s okay if you did.”

“Mulder, I’m a doctor.”

“Hm.” He studies my face for a moment and then lays back and closes his eyes.

I lay down as well, on my side, propped up on an elbow, and put my hand on his chest, palm between his breasts and fingers splayed. My chest, I remember. My breasts. I start with a soft caress, knowing how sensitive and achy my chest would be right now.

“I should tell you,” he says, cracking one eye open a little and shifting his gaze down to my waist. “Sometimes...he’s got a mind of his own. I don’t know if anything will happen, but right now my hand is on a beautiful woman’s breast, so you might want to start thinking of Santa Claus.”

“Santa Claus?”

“I don’t know why, but it helps.

“Okay, thanks for the warning.”

He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath. My hand rises and falls with his chest and I pick up where I left off, this time slowly sliding the back of my hand around the curve of his right breast. His mouth opens a little and he takes another deep breath. I take my thumb and circle over and around the nipple, gentle enough so that it’s hardly a touch at all. He bites into his bottom lip and scratches at the bedclothes.

It feels like there’s electricity in the room, humming between our bodies. I’ll blame it on the charge and say that it’s what compels me to lean over and kiss his neck. I know the spot to hit, just below the ear and at the edge of the hairline. For whatever reason, it’s always made me light up like a Christmas tree. He whimpers, and one knee bends up ever so slightly and then slides back down, but his brow furrows like he’s in pain.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah?” he squeaks, and then clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?”

It takes a few seconds to answer and he shifts his hips. “Um, I think so.”

“Open your eyes for me.”

He blinks rapidly and then holds his eyes open to mine. They’re wide and dark, but when I sweep the back of my hand down along his side, they droop almost sleepily. It’s encouraging and I move on, bending my neck to place my lips against the top swell of his breast, with gentle suction, just how I like it. His knee slides up again, higher this time, and bumps the side of my hip. Without thinking, I catch his leg, hand wrapped around the inner thigh, and hold it there, slightly open, as I work my mouth down and across his chest.

He breathes my name and his fingers suddenly slide into my hair, first one hand and then the other. Damn, but it feels good. I’ve always loved the soothing act of having my hair washed at a salon, but it’s incomparable to having nails scratching at your scalp and thumbs skimming your nape. It’s like I can feel it in the roots of my hair down to my toes.

Before I know it, I’m looming over him like it’s a natural move to make. I know at this stage when I’m with a man, I’d be pulling him into that perfect cradle between my thighs where they fit so nicely, but the compulsion for me right now is to slide into that space myself. As I sink down, I’m conscious of what the weight of a man is like, pressing you down, making you feel more delicate than you are at times. And I’m conscious of just how much larger I feel. The body under mine, my body, feels vulnerable, and I have the urge to protect it, to treat it carefully, and by extension, to protect Mulder, treat him carefully as well.

“Is this alright?” I ask.

“Mmhm,” he says, shifting beneath me. His bent legs are pressed to my hips and his hands move to my shoulders and then I begin to waver.

I’ll be completely honest here, I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t engage in any foreplay when I’m by myself, mostly because I don’t need to, but even if I know the ins and outs of my body, I don’t know what it feels like for Mulder right now. I know what I’m feeling like in his body, and all the images of a fat, bearded man in a red suit that I’m trying to conjure up are no match for what’s happening to me.

It’s insane, I know, but this has got to be the single most erotic thing that’s ever happened in my life. And I also I know that the brain is a powerful organ, but it’s a mind-bending concept to be able to touch yourself with someone else’s hands and not recognize your own body. As it happened, I had to wonder, has my breast always felt this soft and heavy, or is that just how it feels in Mulder’s hand? Has my abdomen always felt so smooth? Has my hip always curved so invitingly?

And I’ll be damned if the ache of arousal is any different now than when I’m in my own body. The pressure is the same, if not a little lower in the pelvis. The heavy, swollen feeling between my legs is the same, but with a different consequence. And yet, I’m still overwhelmed with the urge to grind my hips into the bed, just as I would if I was myself.

I make a move to back up just a little lower, and oh my god, the friction and the pressure is both delicious and unbearable. I reflexively groan a little and Mulder opens his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine,” I breathe, recognizing the hoarseness in my voice as the same one I’d encountered on occasion from knocking on our connecting motel doors and being told ‘just a minute.’

I move up and off of Mulder to sit back on my heels. His eyes travel down to my lap and back up again when I unzip his pants. The pressure against my jeans is tipping past the border of pleasurable to painful. ‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house…

I grit my teeth, wiggling his pants off his hips and drawing them down his legs. I notice with a little bit of relief that even if he couldn’t manage to get undressed, he did at least remove my socks and shoes. All that he’s wearing now is navy blue panties, not the sexiest pair I own, but it could be worse.

Faced with this moment though, this turning point, I have to pause. He’s aroused, I can see it and I can smell it. I’m aroused, which is becoming more and more painfully obvious with each passing second. So, what do we do about it? Should we keep running from what I’m fairly certain we’ve both wanted for quite some time, or do we give in and experience something no one else on this planet has likely experienced before? Jump or turn back?

“Mulder, I...I asked you to take care of my body for me and I never...I should’ve asked if you want me to do the same.”

“You looked, didn’t you?”

“Of course I looked.”

“Did you like what you saw?”

“I want this. I want this if you want this, but I need your help.”

“You need a hand?” He smirks and reaches for the fly of my jeans.

“I want you to show me what you like and I want you to tell me how it feels for you.”

“Well, the first part’s easy. I like everything.” He sits up and pushes my open jeans off my hips, a little rougher than I would have, and takes the boxers down with it. Without any hesitance, he wraps a hand around my shaft, making a tight fist, and tugs up once, leading with the thumb to circle the head lightly.

“Holy mother of fuck,” I groan. His grip remains firm and his rhythm is steady. He twists his wrist just a little with every upwards jerk of his hand. It’s not the slow climb towards ecstasy I’m used to. There’s an immediate gratification that comes with it, but also no satisfaction. I want more, but it’s also too much. “Sss...stop…” I pant.

He releases me and I swear all the air leaves my lungs with a whoosh. I already want the feeling back. Instead, I lean over and kiss him. It’s not what I expect it to be and I’ll admit, I’m a little letdown, but I suppose that’s only because I’ve fantasized about being able to run my tongue over that pouty lower lip of his. We both pull away with as though the disappointment is mutual.

I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of bashfulness and as I look down and sit back, suddenly remember that I’m still fully clothed. Nervously, I take off my shirt and then I have to lay down to kick my shoes and pants off. And then I just lie there, fully naked, staring at the shadows on the ceiling.

“Hey,” Mulder says, laying down beside me putting his chin on my shoulder. “We don’t have to do this.”

“I know we don’t. I want to though, it’s just…”

He takes my hand, twines our fingers together and then brings them to his chest. I can feel the swift thump of his heart which matches the beat of my own, quick and strong. I roll towards him so we’re face to face, nose to nose. He leans his forehead against mine.

“I wouldn’t do this with anyone but you,” I say.

“Me either.” He let’s go of my hand and reaches down to slide the panties off. “Is it weird that I keep thinking how much I want you inside me right now?”

I shake my head. “Not unless it’s weird that I keep thinking about how much I want to be inside you.”

“I want to know what it’s like to feel what you feel.”

“I do too.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“How about just like this?”

“Okay.”

But, neither of us really know how to start. We make some abbreviated movements towards bringing our bodies together, but fall short. Finally, I take his leg and pull it over my hip. I don’t know if I want to watch his face for this moment, or if I want to watch us. Ultimately, I settle on us and leave it up to Mulder to guide me inside.

We don’t magically come together like I’d imagined. There’s fumbling and just as I feel myself start to ease into his warm, wet folds, he let’s go and I slip away. He grips my shoulders, breathing hard, and I reach up to push away the hair that’s fallen in front of his face.

“You okay?” I ask.

“It’s different. Stings a little. I don’t want...I don’t want to hurt you somehow.”

“It’s just for a moment, I promise. You won’t hurt me. But, if it’s too much, or too soon, we can slow down.”

“What if I’m not ready? How would I know?”

At first I think he means emotionally, but it’s the follow up question that changes things. And since he has no first-hand experience, that’s true, how would he know? I reach down between his legs and dip my middle finger inside. He tenses and I can feel the resistance of his body.

“Relax,” I whisper to him.

“I’m trying.”

I understand his nervousness. I think back over my first few times during sex, when it felt like an invasion of my body, no matter how much I wanted it. I adjust my hand, pull my finger out slowly just a little, and then slide back in, curling it as I do. I must admit, having longer fingers makes hitting my target a lot easier. His mouth drops open with a sharp gasp and his hips push forward into mine.

“Good?” I ask.

“Uh huh.”

I do a bit of lazy exploration with my thumb, skimming indirectly over the sensitive little bud that’s going to ultimately make Mulder’s toes curl, before I bring it out of hiding. He moans and pulls my hip closer with his thigh.

“You have to tell me,” I say.

“It’s so fleeting. I don’t know.”

I slow down and make exaggerated circles with my thumb, increasing the pressure and tightness of the motion little by little. I know when I’ve got it just right when his hips roll forward, but then he jerks back and my hand slips free.

“Oh, that was…” his breath hitches.

“It’s okay. Move with it, not away from it.”

We start over from the beginning, but quickly find our way back to before. My hand cramps a lot quicker than usual, but quitting isn’t an option. Fortunately, he’s learned quickly how to match the rhythm of my hand with his hips. There’s just one more thing I think he needs for me to get him there.

“I want you to try to squeeze my finger,” I say.

“What?” he breathes.

“Think about those muscles down there, and try to squeeze.”

His inner thighs tighten against my hand.

“Not the legs. Inside. You can do it, you just have to concentrate on it.”

A determined look comes over his face and I slow just enough to make him want it that much more. “Oh, don’t stop,” he says, just as I feel the slightest bit of pressure against my finger.

“I’m not.”

“Don’t stop, don’t stop. Oh, Scully, that’s...oh…”

He tenses and rocks forward. His nails dig into my shoulder and it sends a jolt of desire straight down my own body. The heavy ache I felt earlier is becoming tight and painful again. I slip my hand out of Mulder and wrap it around my shaft, just as he’d done earlier. There is a need in my gut like being thirsty with a glass of water just out of reach.

“I need you,” I murmur. “Mulder, please.”

“I need you too.”

With less fumbling this time around, I manage to push guide myself inside. And oh my god, to be enveloped by the heat and the wetness and the tight grip of his body is just...oh my god. But, Mulder is whimpering, making a short little gasps in the back of his throat and I stop halfway in and hold onto him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he breathes. “Nothing, this is just...it feels so...it’s so different.”

“You feel amazing.”

“More. I want more.”

“Are you sure?”

“All of it. I want to feel all of you. Please.”

I push deeper, until our hips meet, and then I stop and relish the moment. Our bellies press together, our thighs are twined, our chests expand together with every breath and I actually don’t know where I start and end any longer. When I move, he moves. When I put my arm around him, he puts his arm around me.

The pleasure sensation is different, more acute, more like tingling pressure. It drives my hips forward. The rapid beat of my heart matches the quick pulse between my legs. Blood rushes through my veins, heats my chest, swells in my groin. I have the urge to move faster, but this position has me restrained.

I stop, only long enough to roll Mulder onto his back and press up on my knees. The new position forces Mulder’s legs wide apart and I take his right leg and drape it over my shoulder. He grips my ass impatiently and I slam my hips back into his, grinding down a little with my public bone this time.

“Oh my god,” he cries out. At least, that’s what I think he says. It’s one long exhale and a groan, but that’s what it sounds like.

I have to agree though. Oh my god. Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. Everything below my pelvis starts to tighten. This must be it. I can feel the release is imminent. And Mulder’s got that pinched-brow expression of deep concentration again. I can feel him. I can feel him pulling me deeper, squeezing me tighter, and my eyes start to roll back in my head.

“Oh god, oh god.” I’m not sure who yells it, but I know I feel like a bottle of champagne that’s just been uncorked. All the pressure that’s been rising up explodes into stars behind my eyes. The force of it is so strong that I can’t breathe. I can only groan and quiver. Beneath me, Mulder is also moaning softly. The heel of his left foot digs softly into my ass.

I’m on the verge of collapse and muster up enough strength to pull his leg from my shoulder and turn onto my side. I want to weep when I feel our bodies disconnect. I reach for him just as he reaches for me and we twine together again, a lot stickier and sweatier than before.

“Wow,” he says.

“Yeah.”

“I can’t move.”

“Me neither.”

“You were right about the orgasm thing though. It’s like the cramps never happened.”

I chuckle a little. “That’s good.”

“And, like, Scully...twice? In a row? It’s not even like a wham, bam, thank you, ma’am kind of way either, those are just...wow.”

“It’s not always like that.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Huh.” He stares up at the ceiling and considers this. “Does that mean I should be flattered, or should you?”

I laugh and shrug a little. Mulder presses his cheek to my arm and sighs. Laying here like this doesn’t feel that strange at all.

“Do I still need that hot bath?” he asks.

“You should. Even if it’s just to clean up.”

“You want to join me?”

“Yeah. Sure. I might need a minute.”

“Should’ve warned you. Sex makes me sleepy.”

“Not me.” I yawn.

“I’ll go get the bath ready.”

“Okay.”

“Scully, about tomorrow.”

“Heating pad, Advil, and you’ll get to learn how to use a tampon. Wait, there was a short in the wire of my heating pad. I had to throw it out. We’ll think of something.”

“Yes, I can’t wait, it’s going to be great.”

I chuckle again, this time with my face pressed to the mattress and my eyes closed.

“But,” he says. “What I mean is, what happens tomorrow? Where do we go from here?”

“First we figure out how to get things back to normal. And then...and then we’ll see.”

“Okay, I’ll go run the bath.”

“Okay.”

*****

I wake up with the sun on my cheek, a soreness in my thighs, and a twinge in my abdomen. I pick my head up and turn it to the other side. The bed is empty.

“Mulder?” I sit up and look at my hands. My hands. I’m wearing a pair of flannel pajamas I don’t remember putting on.

I get out of bed and walk through my empty apartment. Something feels off. I feel like I’m in a dream or I’ve just woken from one. And where is Mulder? But, wait, why would Mulder be here?

I return to the bedroom and stare at my bed. I can feel flashes of my dream or a memory bubbling up to the forefront of my mind, but they’re also not quite clear. I’m making love with Mulder, but my body isn’t my own. I am Mulder. My cheeks flush. How strange.

My thighs though. They’re sore and ache in only the way my thighs will ache after a night of passion. Why would I wake up with Mulder’s name on my lips? I pick up the pillow next to mine. It smells like him. It smells like us.

I find my cell phone in my duffle bag by the front door. I remember packing a bag to go to New Mexico with Mulder, but almost nothing after that. I call his cell, pacing in front of my table as it rings.

“Mulder,” he answers.

“Mulder, it’s me.”

“Hey, Scully.”

“Mulder, were you…?”

“Was I what?”

How do I ask him if he was here last night? How do I ask him if this blurry image of the two of us in my head is real? And if it is, well why did he leave? It can’t be real. I’m just being ridiculous.

“Nevermind,” I say. “I think I had a weird dream or something.”

“Hang on, Scully, someone’s at the door.” I hear him open his door on the other end of the phone and a distant conversation. “A bed? I didn’t order a bed.”

I gasp and hang up. I ordered the bed. I remember. Oh my god.

*****

An hour later, Mulder shows up at my door and I open it, but I don’t move back to let him in. He sighs and leans his head against the jamb and then holds a gift bag out to me.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It’s a heating pad.”

“Why did you leave?”

“Can I come in?”

I back up and let him through. He’s wearing what I wore yesterday, what he must have picked up off my bedroom floor this morning before he walked out.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

“I want to know why you left.”

He sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “When I woke up this morning, I was a little disoriented. I didn’t know where I was or what happened. I thought at first that I might have been drugged - that we may have been drugged.”

“And then?”

“And then things started coming back to me in pieces. It was like deja vu at first, but then I remembered the lights in the sky and you being me and...the rest of it. And I remembered you telling me that you didn’t know what would happen after things were back to normal, and I was afraid that you would wake up and be embarrassed or regret what...or that you would shut me out and we’d never acknowledge it or speak of it again.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way.”

“I don’t remember everything. There’s parts that are clear and parts that aren’t. I do know that, for me, it was pretty incredible.”

“It was for me too.”

“Well, yeah.” He grins. “The only time I crash hard like that is when the sex is really good. I mean, like really really good. So…”

I feel my cheeks get hot and I look down at the gift bag in my hands. Some men bring women flowers. Mulder brings me a heating pad.

“You bought me a bed, huh?” he says.

I huff at my feet and nod slightly. He shuffles closer, takes the bag out of my hands and puts it on the table. I pluck at the blanket hanging off the back of the couch.

“Guess I was past due,” he says. “There is one thing I think we need to settle though.”

“What’s that?”

He cups my face and leans down. This time, I get to taste that bottom lip of his that I’ve always wanted. It’s even better than I dreamed.

The End

#xf fanfic #msr #i wrote this #humor #dreamland #there be sex here

390 notes · View notes

goodmythicalshipping · 5 years

Text

As Much of Me as I Am of You (2/3)

Hello again, folks! I hope y’all enjoyed the first installation of my first-ever fanfic yesterday morning! As promised, here is part two. :) The final chapter goes up tomorrow!

Summary: Hours before they’re supposed to embark on the first date of their live tour, Link finds himself coming to terms with his newfound adoration toward his lifelong best friend. The next morning, the two simultaneously discover the real meaning of having an “out of body” experience.

<< Chapter One / Chapter Three >>

After cramming all of their belongings into Link’s car, the pair drove off in the direction of their tour bus parked on the other side of town. The drive was replete with debate about how they would carry on with the tour, as well as their personal lives, after experiencing the newfound obstacle of swapping bodies. There were suggestions of postponing or cancelling the whole tour, or even going to a psychic or a hospital for help, none of which sounded particularly satisfactory. As Rhett continued to try and cool Link down, Link couldn’t help but worry about what would happen to them.

How would this affect their performance tonight, and every other night of the tour? They didn’t have much time to try and figure something else out after rehearsing for so many days. How long would they be stuck like this? Would they even be able to change back at all? Link tried his best to recall the timeline of events that occurred in Freaky Friday, which he had watched with his daughter Lily at home about a week prior. He had little faith that the Disney flick would provide him with any real-life insight, but he had to do something. He suddenly remembered something about “selfless love,” which made him nauseous. They hadn’t argued about anything recently, so that must mean…

Great. Not only did they have to find a way to switch back into their own bodies, but that way might involve Link confessing his feelings to his best friend of three and a half decades. He tried to see any other way around the problem, but that was the only thing that made any logical sense to him in these completely illogical circumstances. Rhett must’ve noticed the puzzled look on Link’s face, because he swiftly spoke up.

“Y’alright, bo?” Rhett asked, sporting a concerned look on his face. Link had to admit: although it was technically his own face he was looking at, Rhett still looked adorable with his eyebrows knitted like that.

“Yeah, as alright as I can be in this mess, I guess,” Link replied honestly.

“We’ll find a way out of this,” Rhett reassured him. “We always do. We’ve made our way out of some pretty tough situations in the past there, buddy roll.”

“As tough as trading bodies?” Link snickered.

“Okay, maybe not that tough, but y’know what I mean. We’ll get through this,” Rhett smiled at him. Link felt his belly do a somersault at that, feeling his face getting warmer. Crap, he really had it bad, didn’t he? They had to figure out something fast, not just for the fans but for Link’s own sake as well. The two of them kept up their cordial conversation as they exited off the highway.

“Just act natural,” Rhett warned Link, making a point to punch every word he spoke as they approached the bus with their belongings in hand.

The two greeted their crew members, who were waiting for them in the parking lot. Regretfully, they decided to lie to the group, explaining that Link had a sore throat and Rhett had somehow injured his hand while packing the night before, thus rendering them both unable to perform. Therefore, they collectively decided that they would perform their songs with backing tracks, at least just for the night. It wasn’t what they wanted to do, but what other choice did they have? Link couldn’t play guitar or piano, despite being in Rhett’s body, and the same applied for Rhett on recorder. At the very least, it would bide the pair some more time while they figured out a plan of action.

“So what’re we gonna do about th-,“ Link said to Rhett, before Rhett clasped a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

“Shhh! D’ya want the whole neighborhood to hear ya?” Rhett exclaimed as they boarded the bus, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. Luckily, no one was close by enough to overhear. Link spoke muffled words into his hand, batting it away once they sat down.

“Geez, man. Sorry I care,” Link provoked. “S’gonna be about a five-hour drive to Vegas. Y’wanna do anything to pass the time?”

Rhett looked around the bus, searching for things to keep them busy. If he was being honest with himself, the idea of being stuck in an enclosed space with Link for the next few hours was a bit daunting to him. Sure, they had spent their entire lives together up until this point, but something struck a chord in him recently that he couldn’t avoid, even if he tried. He suddenly found himself inexplicably thinking about his bespectacled friend more often, usually when he was left alone with his thoughts. Rhett guessed it made sense that this might happen, having known each other for their entire lives. He felt this burning sensation within him to be with Link all the time, being near Link, holding Link… kissing Li-

Rhett found himself being abruptly shaken out of his reverie by the man sat next to him.

“Hello? Earth to Rhett!” Link stated, quickly going wide-eyed and covering his mouth once he realized what he just said. He hoped no one in the main cabin of the bus was able to hear them behind the closed doors of the back lounge.

“Careful, man!” Rhett warned. “If we’re gonna get through this smoothly, we can’t have any slip-ups! This is between you and me and nobody else. Y’have to be as much of me as I am of you to bypass any conflict, got it?”

“Pretty sure that didn’t make grammatical sense, but I got it,” Link joked, earning a playful shove from Rhett. “As long as I don’t call ya by your name again, we’ll be in the clear. I know ya like the back of my hand.”

“Isn’t ‘Call You by Your Name’ that French movie or something?” Rhett asked.

“I think so,” Link laughed. “Never seen it. Speaking of movies that we’ve never seen… wanna watch Freaky Friday?”

Rhett then smacked Link in the face with the nearest pillow, reaping even more laughs that made Rhett’s body tingle all over with devotion for his friend. Nonetheless, he agreed and the two found themselves leaning into each other’s sides as they scrolled through Netflix and tuned into the movie on the back lounge TV.

He didn’t know exactly when they had fallen asleep, but Rhett awoke to a combination of the film’s ending credits song and Link snoring on his shoulder next to him. As he turned his head to look down at his friend, being ever so careful not to wake him, he couldn’t help but notice the cute expression Link had displayed on his face. It was also a bit odd, considering he was really staring at his own face, but Link had a very distinctive “asleep” face that he was somehow able to convey even while he was stuck in another person’s body. He watched the younger man sleep, observing how his chest expanded and sank with each breath.

Rhett continued to stare at his agape mouth for a few minutes more, feeling a blush creep onto his cheeks. If he wasn’t currently in possession of Link’s body, he would lean down and kiss him right in that moment. Rhett would be lying if he said he didn’t notice himself trying everything to get closer to the other man at every instance he could in recent months. It had just become a natural event at this point. He had always thought Link was pretty since childhood, but never thought of him as more than a friend until they began filming this past season of GMM. It frightened him to no end, not only because it made him question his sexuality but because this was his best friend – he couldn’t risk everything they had created together over the last 30+ years just to appease his own self-indulgent desires.

Suddenly, Link sprung awake, startling both himself and Rhett. Rhett looked at him bewitchingly as Link yawned, stretching his arms over his head.

“What time is it?” Link asked sleepily, making Rhett’s face redden.

“S’about noon,” Rhett replied.

“Am I still you?”

“Afraid so,” Rhett lamented, to which Link grumbled. “We should probably join the others in the main area before they think we’re dead.”

Before Link could answer him, the lounge door slid open to reveal Stevie standing on the other side.

“Mornin’, sleepyheads,” she teased. “…am I interrupting something?”

Both men flushed at this statement, not-so-subtly scooting apart from each other, which made the blonde girl chuckle.

“Fancy some lunch? I think one of the guys packed us some sandwiches,” she continued.

“Sounds good,” Rhett finally replied. “We’ll be there in a second.”

Stevie nodded, sliding the door shut behind her. Once she was gone, the two men stared at each other for a brief moment, neither sure of what to do next. As the faint shades of scarlet became more apparent on each of their faces, Rhett shot up out of his seat, much to Link’s disappointment.

“In the wise words of Stevie, d’ya fancy a sandwich… Rhett?” Rhett quipped, drawing out his own name for emphasis and extending a hand out to Link, hoping to distract him from the rather awkward moment they just shared.

“Let’s give ‘em a show,” Link japed, taking his hand and making their way toward the kitchen.

(To be continued)

13 notes · View notes

sprydecreates · 5 years

Text

endgame

requested: nope

warnings: drinking, heartbreak, extreme self doubt, language

pairings: calum hood x reader

type: angst ; actual body writing (my rat brain doesn’t know what to officially call it) ; 1.9k words ; gender neutral

summary: rejecting calum wasn’t planned, or wanted. was it for the best?

a/n: hi! i felt like breaking hearts on this good day. was looking for a header earlier, and seen lyrics from halsey’s ‘sorry’ and thought it’d be a wonderful song to write about in a sense.

also gonna try and actually write, not just a hc list this time. hope it’s good! didn’t necessarily proof read it out of fear of hating it so sorry if there are any misspellings or anything.

let me know how you feel about it!

it’d been a couple of months since you moved to california, and things were going pretty nicely. you got back into college, and were excelling. your job was sable, and rather flexible with your schedule and requests for time off. that was great, considering calum was finally back from visiting his family australia.

you had met calum while moving in, considering your apartment was in the same complex as ashton’s (where he was heading). he and ashton helped you move in, as you and a couple of friends who came along to help were struggling on the sidewalk with your hand-me-down couch.

the next day, calum came knocking at your door to see if you were settled alright. you were in the middle of unpacking dishes, and he asked if he could help you. you agreed, cause, why not have a cute australian boy help you move in? he just never left after that; even though he told ashton he’d get to his place soon.

the days have went on, and as cliche as it sounds, you both bonded and eventually had designated cups at each others houses (his is a meme mug that you bought that says “happiness is friends fishing together”, yours is a game of thrones cup with a sword as the handle), matching blankets (that were picked up on a late night target run; his says “mrs” and yours says “mr”), and swapped a pillow each, so you’d be comfortable sleeping.

things were going pretty well, to say the least. only thing that scared you, was rejection. did you like calum? yes, a little too much, but you told yourself several times that it wasn’t love. since it’s convenient to find out about him online, you decided to see if you were his type. seems as though you weren’t, from the girls he was rumored to date at least.

considering this, you called your best friend from your hometown, and explained everything going on. their only advice, was that you needed to talk to calum; they couldn’t tell if calum liked you, or was just being friendly. feeling nervous and hesitant, you invited him over for the chat.

like most of the times when you have a crush, you sat and debated on whether or not you were up for heartbreak. you had never really felt heartbreak, because no one had ever returned your interest for a significant amount of time. so, you didn’t know how to proceed. do you risk telling calum, and getting nothing in return and live your life alone? do you tell him and get a healthy relationship that you’ve convinced yourself would never be endgame?

when calum finally arrived at your apartment, you had cried all you could thinking about every way he could reject you, or how it would end. at this point, you were happy you didn’t have to go through anything that could blindside you.

after catching up, calum brought up the idea of the party, “so, me ‘nd ash were thinking about having a get together with all our friends now that we’re back. to like, catch up with everyone. you wanna come?”

“who all will be there,” you questioned, setting your cup of koolaid down.

“the guys, their girls, some friends.”

“very extensive list, thank you calum,” you joked, raising your eyebrows to signal so. it was nice, feeling comfortable after hours of terror sweats.

he let out a breathy laugh, “sorry, i really only know for certain about eight people. maybe more, maybe like one less.” he sat his fishing cup down, and looked up for your reaction.

you shrugged, thinking more about ‘their girls’ and ‘friends’ and which one you were categorized as, “when?”

he noticed your expression change, “uh, i think this friday but i’ll have to make sure.”

you nodded, “okay, i should be free.”

there was a small silence before calum cleared his throat and stood up, “well i should uh, prolly get going. supposed to meet ‘shton in a bit for dinner.”

you stood up and followed him to the door, “alright, have fun?”

calum turned when you ended your sentence with a question, and shadowed the doorway, “you good?”

you nodded again, tempting yourself to blurt out your thoughts but your fear took you over, “yeah, why?”

“you just,” he looked down at the tips of his shoes, moving them in an anxious manner, “seem, different? i don’t know, like you seem like somethings on your mind.”

“oh, nah,” there was, “just a bit tired,” a lie.

calum nodded, and stepped outside, “alright. i’ll let you know when everything will be set up, okay?”

“alright.”

“call you this evening?”

you nodded one last time and watched him disappear down the hall after your confirmation. after shutting and locking your door, you texted your friend and told her you chickened out, but were going to try and speak to him after the party.

wonderful. two more days of restless thinking, unbelievable amounts of notes written in your phone, and hours of staring into space just thinking of what could go wrong. calum calling didn’t help, either. he sounded more sweet, and soft than usual. or did he always sound like that? did he know about you maybe liking him and was trying to find ways of letting you down easily and this was step one?

ugh. the thought of it all made you sick. literally. friday came around, and you really had made yourself sick with worry. you wanted to get it over with, though. combating sickness AND heartbreak at the same time? undefeated combination. that being said, you didn’t bail. instead, you just showed up in sweats and a beat up old shirt.

no one was really dressed up, which was good for confidence measures, but horrible in the sense that you didn’t scream “i have a cold please don’t get infected”.

calum, however, thought you looked cute. like in a fanfic where you have your hair in a messy bun have on an old shirt that’s baggy but somehow shows off your figure sweats built the same way and you’re about to be sold to 5sos to pay off your parents debt. not that he said all that in one sentence, though.

throughout the evening, you noticed calum getting closer and closer to you, practically sitting on your lap after an hour. you didn’t mind all too much, but it was still strange to experience after all you’ve thought about. he seemed a bit, distant, though. he didn’t speak directly to you like he usually did, no hand on your thigh to push himself up, didn’t laugh at the same joke luke told whenever he popped a cap off of a bottle. something just didn’t, feel good.

after feeling a little dry and all too conscious, you decided to go into the kitchen and take a few shots; seeing as ashton and calum had migrated in there a couple of minutes ago. but, right when you get to the archway, you faintly hear the end of ashton’s sentence, “gonna do?”

calum’s voice came in after his, “i guess i’m just gonna have to tell y/n.”

that’s it. he knows. your heart rate shot up in mere seconds, and the tears made your eyes swell. you quickly turned and headed towards the bathroom, locking yourself in to cry a little bit. you couldn’t believe for a split second that you REALLY thought you were gonna have something. how could you be so gullible? the signs were all there. he was suiting you up to drop you from cloud nine. all the late night calls talking about life made him sick of you and he decided you weren’t the one for him. after that he noticed how much you liked him via the matching things, and it made him sick of you. he was sick of you. Sick. Of. You, and everything that you are to him.

you decided this wasn’t a reunion get together, this was a ‘goodbye y/n’ party. that’s why everyone was exceptionally inviting to you, because they knew you weren’t going to be around much longer, and they wouldn’t have to put up with you after this. if that’s the case, why not go out in style: drunk and pitiful.

you came out of the bathroom after several minutes of breathing in through your nose to stop the tears, and regain your composure. you head straight to the kitchen, nod to calum, ashton, and now sierra before pouring and downing a shot without saying a word. ashton laughs and cheers you on, as he’s never seen you do this before and thought it was a wave of encouragement. calum knows somethings wrong, but he doesn’t want to out you in front of people you aren’t entirely close with.

unfortunately for him, he doesn’t get any alone time with you until you’re five shots and two mike’s hard lemonades in. in other words, you were comprehensive, but your filter was gone and your emotions were bold. calum puts his hand on your shoulder once everyone is out of the kitchen, and asks whats wrong, “i know somethings off with you, y/n. you’ve never drank like this before.”

“not. a. thaaang,” you gave finger guns to him and ‘blew out’ the tips of your fingers.

he halfway smiled, but quickly furrowed his eyebrows and gave a stern look, “i’m serious.”

you shrugged, “me too. you think i, me, am joking?” you pushed his hand off your shoulder and turned to get another shot, but calum stopped you.

“y/n,” he said with his hand on yours, preventing you from lifting the shot glass, “we don’t have to talk about it, but are you sure you’re alright?”

you stopped. his hand was on yours, and that’s how it needed to be. you were staring at your hands, and everything was clear for a minute. you sobered up enough to say, “i heard you.”

he lowered his head, both confused and hard of hearing, “what?”

tears started to form again, “i heard you and ‘shton.”

calum let out a solemn breath and removed his hand from yours, certain this was taking a turn for the worst, “when?”

your breathing had hitched as you tried to stop yourself from crying, “a few minutes ago.” before calum could speak, you began your subtle rant, “i get it. i know i’ve been clingy, and weird, and overbearing and ugly and everything else. i know you don’t like me calum. i’ve fucking known that from day one, and i’m sorry i’ve known it.”

you continued with nonsense babbling until you realized how long you had been talking. calmly, and with tear stained cheeks, you told him goodbye, and that you wished you could be friends.

as you left the apartment and party, calum was left stood in the spot that he would later refuse to go near. he had tears of his own streaming down his face. he recalled his and ashton’s conversation from earlier:

ashton: dude, you’re getting reaaally cozy with y/n.

calum: yeah, i know.

ashton: is there, something... there?

calum: i don’t really, like know? i like y/n so fucking much. borderline love, i guess.

ashton: jesus man. what are you gonna do?

calum: i guess i’m just gonna have to tell y/n.

all this time, calum was the exact opposite of what you kept imagining. he built up the courage to talk to you about his feelings that night. because after all, he thought you were his soulmate: beautiful, smart, humble, different and the same in a puzzle piece manner. he was sure you were his endgame.

so, now what?

#calum hood #calum hood x you #calum hood x reader #calum hood imagine #calum hood one shot #calum hood fic #calum hood blurb #calum hood angst #sprydecreates ch

18 notes · View notes

goodeveningtowrite · 6 years

Text

Like Hell II

I’ve known the name of Lucie’s blond, blue-eyed mystery man for over two weeks and have been living with them both since, so it feels strange to think this is the first time you’ll know, too! Happy reading, and be on the lookout for the finale in about another two weeks. x

Catch Part I here!

Warning: Mature content ahead, reader discretion is advised.

Snow, whipped by fierce wind, had no sooner stuck to the pane of Lucie’s window in a mountainous pattern than a new gust blew it away -- loud, but still unable to drown out Jenn, her flatmate whose snores were usually muffled and distorted by a wall at home, but that now sounded like cannonfire right next to her. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been been awake and conscious enough to watch it, but it was long enough for her to gather it wasn’t going to die down. At this rate, there was no way the lifts would be operating, and she squeezed the pillow clutched in her arms, burrowing in close with a frown. No slopes, and no escape.

She snapped her eyes shut, but it had nothing to do with the new squall that just about shook the glass. No escape in relatively close quarters meant last night’s after dark activities would have a flashlight thrown on them even in the gray, stormy daylight.

Truth be told, she wasn’t sure whether she was more chagrined by the fact she’d gone against herself, or caved to his charms, or--

The digital numbers of the clock on Lucie’s bedside table flipped from 6:59am to 7:00am, and it blared to life briefly before her hand came slamming down on top of it, stopping it mid-scream.

7:00am. The first hour breakfast opened downstairs, and a whole hour earlier than she usually met her friends to fuel up for the day.

One whole hour earlier before he usually strolled in and circled each array just after her (or darted ahead to swipe what she had her eye on).

A snort behind her followed by the sound of a body rolling had her holding her breath, counting and praying, but she let it out when nothing else followed. If she had to be trapped inside today, she wanted to be as scarce and stealthy as possible, and company made for neither.

The room was toasty, but her teeth still chattered when she slid out from underneath her covers and slowly swapped her leggings and t-shirt for socks and a turtleneck. The jeans made her take pause, and Lucie nearly balled them up and threw them back into the drawer when she remembered she wasn’t the last person to pluck the button open and pull the zipper down.

The halls were eerily quiet, and when Lucie made it down to the breakfast room, it was equally as deserted, with only a few guests having bothered to come down this early. A balding man with half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose sat at one table reading a newspaper over the rim of of a cup of what was presumably coffee, and a woman with curly, gray hair was making a slow beeline for him with two full plates. Another woman, younger, wandered lazily with a toddler by her knees speaking Spanish or Portuguese, and Lucie sidestepped the child’s sibling, who was zooming straight for their mama across her path, weaving around the displays and looking for something quick and easy to grab.

Pots of oatmeal made sick, squelching sounds when she stirred them with the ladle and she could feel the gummy texture sticking to her teeth just by looking at it. The grease of hot eggs and potatoes, though, made her stomach turn, and fruit had her gagging at the idea of biting into it at room temperature. She’d never had so much pastry in such a short span of time, but once again she found herself by the danishes. Filled and iced treats were arranged with muffins and other goods, and there, nestled underneath, just a little squashed, was a golden croissant, puffed to perfection.

Lucie grabbed the tongs and fished it out before dropping it into her hand. It was warm to the touch, more than the lamp under which the display was sitting could have provided, and she pulled the end of it off before stuffing it into her mouth. It all but melted from all its butter, and she sighed, satisfied, contemplating the pots of jam.

Before she could choose between raspberry and apricot, a hand on her hip froze her in place, and the flaky pastry she’d been ripping apart nearly fell to the floor. It was too familiar, too intimate, and when she heard his, “Hello, love,” cheerful and lilted but deep enough to make her shiver, she grasped his hand and firmly pushed it away.

“Good morning,” she said, wishing she'd worn something that constricted her neck so much. A lock of his floppy blond hair fell just above his brow bone in a casual flip that mimicked her stomach, and he was wearing a dusky blue sweater that complemented his eyes, and oh she wished she hadn’t noticed that.

“You're up early,” he said as she skirted around him, jams abandoned, and he followed on her heels.

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m up early -- usually don't see you for another hour or so.”

“Why are you up, then?” she asked, poking and prodding eggs that didn't appeal to her.

“I was up late tending to some unfinished business,” he said. “Woke up and it still wasn't done.”

His pointed gaze made her breath catch in her throat and she dropped the serving spoon for the eggs before returning to the jams and grabbing a plate.

“Alright?” he asked. Lucie grabbed a spoon and dropped a scoop of raspberry jam on her plate with a soft splat. “Seem a bit distracted. Tense,” he said, and she took a deep breath.

“I'm fine.”

“Sure?”

“Ethan--”

“So you do know my name!” he clucked. “I was starting to wonder if I was that forgettable. Come on,” he said, and his voice lowered to a jarring degree, smooth and persuasive. “We’re adults -- doesn’t have to be awkward if we don’t make it that way.”

Lucie took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, holding his gaze despite how it looked like he was seconds away from huffing and puffing whatever backbone she’d grown away.

“Make what awkward?” she asked.

Ethan -- there was no point in trying to pretend she didn’t know his name now, because she knew it, and him, and he knew her, or parts of her, to a degree -- narrowed his eyes, shifting to lean more of his weight to one side.

“So, you’re just going to pretend it never happened.”

It was more of a statement than a question, and the flat set of his mouth had her throat constricting.

“Yes,” Lucie said, nearly choking on the whispery syllable. Her shoulders were already tense and heavy in anticipation of the onslaught she was sure he was about to unleash -- please, why not, give me a chance, and everything in between after how persistent he’d been to get more than two words out of her.

Two words and then some, ultimately….

His icy eyes might as well have been spearing her with their intensity, and that flippy lock of blond hair over his forehead bobbed when he nodded. “Right. I’ll see you, then.”

“You’re just going to go?” Lucie asked when he turned on his heel.

“I’m not really into forcing women to be with me, love, or chasing after them with some cockamamie Notebook plan,” he said, turning back halfway. “Don’t find that particularly romantic and I’m not about to risk my life for someone I’ve only just met. Ta.”

The single syllable was more cutting than it ought to have been and probably more so than he meant it. At first, Lucie bristled -- what right did he have to be angry? She was well within her rights to choose who and how and when to be with someone. But he hadn’t sounded angry -- if anything, he was disappointed, but he’d shrugged it off easily enough like it was no loss.

That she really didn’t know what to do with.

“Where’s he off to?”

For the second time, Lucie nearly dropped her breakfast when Jenn surprised her at her side.

“What?” she asked, followed quickly by, “I don’t know. When did you get up?” to veer any conversation towards safer waters.

“Just now,” Jenn said. “You weren’t there, so I thought I’d come down to see what you were up to. We should invite him to hang out with us,” Jenn said, following Lucie to one of the little round tables.

“Who?” Lucie asked.

“Ethan!”

“Why?” Lucie asked, dragging the chair across the floor and gritting her teeth when it scraped obnoxiously.

“Slopes are closed,” Jenn said. “We’ll all be looking for something to do. He’s always chatting with us,” she said, taking the second chair. “Talking to us about our days, taking an interest--”

“He’s annoying,” Lucie said flatly. “And a showoff.”

Just not about the right things.

“I don’t think so,” Jenn said, leaning over and tearing the opposite end off Lucie’s croissant.

Instantly, Lucie’s hair stood on end. She could recognize that tone a mile away, and it didn’t matter how well she did or didn’t know her flatmate of the past year.

“Trust me,” she said. “I can tell.”

Jenn shrugged and heat burst in Lucie, rolling through her like molten lava, flooding her fingers and toes. No. She didn’t get it.

“Saw him with a girl last night,” Lucie said. “They looked pretty cozy.”

“I’m sure,” Jenn said, flaking pieces of croissant apart. “Are you surprised? He’s gorgeous,” she said. “All that hair and those eyes….” Two dimples popped when she threw her stolen bite into her mouth, smirking. “He looks like he knows what he’s doing.”

Insanity made Lucie do it, and she would stick by that if she thought about it later.

“It was me.”

Jenn frowned, mouth twisting.

“Who was?” she asked. “No it wasn’t.”

“It was,” Lucie said, and Jenn gave her a pitying look.

“You don’t do that,” she said.

“Says who?”

“Says everyone!” Jenn said. “You don’t do that, you’re not about to jump a stranger. I’ve never seen you bring someone home. You keep to yourself!” she said quickly, apparently registering some offense in Lucie’s expression. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Besides, you just said you hated him.”

Not even the melty pastry appealed to Lucie anymore, and she wondered why she’d even asked her flatmate if she’d wanted to join the trip to begin with. She shoved the rest of it towards Jenn and stood with another obnoxious scrape against the floor.

“Where’re you headed?” Jenn asked.

“Dunno,” she said. “Nowhere to go, is there? I’ll find something.”

Lucie’s floor was still quiet when she returned to the room, and she took her shoes off before crawling back into bed, intent on falling back asleep and starting the morning over when she woke up. Whether it was the wind or her mind that had her tossing, turning, and kicking legs out from underneath the duvet before tucking them back in again, she wasn’t sure, and she scowled at the ceiling, anger aimless and billowing.

A whole week left and she was already done with this trip. A whole week, and she already wanted to swap rooms with someone, anyone. What had that even meant? You don’t do that. She sneered just remembering it, and angrily punched her pillow into shape underneath her head.

A whole week she’d planned on avoiding him, and now….

Her phone buzzed as 8:00am turned to 9:00am and 9:00am turned to 11:00am, and it was around 11:30am that it waned. Good, she thought sulkily. She didn’t want to see anybody at this rate, anyway. Sleep evaded her, and the result was her stewing with spikes of anger. What kind of girl wasn’t she? Spontaneous? Sexual?

She kicked and untangled her legs from the duvet and jammed her feet into her shoes before stalking from the room. Where she was going she wasn’t sure, but with only so many places for guests to go with the weather as it was, she had a hunch, and sure enough when she got downstairs, there he was, back at the scene of the crime.

Ethan was lying on the couch, his long legs dangled over the side, one arm over his head and a book balanced on his chest with his other hand supporting it, brows knit together and his progress down the page tracked by the way his eyes moved over and back again. Lucie hesitated in the doorway, resolve deflating, but she clenched her fists and strode forward, intent on seeing what she’d set out to do through… whatever that was.

She perched on the arm of the couch, just next to his feet, but when he didn't acknowledge her even after she softly cleared her throat, she braced herself and asked, “What are you reading?”

Over the lowering edge of the book, a lone eyebrow cocked, blue eyes appearing.

“What?” Lucie asked, twisting her fingers in her lap.

“So, now you’ve decided you’ll talk to me?” he said. “Left me alone and and told me to sod off--”

“I didn’t,” she scoffed.

“Might as well have,” he said.

“Well--” But try as she might she couldn’t find any reasonable explanation to justify her behavior, and Ethan straightened the book out, his face disappearing once more.

“Jenn asked if you’d like to hang out with us today.”

“Who?’ he asked from behind the pages.

“Jenn,” she said. “You’ve met her. Pretty girl, curly hair….”

Snores like an earthquake Lucie added mentally.

“Why?” he asked.

“Dunno,” she said. “Think she thinks you’re fit.”

Ethan snorted and thumbed a page to flip it. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Lucie asked, preparing to fend off a series of accusations regarding her transparency (which she most absolutely was not).

“‘Fit’,” Ethan said. “Sounds weird in an American accent.”

“Anyway,” Lucie said, only half wondering why she’d bothered coming and why she was still there. “Jenn wants to know if you’ll hang out with us.”

“Don’t see her around, do I?” he asked.

“Can’t see anything past that book, probably.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Ethan asked. “Not enough for me to get you off--”

“Shh!” Lucie hissed, looking around from her eagle’s nest, but even as she felt a thousand eyes on them, not one was visible.

“But if someone else tries to take a bite of your sloppy seconds--”

“That’s not--”

“It’s that or the fact that I’m not chasing you that’s gotten under your skin,” Ethan said, chin against his chest and voice muffled. “Pick your poison.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “And you’re the one who wouldn’t let up until you had your hand down my jeans.”

“And you told me you had no interest,” Ethan said.

“Maybe that’s changed.”

“Since when?” he asked, shutting his book, evidently giving up on plowing through it. Lucie straightened up, fingers braided tightly together.

“Since I’ve been thinking,” she said. “And I think you’re right.”

“About?” he asked drolly.

“We have a whole week ahead of us,” she said. “And after it’s over, we never have to see each other again.”

Ethan’s mouth parted and he blinked quickly.

“I still think you’re a showoff,” she said. “And arrogant. But it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Suppose so,” he said, still blinking.

“When do you leave?”

“Sunday morning,” Ethan said.

“Saturday night,” Lucie said, nodding. “And then that’s it.”

His throat bobbed.

“So,” she said, “do we have a deal?”

“What are the terms?”

“Terms?”

“I was going to be a lawyer, remember?” Ethan said. “Have to know what we’re getting ourselves into.”

She took a deep breath. “One week. Nobody knows, or the deal’s off. And if we want out, that’s it. No questions asked.”

It felt like forever before Ethan sat up, leaning forward and pulling his legs off the arm of the couch to hold his hand out to her, book clutched in the opposite one.

“Shake on it,” he said.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Lucie knew this moment was pivotal. She could either walk away and save her dignity, or she could have an adventure.

She clapped her hand in his and they bore down on each other’s when they shook.

“Fine,” he said under his breath, the corner of his mouth lifting up.

“So, how does this work?” she asked. Last night had sort of just happened, hadn't it? No rhyme or reason, just animal instinct.

“Slopes are closed,” Ethan said. “Suppose we can find something to do.”

Oh -- now?

Lucie’s heart skipped in her chest, but she nodded. “Sure,” she whispered.

Ethan did, in fact, have a room. It was one floor up from Lucie’s on the opposite side of the building, and, best of all, a single — no snoring to interrupt them or anyone to barge in on their privacy. He left her at the door to scurry ahead, picking up odds and ends and tossing them into drawers or his open suitcase, and she bit her lip, acutely aware of the fact they were behind closed doors.

You don’t do that.

“Nice room,” she said.

“What?” he asked over his shoulder. “Oh. Yeah, thanks.”

“Are you nervous?” Lucie asked.

“Why?”

“Because you invited me up and I’m by the door and you don’t care.”

Ethan set his book on the bedside table at last and turned to her, short of breath from his Tasmanian devil spin around the room. “Wasn’t expecting company,” he said, and Lucie’s gut twisted.

“No one?” she asked.

“Not really, no,” he said. “Had someone run off on me last night, though.”

Lucie scowled and Ethan grinned.

“I can run off again.”

“Yeah, you can,” he agreed. “It’ll give me a minute to finish what I was reading.”

Annoyance welled inside Lucie anew, but rather than turn on her heel and storm out, she propelled forward, catching herself on his shoulders and lifting just a bit to press her mouth to his. Keep her anger, keep her drive, and when he grabbed her hips and pulled her flush with his, she thought maybe -- just maybe -- he knew that.

Where he’d popped the button on her jeans last night, she popped his now, and she slid her hand just under his shirt, thrilled when his abdomen tensed under her touch as she scratched him over a smattering of soft hair.

“Right to the point, then?” Ethan groaned against her mouth, toppling back onto the bed, hands still on her hips even as the kiss broke.

“Left you hanging?” she asked breathlessly, leaning against his knees as she lowered to her own, shaking just a bit. Their eyes stayed locked on the others as she unzipped his jeans, and he clenched his jaw when her hands slid to the insides of his thighs and she squeezed.

She felt like she ought to be saying something — anything to rile him up the way he had her, but anything she wanted to sounded out of place, and if she did, she couldn’t swear she wouldn’t start laughing. Instead, she of watched his mouth thin until the point of disappearance when she pressed her hand where he’d held it for her the night before. Not nearly as hard as he’d been then, but she relished how he hissed and tensed his thighs and how his eyelids drooped in their effort not to close.

She thought she could see his lips moving, but if they were, he didn’t have anything to say or couldn’t at all.

Silently and without prompting, Ethan lifted his hips from side to side, easing his jeans down with Lucie’s help. The tight boxer briefs he had on underneath proved slightly more difficult, but when she touched his cock to pull it out, he hissed as if he were fully hard and her spine tingled. Even the most delicate, tentative strokes had him gnawing his lips with flaring nostrils and stamping his eyes shut, and she was grateful for the reprieve from their intensity not just for her own sake, but for what it allowed.

He’d felt nice the night before when he’d grabbed her hand and had her feeling what he was doing to her did to him, and as far as she could tell he was perfectly nice to look at, too, as well as incredibly sensitive and responsive. He was long enough for her to need both hands to handle him comfortably, and he was firming up just as nicely.

Tentatively, Lucie parted her lips and bent and took the soft, covered head of his cock into her warm, equally soft mouth, turning her eyes up at him when he sucked in a deep, harsh breath.

“Fuck!”

Gruff and faint, Ethan clutched the edge of the bed with white, popping knuckles next to his thighs, and another tingle splintered Lucie’s spine as she rolled her tongue in smooth strokes where the underside of his head would be.

She didn’t do this, maybe, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t think on her feet -- or her knees.

Slow and steady, Lucie coaxed herself. Slow and steady.

She sighed and pulled off, shifting her weight from knee to knee before sitting back on her heels and bending again, holding him in both her hands to flick deliberate, quick licks along his cock from tip to base and back again, sometimes pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sides and top. Ethan’s thighs tensed underneath her elbows and he rocked from side to side in response, but it was Lucie’s quiet moan of content that seemed to affect him the most when he bucked his hips up and swept her hair back with one shaking hand and a long, low exhale.

Still holding his head on her tongue, Lucie twisted some and peered up at him, the tightness in her neck from the awkward twist worth the glazed over look on his face. To say he was in awe of her would be an understatement, and to say he looked glorious would be a criminal offense for all it left to be desired. Slowly, dazed, Ethan nodded, the very corners of his mouth twitching in a way that not twenty-four hours ago Lucie had found arrogant and would have itched to scratch off his face, but that now had her feeling powerful.

“Good,” he said. “Good,” he repeated, louder, nodding stiffly. “It’s good… you’re good….”

Warmth flooded through Lucie from a knot in her abdomen and she took a breath through her nose, unwrapping one of her hands from around his now stiff cock to rest it against his stomach and, still holding him with the other, she descended with a slow bob of her head. It wasn’t rushed, and he didn’t hurry her -- there were no commands, and no insistent pushes of her head, just the wet sound of her mouth and hand working in tandem, sliding up and down and increasing in pace with her confidence and greed, a pornographic soundtrack in and of itself. His head was particularly sensitive just under the ridge, and Lucie sucked firmly, relishing his squirms and faint, strangled moans. He was smooth, and warm, and best of all he tasted clean with a salty tang that made her want to lick more and inquisitively rather than pulling away, and Lucie chased it with growing vigor, spurred and rewarded by the way his hand tightened in her hair.

Hot. Ethan’s cock was in her cheek when Lucie became acutely aware of how hot she felt. Too hot, way too hot, maddeningly so -- her turtleneck felt like it was strangling her, and it clung to her back, damp from sweat. She whined on her next descent, but his hand on her head, acting like a cap and trapping more heat against her, made was her breaking point.

She popped off him with an ugly sound and wiped her mouth hurriedly on the back of her hand, shaking her head when he made a sound. Yes, she was fine, but she just needed….

Lucie grabbed the hem of her turtleneck and pulled it up her torso, wrestling with it at her head before yanking it over and off, and Ethan stared, eyes hooded and lips parted.

“Sorry,” she whispered, breath hitching, and Lucie tucked her hair behind her ear before bending and again balancing herself on his knees with her elbows and wrapping her lips around his head.

A soft moan echoed in his throat almost immediately and Ethan responded with a barely audible, “Jesus…” that had her sinking quicker, eager to hear it again, lightheaded.

“Come….”

She looked up at him when his long fingers gripped one of her wrists, and she released her hold allowing him to place her hand just under his balls. She cupped them, gently running her thumb back and forth, and his eyes rolled up with a hollow groan, lips twitching.

“That’s good,” he said. “Just like th-that….”

Lucie exhaled through her nose, shutting her eyes and pausing, lips tight and an ache settling into her abdomen as she pulled on him almost lazily with minute bobs. Her tongue rolled back and forth just under the ridge of his head, and when it slipped up over the slit, he lurched forward with a shout.

“Whoawhoawhoa-wh-wh—!” Ethan huffed, mouth hanging and hand tight on her shoulder. “I-- that’s--”

Eyes wide, she looked up at him and, with his throat rising and falling, she deliberately licked again.

“Oh, God,” he groaned faintly. “Oh, God, oh….”

Again, and again, and again she licked precisely there, pressing her tongue firmly against him and feeling a jolt every time he stretched his jaw or swore. The sudden, strong twitch inspired a panicked drop of her stomach. She knew he was close, or would have been soon, but oddly, stupidly, even, she hadn’t considered this part of it all, and she wasn’t— she didn’t know—

Lucie pulled off Ethan with a pop, licking her lower lip quickly and tightening her hand around his cock, gliding so vigorously her bicep throbbed dully in an effort to make sure nothing was lost. Whatever inkling of concern she had about disappointing him or him losing his momentum was wiped when he bared his teeth, shoulders and chest heaving.

“Fuck… fuck, God, don’t, I--”

She pumped, and twisted, and squeezed ever so slightly, and then, with a series of guttural grunts, he came in long, thin spurts that dripped and dribbled down the side of his cock and over the back of Lucie’s hand. Satisfaction bloomed through her, and even her knees suddenly felt unsteady as she watched him, stroking his cock through several incomprehensible grunts before Ethan circled his fingers clumsily around her wrist and stilled her, shoulders shaking heaving.

“Okay,” he panted. “That’s… okay….”

BANG.

Lucie gasped, toppling backwards, and Ethan twisted on the bed, leaning away from the direction of the sound.

“Shit!” he said, staring at the rattling window, and Lucie clapped the hand that wasn’t sticky to her mouth to muffle a burst of hysterical laughter. Ethan flopped back against the bed, arms over his head, and Lucie rolled onto her knees again and stood, somewhat unsteady, crawling onto the bed next to him. A ghost of smile played on his mouth and fingers were tangled in his blond hair. Underneath his sweater, which was riding up his torso, his cock laid against his stomach, softening and losing its shape but no less nice to look at.

“So what are you going to tell them,” Ethan began, still staring at the ceiling, “when they ask where you’ve been?”

“They won’t,” she said and he laughed once. “I’m going to go wash my hands,” she said. Ethan nodded and she pushed up, sliding back of the bed. When she reemerged from the toilet, he was sitting up, cock tucked back into his pants but zipper and button still undone.

“You don’t have to go yet,” he said when she grabbed her turtleneck from the floor. “Not like there’s anything else to do, is there?”

Lucie smiled wryly and pulled her shirt over her head, flipping her hair out from under the collar.

“I’ll be back,” she reminded him.

“Catch you by the fire again if you aren’t,” he said and she laughed.

“Like hell.”

That was how it went for a week. More often than not, Ethan’s room served as their first refuge, although there had been an enlightening encounter in a maintenance closet and an infuriating one just yesterday on the ski lift that had left Lucie burning with rage when he’d jammed himself in next to her with an impish grin and her friends had stared as they went up, up, and away.

But it was Friday night, and Lucie left tomorrow. Per their agreement, this was it — one week and done, and they’d never have to see each other again — but Lucie found herself deflated. After tomorrow, it was business as usual, wasn’t it? Wake up, shower, eat, go to class, study, sleep, and do it all over again while trying to figure out what she wanted to do when she graduated and where she wanted to go.

She liked who she’d become this week. She enjoyed sneaking around, and sharing a laugh, and truth be told, when he wasn’t being a dick, Ethan’s company had been enjoyable. He knew a lot about a lot, either from his flirtation with law or all the books he’d read, and when he pushed back gently against an argument, it was ingratiatingly well-informed and persuasive. It was… refreshing, and she dared to say she’d miss the sparring, and she wanted to absorb every minute of it she had left.

With her friends itching to take advantage of their last day, it had left Lucie begging off for an imaginary strained muscle. “Better not risk it,” she’d told them, curled up by the fire with a magazine in hand. The minute the last one had turned and their voices had faded, though, she’d sprung from the couch and sprinted for the elevator, as she’d no sooner knocked on Ethan’s door than he opened it and drew her inside.

“It’s late,” he said.

“It’s not!” she said, taking his extended hand.

“It’s noon,” he said.

“They wouldn’t leave,” she said, the door falling shut behind her.

“Have you packed?” he asked, just before pressing a kiss to her mouth. It was firm and she swayed, warming through, and clapped her hands to his face.

“Last night,” she said. “Bought us a bit of time,” she said. “Nobody will be looking for awhile.”

“About that,” he said. “I’ve been thinking.”

Lucie gripped his shoulders and pushed slightly, forcing him to lean back. “What about?”

“Where’re you studying, anyway?” he asked, but he’d sealed another kiss over her mouth before she had a chance to answer.

“London,” she sighed, snaking her arms around his neck. He knew that, and he’d only asked her about a dozen times a day for the last four.

“Where?” he whispered again, kneading her hips.

“City,” she said, gasping when the world tipped and she wound up on her back in bed, his body looming over where she was caught in the duvet.

“That’s not far from me,” he said, eyebrows high on his forehead, his delighted surprise transparently feigned.

“Oh?” she said, scalp tingling despite the dry syllable, and Ethan smirked, unconvinced.

“Mmm,” he said, leaning down and kissing her jaw. “Might pop ‘round,” he said against her skin, smacking wet kisses there that had her squirming and smiling despite herself. “If that’s okay?”

Ethan kissed and nuzzled along her cheek as she weighed her answer.

“Bit longer than a week, isn’t it?” she whispered, fingertips jittery.

“Took us a few days to get rolling, didn’t it?” he asked. “Figure we owe ourselves a few extra days, otherwise we’re just cutting out on the terms, aren’t we?”

“That’s a very legal way to look at it,” Lucie said and he lifted up, grinning down at her.

“What d’you say?” he asked with a soft jerk of his chin.

One week and her life had changed more times than she could count in seven days than it had in nearly twenty-five.

“If it’s not too far,” she said breathlessly. “Sure, that’d be…. Sure.”

Ethan grinned and pushed his hair out of his face before bending to kiss her, and Lucie hitched her legs up around his hips again, stomach fluttering.

Until London, then.

That’s all for now! Part III coming in two weeks -- turn on notifications if you want to know when it posts (but since I do other things here, that might be annoying? You do you, friends). Keep an eye on my Instagram for sneak peeks the week of release and any other goodies along the way! Thanks for reading. x

112 notes · View notes

occasionalfics · 6 years

Text

Paige’s 2k Challenge/Bash!

Hello and welcome to my 2k Follower Celebration/Bash! First and foremost, thank you for getting me to 2k!! This blog has more followers than my main blog. But I write for Thor so I get it. We’re hungry.

Secondly, the challenge! I wanted to do something more creative than just a simple writing challenge...but I think that’s gonna end up being more in the execution than this prompt list. And by that, I mean that I want y’all to get as creative as possible. Do whatever you want (within reason): one-shot/drabbles, feature-length fics, mini-series, letters, etc.

So here are the specifics:

Up to two prompts per person, two people per prompt.

Should enough prompts be open by Wednesday, September 19th, I’ll think of something else to add because right now I’m out of ideas.

Send me an ask with the prompt you want, the character(s) you want to include, and maybe a backup or two if you think you’ll need it (I’ll let you know if someone gets to your choice ahead of you though).

If I don’t respond to your ask within 24 hours, send it again.

Tag me in the body of your post and make sure to tag #paiges2kbash so I can find your entry! (If I don’t respond within 24 hours, send it to me in a message.)

If you’re gonna write smut, you’ll have to be 18 or over and the character you write for needs to be as well.

All Marvel characters are on the table - even ones I don’t normally write for. This is about what you want, as my way of giving back to you for following me!

I am 100% cool with and encouraging you to play with the genre your prompt comes from. You see something in the Angst category, but you think it’ll be cute and fluffy too? GIVE. IT. TO. ME.

Gimme AUs, Gimme body swaps. Gimme it ALL.

Word minimum: 500. Total. There is no maximum.

I prefer Reader Insert fics, but I’m also cool with OCs. PLAY WITH THAT PERSPECTIVE BABE!

Make sure the prompt is easily identifiable in your post. Bold, italicised, a different color, or just point it out in the informational part of the post (if you do those like I do), just make sure I and other readers can easily figure out what the prompt is!

You do not have to be following me to enter! I’d love to have you and would appreciate your company, but it’s not required to participate.

Entries are due by HALLOWEEN (10/31/18)!

Make it spoopy.

Here’s what I’ll be doing throughout/at the end of the challenge:

Making a masterlist of all the entries with descriptions and tags

Denoting which are my favs in some way

Reblogging each entry to support and promote both the entry and the challenge (once again, if I don’t reblog within 24 hours, send it to me in a message)

Interchangeable prompts are located under Misc. So you get to pick what genre!

Angst

“Not you again..”

“I thought you loved me.”

“I can’t believe you!”

“We can’t keep this up forever.” - @mcu-owns-my-ass

“Don’t leave me…” - @the-resal10 with bucky (and/or steve)

“You’re a disappointment.”

“Don’t die on me– Please.” - @bvckysmanbun with steve

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Thanks for nothing.”

“Why did you spare me?

“You need to leave.” - @the-resal10 with thor

“I thought we were family!” - @akamaiden with thor

“There was never an us.”

“So that’s it? It’s over?”

“I fucked up.” - @distinguishedstarlightcrusade with tony

“I came to say goodbye.”

“I don’t deserve to be loved.”

“About the baby… It’s yours.” - @sidehowriting with thor

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No, it was my fault for thinking that you might care.”

Fluff

“I’m so in love with you.” - @thorsstorms with thor

“Dance with me!”

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” - @thorsstorms with thor

“Will you marry me?”

“I’m pregnant.”

“You’re special to me.”

“Do you trust me?”

“Can I kiss you right now?” - @lookslikeleese with thor

“You’re cute when you’re angry.” @multi-fandom-imagines8 with thor

“We’d make such a cute couple.”

“I want to take care of you.”

“Shut up and kiss me already.” - @iambuckyrogers with bucky

“Are you flirting with me?”

“Is that my shirt?” - @barnesrogersvstheworld with bucky

“You’d be a great dad/mom.” @averyrogers83 - with steve or bucky

“Did you do something different with your hair?”

“This is why I fell in love with you.”

“Stop hogging all the blankets!”

“Let’s run away together.” - @sweetboybucky with bucky

“Where did all these puppies come from?” - @samanthasmileys with peter parker (feat. tony stark)

“Wanna go see a movie with me?”

“I vote today to be a pajama day.”

“I’ll just be in the bathroom throwing my fucking guts up because our unborn kid wants to be a dick!”

“You’re smart and successful with an adorable belly.”

“Your hair is so soft…”

“Just relax, I’ll wash your hair for you.”

“You are ridiculously comfortable…” @uhltrons with peter parker

“I’ve had a rough day and honestly all I want right now is a drink and someone to cuddle with…”

Smut (NSFW, for 18+ only, I will be checking)

“This was fun— Let’s do it again sometime!”

“Why are you naked?”

“Bite me.”

“Fuck me.”

“Stop teasing me so much…”

“What a pretty sight.”

“Well, fine; just this once.”

“As you wish.”

“First one to make a noise loses.” @sassysupernaturalsweetheart with loki

“Car sex looks so much more easier in the movies.”

“Already? Do I really have that much of an effect on you?”

“We can’t do that here!”

“I’ve never wanted anyone to fuck me this badly.”

“Don’t give me that look.”

“You’re more than just a one night stand.”

“Don’t be so rough. There can’t be any marks.”

“I really don’t care. You still look hot and i’m trying not to kiss/fuck you senseless right now.”

“Put that thing away!”

“Don’t kink shame me.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“You’re n-not ,um, w-wearing anything under that, are you..?” - @buckybarnes-xyou with bucky

“Are you trying to turn me on or are you really just that oblivious?”

“You taste like fucking candy.”

“Just let me finish this level/chapter/etc. and I swear I’ll go down on you until you cum at least three times.”

“If I have to stop what I’m doing, you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

“Were you just masturbating?”

“Ah, he’s playing hard-to-get. thats cute.”

“For the love of fuck.”

(optional) “Yep, thats me. I love to fuck.”

“I know for a fact that you can be a hell of a lot louder than that.” - @kentuckybarnes with bucky

“Your ass is going to be seven different shades of red after that little stunt.”

“Did you just… finish?” - @supernovasandcoronas with bucky

“They always make shower sex sound so appealing, but honestly, this is getting dangerous.”

“I’m not actually feeling anything.”

“Are you getting any closer?”

“Boobs are really just squishy pillows.”

Misc. (could be any genre you’d like)

“I’m fine.”

“I’m really fucked up.”

“Are you drunk/high?”

“Don’t touch me.”

“Not sure if you could tell, but I’m not exactly a people person.”

“I don’t remember that!”

“Well that’s pretty rude of you to say.”

“You owe me.”

“You did what?!”

“I love that show too!”

“Can I borrow that book of yours?”

“What are you listening to?”

“I brought you your coffee.”

“I haven’t slept in four days.” @hwkewhy with steve

“This place gives me the creeps.”

“Just how stupid do you think I am?”

“I can take care of myself just fine.” - @samanthasmileys with steve, oc, and tony appearance

“Since when have we ever been friends?”

“Stop texting me weird stuff so late at night.” - @thatfanficstuff with clint

“Put me down!” - @evanstarff with bucky

“It isn’t what it looks like! Okay.. Maybe it is…”

“Didn’t you read the sign?”

“Do you think you can teach me that?”

“Okay.. This is new.”

“You’re in trouble now.”

“Tell me again.”

“What do you think? You like?”

“This isn’t what I had in mind, but okay.”

“Don’t forget who taught you that.”

“Are you sure this is legal?”

“Why are you so annoying?”

“What’s with the box?”

“Stop pinning this on me! You started it!” - @hiswhiteknight with bucky

“Just pretend to be my date.”

“The planet is fine. The people are fucked.”

“I just did some calculations, and I’ve determined that you’re full of shit.”

“Do you ever think if people heard our conversations they’d lock us up?”

“It’s not that you’re wrong, exactly, you’re just extremely not right.”

“You shouldn’t be trusted with small children, should you?”

“Give me cake or give me death.”

“You have to tell me why were committing a felony before we do it. Not that that’s going to stop us, but at least I’ll have all the facts.”

“Those things you said yesterday… Did you mean them?”

“You’re like, five feet tall. How you gonna reach me, shortie?” - @sectumsempra-beaches with loki

“It’s not a double date, we’re just third and fourth wheeling.”

“I’m going to keep you safe.” - @captain-ariel-barnes with thor

“It’s lonely here without you.” - @romancing-the-reader with loki

“How did we get here?”

“You are not going without me.”

“You know we’re supposed to be together. I knew it the first time I saw you, and you know it, too. I know you do.” - @mcu-owns-my-ass

“I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

Prompt sources:

http://rfaimagining.tumblr.com/post/159085054669/nearly-200-writing-prompts-feel-free-to-reblog

https://justforshitsandcackles.tumblr.com/post/173942517099/smut-prompts

http://rpmemesfam.tumblr.com/post/164529932732/nsfw-sentence-starters

http://you-make-me-wander.tumblr.com/post/128505986473/random-sentence-starters

#paiges2kbash #2k writing challenge #occasionalfics writing challenge #marvel writing challenge

56 notes · View notes

riotfics · 7 years

Text

Like we used to

He couldn’t believe they’d broken up, sure he and Craig had their ups and downs but it still caught Tweek by surprise, to say the least. The blonde sat in his new dorm, apparently Clyde and Token had broken up too so the 4 best friends just did an ‘Ex-swap’ and Clyde would now be sharing his dorm with Tweek, Tweek sighed fishing his old battered iPod out of his bag and stuck in the headphone’s listening to his favorite band 'A Rocket To The Moon’ relaxing into the bed his body still holding its usual tension. “Dude I didn’t know you could sing” Clyde commented having entered through the window of their first story dorm, he had a habit of taking late night walks now that his insomnia had kicked up again. Tweek jumped screaming a little falling off of his bed having failed to notice that it was late or that his roommate had returned, “Oh I-I didn’t hear you man, um…yeah I’ve been singing since like 4th grade remember? Cr-…Put it down” he reminded him still finding it too hard to use Craig’s name. "Shit Tweek!“ Clyde tripped over the window sill as he rushed to check on his roommate, "right I remember, people kept killing kids by texting and driving” he said as he helped Tweek sit on his bed. “I’m alright not bleeding” the Blonde reassured his roommate rubbing the back of his head softly, “dude are you struggling to sleep again?” he asked taking in the bag under the Brunette’s Brown eyes. “Is it that obvious?” Clyde asked with an embarrassed chuckle going to their bathroom and looking at the bags under his eyes, “wow…it is” he sighed rubbing his eyes with a yawn. “Dude” Tweek looked to his friend’s voice as he stripped to his boxers and rummaged around his bed for his pajamas, “come here” he skillfully shoved everything to the floor by the foot of his bed and allowed Clyde to change into his Pj’s before dragging the Brunette to his bed and using the dinosaur head grabber to turn off the lights once he was laying on the wall side of his bed he coaxed Clyde into platonic bro-cuddles and plugged his earbuds into the Brunette’s ears turning on his favorite song. 'I can feel her breath As she’s sleeping next to me Sharing pillows and cold feet She can feel my heart Fell asleep to its beat Under blankets and warm sheets If only I could be in that bed again If only it were me instead of him’ Clyde swooned very softly at the soft soothing voice in his ears and allowed his shoulders to bleed out as Tweek rubbed his back with the pads of his fingers while his thumbs rested on the Brunette’s shoulder blades, he moaned weakly feeling the tension leaving his back and tiring him out slowly but effectively until he fell asleep using the Blonde’s muffin top as a pillow. Tweek smiled as Clyde slowly bled out until he fell asleep in his embrace practically laying in his lap, he laid against his pillows listening to Ginger (the Guinea Pig Clyde gave him as a birthday present) run on her wheel letting the softly sound lull him to sleep along with the familiar warmth of holding another person. A month had passed since Clyde and Tweek started rooming together and they’d started cleaning, that was how Clyde rediscovered the dance tickets. He’d been planning to surprise Token by taking him to their Junior Winters ball but now it was at the end of the week and he had an extra ticket, he figured it probably wouldn’t hurt to offer Tweek the second ticket. “Hey, Tweek?” Clyde looked at his roommate as they sat on the now King sized bed that occupied their room where they were doing their homework, seeing as he couldn’t sleep alone anymore Clyde bought this bed cheap off Craiglist and put their twin sized beds in his parking garage. “Yeah Clyde?” Tweek asked the Brunette currently finishing his homework and starting to make a crown out of the crafting flowers that his parents sent him to replace the lego’s they lost, he wove in Red and Green ones to it as he looked to Clyde. “U-Um….back when Token and I together I planned to surprise him on….our anniversary with these tickets to the Winters ball” Clyde said softly rubbing his head as he finished his homework, “do…do you wanna come instead?” he offered showing the Blonde the tickets. “C-Craig and I w-were gonna go too,” Tweek said softly as he finished adding the flowers and got some vines to add to it, “I’d love to still go” he smiled putting the crown on the foam head that he had for crowns. “It’s a Bro-date” Clyde grinned, he laughed when Tweek rolled his forest Green eyes and jokingly hit the blonde with his pillow. “So that begs the question” Clyde sat back up after Tweek hit him back, “which of us is wearing the dress and heels?” he asked howling with laughter at Tweek’s expression which was an even mixture of offended and confused. “Flip for it?” Tweek asked drawing a Quarter from the coin bowl on his nightstand, “heads you wear one tails I wear one, then again for if the other gets to pick the dress or not” he flipped it a few times watching Clyde snatch it. “Deal” Clyde grinned positioning the Quarter on his hand, “imagine how we’ll look dress shopping” he laughed flipping the Quarter blindly pinning it on the roof of his hand where he and Tweek leaned in to see. “Congrats man” Clyde beamed showing Tweek the Tails, “I think you’d look great in a dress dude, you got the hips for it” he told him laughing when Tweek snatched the Quarter away playfully flipping it to see who picked Tweek’s prom outfit. “I’ll call it,” Tweek told him flipping the Quarter, “Heads” he called out pinning the Quarter swearing when it came up Tails again. “Welp let’s get some sleep broseph” Clyde chimed in once he’d stopped laughing at the way Tweek pouted, “we have fancy clothes shopping to do tomorrow” he smiled changing into his Pj’s as Tweek did so they could do their nightly routine of music and bro-cuddles while Tweek skillfully massaged Clyde’s back. “Good night Clyde” Tweek smiled as Clyde started to bleed out under his massaging fingers, he laid back and let himself fall asleep while his fingers worked. “G'night hunny” Clyde slurred as Tweek focused on a particularly tense spot neither noticing the slip, “Iloveyou” it sounded like 'uh live ew’ as he buried his face in Tweek’s stomach just humming and nuzzling 'his’ blonde while they fell asleep. Today was the day, and by that, it was sunrise and the two boys were waking up in their bed to Ginger demanding food by running full force on her wheel until it squealed in protest. “Clyde go feed Ginger” Tweek groaned softly, he snickered when the Brunette shook his head his nose brushing the Blonde’s side as he was essentially spooned despite being on his back. “Cut that out” he laughed when Clyde had heard him snickering and decided to really bury his face into his side, he snorted and instantly covered his bright Red face. “Fine, but you owe me” Clyde chuckled getting up patting Tweek’s pudge as he got out of the bed and approached Ginger’s cage, “easy Princess I’m coming” he yawned filling her scoop and putting it in her food dish while Tweek showered. “I needed this” Tweek hummed as the hot water lapped at his freckle dusted skin, he scrubbed his hair with the Strawberry scented shampoo Clyde got him after his old stuff started aggravating his scalp. He washed his body while he let the lather rest in his hair, he rinsed off from head to toe then got out and dried off pulling on his boxers before drying his hair and going to his dresser for clothes. “Hope you left me hot water” Clyde teased Tweek as he discretely admired his roommate’s thick thighs and freckle riddled body, he grabbed his clothes and rushed to bathe while Tweek dried his hair. Tweek pulled on his jeans before giving a crestfallen sigh as he worked to button up his shirt huffing when he skipped some buttons and buttoned some to high, shaking his head Tweek unbuttoned it and laid on the bed gently pinching his stomach holding the pudge between his thumbs and palms. “Self-conscious again?” Clyde asked softly as he got dressed and took his blow drier to his hair before combing it, “I keep telling you that it’s like, the most perfect gut I’ve ever seen” he reminded Tweek sitting by the blonde who released his stomach to drape his arms over his eyes. “If it makes you feel better you’re my favorite pillow” Clyde smiled laying on his side burying his face in the surface of Tweek’s stomach, “I bet if I press hard enough I’ll leave a face impression” he spoke against the skin sending Tweek into childish giggles. “Here let’s get you buttoned up then go prom clothes shopping” Clyde smiled sitting up and helping Tweek sit up before he buttoned the Blonde’s top for him, “c'mon giggles” he joked claiming the Blonde’s hand and leading him to his car where he took them to their towns shopping district. “We should try thrift stores first,” Tweek said softly as they parked and got out, “a lot of people will blow thousands on a dress they only wear once then donate it” he pointed out when Clyde quirked a brow at him. “Good idea Tweekers” Clyde smiled claiming the Blonde’s hand and walking to the nearest thrift store, the place was full of things like shoes, toys, and coats so they’d probably be getting Tweek’s heels here. “Let’s split up and look for heels….actually boots might work better for you” he smiled laughing when Tweek took off his Left shoe handing it to him before going off to look at the boots, he watched Tweek for a bit before going to another section of boots figuring that Tweek could at least pick out the boots. “These look beautiful” Tweek whispered seeing a pair of Earthy Brown thigh high Suede boots, he quickly snatched them from the shelf and slid the left one on beaming when it fit him comfortably. Removing the boot Tweek tucked them under his left arm and hobbled off to show Clyde, “Clyde I found the pair I’m gonna get” he cheered startling the Brunette who was looking at high heel boots. “Wow Tweekers these look great” Clyde commented looking at the Brown boots with Gold accents on them, “let’s get you these and find a thrift store with dresses” he said softly holding his hands out for the boots as Tweek stuffed his shoe back onto his foot. “I’m the one in the tux so it’s only natural I pay” he winked playfully when Tweek raised a brow but handed him the boots, “plus they’re only 5 bucks” he smiled paying for the boots before leading Tweek out with the bag in the Blonde’s free hand. “You gotta search for a tux too” Tweek reminded Clyde as they approached a thrift store that had 'prom sale’ signs all over the windows making that a promising store, “I’m picking your suit” he grinned releasing his roommates hand to run for the tuxes. “God I love that spazz” Clyde smiled softly quickly shaking his head before going to the dresses, “definitely Green,” he said to himself as he looked at all of the Prom gowns. “Definitely Red” Tweek grinned looking over the old suits, “and Black pants” he looked around beaming at a Red Tuxedo jacket with a Black lapel and two buttons gently grabbing it. He wandered some more getting a Black bowtie and vest then found some pants having checked Clyde’s sizes while the Brunette was in the shower, once he was sure Clyde wouldn’t catch him Tweek paid for the suit and a Green pin on Corsage Rose and hid the bag in the one with his boots. “No peeking Tweek” Clyde called out, he’d found a gorgeous floor length mossy Green ball gown with white accents along the chest and those super short removable sleeves. Once he found a nice wrist corsage with Red roses and Baby’s breath (fake of course but they looked real enough for him) on Green ribbons Clyde checked around for Tweek’s sneakers under the racks then paid for the corsage and dress asking the cashier to double bag it so his date couldn’t see it, he was so excited to surprise Tweek with this dress unaware the Blonde was surprising him with a suit “Welp since we have everything we need do we want to go get lunch and some coffee then go home” Tweek asked Clyde as they held hands out of habit at this point, “I mean the dance is tomorrow night we’ll want to be rested” he smiled even though they’d literally just woken up. “Totally, we can get some food then watch movies with Ginger at the dorm” Clyde grinned, “just a lazy day with my roomie and our girl” he melted at the the thought of snuggling with Tweek and Ginger binge-watching TV or movies on Netflix. Tweek grinned as they rushed into the nearest McDonalds getting a bag of Burgers, Fries and MnM McFlurries before heading to the car where Clyde drove them home, he was beyond excited for a lazy day with his roommate and Ginger. Clyde smiled as they parked at their dorm and claimed their bags rushing inside to Ginger and their bed, he stashed the bag with Tweek’s dress in the little safe Token had bought him then went to the restroom giving Tweek time to hide his suit and set his boots on their shoe rack. “Hey baby girl” Tweek smiled opening Ginger’s cage holding his hand out for her smiling when she scurried into his embrace, “I missed you too” he soothed her sitting on the bed laying her on his stomach where she laid down. “I told you that tum makes a great pillow” Clyde smiled getting the small metal trays they used for eating on the bed and sat them up laying out their food before getting comfortable next to Tweek where he rubbed Ginger’s cheek, he smiled contently claiming a Burger sinking his teeth into it melting against the bed as he ate. Tweek lit up but smiled and ate one of his Burgers while petting Ginger with his free hand, “I guess,” he said softly relaxing as he ate. It didn’t take long for the warm food, Ginger, and Clyde babbling about all of his favorite scenes of the current movie for Tweek to fall asleep around 6:30 at night. “C'mere Ginger” Clyde whispered setting his tray over Tweek’s legs so he could get off of the bed and put her away then put away their untouched food for later he put the trays away then set an alarm for 9:00 PM so they could bathe and maybe just have dinner before he stripped to his boxers and laid down in the bed with his head on Tweek’s stomach, as usual, the Brunette hummed softly easily drifting to sleep as Tweek’s arms wrapped around him. Tweek jumped awake at 9:00 PM to Clyde’s alarm and woke the Brunette gently shaking his roommate until those Milk Chocolate Brown eyes opened, “your alarm went off” he yawned sitting up ruffling his hair. “Hey you wanna go somewhere fancy for dinner tomorrow night before the dance?” Clyde asked his roommate as they gathered the stuff for showers and got to work on reheating their McDonalds for dinner sitting back on the bed to eat, “mind if I bathe first?” he asked Tweek he always felt grimy after eating McDonald’s then taking a nap. “That sounds nice man” Tweek smiled as he ate his second Burger while giving Ginger dinner, “you can bathe first I don’t mind” he reassured Clyde laughing when the Brunette rushed to the bathroom. With nothing else to do the Blonde laid on the bed and texted with his other friends, Kenny was going to the dance with Butter’s and this time they were wearing dresses since in High school they both wore Tuxedoes. 'Kenny: Man I can’t wait to see the dress you wear’ 'Tweek: Gah Clyde won’t even let me see it =(’ 'Kenny: Wait, Clyde? What happened with Craig?’ 'Tweek: Idk man, it just….fizzled out, there’s no spark we were just following the daily motions =(. Token dumped Clyde so we swapped roommates’ 'Kenny: Well shit, oop Leo’s up ttyl’ Tweek smiled softly and grabbed his old electric keyboard playing 'Lava’ from the Pixar short singing it to himself, he looked up hearing the shower cut off and greeted Clyde with a full-blown grin when the Brunette came in with his hair wrapped in a towel while a a second was wrapped around his hips. “I forgot to grab my boxers!” Clyde crowed sending Tweek into hysterics, “shut up and take your shower” he laughed getting dressed. 'Kenny: Hey Clyde heard you were taking Tweek to the dance’ 'Kenny: You better be good to this kid’ Clyde looked at his cell hearing it vibrating and scooped it up seeing texts from Kenny, he lit up reading them. 'Clyde: Dude seriously?’ 'Clyde: It’s a platonic Bro-Date’ 'Kenny: Dude, I’ve seen how you look at him’ 'Kenny: Talk to him, treat him good’ 'Clyde: Shut up’ 'Clyde: you’ll love the dress I bought him, it’s stunning’ 'Kenny: Perv ;D’ 'Clyde: shut up! 0/////0’ “Everything okay Clyde?” Tweek asked startling his roommate who fell off the bed, “heh we’re even” he chuckled helping the Brunette up onto the bed. “I’m fine” Clyde reassured him, “You wanna just go back to sleep? I’m not all to hungry” he admitted. “Totally” Tweek yawned, “bring it in” he smiled holding his arms out for Clyde who beamed nearly flopping on Tweek as he flopped onto the bed. “I spoil you” Tweek laughed starting to massage Clyde’s back near his ribs quickly turning the boy to putty, “you know that right?” he smiled watching Clyde roll his eyes and nuzzle his stomach. “And I worship you” Clyde whispered into Tweek’s stomach listening to him giggle at the vibrations, “G'night” he sighed as he fell asleep hugging Tweek. The next day was spent making themselves presentable and secretly preparing the other’s outfit, Tweek hung Clyde’s suit in the bathroom while Clyde laid the garment bag with his dress on their bed. “We’ll eat then come home to get changed and go to the dance” Clyde smiled as Tweek exited the bathroom, “let’s go” he claimed the Blonde’s hand leading him to the car while Green eyes focused on the bag. “I’m so nervous” Tweek let out a nervous whine as they arrived at the Red Robin and were escorted to their booth, “what if I trip on my dress, or-or your suit falls apart” he gripped his hair softly watching Clyde run out and return with a scarf which he placed on the Blonde and moved his hands to. “Tweek can I sit next to you?” Clyde asked Tweek, “everything will be perfect” the Brunette promised sitting next to Tweek hugging him stroking his hair until he calmed down. Neither of them seemed to notice Craig and Token sitting a few tables away both of them wearing suits, “I promise you Tweek, nothing will ruin tonight for us” he cupped the Blonde’s cheeks to establish eye contact then brushed their noses before moving to his half of the booth. “Thank you Clyde” Tweek smiled visibly calmer, he sniffed the air beaming when their server returned with their steaks and soda refills. “Anything for you Tweekers” Clyde smiled, “Oh thank you” he smiled at the server who left for the kitchen once they’d started to eat. “So Tweek I have a small question” Clyde told Tweek after swallowing a mouthful of steak and baked potato, “do you want to have our pictures taken at the dance tonight?” he asked the Blonde who forced down some potato to answer. “That actually sounds really nice” Tweek smiled at Clyde, “You’ll want momentos after you see the suit I picked out for you” he grinned with the same confidence the Brunette almost always wore. “Figured I’d ask because I know I’ll want a reminder of how amazing the dress I picked will look on you” Clyde grinned back, he passed Tweek his soda seeing the Blonde thump his chest a few times and reach for his empty glass. “Easy Tweekers easy” he moved to sit beside the blonde and carefully thumped his back with the heel of his hand, “Jesus, cut your food man” he crowed after Tweek finally forced the bite down. “Heh sorry” Tweek apologized guzzling the soda before remembering it was Clyde’s, “awww Clyde your soda,” he said seeing he’d inhaled like half of it. “No worries Tweekers” Clyde laughed, “just chew better and cut stuff smaller” he smiled sitting down claiming the empty glass before taking another bite out of his steak enjoying the dinner with his roommate. “This sure is great isn’t it?” Tweek asked Clyde as he finished his smaller steak, “thank you for all this” he smiled at the Brunette. “It is” Clyde smiled back looking for their server, he went wide-eyed seeing Craig and Token but said nothing and flagged her over. “Could I please get our check and a box please?” the Brunette requested politely as Tweek patiently sipped the rest of the soda, “ready for the surprise Tweekers?” he asked as the server left for the box and check. “Of course I’m ready Clyde” Tweek grinned around the straw exposing the tooth gap that Clyde was such a sucker for, “are you?” he quirked a brow making his friend laugh. “Been ready baby” Clyde laughed paying for their dinner and boxing up his steak, “let’s boogie” he smiled taking Tweek’s hand leading the giggly Blonde to the car. Tweek smiled eagerly as they entered their dorm, “you have to change in the bathroom,” he told the Brunette as he started unbuttoning his top clearly eager to put on the dress. “Fine mister bossy” Clyde laughed poking Tweek’s stomach before zipping into the bathroom and stripping, he brushed his teeth quickly before yelping when Tweek burst in to do the same. “Sorry,” Tweek apologized, “figured we should see each other at the same time” he admitted as the rinsed and spit together. “Go go go” Clyde laughed pushing Tweek out playfully, he listened to Tweek’s laugh before opening his garment bag and covering his mouth softly. This tuxedo was perfect, A white dress shirt with a Black vest, a Red tuxedo coat with a black lapel, black pants and a Green and white corsage pinned to the lapel. Tweek smiled unzipping his garment bag in the main part of the door and had to cover his mouth to avoid gasping too loud, this dress was a gown and it was the most stunning gown he’d ever seen. Moss Green and floor-length this gown had removable shoulder sleeves which he opted to leave on and White accents around the chest, he noted the small box and the note on it. 'I have to open this one for you ~ Clyde’ Tweek smiled putting his gown on before stepping into his boots, looking over at his flower crown the Blonde grabbed it and placed it on his head using his webcam to position it perfectly. Clyde took his time getting dressed in the amazing outfit Tweek picked out for him, once everything was perfect clothes wise he used some mouthwash then gelled his hair back huffing when a few unruly strands fell in his face but opted to just leave them. “Can I come out Tweekers?” Clyde asked trying to contain his excitement, when Tweek said yes Clyde eagerly opened the bathroom door and felt his knees go weak. Tweek stood gracefully in their dorm wearing a crown of fake Red and Green roses with 4 fake vines falling from it 2 framing his face while the other 2 rested behind his head, the gown was surprisingly a perfect fit even without breasts to fill the top it hugged the Blonde’s hips and the top rested flat without bunching up and the boots peeked out shyly from under the hem of the boots. Tweek lit up seeing the way Clyde stared at him as he tucked a lock of his Blonde hair behind his ear, “h-how does it look?” he asked offering the Brunette a hand where he slowly twirled him. “Stunning” Clyde whispered grabbing a tissue gently dabbing the corners of his eyes, “how about me? I love this entire outfit so much” he gushed allowing Tweek to twirl him in a circle. “You look astounding Clyde” Tweek smiled at his friend, “so…what’s in the box?” he asked softly watching Clyde snatch it up excitedly. “It’s a corsage” Clyde explained, “our high school didn’t allow same-sex prom couples so you didn’t get one” he opened the box to show the two fake Roses in the bed of fake Baby’s breath on the Green band smiling when Tweek let him put it on his wrist. “It’s lovely” Tweek smiled, “Shall we head out?” he asked passing Clyde his wallet since the gown had no pockets. “We shall” Clyde smiled giving Ginger dinner before offering Tweek his arm, “the full experience, minus a limo those are sadly too expensive” he said sheepishly listening to Tweek’s laughter as the Blonde took his arm and walked with him to the large hall the dance was in. “Oh Mr. Donovan you swauve bastard” Tweek jokingly swooned as they walked to entrance each baring a ticket, he laughed at Clyde’s face ignoring the way people stared at him for being in a gown. “Pictures first” Clyde smiled seeing a flash ahead of the two realized there was an entrance photograph, “stop fussing with your hair, you’re perfect” he soothed Tweek as they approached the mark for their photo. “Kenny is that Tweek and Clyde?” Butters’ voice asked from a few paces ahead of them, “Tweek looks really pretty doesn’ he?” he looked up at Kenny as they took in Tweek and Clyde. Tweek lit up stepping under the rainbow bubble arch with Clyde’s arm around his waist, he smiled at the camera laughing when Clyde poked his side to make his smile genuine. “You guys look great” Kenny smiled approaching Tweek and Clyde with Butters on his arm, they were wearing plain old Summer dresses, unlike Tweek and Clyde. “Thanks” the two spoke in unison, they smiled listening to 'Stereo hearts’ play as the now group of four walked to the photography area where Token and Craig were bsing for their photos. “You two should be in some with us” Butters smiled at Tweek, “it’ll be a fun way to remember the night only Clyde wore a tux” he giggled. “Whaddya say?” Kenny asked Tweek and Clyde, “up to you guys,” he smiled as Butters dragged him to get their set taken. “What do you think Tweekers?” Clyde asked, “some for us then some group shots?” he offered as they stepped up. “I love the idea” Tweek smiled genuinely at Clyde and the photographer seemed to love that and snapped a shot of them, he lit up when Clyde grabbed his hip and his left hand then dipped him but still smiled at the way the Brown eyes smoldered with passion. “Care if we cut in?” Kenny grinned stepping in and claiming Tweek in a one-armed hug using the other to hold a confused Clyde at bay while the photographer laughed and took a picture, “Leo c'mere, all Blonde’s shot” he cheered watching Butters run up and Clyde step out of the shot so the dress baring trio were photographed. “I got one” Clyde grinned, “quick carefully lift him” he didn’t need to name Tweek and watched them lift him by the hips and legs. “Brilliant and now for me” he stepped in kneeling down and clasping his hands so it looked like he was praying to Tweek’s thighs and butt, he listened to the photographer and some students howl with laughter, as some shots were taken then Tweek, was lowered and claimed by Clyde. “Oh Clyde it’s out bedtime song” Tweek whispered excitedly hearing the first few keys of 'Like we used to’ by A rocket to the moon, “we should dance” he smiled listening to the music. “Oh god, it is” Clyde smiled humming a few bars, “we should, everyone deserves to see you” he rubbed Tweek’s cheek walking the blonde out onto the dancefloor claiming his hand and his hip. 'I can feel her breath As she’s sleeping next to me Sharing pillows and cold feet She can feel my heart Fell asleep to its beat Under blankets and warm sheets If only I could be in that bed again If only it were me instead of him’ Clyde smiled leading Tweek around in a smooth slow circle in rhythm to the song, he hummed along thinking to all those nights of listening to this at night while Tweek rubbed his back. Tweek smiled letting Clyde lead since he was used to being lead when he danced, he held Clyde’s warm hand in his and let the other one rest lazily on his shoulder. 'Does he watch your favorite movies? Does he hold you when you cry? Does he let you tell him all your favorite parts When you’ve seen it a million times? Does he sing to all your music While you dance to Purple Rain? Does he do all these things Like I used to?’ Clyde gently nodded to Tweek releasing the Blonde’s hip to spin him on 'While you dance to Purple Rain’ placing his hand right back when Tweek had steadied himself, “this is by far the best night of my life,” he told Tweek as the blonde wove their fingers. Tweek smiled watching his gown twirl as Clyde spun him on his toes then smoothly fell back into step, “mine too” Tweek admitted. 'Fourteen months and seven days ago Oh, I know you know How we felt about that night Just your skin against the window Oh we took it slow And we both know It should have been me inside that car It should have been me instead of him in the dark’ Craig and Token watched their Ex’s dance as they 'chilled’ against the wall sipping punch, they didn’t know how to feel but damn the guys looked good. Tweek smiled releasing Clyde’s shoulder to tuck the 'unruly’ loose hair up with the rest, he laughed when it just fell back into place. “It was worth a shot Tweekers” Clyde laughed hugging the Blonde who melted into the hug thin lanky arms wrapping around Clyde for a moment before they resumed dancing. 'Does he watch your favorite movies? Does he hold you when you cry? Does he let you tell him all your favorite parts When you’ve seen it a million times? Does he sing to all your music While you dance to Purple Rain? Does he do all these things Like I used to?’ Just like the first time the chorus played Clyde twirled Tweek during 'While you dance to Purple Rain’ adding a soft twist by dipping the Blonde whose eyes sparkled in surprise, “yo-your eyes” Clyde gaped pulling Tweek back up. “Wh-what about them?” Tweek asked Clyde, he looked at the Brunette’s eyes and smiled he could see himself in them. “They’re beautiful” Clyde sighed, “like, a beautiful forest clearing” he gushed releasing Tweek’s hand to cup his cheek. “So Green” Clyde brushed Tweek’s temple with his thumb, “like…Emeralds” he smiled reclaiming the Blonde’s hand and gently turning them in a circle. 'I know love (I’m a sucker for that feeling) Happens all the time, love (I always end up feeling cheated) You’re on my mind, love (Oh darling, I know I’m not needed) It happens all the time, love, yeah’ Tweek visibly lit up, Clyde’s Milk chocolate eyes smoldered as they bore into his while the boy spoke. Nobody had ever talked about his eyes like that, he took his hand from Clyde’s shoulder gently cupping the Brunette’s cheek. “Your eyes remind me of the Earth,” the Blonde told his roommate just before he was spun, “whenever I feel scared or like everything is going to fall to shit, I look into them and I feel….grounded” he chuckled softly reclaiming his shoulder after the spin. 'Will he love you like I loved you? Will he tell you every day? Will he make you feel like you’re invincible With every word, he’ll say? Can you promise me if this was right, Don’t throw it all away? Can you do all these things? Will you do all these things Like we used to?’ “You mean that man?” Clyde asked his cheeks just as red as Tweeks, “that means so much to me,” he said spinning them carefully in a circle. “I’d never lie about something like that man” Tweek reassured Clyde, “I think you have, the most beautiful chocolate Brown eyes” he smiled brushing a tear from Clyde’s lashes before he was kissing him. 'Oh, like we used to’ Clyde pulled out of the kiss and gave a breathy giggle, “I always was a crybaby huh Tweekers?” he asked before plump lips met his again silencing him as Ruth B’s '2 poor kids’ started in the background.

#Sp Twyde #Fluff

17 notes · View notes

blackwatchbastard · 7 years

Text

Light Sleeper

Rating: T Chapter(s): 1/1 Relationship(s): Gabriel Reyes/Jack Morrison Warnings: Disgusting Fluff (N/A) Words: 1,670 Additional Tags: Soft Old Men, Naps, Snoring, Cuddles (Platonic and Romantic), THE USUAL APOSTAPAL FARE

Summary: Jack Morrison snores. Loudly. And no one’s sure how Gabriel Reyes, otherwise known as the grouchiest person ever woken up from a nap, puts up with it like he does. Not even him.

A/N: Taking a break from sucking at games to write the sleepy old men stuff I keep thinking about when I go into work in the mornings. See full title HERE.

(ao3)

Gabriel first learned of the unspoken joys of bunking with his new partner pretty much the first night of assignment. J. Morrison had the bunk over his, didn’t move a lot in his sleep, and snored. Good God, did he snore.

“You been to a doctor or something about that, bro?” he asked a few days in, over coffee and shitty scrambled eggs.

Morrison--no, Jack. They were on a first name basis now, right? Jack made a face, nose scrunched, and shook his head.

“They couldn’t do anything for it,” he said, “just told me it isn't sleep apnea so it's not really a major concern.”

How it wasn't sleep apnea was a mystery to Gabriel but he supposed they were with the best medical professionals this side of the world. Maybe they had a point. Or maybe they just wanted him to suffer.

Jack swapped to the bottom bunk. Gabriel slept on the top and hoped that somehow the enclosed space below would help drown out the noise. It never did. Some nights starting out he barely slept. It made the extensive testing and training even more draining. Jack seemed genuinely apologetic but there was little either of them could do baring requesting reassignment.

And by the time the first week went by that idea left Gabriel’s mind completely. He was stuck with Jack Morrison, by choice or not.

Eventually, Gabriel even gave up on earplugs. They had a tendency to fall out and never really helped much to begin with. It just wasn’t worth it. Instead, he just tried to find some miraculous way to sleep through it all. It took a few months before pure exhaustion got the better of him.

The first time Gabriel crawled into bed with Jack was a night he didn’t expect to really sleep through anyway. They were both miserable, too cold and shaky and Jack’s body seemed ready to fall apart at any moment.

It wasn't a ‘major seizure’ had been all the medical staff had to say about what happened earlier. Understandably, that did all of nothing to calm Gabriel’s concerns about his friend.

In the dim lighting Jack looked paler than usual. Slick with sweat on what little skin he had exposed from the cocoon of blankets around him. Jack hardly slept with blankets, this wasn't normal.

“You gonna be alright, cap?” he asked, balanced on the edge of Jack’s bed. He had to watch carefully to see the very slight shake of his head. “What do you need?”

“‘m cold,” Jack mumbled, voice thick from sickness.

Gabriel leaned down and ruffled affectionately at his hair, finding even it damp and clammy to the touch. “You've got all the blankets in our room, Jack,” he said, “and you know how they are about asking to raise the heat.”

Not that Gabriel wasn't tempted. He felt sore and shaky and cold himself, though clearly not to the degree Jack was coping with.

Jack shifted, peering out at him from his blanket nest, and it was utterly pathetic. Someone who could be so damn stoic and smug looking like a kicked puppy tugged at the most sensitive of Gabriel’s heartstrings.

“Can I lay down?” he asked, patting the bed next to Jack. Jack nodded and he flopped sideways onto the mattress next to him. “Can I touch you?” he asked. Jack’s body rocked with a tremor that shot Gabriel’s nerves up something awful but then he just nodded.

Gabriel tucked himself in closer, chin propped on Jack’s head and arms around his shoulders. Jack snuggled in against his chest gratefully. He squirmed briefly, freeing his arm to wrap it around Gabriel's waist, blankets flopping over with it. The combination of body heat was just enough to take the worst of the edge off.

He’d barely started to doze off when Jack started snoring. This wounded sounding thing, half choked off by the faint shivers still going through his body. But it managed to sound far less disruptive than usual. Instead of cutting the silence harshly it more seemed to fill it; like it was somehow preferable to not hearing Jack make any sound at all.

Gabriel fell asleep to the noise, Jack pressed to his chest, and was amazed he managed to get any rest at all. Still, Jack sleeping was worth the trouble.

Bedsharing, by the time they had an official word for what they were, wasn't a new experience. They managed to practically share a sleeping bag through half the Crisis and it was hard to tell what was more of a miracle; that both of them fit or that they didn't realize how clearly they felt about each other until later.

So crawling into their apartment on an average evening to the sound of Jack snoring loudly in the next room over hardly felt like a threat anymore. If anything, Gabriel felt anxiety and stress melting off him in waves. Jack was home, bed was warm, and he just had to climb in and sleep until his alarm rudely started the next day.

That night was a little different, though. The sound coming from Jack, though usually louder than a train horn, didn’t sound right. Gabriel paused in the doorway of their bathroom, watching him while he toweled off from a quick shower, and pondered over it.

The answer came to him when he finally climbed into bed next to Jack, rubbing up and down the line of his spine until the snore cut off and Jack stretched and rolled over to face him. He was bleary eyed and messy haired and... had something stuck to his nose?

“Are you wearing one of those drug store snore cures?”

Jack wrinkled his nose--at least as best he could with the stiff paper stuck to it. Gabriel fought a laugh, squeezing in closer even as Jack feigned sleepy annoyance and tucked his face against the pillow when the other man nuzzled up against his throat.

“It’s not working,” Gabriel hummed against his neck. “You’re louder than ever.”

Jack sighed and leaned back to look at him. “I was trying to help, since you keep getting in late. Figure you could use a slightly quieter room to fall asleep in.”

Gabriel shrugged and reached up to peel the nose strip off. Jack hissed softly, face scrunching, and Gabriel flicked it over his shoulder before pressing a kiss to Jack’s nose. Another crinkle of his nose but this one much more good natured.

“I’m used to it,” Gabriel explained easily. “Silence kind of freaks me out anymore.”

Silence meant no Jack. Silence meant he was probably alone. No one there to weigh him back down if panic bubbled up.

Jack pulled him in closer, fingers kneading into his shoulder muscles, and Gabriel went slack and pressed his face against the front of his throat. Felt more than heard him humming, like he was going to start purring. (If he got tired enough sometimes the snoring felt similar.)

“Better not have spent too much on those,” he mumbled, already half asleep. Jack laughed sleepily in response.

“Did it really make it louder?”

“You sounded like you do when you get sick.”

Another laugh. Jack squeezed him just a hair closer, nose tucked against the top of his head. “I’m getting my damn money back.”

Gabriel didn’t manage to fall asleep until Jack’s snore started up. Normally now. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him even in sleep.

Gabriel never realized how much he'd missed it until he found himself properly back in the company of Jack Morrison’s deadly snoring. It made sleeping so much less of a production. He could settle in without a white noise maker and a miserable roommate.

No one else ever saw the appeal, however.

When Jack fell asleep on the old couch in their makeshift base of operations one afternoon Ana looked ready to die. But he never slept, which was presumably why she let him be and looked at Gabriel miserably over the terminal she was trying to work at.

Maybe he missed the look. Or maybe he just never really heard Jack’s snoring anymore. Whatever the reason, he glanced over at Jack sleeping away, arms propped under his head, and felt something warm and fuzzy in his chest. Stretching lazily as he got to his feet, he ambled over. But any hopes Ana might have had for peace and quiet were probably promptly dashed when he slowly settled himself down onto Jack’s chest.

Jack’s snore paused only a tick, just enough for him to grumble fondly and wrap his arms around Gabriel, and then it was back up to speed again. Gabriel thought he heard Ana sigh across the room. But only faintly with the noise next to his head.

He just tucked himself under Jack’s chin, safe and warm, and squeezed his eyes shut. And somehow that awful dying engine snore sounded like a lullaby now.

When they woke up it was only because Ana gave up and started dinner. Spice and warmth filled the air and Jack stirred before he did, yawning and clearing his throat roughly.

“When’d you get here?”

Jack’s voice was still hoarse from sleep, gravelly on the edges. Gabriel shifted some on his chest, tucking closer, and felt warm fingers trace over the curve of his cheek.

“Your spacial awareness is getting bad, old man.”

Gabriel yawned and stretched his legs out, toes digging into the fabric of the far armrest of the couch, but he largely refused to move. Stayed there, eyes shut and tucked under Jack’s chin. He felt him shift, laughter rumbling in his chest.

“Remember when you used to be a light sleeper?” Jack teased. He stretched his arms over his head, joints popping, and Gabriel pulled a face at the noise and the notion.

“Yeah, you went and ruined that,” he shot back, more tease than bite.

“Eh,” Jack said, half mumble, “you like it.”

And unfortunately, yeah, he kind of did.

#reaper76 #morreyeson #morreyes #fly writes fics

272 notes · View notes

thejokersenigma · 7 years

Text

Christmas Fan Fiction Advent Calendar 2017 - Day 5 - Joker x Reader - Christmas Hatred Part 1

This was quite rushed today (and I had no idea what i was doing until i was writing!) So I apologise if it is really bad, and I apologise its so late! I’ve literally just finished reading through it so I apologise if there is loads of mistakes!

MASTERLIST

[Y/N] hated Christmas. All her friends knew that. Though they weren’t sure why – it seemed a delicate subject for her – but they knew better than to invite her to any Christmas events – or even really try to talk to her around the festive season. It wasn’t hard to do this – she basically vanished off the face of the earth for the month of December, only found by those who really wanted to find her – which was no one really. So, she spent the month hiding in her flat all day, and working her way around the bars all night. Her way to get through the holidays was to drink her way through it.

No one thought it was a healthy coping mechanism, but it seemed to work for the girl. Anyone else might have worried she was an alcoholic, but the rest of the year she showed no signs of any addiction behaviour. She just hated Christmas too much to want to remember it. So, her friends stopped worrying her, bidding her goodbye for the month and - come the 1st of December - she began her rounds of Gotham City’s nightlife, distinctly avoiding any Christmas parties, or pubs that were too decorated.

It was on the 18th night that she met J.

It was in a dark club around the early hours of the morning when he decided to dance with her. By this point [Y/N] had lost herself completely to the alcohol in her system and any worries of dancing with strangers – even ones with such pale skin that he seemed to glow in the darkness – didn’t concern her. The fact that he was hot did.

The night had been a blur, but that was what she wanted. No memories. Every December was a blank to her.

She woke up in her bed alone with a slightly aching head and very little memory of the night before. She remembered a guy – but had no idea who – and only the messy bed next to showed her what had happened last night. Brilliant. She just hoped they’d used protection.

She got dressed and took a healthy dose of paracetamol, washing it down with a strong cup of coffee, before she proceeded to do what she did every day: mope around the house, recovering from her hangover ready for tonight. She was just lucky her kitchen was stocked because she couldn’t bear to face the packed streets of Christmas shoppers and charities begging for money.

It was mid afternoon when there was a knock at her door. She had to pause a moment to wonder if she had misheard it – had it come from the TV? No. Maybe it was next door. But then the knock sounded again and this time she heard the door rattle under the attack. She frowned. No one called on her this time of year – she had no family nearby – certainly none that wanted to see her – and her friends knew better than to visit her this time of year.

Maybe it was a charity caller or a someone trying to sell her something. She tried to ignore it, lying back down in her previous position, blanket over her body, head on her makeshift pillow of several of the sofa’s cushions.

The door kept knocking, more angrily, more persistently. “Jesus.” [Y/N] muttered, shoving herself to her feet. She’d just have to tell them – in no uncertain terms - to leave her alone. She removed the security chain and wrench the door open. “I don-“ She caught herself mid-sentence when she saw who was on her doorstep.

The man from last night. Except now he wasn’t a stranger. In the cold light of day, it was only too clear who he was, and she cursed herself violently in her mind for not recognising him last night – surely the hair, the skin, the grin, his generally weird behaviour – something should have triggered her memory even in her intoxicated state.

So why then had she spent the night dancing – and then sleeping – with the Joker!

She could feel herself freeze instantly, her eyes unable to blink.

There was an insane murderer at her door.

“Afternoon, doll…” He greeted with a wide grin, “Ready?”

It took a moment for her brain to process this to allow her to answer. “For what?” She asked, her voice quiet and slightly croaky.

“Don’t tell me you forgot our little deal, kitten…” He purred dangerously and [Y/N] panicked – what the hell had she agreed to las night?

The blank look on her face told the Joker everything he needed to know and he grinned widely with glee, releasing his haunting laugh. “You don’t, do ya, doll?” He grinned, “This is going to be even more fun than I thought.” He chuckled to himself.

[Y/N] gathered what courage she could find, her mind flying all other the place in an attempt to grab any memory of the night before. “What are you talking about?!” She demanded angrily, not liking this situation one bit.

Though she may have sounded confident, she couldn’t help but flinch when the Joker immediately stopped laughing, turning his eyes back on her, his face now completely serious. “Why, our little date, doll…” He sneered. “We did agree to it last night after all – you’ve even shook on it.” He added with an evil smile and she knew there was no way out of this. She couldn’t say she hadn’t agreed on – because she honestly couldn’t remember, and she didn’t think it was wise to pick an argument with this man. [Y/N] settled for not saying anything.

When the Joker could see he had clearly won, he grinned triumphantly, “Shall we go…?”

“Where are we going…?” [Y/N] asked, cautiously.

He grinned again, “Oooh, nowhere in particular, doll…” He drawled, though she had a feeling he had a place in mind.

She frowned at him. “And if I refused?” She tried.

He raised an invisible eyebrow at her daring. “Well doll, first you’d be going back on your word…” He growled lowly, “And then I’d be forced to be a slightly more… unpleasant…” She noticed his hand had slipped beneath his purple jacket, extracting the gun hidden in a holster beneath, which he now pulled out, bringing it up to his face, admiring it.

Her eyes didn’t leave the gun and she felt herself holding her breath, not daring to move, frozen once more.

“Now, doll…” The Joker purred, eyeing his gun as he twirled it around casually like it was a deadly weapon. “Do I need to be unpleasant?” He asked in a sickly-sweet voice, his stony eyes flicking from his gun, and then back to hers again.

[Y/N] hesitated, but eventually shook her head carefully, “No.” she said, though it came out as more of a whisper.

“Wonderful…” He purred in a gravely voice, though he didn’t put the gun away, instead using it to gesture down the hallway. She hesitated again, but only briefly, soon accepting there was nothing else she could do and heading down the hallway only realising when she was outside, and the cold air was whipping through her baggy top, that she wasn’t exactly dressed to go out – still in her old comfy trackies and oversized jumper.

She didn’t say anything though – worried that the Joker would just think it was an excuse to escape and get annoyed – she had a feeling he wasn’t a patient man and she valued her life.

Instead, [Y/N] just got in the car that was waiting for them outside her building without a fight and the Joker slid in next to her, storing the gun once more in the holster that hung over his shirt. Clearly, he felt he no longer needed it. And he was right, just the knowledge that he had it was enough to stop [Y/N] trying anything.

They were driven by a silent, well-built and suited man, into towards the city centre and [Y/N] wondered what was in store for her. The car eventually pulled up on random street on the outskirts of the city centre, down a quiet street lined with empty officers without any pedestrians.

The Joker got out straight away, muttering to the driver who had got out with him. [Y/N] noticed the criminal begrudgingly swapping his rather ostentatious coat for a discrete, unremarkable coat that matched those worn by every male wandering the icy streets. He then, moodily, shoved a dark hat onto his head as well, pulling it low, and the coat collar high, obscuring his vibrant hair and most of his face. If you just walked past him now, you wouldn’t bother to take a second look.

[Y/N] guessed they would be spending a lot of time out in public then. Her stomach clenched. That was the thing she had been trying to avoid all month - especially at this time of day.

Just then, her car door was pulled open by the driver and he held it open, clearly waiting for [Y/N] to get out. Her palms were sweaty, and heart fast with the fear of the unknown laying before her.

The Joker was waiting for her in his disguise on the pavement. “Come on then, doll.” He said gruffly, clearly still not pleased with his new outfit, and he grabbed her roughly by the arm, tugging her along with him towards the centre of the city.

He didn’t release her the whole time they walked, but his grip loosened slightly to the extent that she could have pulled away if she wanted to, but she thought that would probably just irritate him – which she didn’t want – and for some reason she didn’t mind his hand on her.

Eventually they neared the main hum of Christmas activity and she couldn’t help but recoil slightly at everything around her, the lights, the mass of people buzzing around the streets and the sound of Christmas music on the air.

“Where are we going?” [Y/N] tried to ask again, but either the Joker didn’t hear her over the noise around them, or he just chose to ignore her. He didn’t look happy either way. Someone shoved into him and she felt him stiffen next to her, probably fighting the urge to pull his gun on them.

Finally, they had clearly reached the destination the Joker had intended as he pulled [Y/N] to a stop next to him. They were in the centre of a main square, people channelling past behind them, but they were close enough to the fountain that stood in the middle square, that they were generally out of the main line of traffic. “Alright, doll,” The Joker finally said, turning to face her. “Now it’s your turn. What do you want to do?”

“Other than go home?” [Y/N] sassed, immediately regretting it once it was out of her mouth.

But the Joker just grinned at her. She rolled her eyes, clearly, she couldn’t get out of this, “Uhhh…” She scanned the scene around them, desperately searching for something that wasn’t covered in tinsel or tacky decorations.

“Oh.” The Joker suddenly said, “One thing” he held up one finger “- as you’ve probably forgotten…” He grinned slyly, “This is a Christmas date, kitten…” [Y/N] felt my heart drop. He was kidding right? Why would she have agreed to a Christmas date?

“I can’t have possibly agreed to that!” She exclaimed in surprise, forgetting herself again.

The Joker grinned widely at her reaction, “Oh, but you did, doll. You protested at first, I’ll give you that – though you couldn’t come up with a good excuse in your state…” He said, a knowing glint in his eye that she could just make out in the shadow of his hat. “But you came around eventually…” He purred and she felt like he was hinting to something that had happened, but she honestly couldn’t remember anything.

[Y/N] frowned at him - now even less happy with the circumstances. She glanced around them again, “Urgh,” she groaned, “I don’t know.” She exclaimed, throwing her arms up in the air, “It all looks tacky and annoying!”

The Joker let out a laugh and she thought several people glance at them – knowing that characteristic sound. [Y/N] kept her head down, but the Joker didn’t seem to care. “Come on then, doll, I’ll choose.” He linked her arm this time, looking more natural and like the other couples walking around them, though she could still feel the strength against arm, easily able to restrain her if she tried to escape.

He towed her towards the Christmas market now, joining the train of people that wandered up and down the stall. Some of the stalls were painfully tacky and she flinched when sticky children ran up and down past her, demanding toys from their weary parents. [Y/N] tried to remain disinterested, but she couldn’t deny that some of the handmade scarves were catching her eye, and the smell of fresh pastries and cakes weren’t unappealing either. Sometimes, to fit through the crowd they were made to crush close together, each time making her feel extremely awkward as she was able to feel every inch of the Joker’s physique against her body and she couldn’t help the reaction of her body to the contact. She could feel the heat in her cheeks that wasn’t wholly from the space heaters above them. The Joker remained quiet throughout though, not seeming to notice anything, and barely looking at the different stalls, though [Y/N] occasionally saw him watching her out of the corner of her eye, so she tried to keep her attention anywhere but on him.

What she couldn’t stop thinking about though, was why the Joker – the crime lord and murdering psychopath – was wandering arm in arm with her down a Christmas market. It seemed weird and completely out of character.

She couldn’t help it anymore and she pulled him down between two stalls where there was a wide enough gap, into the relative quietness of an alley that ran away from the main street. The Joker was clearly happy to be pulled away, otherwise there is no way she would have been able to manage it.

People continued to walk past the entrance to the alley way, but they didn’t pay them any attention. He stared down at her, waiting for an explanation as to being pulled aside. [Y/N] wasn’t going to beat around the bush, she wanted to know exactly what was going on. “Why are you here?” She demanded bluntly.

“I thought I had explained that, doll…” He growled, not pleased with her questioning, but she wasn’t perturbed by this.

“Hardly.” She snapped. “You clearly hate Christmas – and this – “ She gestured back the way they’d come at the Christmas market,” as much as I do! So why” She demanded, “are you here?!” She saw his jaw clench at her impertinence, but then it relaxed again once he’d reined in his temper.

“Because, kitten… You’re entertaining.” He shrugged.

“I’m entertaining?” She repeated in disbelief.

“You should see you’re face when you’re annoyed, doll.” He teased with a quiet laugh.

[Y/N] scowled at him and he just laughed harder, making her suddenly realise what she was doing, and so tried desperately to keep her face blank, but failed completely when he continued to chuckle at her attempt.

Then [Y/N] had an idea.

“Ok, fairs fair.” she stated. “If you get to annoy me, I get to annoy you.” She bargained, and the Joker stopped laughing, his face now serious as he waited for her to explain. “Whatever I have to do, you have to do and vice versa.”

His eyes darkened with annoyance at her suggestion. “It’s only fair.” [Y/N] pointed out, hoping that would help her case. “I won’t fight this, if you agree to.” She added to sweeten the deal.

He considered this theatrically, tilting his head to one side in thought, rubbing at his chin like it was a hard decision, before he finally extended a hand to her. “Deal.” He said, and she took his hand which was surprisingly warm against her icy hand considering the cold night air they were in. He gripped her hand tightly and then, suddenly, jerked her forward, planting his lips on hers. [Y/N] automatically felt herself kiss him back before her brain caught up with what was happening, and she sharply pulled back, wrenching her hand from his grip at the same time.

“What was that?!” She demanded.

He grinned sinfully, no trace of regret on his face. “Whatever I do, you have to do.” He said simply with a shrug. She scowled at him, but he just laughed so she folded her arms against the cold and huffed loudly, walking away back into the crowd of the market.

#joker x reader #joker x reader fan fiction #joker #joker fan fiction #chirstmas #christmas hatred #christmas hatred part 1 #thejokersenigma #thejokersengima fanfiction #chirstmas fan fiction advent calendar #fan fiction advent calendar #dc #dc fan fiction #batman #batman fanfiction

34 notes · View notes

austennerdita2533 · 7 years

Text

Day 6: Canon-ish

A/N: This is the first part of an intended 4-shot. Basically, my idea is to craft some kind of Klaroline kiss/moment for each season of the year while also showing the two of them at various points (and emotional states) in their relationship. I started thinking about how Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall all have a different look or feel about them, and I thought it would be fun to play with that thematically/symbolically. Plus, it’d give me an excuse to play with seasonal imagery.

Anyway, this part is Winter. It’s canon until Liz’s death and Caroline’s grappling with the loss. I’ve also ignored all things Stefan and Caroline. (Loss. Angst. Hurt and Comfort.)

This gave me loads of trouble, so if it’s terrible I apologize but I couldn’t bear to edit it any longer haha. Enjoy. :)

(FF.net)

xx Ashlee Bree

A Kiss For All Seasons

Part 1: Fold Into Me, Shivering

Winter’s kiss wisps across her forehead at a time of shivering delirium and despair.

She’s gone.

It’s not a dream because each breath in tastes metallic and rough, because each breath out rattles and hisses like a dented whiffle ball which has sunk beneath sediment and drowned in the shallowest of streams. It’s real life. It’s real loss, too. And real loss throbs.

It breaks—tearing, cracking, pulling, shattering, rupturing, wrenching a person into angles so painful or contradictory, that life itself feels distorted. It plunges emotions into a vise that’s so unbearable and inescapable at times, it almost feels impossible to still be alive let alone be expected to stand.

Or talk.

Or move.

Or think.

Or cry without wiping at eyes and waiting to find blood puddled on fingertips instead of tears.

At times, grief even makes it difficult to exist.

After someone dies, especially if you loved that person, the world begins to clutter in a way it never did before: it pinches in at the sides so all the noise can spill in unheard, unseen, clouding your mind and chest with smog that refuses to lift so you can breathe easy again. Everything becomes drenched in the blacks and purples and blues of a bruise, too, until there’s nothing left for us to do but crash to our knees. Until all we can do is shrink inside our gloomy new reality and burn our lung’s raw with missing.

In Caroline’s case, icicles splinter across her chest whenever she blinks against the harsh whites of morning to relive the tragedy all over again.

Mommy.

Instead of Liz’s death providing her with comfort or relief now that she’s no longer suffering, the unfair and untimely permanence of loss hollows her out until she’s raw—numb—freezing. The air around her tastes as toxic and as gritty lead. The din of life, which was once so variable and mellifluous and exhilarating to her ears, rings like television static in her head now. Blurring one minute of monotonous agony into the next without end. More than that, the rising sun in the distance (the same one that used to stream vivid, happy yellows through her window every morning), is far too weak or indirect to do anything besides snake across her moistened cheeks with it pale rays before it leaves her cold and dejected again.

Caroline’s parentless now. Alone. She’s still loved by a few friends, of course, but she feels so incredibly, unbelievably, disconnected from them all.

She’s more or less invisible. A ghost.

None of them see me. None of them know what I need.

She’s a ghost girl stuck in this endless life on her own: more hollow than haunted, more sorry and solitary than surviving. She’s an undead warrior on the outside, perhaps, but she’s all but a living, feeling woman shriveling into pieces of nothing within.

“Please don’t leave me,” her body trembles, the words scraping and shrieking inside her own mind as pain paralyzes them in place so they can’t slip down, so they can’t vault out from her throat. “I need you, Mommy, I still need you…”

But Liz is no longer there to answer. She has taken her last breath, has spoken her last goodbye.

There’s no one here who cares for Caroline unconditionally now…no one else who listens. There’s no one around to hold her hand, to kiss away her nightmares, to kill her insecurities so she can fulfill her dreams. There’s no one left who loves her in ‘alls’ instead of ‘somes’—no one.

How could leave me like this, Mommy? How?

Eyes dark-circled with sorrow and exhaustion, Caroline lies curled on one side of her mother’s bed with her knees hugged to her middle. She never stirs; she never sleeps. She stares out the paned window at a February sunrise obscured by indigo snowflakes that drip from the clouds like sleeted tears that the winter needs to cry. Fresh powder bleaches the ground and builds mounds so high they touch the trees, bending branches until they snap like broken rubber bands, burying all sounds of life beneath it except for the squawk of a nearby crow.

In places where the sky meets the horizon, bleak plums, grays, navies, and ivories scratch the edges of Caroline’s vision and almost make her long for blindness. The world outside as stark and as bone-chilling as the nightmare gnawing her apart on the inside:

Mom died, Mom’s DEAD.

But she can’t be gone, she…no! Mom? Mommy, where are you?

Mommy I—please stay. I need you to stay, okay? I’m not ready to live in a world without you. I—not yet.

It’s too soon, it’s too soon!

Mom?

MOMMY!!!?

Shadows scuttle along the walls. The floors. The furniture. Speckling her room like pox of rotting melancholy, they seem to grow larger and more formidable with each tick of the clock on the wall, their black edges curving into sharp spindly fingers that slice at entering streaks of light like a sword; their trunks expanding to root into corners as if they refuse to timber away.

Caroline, however, makes neither a move to halt their proliferation in her room nor to purge them from the space. Instead, she watches with blinking apathy as one detaches from the doorjamb at the far end of the room like a silky talon and crawls closer. It almost glides across the floor.

How will the shadow consume her, she wonders? With a bite? With a few nibbles? Or will it gulp her down whole and damn her to its full belly of despair, plummeting her into a pit of darkness with no end?

She watches as the shadow drifts forward with a slow yet assured grace. Its movements are cautious. Soundless except for the stray floorboard which creaks when it edges along the foot of the bed and crosses into streaks of daylight, exchanging shadow for skin, swapping an ‘it’ for a ‘him,’ as a man stoops to kneel beside her head.

This isn’t just any man, though.

Oh, no.

But one with eyes that are rimmed in lightning yellow. One who smells of cedar and cognac and cologne. Tastes of oranges dipped in rust. Touches with hands made of calloused buttercups. And snaps necks for sport.

He’s someone who charms a crowd with dimples and drawled threats before he strikes swiftly, and completely. He’s a wolf who’s determined to paint away his personal miseries with other’s blood. This is a man who often stars in Caroline’s dreams, and his face is one she not only recognizes, but knows—

Intimately.

“Kl-Klaus? Is that…is that really you?” she croaks uncertainly.

“It is.”

Dizzy, disbelieving, greens and blonds and brown leathers all swirl together in front of her, so she rubs at her puffy eyes then squints harder at the blurred shape of him. Her next words come out more froggy and weak than questioning.

“You came back. You’re—here,” Caroline says with a puff of breath. “You’re back in…back in Mystic Falls?”

“I am.”

“But I didn’t call or—no…no texts were sent?” He nods in confirmation of this, which puzzles her further. “You couldn’t have known that she—and the funeral? No way could you have been there because I, because I never…”

“Wait a minute,” her brows pinch, heavy lids lifting slowly to his face, “did you…did you break into the house?”

Klaus compresses his lips together, shrugs at her sheepishly. Caroline responds to this by smashing her face into her pillow with a groan and an agitated ‘un-freaking-believable.’ Then, in one swift movement, she throws the blankets over top of her and rolls over flat. Onto her back.

“Don’t be angry with me, love.”

She snorts. Pulls the covers higher.

“I realize my relationship with my family is dysfunctional at best,” he tries cautiously, his voice dipping low, “but I do have experience in parental loss. I know what it’s like. How it feels. The way it cuts you and—” she crosses her arms, holds her breath “—burns.”

Caroline cringes and squeezes her arms tight like she’s holding herself together.

“I only worried on your behalf because I know how deeply you cared for the sheriff, so I trailed you home…lingering outside in case you bolted with no reference to your humanity because I didn’t want you to do anything rash you’d regret later. I just, I wanted to keep you safe and protected. To…help you avoid any extra pain.”

"It wasn’t until you screamed that I couldn’t—it didn’t seem right to—not when you sounded so—how could I not look in?”

He pauses for a moment. Clears his throat, cracks his knuckles.

“Anyway, I thought you might be in want a friend,” he offers placatingly, pressing his palms flat against the sheets so he can lean forward a bit and hover above her. “Someone to be a shoulder. A punching bag. A hand for you to squeeze. Whatever…” his voice wobbles uncomfortably, “whatever it is you need.”

“And what if what I need is for you to, you know,” she swallows hard, “get the hell out?”

“Then I’ll go, Caroline.”

She tuts but it lacks bite. “Go where? Back outside to hide behind more snow until I snap?”

Resigned, almost as if he’d expected this kind of reaction, he draws back with a small hiss like he’s been stung, “No,” he answers cooly, his words heavy and flat, “I’ll do as you bid and head home. To Louisiana.”

The air between them becomes stagnant. Oppressive all of a sudden.

“You mean you’ll leave me here?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?” she asks.

“If that’s what you wish,” he sighs, “then yes.”

“Oh.”

Time seems to slow here, silence stretching and growing like a beanstalk weed between their two bodies. Klaus plucks at a mattress spring with his thumb, its notes sharp and discordant underneath her back as he stands to pivot on his heels, readying himself to glide back into the shadows from whence he came. Leaving her alone in Mystic Falls again, setting her free like he promised two years ago.

Caroline hears him shrug his arms into his jacket with a grunt. Or maybe it’s a growl? A humph? Regardless of the noise he makes, there seems to be a sluggish dereliction to his movements. A hesitancy to proceed. And it’s probably because he’s preparing himself for the long trek through miles upon miles of snow that’ll weigh him down like ice before he reaches New Orleans. All of that slush waiting to seep in, hoping to blacken his toes…

He’s more than likely dreading the sound of orange embers crunching into snowy ashes beneath his feet as he retreats from her warm hearth and stomps out through the door again. He probably loathes the idea of submerging himself into a frigid morning all because she’s almost commanded him to go. Leave.

To go off on his own and freeze like me.

At the thought, a fresh chill kisses the back of Caroline’s neck. It momentarily anesthetizes her lungs and she cannot breathe; she cannot think. She cannot feel anything except the frostbite which pricks down low, too low, and buries itself somewhere below skin deep.

The whole world shifts inside her own head again as arctic wind gusts across a few remaining fragments of coziness: of old memories tinged pink with brandy smiles or marshmallow’d cheeks, of scarved hopes for the future knitted in bright, pretty patterns, of rich caroled dreams hummed sweetly into ears with full-bodied meaning, of soft painter’s hands which curled over top of stupid fears or desires like mittens to ease her shuddering, warming her to the bone. All of them slipping away on a sled she’s about to let crash straight through the North Pole so they may never resurface again.

Except how could she bear it? How could she survive the barrenness without them, all the cruelty? How could she find the strength to keep breathing after she lets one final sliver of warmth slip away because she’s bitter and hurting and broken? Where would her optimistic flames entomb themselves? In permafrost? In tundra? In icebergs crowding the sea?

Deep-down, Caroline knows that one biting word from her would silence Klaus for good. One more dismissive statement is all it would take to send him back to New Orleans where he belongs, thereby freeing her up to mope in this room forever. There’d be no more judgment to combat from him, no more concern. But to what end?

So her mouth can match the blue which has settled in around her heart since her mom passed away? So she can shudder harder at the falling flakes of grey and white which accumulate outside her window and aim to bury her beneath centuries of unrelenting snow? So life’s color can leak and harshen until it’s nothing more than a dead block of ice for her to kick?

As if winter isn’t teeth-chattering enough already!

Licking her lips, Caroline exhales before she slides the blanket down the bridge of nose enough to peek up at him. She rakes over his consternated expression. She watches when his body stiffens and squares in preparation of her next words. It’s as if he’s waiting for a dismissal to scythe through the air and lash him up.

“Okay, and what if—” she gulps, her voice dry and a little muffled. “What if I say I don’t want to be alone in this room right now? What then?”

Klaus’ eyes widen, hope spilling into their depths. But only for a second. A scratch of his chin followed by one, two, blinks and it sinks back into his pupils like an illusion. Like it was never there.

“I’ll make sure you aren’t. You won’t be, if that’s what you desire,” he says simply.

“And if I cry?”

He shrugs. “Then you cry.”

“I think I’m out of tissues.”

“You can use my clean sleeve then. I’m sure it’ll do just fine,” he offers drily.

She quirks an eyebrow. Shoots him a dubious look.

“What? I’m not allergic to tears, Caroline, for Christ’s sake.” He rolls his eyes. Wanders closer again. “Not immune to them either, unfortunately, if that’s what troubles you,” he adds under his breath.

Dragging a desk chair behind him, he erects it near her bedside table with a flick of his wrist. And sits.

“But you’re allergic to me, is that it?”

When he opens his mouth to respond only to slam it shut, puzzled, she gestures nonchalantly and says, “You can sit next to me on the bed, Klaus. There’s more than enough room for two, you know. It’s not like I think you have cooties or anything.”

Scooting over and up, she pats the open area with her hand. He doesn’t move.

“Well, come on then!” she tries again, less sarcastically this time. “Take off your shoes so you can climb in here. It’s drafty.”

After a few more seconds of gawking silence, Caroline, feeling both tired and fed up, rolls her eyes before she launches herself onto her knees to grab him by the hand, forcibly tugging him down onto the sheets beside her—shoes be damned!

They crash back against the pillows intertwined: Klaus’ arm braced ‘round her shoulders to cushion the fall; her nose scraping the lapels of his jacket. Her chin bangs against his clavicle and they tumble into the headboard cuddling. It’s an accident, of course, but one that feels comfortable. Oddly natural, too. And instead of shrugging him off or pushing him back so she can erect an elaborate pillow fort between them like she ordinarily would, she veers from expectation and tradition by throwing the blanket over his legs.

Next, she curls into the crook of his neck. Rests a hand in the center of his chest. Exhales. And thaws against his side as she listens to the rush of his ancient heartbeat, feeling it thrum through her own bones like this lullaby:

‘Hold me close; hold me tight; and everything else will be alright,’

Klaus initially tenses at the intimate contact. Afraid to move a muscle in case she changes her mind or wants to pull away, probably.

When she doesn’t, he relaxes. One hand drops atop the one of hers already on his chest while the other fingers silky tresses near her ear, plucking them strand by strand so they fall back against her sweatshirt with a sweet tap tap. His mouth also teases the crown of her head. It hovers close enough for her to feel each tickle of his breath against her skin, but remains far enough away that she misses the softness of his lips.

Sliding down lower onto the mattress, he kicks his shoes off onto the floor, lets a foot hook around her ankle, then folds her tighter into the furnace of his arms.

“I must say,” he murmurs against her hair, “a literal pillow is the last thing I expected to be for you today.”

“It’s only because I’m cold. February sucks and I miss my mom, okay? Don’t read too much into it.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

“Oh, shut up, will you? I can hear your smirk from here,” Caroline huffs into his shirt.

“Ah, sweet, sweet proximity.” Klaus sighs contentedly. “It’s half the battle, truth be told.”

“Ugh! You’re so exhausting.”

“I don’t see why,” he answers wryly, “it’s not as if I’m complaining.”

“No, but I know what you’re thinking.”

“Perhaps you do,” he hums in that assured, taunting way of his, “but you can’t fault me for being more than willing to comfort you given the chance.” His fingers draw soothing circles on her back. “So, if body heat is what you need from me right now, then fine—take every last ounce of mine and zip yourself up in it. Wrap it around you like a duvet, because it’s all yours.”

“Suuure,” Caroline drawls sleepily. She yawns. “Until I accidentally elbow you in the nose once I fall asleep, you mean.”

“No. I’m here and I won’t leave you. Not even if you make me bleed,” Klaus says, all pretense gone.

“Oh, you and your ridiculous promises. I swear!”

He responds to this with a low chuckle. It soon flattens into something more weighted and measured when he draws her in to deposit a sweet, earnest kiss across her forehead.

“Ridiculous or not, sweetheart, the promises I make to you I do and will keep. You can count on that,” he adds in a whisper. “You can count on me.”

Emotion clogs her throat at this; stings the corners of her eyes.

It’s right at that moment, with Klaus’ firm and unshakable finality, and his body spooned around her, that Caroline feels a ring of fire spring to life around her heart, thawing her all the way through with hope and waking her up to one devastatingly beautiful enormity: he’s the one person left who’s always wanted to be there for her. And he isn’t going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a hundred more lifetimes.

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see about that, won’t we?” she shivers, cuddling closer and melding into his warmth.

“Don’t worry, love. Time is on our side.” She feels Klaus’ lips tug upward in smile. They sweep across her forehead again in kiss, but this time, they deliver promise as well as comfort, “We will.”

Thanks for reading. xx

#klaroline #klarolineauweek #klaroline drabbles #klaroline fanfiction #half agony half hope #ashlee bree's writing endeavors

65 notes · View notes