#bay window bus

[onlyhappyvibes]

[clemsblog]

[2rakblog]

well, it's (a little more) funny when you know that the 68-78 combis are nicknamed "bay window".

inked and color,

bon, c'est (un peu plus) drôle quand on sait que les combis 68-78 sont surnommé "bay window".

[gothcsz]

Motive | Pornstar!Javier Peña x Fem!Reader | Part 3 of Unscripted Desire | ~10k wc | Series Masterlist | gif cred | Explicit. Minors DNI.

Summary: Another chaotic shoot... but at least it's in Malibu?

Tags: more plot keeps sneaking into the porn, angst, frankie has entered the villa, jealous!javi, reader stands on business, it's a porn set other people are also fucking, masturbation on camera (m), dirty talk, lots of cursing (f bombs my beloved), an attempt at a blowjob, javier can't get it up, a dash of misogyny, author projects her ooc thoughts about problematic age gaps in the porn industry, no use of y/n, reader has a degree in film production, other shit i’m probably forgetting.

A/N: me nervous that part 3 isn't going to live up to the hype? more likely than you think! 🙂‍↕️ this fic is taking on a brain of its own and i'm just along for the ride, baby! for my just the tip stans— i'm sorry but i'm going to have to edge you until part 4 *crowd boos and i'm dragged off stage* i was going to wait to post this, but i really wanted to get it out because i'm so damn proud of it lowkey, lol, so i hope you all like it 🖤 let a bitch know what ya think! also, shoutout to my pookie @persephone-girl for reading over this 💋 love u mamas

Your phone’s shrill ring pierces through the haze of sleep, and you groan in frustration, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

The comforter is pulled tight over your head, shielding you from the annoyingly bright sunlight filtering through your window. Your hand shoots out, fumbling blindly across the bedside table until your fingers finally close around the receiver. 

“What?” you grumble, voice thick with sleep and muffled beneath your sheets.

“There she is! My beautiful, talented camerawoman. Have I ever told you how much I appreciate what you do?” Robbie’s overly cheerful voice blares through the phone, so you pull it back from your ear slightly, wincing.

“Why are you calling me this early in the morning?” you snap, already regretting picking up.

“Early? It’s almost noon—”

“What do you want, Robbie?” You cut him off, not in the mood for small talk, especially since last night’s bar shift ran past four in the morning. You were hoping to sleep through most of the day, recovering in your bed with no interruptions. Clearly, that plan has gone out the window.

“Look, I’ve got a big shoot happening in Malibu today and I’m short-staffed. I could really use your magic touch behind the camera.”

“No.”

 “C’mon,” he drags the word out, “I’ll make sure you’re well compensated for working on your day off.”

You rub your eyes, the remnants of sleep still clinging to you. “How much?”

He tosses out a number, and despite your best effort to remain indifferent, your eyes widen. Damn. That’s more than decent money.

“Malibu’s all the way across town,” you point out, “I won’t make it there in time if I take the bus. And a taxi? That’ll cost me a fortune.”

“Don’t worry about that. Your ride’s outside waiting for you.”

You blink, confused, and get out of bed, dragging the corded phone with you as you move toward the bay window. You pull the curtain back just enough to peer down at the busy street below.

Sure enough, Steve is there, leaning casually against his Jeep with sunglasses on, a cigarette between his lips. The second he spots you looking down, he grins like the cheshire cat and waves.

“Seriously?” you mutter to Robbie, flipping Steve off with a half-hearted smile. “And what if I’d said no?”

“We both know you wouldn’t have.”

After a few more quick exchanges, you hang up, glancing once more at your ride through the window before turning to rush and get yourself ready for the day ahead.

Truth be told, you’re still not fully awake, your body moving on autopilot as you shuffle through your morning (midday) routine.

It’s been ages since you’ve been to the beach— especially one as nice as Malibu’s. The thought of it softens the blow of losing your rest day. You tell yourself you’ll make the best of it, turning this unexpected workday into something that benefits you, too.

After shooting wraps, you’ll indulge in a quiet evening by the shore, sinking your toes into the warm sand with a good book in hand. No rush to head back. This time, you’ll gladly take a taxi if it means getting some peace seaside.

With that plan in mind, you dress for the day accordingly. Your halter-style bathing suit doubles as a cute top, the color complimenting your skin, while your favorite denim shorts sit comfortably over your bikini bottoms.

You pack a few essentials into your beach bag and make sure to grab your camera bag as well. Once you’ve double-checked that everything’s packed, you make your way downstairs, feeling a bit more awake now.

Steve catches sight of you approaching and flashes a dramatic grin, straightening up like he’s about to chauffeur royalty.

“Your chariot awaits,” he announces with an exaggerated flourish, swinging the passenger door open.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the bemused laugh that escapes your lips. “God, you’re ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head as you climb into the seat, tossing your beach bag onto the floor.

He shuts the door behind you with a smirk. “Ridiculous? I prefer charmingly dedicated to my craft.” He hops into the driver’s side, flicking the cigarette away before starting the car.

You snort at his self-satisfaction, leaning back against the seat and putting on the seatbelt. 

“Malibu, huh? How the fuck did he manage to swing that?”

He chuckles, one hand lazily draped over the wheel, the other tapping out a rhythm on his knee. “He didn’t tell me much either— just asked me to stop by and pick you up on my way.”

That makes sense. Robbie’s always been a bit scatterbrained, occasionally running around like he’s managing a multi-million-dollar empire when, in reality, he’s holding it together with duct tape and half-assed enthusiasm.

The drive is surprisingly fun, Steve’s constant jokes keeping your spirits high. He always manages to make you laugh, which is why you tolerate his quirks. 

“I’m pretty sure Javi’s going to be there,” he says, almost too nonchalantly, meaning he’s in the mood to be messy.

You keep your gaze focused on the coastline, watching as palm trees blur past. The wind from the open windows has you squinting momentarily, but it can’t cool the sudden heat spreading through your body. 

“It’s not going to be weird seeing him, right?” He presses and you finally turn to face him, moving your sunglasses to the top of your head.

“Why would it be weird?” you ask, the challenge clear in your voice.

He shoots you a look, brows raised and lips quirked in that irritating way of his. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe ‘cause of the whole flirtin’ with you during the middle of a scene thing? Or, y’know, the elevator incident… which, by the way, what the fuck even happened there?” He glances at you, curiosity practically oozing out of him.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest defensively, but you can’t stop the way your thighs rub together at the memory. 

Javier’s mouth... God. “None of your damn business.”

“Don’t tell me you fucked him.”

You laugh, loudly, the sound bordering on forced. “Absolutely not.”

He shoots you that okay, sure look, and you groan internally.

Steve’s like a dog with a bone when he gets curious, and you know he’s not going to let this go until you give him something. You sigh, deciding to indulge him— partially. 

“He was being an asshole,” you start, and he immediately interjects with, “Nothing new there,” causing both of you to share a laugh at Javier’s expense.

You shake your head, returning your sunglasses to the bridge of your nose. “No, seriously. He was pushing my buttons, being his usual peacock self. I don’t even know how it escalated, but one moment we’re arguing, and the next... he’s got his tongue in my pussy.”

Steve chokes on his own spit at your bluntness. He’s heard and seen much worse on set, yet your confession has him all tripped up. 

“So, you did fuck him?”

You roll your eyes again, shifting in your seat as the horny flashbacks hit you all at once— Javier’s lips wrapped around your clit, the perfect rhythm of his tongue, his fingers.

You shove those thoughts away, focusing on the road ahead, annoyed at both Javier and Steve now. “Getting head isn’t fucking. It’s, like, third base. And anyway, I made it clear— that’s all he was getting from me. I’m not about to waste my time rolling around in bed with him.”

He gives you a look— a knowing look— and you scoff, shaking your head. “What now?” 

“Nothing. You’re just the first person I’ve heard say that about him.”

“Someone’s gotta humble his ass,” you mutter, though the words feel heavier than they should. You try to act like you’ve put Javier out of your mind, like that moment was nothing but a blip in your life, but deep down, you know it’s not that simple.

You’ve never met anyone like him, and the fact that he can elicit such reactions from you pisses you off so bad.

As the coastline stretches out in front of you, Malibu drawing closer with every mile, you can’t help but wonder if seeing Javier today will be as easy as you’re pretending it will be.

The mansion is far more extravagant than anything you could have imagined. Its grand facade, with towering columns and ivy crawling up the sides, feels like something out of a movie set, and for a second, you almost forget why you’re here.

But then, as soon as you step past the threshold, you hear it— echoing from deep within the house are the unmistakable sounds of exaggerated moans, grunts, and the rhythmic thump of bodies meeting.

You adjust the strap of your camera bag on your shoulder, your beach bag abandoned in Steve’s car. As you step further into the foyer, Robbie appears, that infamous smirk plastered on his face.

“Long way from home, aren’t you, Dorothy?” he jokes, taking in your wide-eyed amusement as you scan the expensive decor— the towering glass chandelier overhead, the marble floors gleaming beneath your feet, the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You can’t help but be a little impressed. 

But of course, he’s there to give you shit about it. You turn your wide-eyed gaze into a glare, bringing your attention to him. “So funny. You should quit your current sleazy day job and take up another sleazy one— stand up,” you reply, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

He just grins, unbothered by your sharp tone. “You’re always a joy to work with. No wonder Javi asked for you specifically.”

Your entire demeanor shifts viscerally and you curse yourself for it mentally, caught completely off guard. “Wait, what? Javier asked for me?”

He shrugs, indifferent to your confusion. “Yeah. He’s set for a solo shoot upstairs in one of the bathrooms before he’s on with...” He snaps his fingers, trying to remember. “...Mariella. Real pretty girl, it’s her first on-camera gig today.”

The world blurs a little as your mind zeroes in on that one bit of information: Javier asked for you. And not just for any shoot— a solo one. You blink, shaking your head to clear the fog. “I’m sorry, can we go back to the part where I was summoned here by someone who isn’t my boss?”

“Oh yeah, he made a real fuss about it. Sent away the other guy we had lined up for the shoot. Told me he wouldn’t do it unless you were behind the camera. Even offered to pay out of his own pocket just to get you here. It’s the only reason we’re paying you as much as I promised over the phone.”

Your stomach twists and you can feel your face settling into a deep frown, the kind that pulls some of your mood down with it. So that’s why he dangled such a big paycheck in front of you this morning.

After the elevator incident (as Steve has so eloquently named it), after the intense heat of his mouth on you, the way he had you— he said he’d leave you alone. He was supposed to respect the boundaries you set, but here he is, yanking you back into his orbit. 

You can already picture him upstairs, lounging in one of those stupidly lavish bathrooms, probably smirking that damn smirk of his, waiting for you.

You try to squash down the way your pulse quickens at the thought, the lingering memory of his fingers digging into your hips, his tongue working between your thighs, is beckoning you into temptation again.

“Fucking great,” you mutter, more to yourself than your boss. You have half a mind to storm up those stairs, find the pornstar, and give him a piece of your mind before marching right back out to spend your day on the beach— free of drama and distractions and him.

But the reality is, you’re being paid nearly three times what you’d normally make on a gig like this. It’s enough to drown out the temptation to walk away, however satisfying that would be.

You’re an adult. You’ve dealt with worse. You can handle this.

Robbie gives you a sidelong glance, clearly sensing your hesitation. “You’re not backing out, are you?”

With a sigh, you force a smile and shake your head. “As good as it’d feel to leave, no, I’m not. I’ll be up in a sec.”

Relief flashes across his face, and he gives you a few pointers before rushing off into this maze of a house.

You linger for a second longer, taking a deep breath to shake off the nerves. Come on. Get it together. After a final mental pep talk, you head toward the grand staircase that winds up to the second floor. 

The sight that greets you at the top of the stairs stops you in your tracks: Lexxie is splayed out on her back atop some console table, currently getting the life fucked out of her. The visual is chaotic but nothing new. You’ve seen it a hundred times before. 

A guy with a scruffy beard and a beat-up baseball cap stands behind the camera, looking more bored than impressed, barely watching as the two stars go at it.

You lean against the nearby railing, your voice cutting through their heavy breaths and grunts. “Guess your marriage to Javier didn’t last very long,” you tease from off camera, referencing the honeymoon shoot.

The star’s eyes snap open at the sound of your voice, and she flashes you a playful, almost sweet smile in between heavy breaths. “Kinda regretting stepping out on him—oh, fuck.” Her snappy comeback dissolves into a breathy moan as the guy currently rearranging her on the table pushes her legs up to her chest, hitting just the right spot. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to ruin your shot,” you say, throwing a glance at the cameraman, knowing how annoying it can be when someone messes with your focus.

He waves it off with a lazy shrug. “It’s not ruined. Honestly, I would’ve quit filming ten minutes ago. It’s starting to drag. I’m impressed they’re still going.”

You let out a small laugh, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, they’ve got stamina like you wouldn’t believe. Makes me feel lazy in bed sometimes, but then I remember how unrealistic this shit actually is.”

He chuckles, scratching at his jaw. “Should make it an Olympic sport. Bet we’d bring home gold.”

“Pretty sure that already exists and it happens in the Olympic Village.” You smirk, finally peeling your eyes away from the couple to look at him properly.

He’s cute in that disheveled, stray-dog kind of way. His curls poke out from under a worn baseball cap, his beard patchy, and his clothes rumpled, like he just rolled out of bed and threw on the first thing he could find. He fits in perfectly with the kind of guys you’d expect on a porn crew.

Earning a genuine laugh from him, he extends a hand. “I’m Frankie.”

You shake it, offering your name in return. “I’m also part of the crew. About to go shoot a scene in the master bathroom.” You explain, noticing how his grip lingers just a little, his smile playful and easy. You feel a bit of warmth rush to your cheeks, and he’s about to say something when—

“Oh fuck, I’m about to cum!” Lexxie’s voice is piercing, loud and breathless, pulling your attention back to the scene.

You shake your head, stifling a laugh. “Well, that’s my cue,” you mutter, stepping out before you get too caught up flirting with him.

“Nice meeting you,” he says before dismounting the camera, moving in closer to capture the so-called money shot.

Cute. Too cute. It’s almost enough to make you forget about the man you’re about to see.

You push open the door to the room Javier’s in, and the sight of him has you doing a double take.

He’s standing in the middle of the room with nothing but a white towel hanging dangerously low on his hips, his defined Adonis belt drawing your eyes in a way you hate to admit.

His toned, brown torso glistens with the thinnest layer of sweat, the sunlight pouring into the room making him look like he’s glowing.

You need to toughen up, and in order to do so, you have to bitch at him. It’s the only way to keep that lustful cavewoman instinct away.

“You’re a piece of work,” is what you settle on, making sure to let your tone really punctuate how annoyed you are by the stunt he pulled today.

The second his eyes lock onto yours, amusement flickers behind them, as if he’s been waiting for this confrontation.

He quirks a brow, lips curving into a lazy smile. “¿De que hablas nena—?”

“What happened to ‘if you don’t want me anymore, I’ll leave you alone’? Was that something you said just to lower my guard? To get me to give you what you want?” You cut him off, keeping your distance even as you notice him inching closer.

Your eyes are daggers as they bore into him, and for a brief second, you hope he feels at least some of the fire burning in your chest. But if he’s affected, he doesn’t show it. He is frustratingly calm, like he’s above it all.

“You gave me no indication that you didn’t want me anymore.” His voice is casual, almost patronizing.

You groan as you throw your hands up in exasperation. “I literally said, ‘Hope you got your fix because it’s never happening again.’ What the fuck else do I have to say or do to get you off my back?”

Silence settles between you two as you stand there staring each other down. He’s unreadable, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin tingle.

“Well?” you demand, impatient.

“In my defense— it didn’t sound very convincing.” You stare at him incredulously before turning on your heel. Hell no. He can keep his money and his bullshit. You’re not doing this.

But just as your fingers graze the doorknob, his voice sharpens with a hint of panic, calling your name.

“Wait, look,” he starts, running a hand through his hair, “I’m not trying to start anything. I just thought—” he pauses, searching for the right words. “I’d feel more comfortable if you were behind the camera during this shoot. Not the other guy Robbie brought in.”

Frankie? He seems so harmless, and besides, Javier’s never had an issue with whoever’s in the room when he’s filming, so why is it a problem now?

However, his tone does sound sincere. You turn to face him again, narrowing your eyes and refusing to let your guard down. “This better not be another one of your tricks, Javier. If you’re doing this to try and get into my pants—”

He almost grins, but catches himself just in time, clearly biting back a remark. You can see it in the way his mouth twitches, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. Already have, his brown eyes seem to say. But he holds his tongue, offering a faint nod instead. 

“I promise. No tricks. Just a professional shoot. That’s it.”

You give him one last warning glance before sighing. “Fine. But I’m telling you, Javier—”

“I know, I know,” he interrupts, holding up his hands. “I get it and please stop calling me Javier.”

You arch a brow. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but everyone calls me Javi.”

Ugh, whatever. “Okay, fine, Javi. Just show me where I’m supposed to set up.” 

He bites back another grin and motions you with a flick of his head, and with the weird tension simmering, you follow him toward the ensuite bathroom. The door creaks open, revealing an elaborate setup, and you pause in the doorway, eyes widening.

It’s surprisingly... beautiful.

In front of a massive window that overlooks the sprawling blue ocean outside, there’s a porcelain clawfoot bathtub filled with what looks like a milk bath. Various colored flower petals float delicately on the surface, scattered in an almost artful arrangement.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Well, damn. This actually looks nice.” This bathroom is bigger than your entire apartment.

Javier notices your reaction and leans against the doorframe to the connecting walk in closet, arms crossed over his bare chest, a smirk playing on his lips. “Catering to the female gaze,” he says with a cocky shrug, “At least, that’s what my agent told me. Seems like I’m very popular among the ladies.”

The way he says it makes you want to smack him upside the head. He’s pushing your buttons again in the most subtle way, and you hate how good he is at it.

“Cute,” you reply dryly, walking past him to set your camera bag down on the large counter.

As you begin to unpack and set up, you can feel his eyes on you, watching your every move, lingering on the exposed skin of your back then dripping down to your legs.

It kind of feels good to have him ogling you like this. The whole look but don’t touch thing is really doing it for you, more than you’d care to admit. There’s a certain power in keeping him wanting, yet also forcing the distance.

“It’s not just about the ladies, you know. I actually want this to be good. I trust you to make it look that way.”

You glance over at him. His playful arrogance has slightly faded, shaded in by the genuine want to make this feel more than just some raunchy scene.

“I’m not a director, I just film it,” you remind him, adjusting the camera lens as you try to play it off. “So just do whatever you think is right. Robbie gave me some pointers, but it wasn’t much.”

“Still,” he presses, “there’s some finesse to what you do.”

At least he’s aware of that. “Let’s just get this over with,” you say, deflecting the compliment.

You finish setting up the camera, adjusting the tripod to get the perfect angle. It’s important to capture the full picturesque scene to begin with— the soft light spilling in through the window, the sparkling blue ocean in the background.

You clear your throat, “Okay, I’m all set for whenever you’re ready.”

Javier moves casually as he unwraps the white towel from around his waist. His cock, already half-hard, demands your attention, but you force yourself to look away. You rub your lips together then lick at them unconsciously, trying to focus on anything other than his naked body.

“Got plans after this?” he asks as though he’s asking you about the weather.

You blink at the normalcy of the question “Just going to hang out by the beach,” you reply plainly, trying to keep your focus on the camera and not on his crotch.

It almost feels strange talking to him like this, without the usual teasing or sexual tension-laden bickering.

“Sounds fun,” he says as he steps into the tub, the water sloshing around him. “Real nice out here. The weather is perfect for it today.”

You watch as he settles in, the milky water rising around his body, and for a moment, you’re completely mesmerized.

The scene in front of you looks like something out of a romantic painting, and it hits you how undeniably beautiful he looks. His skin, a warm golden brown, contrasts perfectly with the creamy white of the bath, and the colorful flower petals floating on the surface make the whole thing look like a dream.

He leans back, the water just kissing his chest, and you catch yourself imagining what a soft, hazy vignette filter would do to the shot, how it would add an enchanting glow to an already intimate scene.

You shake your head slightly, snapping yourself out of the reverie. You’re supposed to be filming him jerking off, not admiring the aesthetics like this is some fine art shoot. But fuck, it’s hard to separate the two when the visuals are this damn good.

Javier, of course, senses your brief distraction. He watches you, eyes thoughtful as he stretches out, letting the water ripple around him. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a slight smirk playing on his lips, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You take a deep breath, trying to focus on the task at hand, despite the heat pooling between your thighs. “Is there a clear direction for this scene, or are you just improvising?”

“I’m just winging it,” his voice is a rich, velvet drawl, a little rough from all the smoking he does. “No dirty talk. They want my natural noises to be the main focus… amongst other things.” He cocks his head to the side, one arm coming up to rub at the back of his neck.

Heat blooms low in your belly, shooting straight to your cunt at the sight. The way his bicep flexes, the muscles shifting smoothly beneath that taut, sun-kissed skin, showcasing just how defined he is while still looking so maddeningly soft. 

Calm down, girl, you silently reprimand your pussy. She’s fucking purring right now.

You clear your throat and give him a nod, signaling him to begin. Stepping behind the camera, you focus through the lens, grateful for the distance.

Javier moves slowly. His head tips back against the edge of the tub, eyes falling closed, the soft curve of his lashes fanning out like shadows against his skin. One hand trails down, lingering at the hollow of his collarbones. The movements are unhurried, almost reverent, as though he’s savoring the feel of his own skin.

The intimate build-up draws you in, despite your best efforts to remain detached.

You unmount the camera from its tripod after a few moments, stepping closer to him, framing the shot tight around his chest, the slow glide of his hand along his torso. You can’t help but notice the pounding of your heart, each beat mirroring the steady, throbbing pulse at your clit. 

The sight of him— relaxed, fully in his element, bathed in the soft glow of light— stirs that fucking feeling deep within you.

It’s not just desire, though that’s certainly there. It’s the maddening awareness of how sensual, how magnetic this man is. And even though you try to tell yourself you’d feel the same about any other attractive man in his place, you know that’d be a damn lie.

Javier’s hand moves lower, ghosting over the ridges of his soft stomach. His other hand trails slowly through the water, sending gentle ripples through the milky bath. You swallow hard and focus the lens on his face— the slight parting of his pouty pink lips beneath his trimmed mustache that you just now realize has a small patch right above his cupid’s bow.

Even his imperfections are attractive.

The flushed skin of his cock makes an appearance, his thick, swollen head breaking the surface of the water with each subtle movement, teasing you and the camera. The way it peeks through, the slick tip glistening in the milky bath, almost feels like a taunt— winking at you.

Doing as you’re supposed to, you adjust the lens to zoom in on the way his cock flirts with the surface.

If you were anyone else, one of his usual co-stars maybe, you’d lean down and give it a few kitten licks. You’d tease the sensitive crown with your tongue, circling the tip before letting it slide past your lips— just enough to drive him wild.

Your tongue twitches at the thought.

A soft groan escapes his lips as he gets closer to where he’s aching to touch. It’s as if he can read your mind, as if he knows you’re imagining the feel of his cock in your mouth, the taste of his salty skin, the way he’d twitch against your tongue as you tease him until he begs for more.

Maybe he’s picturing your lips wrapped around him, too.

You bite down on your lower lip, forcing yourself to stay quiet, to stay focused, even though your body is betraying you. The mess in your panties, the way your nipples stiffen beneath your bathing suit top— everything about this moment is dangerous.

Then finally, his fist wraps around his cock, a soft slosh of water accompanying the motion. The eroticism of the scene— paired with the proximity, the memory of those hands on you— ignites that annoying need deep inside.

He strokes himself slowly, eyes still closed as though lost in the pleasure of it all. You focus the camera on his hand, on the way it moves with purpose, his thumb brushing over the head of his cock, slick with precum.

His groans start to fill the air, and your own body reacts, hips shifting slightly as you try to ignore pressure at your cunt.

“Still with me?” His voice cuts through the silence, raspy and knowing, eyes fluttering open to look at you.

Oh. Have they always been this golden?

“Yeah,” you’re proud of yourself for keeping your voice steady.

Javier’s body is pure, unfiltered sin in motion. As you move around the bathtub to capture every angle, you can’t help but admire him. His muscles shift with every slow pump of his hand, the sinewy lines of his arms and torso rippling just beneath the milky water.

His stomach contracts with each exhale, drawing your gaze lower to the faint trail of hair leading down to his cock, which you catch glimpses of when his hips buck up inadvertently.

His breathing grows heavier, his pouty bottom lip caught between his teeth, brows furrowing in concentration as his pleasure builds. It’s mesmerizing, the way his face contorts, his expressions almost too intimate, too personal for the lens. But you can’t tear your eyes— or the camera— away.

His fist moves with such confidence, touching himself with an unhurried rhythm that only a man used to his own pleasure can manage. Every time his thumb glides over the tip of his cock, a heavier grunt rumbles in his throat and it’s so hot.

You’re too focused on capturing every inch of him that it almost catches you off guard when he begins to speak.

“Wish it was your pretty hand around me right now, baby.” His voice is husky, laced with want, and the words hit you like a punch to the gut.

You blink rapidly, heart stalling in your chest as the camera wavers slightly in your hands. “Javier,” you sigh, his name slipping from your lips before you can stop yourself.

“Fuck, I know, but shit—” His words are more ragged now, spoken between heavy breaths. “You’re all I can think about still. You stay in my mind, muñeca. Can’t get you out.”

Even though every rational part of you knows you should stop him, should leave or at least say something to shut him up, you don’t.

You don’t run, you don’t protest. You just... let it happen.

“Talk to me, please.”

“I-I—” The words get stuck in your throat, “I can’t. I’ll ruin the shoot.” Why is that your priority right now?

“You won’t.”

The way he says it chips at the walls you've built around yourself.

“What do I even say?”

“Anything,” there he goes again, using that tone that makes him sound like he’s begging.

So, you say what you’ve been thinking of since he got into this damn tub. “Your cock is so pretty, Javi.” You purr, throwing all caution to the wind, lying to yourself that this means nothing.

The effect is immediate. He groans, a deep sound from his chest, and his hand moves faster over his shaft, the slickness of the water amplifying the movement. “Fuck,” he says, his breathing now erratic, “say it again.”

Your gaze flicks down and it’s mesmerizing watching the way his body responds to his own touch, but it’s the fact that he’s unraveling in front of you that leaves your mouth dry.

“Such a pretty cock, Javi,” you repeat, voice steadier this time, growing bolder with each passing second. Every flex and contraction of his body feeds the arousal pulsing in you. “I bet it would feel perfect sliding down my throat, hitting the back of it until I’m choking on you.”

All those hours spent listening to cheesy porn dialogue are finally paying off.

His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his neck, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. A guttural groan escapes him as the image of what you just said sets in. His other hand moves down to cup his heavy, swollen balls, the water around him rocking more violently now as he starts to lose himself in the fantasy.

“Shit… I’m close,” he growls, voice breaking with need, the words barely coherent. “Keep talking to me, fuck…”

You lean in slightly, the camera momentarily forgotten. “You want to come for me?” Your whisper is dripping with lust, the idea of him falling apart because of you making your pussy ache. “You want to make a mess? Pretend I’m kneeling right here, my mouth open and waiting for you to fill it, warm and wet just for you?”

You’ve seen him come so many times, watched him fill too many cunts with his spend and paint different parts of their pretty bodies— but none of it compares to the sight before you.

The way his body jerks in response tells you everything you need to know. His grip tightens on the edge of the tub, knuckles going white as he pumps faster, rougher, pushing himself toward the brink. His hips start lifting out of the water with every thrust into his own hand, chasing that final release.

“Fuck, yes…,” he groans, voice strangled, barely holding it together. His eyes squeeze shut, every muscle in his body tensing, going rigid as he falls over the edge.

His bilingual expletives cut off into a long, drawn-out moan as his cock twitches, thick ropes of cum spilling out in messy spurts, splattering against his fist, swirling into the milky bathwater. The petals float lazily across the surface, some clinging to his skin, as the evidence of his release drifts around him.

You stand there, heart pounding, frozen as your brain tries to catch up with your pussy.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, fumbling with the camera as you stop the recording. You quickly move to pack everything up and try your damndest not to look at him.

“Wait, don’t—” Javier’s voice is still hoarse, but there’s a touch of urgency to it now, breaking through the post-orgasm haze. You hear the water sloshing violently behind you as he moves, and you know he’s getting out of the tub. “Just… hang on.”

“No. I-I gotta go,” you stammer, your hands frantically packing up the camera, the lens cap slipping through your fingers. You try to grab it, but your nerves are shot and it fumbles. Thankfully, it doesn’t take damage. You’d hate to hear Robbie bitch at you for breaking the brand-new camera.

Just get out of here is the only thought running through your mind. Every time you’re around him lately, you end up a confused, horny, exasperated mess, and you can’t handle it anymore.

“Hey—wait!” Javier slips as he tries to step out of the tub, nearly falling as he reaches for you, his wet feet squeaking against the floor. You turn just in time to see him catch himself, water dripping from his body, his skin still flushed from what just happened.

“What the hell?” You shoot him a look, “You’re gonna break your neck trying to stop me from leaving—”

“I wasn’t—fuck, just let me talk for a second.” He runs a hand through his soaked hair, water dripping down his neck, over the curve of his shoulders, and you hate how even now, you’re distracted by how good he looks. He reaches for the towel and loosely wraps it around his waist. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Neither did I,” you snap, stuffing your gear into your bag, not caring how haphazardly it’s packed. “This— this isn’t what I signed up for. I’m here to work, remember? Not… whatever the fuck that was.”

He steps closer, reaching for your arm, but you yank it away before he can touch you. The last thing you need is his hands on you right now, reminding you of everything you shouldn’t want.

“You think I don’t know that?” His voice softens, but there’s a frustration beneath it, like he’s grappling with the same confusion you are. “I wasn’t trying to mess with you, okay? I just… I don’t know what the hell is happening between us either.”

You stop, finally meeting his gaze. There’s something in his eyes that pulls at the part of you that’s freakishly tethered to him, but you can’t let that get to you now. Not when everything feels so damn complicated.

“Javier, this—” You struggle for words, shaking your head. “This can’t keep happening. I can’t—” You pause, your breath catching. I can’t have you. “I don’t want you,” you correct yourself.

His jaw clenches, muscles ticking under the strain. “Stop bullshitting me,” he growls, eyes narrowing.

“I’m not,” you shoot back, but it comes out too quickly, too rehearsed.

“You’re lying through your fuckin’ teeth, and it’s pathetic. What is so wrong with giving me a chance?” He keeps circling back to this— chances.

One thing about him, he knows how to trigger a fucking migraine. 

“Everything!” The word bursts out of you like a confession. “Everything about this is wrong. It’s why I’ve been trying to stay away since day one, but you’re so— ugh!” You throw your hands up, exasperated, the bathroom suddenly feeling too small and claustrophobic. He’s got you spinning in circles, tying you up in knots, and you can’t think straight around him.

Without a second thought, you turn to leave, your feet moving as if you’re fucking levitating. So what if you’ve made a habit of running away from him? You don’t owe him shit.

“Nena—” Desperation laces his voice and that stupid nickname makes your skin curl. “I don’t want you to leave like this.”

“Well, too bad,” you snap over your shoulder. “I’m leaving so you can’t sweet-talk me into anything.” The slam of the door echoes behind you, a final punctuation to your statement.

As you step out into the hallway, the distant sounds of people fucking filter through the air, kind of grounding you back to the real world.

You can’t keep working with him, not if every interaction is going to end like this. You make a mental note to talk to Robbie after today’s shoot. No more Peña.

The day drags on, the tension from earlier still lingering, but now, sitting outside on the shaded patio, you feel a small reprieve.

A half-eaten sandwich rests before you on the table, your eyes lazily tracing the lines of the zero-edge pool that blends into the horizon. The soft rustle of palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze lulls you into a sense of temporary peace. You glance around, taking in the pristine luxury surrounding you. Rich people really have it made, you think, marveling at the extravagance of someone else’s life.

The spat with Javier lingers but you’ve done your best to ignore it by keeping busy. The other shoots happening in the house have kept you distracted, but you know what’s coming: the last scene of the day— with him— and the new girl, Mariella. A small sigh escapes your lips as you sink deeper into the patio chair, absolutely dreading it.

Your tranquility is shattered when you feel a presence nearby. Already anticipating another confrontation with Javier, you steel yourself and don’t even bother looking up before snapping, “Oh my god, can you just leave me alone—”

The words get jammed in your throat as your eyes land on Frankie, not Javier. He stands there, looking taken aback, a paper bag in one hand and an awkward smile tugging at his lips. You instantly feel like a bitch.

“Shit— sorry,” you stammer, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I thought you were someone else.”

Frankie lets out a small chuckle, brown eyes softening as he rubs the back of his neck. “No worries, I can leave if you want—”

“No, no,” you say quickly, waving him off. “Please, stay. I didn’t mean to be snappy.”

He hesitates for a moment before motioning to the empty chair across from you. “Mind if I sit?”

You shake your head, and he lowers himself into the seat, setting his lunch down. The small talk starts easily, flowing naturally as you both munch on your food. He tells you about his daughter, a proud smile on his face as he recounts how she’s the light of his life. Then he goes on about how his friends call him Catfish because of some dumb inside joke, and also the fact that he’s a retired pilot. It somehow doesn’t surprise you— the career fits him.

“How do you go from flying helicopters to shooting porn?” you ask, the question half serious, half teasing as you lean back in your chair, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses.

Frankie raises an eyebrow and smirks, clearly amused. “Shit happens,” he says with a shrug. “How do you go from having a film production degree to spending your days staring at tits and ass?”

A wry smile tugs at your lips. You tilt your head, pausing for effect. “... Shit happens,” you echo, the irony not lost on either of you.

He snorts, taking a slow sip of his water, the sound of his laughter rolling into the lazy afternoon air. You can’t help but steal a glance from behind your shades, your gaze wandering over his rugged features.

There’s something about the way the sun hits him just right, casting a golden glow over his tanned skin. You swallow, feeling a subtle pull in your chest, an unexpected attraction. He’s not flashy, not like the other guys you’re used to working with— there’s an unspoken confidence in his ease, a solidness that makes you want to keep looking.

“So… who’d you think I was? Just then?” He asks, adjusting his cap.

You try not to let your small smile falter. “Oh, just an annoying coworker.”

“Ah, the kind who shows up at the worst times, huh?”

“Exactly,” you reply with a laugh, “You know the type.”

Frankie leans in just slightly, lowering his voice. “Well, I’m glad I’m not that guy.” There’s a flicker of flirtation in his tone, his eyes lingering a beat too long. “But if you ever need someone to… keep him under control, you just let me know. Got the remedy for that right here.” 

He exaggeratedly flexes his biceps, and the snug t-shirt he’s wearing pulls taut around his arms, highlighting their impressive size.

You can’t help but admire the view— he’s really fun to look at, all charming smiles and playful confidence.

“I might just take you up on that, actually,” you reply, matching his energy with a teasing smile of your own. “I could definitely use someone who knows how to handle things.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his pink lips. “I’m more than equipped for that, trust me.”

For a second, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world— until, of course, it comes crashing down.

A voice cuts through the moment like a knife. “We’re ready for the last scene.”

You turn to see Javier standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight, his gaze flicking between you and Frankie. His entire posture screams annoyance.

“And who are you?” Frankie retorts, squinting one eye against the harsh sunlight, playful defiance dancing in his tone.

Javier doesn’t seem to like that response at all. “I’m ready to get this shit done with,” he snaps, and you narrow your eyes, practically shooting daggers at him.

Frankie clears his throat, sizing up Javier’s bristling energy. “Right.”

You catch the word presumido slip from his lips— the Spanish insult that has you exhaling a light laugh through your nose, because he’s so spot on and he doesn’t even know it.

Both of you stand, Frankie gathering the remnants of your lunch. “If you’d like some company down by the beach later, I’ll still be around,” he adds smoothly, sliding the proposition in there as casually as if he were just suggesting grabbing coffee. You almost don’t mind him crashing your solo date.

“I’ll let you know,” you reply, pushing your chair in. “It would be great to not have to take the taxi back, but I was willing to do it for a nice afternoon by the water.” You can feel Javier’s possessive stare burning into you from across the way.

Frankie, absolutely unbothered, leans in closer, a charming grin on his face. “Here’s my number if you need that ride.” A pen appears out of nowhere, and he scribbles down his digits on a clean corner of his napkin, tearing it off with an effortless confidence before handing it to you.

“Definitely,” you say with a flirty smile, tucking the napkin into your pocket, feeling a thrill against the scowling presence of the spectator watching from the sliding glass door 

Frankie branches off to use the restroom and you push past Javier, no intention of speaking to him until—

“If you spent less time flirting with the crew and more time focusing on your job, we’d be finished by now.”

You can practically taste his jealousy.

You stop in your tracks, turning to face him, your patience running thin. “Really, Javi? You’re jealous of Frankie? That’s what this is about? Did our last conversation not put shit in perspective for you?”

He steps closer, eyes hard, voice low. “Jealous? Of him?” He scoffs, but the tension in his jaw betrays him. “I just don’t appreciate having to wait because you’re too busy cozying up to someone else. Especially someone who looks like they just got picked up off the side of the road.”

“And you wonder why I don’t like you.” Is all you can say, brushing past him yet again, his presence looming heavy as you head toward the living room where the last scene is set to be shot.

The moment Robbie goes on with his usual pre-shoot rundown, your attention shifts to the newbie Mariella immediately, drowning out his usual spiel.

The girl— and she is a girl, no matter what the paperwork says— looks painfully young. Her cropped tee hugging her braless chest, barely keeping her breasts from spilling out, and those flimsy pajama shorts riding high on her thighs. It’s the kind of outfit that makes you uneasy— one you’ve seen too many times in this industry, designed to play into the fantasies of men who want their women to look barely legal.

You bite the inside of your cheek, the sour taste of frustration building in the back of your throat. This is the part of the job that gnaws at you— the undercurrent of exploitation that no one acknowledges.

You’re not naive, you know exactly what sells in porn. You know what these people want to watch, what they get off on. The younger, the better. 

Still, it doesn’t make it any easier to stomach when you’re standing on set, watching it play out in real time.

Just as Mariella positions herself, preparing for the camera to roll, you can’t stop yourself. The words come out before you can think to censor them. “How old are you?”

Suddenly, everyone’s attention shifts to you. Robbie. Steve. Frankie. Even Javier, who’s lounging in the corner, waiting for his moment to shine. They all freeze, the casual banter dying off as your question lingers in the air. Mariella blinks, looking around as if unsure who you’re even talking to.

“I—I turned twenty last week.”

Your expression hardens, and the disapproval is written all over your face. “She’s not even old enough to drink, and you’re having her fuck Javier?” Your eyes cut to Robbie, who’s staring at you like you’ve just sprouted another head.

The silence stretches for a beat too long before he scoffs, shaking his head like you’re being ridiculous. “I don’t pay you to hear your opinions on shit,” he snaps, clearly irritated. “Just sit there and record the damn thing.”

Your eyes roll hard enough that it almost hurts. “You’re all a bunch of perverts.”

Poor Frankie catches a stray with that one. It’s like everything is grating on you in ways it usually doesn’t. Normally, you can shove it down and keep your head low because, at the end of the day, you’re just here for the paycheck.

“Perverts pay your bills, sweetheart,” Robbie throws back, all nonchalant. What’s worse is that he’s right.

Moments like this make you wonder how long you can keep doing this without losing a part of yourself in the process.

You look around at the other three men, none of them stepping up to say anything in your defense. Useless.

You shouldn’t be surprised, but it stings. Even Javier, usually quick with a sarcastic quip or biting comment, says nothing. He just sits there, stuffing out a cigarette that’s magically appeared between his lips.

It feels like a betrayal, even though you know better than to expect any different.

And Mariella? She’s clearly distracted, caught up in the magnetic pull Javier has over people. The way she’s looking at him with that starstruck, wide-eyed awe only makes it worse. You can see it in her expression, the way her gaze flickers over him like she’s already imagining how it’s going to feel when he fucks her. Thinking with her pussy instead of having common sense.

You recognize it because you were just in her exact position, drawn into that same orbit. You find empathy for her, but not the other motherfuckers.

The room descends into awkward silence, as if everyone’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. But you’re not in the mood for a full-blown argument, so you shut down, slumping into the chair behind your camera with your arms crossed tightly over your chest. 

You know it’s only a matter of time before all these feelings you’ve been aggressively pushing down come back up and make you snap, but for now, you continue to force it all away.

You’re assigned to shoot the stoic, wide shots while Frankie’s in charge of the close-ups, and honestly? You’re relieved. The last thing you need is to be up close, watching this trash unfold.

The scene starts with the typical, raunchy premise: Dad pays babysitter with his cock! It explains Mariella’s barely-there outfit and the cluttered coffee table with school notebooks, setting the scene.

Then there’s Javier who looks the part too; dressed in dark blue slacks, a typical white collared shirt with a few buttons popped open to give that I’m stressed, come take care of me vibe.

He’s the picture of temptation, and it’s obvious Mariella’s already in the clouds.

The filming begins and they share that cheesy, erotic dialogue and lustful touches. You feel yourself sink further into the chair, silently counting down the minutes until you’re decompressing by the beach.

She sinks to her knees before him, her doe eyes looking up at him with that practiced innocence they all seem to perfect so quickly. She reaches for the buttons on his slacks, her delicate fingers fumbling just a little before she pulls down the zipper and tugs at the waistband. She nuzzles her face against his thigh, brushing her lips against his skin, and finally pulls out his cock. Even soft, it’s still an impressive size— but it’s definitely not how this was supposed to go.

“Well, are you going to suck it or just stare at it?” Javier snaps, his tone cutting through the air with an edge that feels too sharp, too real. It doesn’t sound like the crudeness that’s meant to spice up the scene.

His hand shoots out and tangles in her hair, yanking her closer. He’s rougher than usual, harsher, as he forces her mouth onto him.

She wraps her lips around his head, suckling softly at first, then taking him deeper into her mouth. She’s trying to do her job, playing the part of the eager babysitter, but something’s off.

Javier’s head tilts back, eyes squeezed shut, but it’s not the usual look of pleasure that crosses his face. It’s more like he’s concentrating, forcing himself to feel something that isn’t there.

You can’t help it— your eyes flick around the room, looking at the rest of the crew. No one seems to be noticing what you’re seeing, their eyes all honed in on the action in front of them.

But you’re catching the small details like you always do.

After a few more moments, it’s clear that it’s not happening. Javier lets out a frustrated curse, pulling out of her mouth with an audible, wet pop. “Fuck—just, give me a second,” he grumbles, stepping back. Mariella wipes the saliva from her lips with the back of her hand, looking up at him with a mix of confusion and hesitation.

You take that as your cue. Reaching over, you stop the recording, your finger hesitating on the button for only a moment before pressing it. Frankie does the same, Steve lowers his mic and pulls his headset off.

Javier runs a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to the floor, like he’s trying to avoid looking at anyone directly. “I just need a minute,” he says again, but it’s more to himself than to anyone else.

Your gaze lingers on him for a second longer than you intend, and your mind flashes back to earlier, to the way he was with you. The memory is sharp and clear, the contrast striking. He’d come undone for you without hesitation, without needing any coaxing or forcing. Just words. But now, with Mariella kneeling in front of him, offering herself up like a gift, he’s struggling. 

“How long will this minute take? We gotta be outta here soon so get it up before I get one of these two to take your place.”

Javier scoffs, dismissive, “Tape wouldn’t fucking sell.”

“Well one featuring a soft dick won’t either,” comes the retort, and the two of them start their back-and-forth bickering.

You rub at your temples, trying to ease the pressure building behind your eyes. This has to be some weird-ass dream; it sure as hell feels like it. Maybe you’re still in bed, blissfully sleeping until three in the afternoon.

Javier storms off and Steve puts his equipment down. “I’ll go talk to him.”

Robbie just waves him away. “Take five,” he mutters to the rest of you, going in the opposite direction. This is such a mess, and poor Mariella remains on her knees, picking at her cuticles. 

“Please get up and sit on the couch. You look pathetic,” you say to her, not cruelly but bluntly. It’s not her fault, but the sight of her there is making you itch. She complies like a chastised child. 

Frankie drops down beside you, letting out a breath that mirrors your own. “These things usually go like this?” He takes his hat off, ruffling his hair before putting it back on.

“No,” shit has just been weird amongst this group for weeks now. “Burnout is inevitable, I guess.” You’re not about to sit there and shit-talk Javier, despite everything. You might have a mountain of complicated feelings when it comes to him, but you won’t kick him while he’s down.

Before Frankie can respond, Robbie comes barreling back into the room, his face flushed with anger. His eyes lock onto you, and you can see the accusation in them before he even opens his mouth.

“This is your fault,” he spits out, voice sharp, acidic. “All that shit you were talking earlier— now he’s fucking broken.”

You narrow your eyes, standing your ground. “Excuse me?” you snap, incredulous. “I was making a valid point. How the hell is it my fault that he grew a conscience?”

“Y’know,” he starts, his words dripping with the kind of vile, misogynistic shit that makes your blood boil. “You’d do me more good in front of the camera. Have somethin’ shoved up in there to keep you fucking quiet.”

The reaction is immediate. You shoot up from your seat so fast the chair scrapes against the floor, the sound sharp and angry, mirroring how you feel. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Frankie stands too, his face hardening as he takes a step in front of you, finally coming to your defense. “Watch it,”  he warns, and it feels like the whole situation could explode into something much worse.

Robbie, of course, just sneers “What? You gonna defend her? She’s been a pain in my ass for weeks—”

“I’m done.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can think them through, but they feel right. 

You’re tired— so damn tired— of this whole mess. Of dealing with assholes like Robbie and Javier who think they can get away with saying whatever they want. “I quit.” 

Your boss’s mouth opens as if he’s about to say something else, but you cut him off with a cutting glare. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you treat me like shit because your precious Javier can’t get his dick hard. Go fuck yourself, Robbie.”

You don’t wait for a response. You turn on your heel and head for the door, your heart pounding in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You’ll double up on shifts at the bar or go back to waiting tables like you did throughout college. Whatever keeps you away from this bullshit. 

As you stride down the hallway toward the entrance, you pass Javier and Steve. Javier’s face is stormy, brows knitted together as if he’s still reeling from whatever heated discussion they just had. 

The moment he spots you, his expression shifts. There’s a flicker of surprise, maybe even concern.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks.

You yank the heavy, probably expensive for no reason, front door open, the sound echoing through the hallway. “I just quit,” you snap, voice sharp as glass. “See you never.”

🏷️ : @almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @libre-sol . @cherrysugarx . @goodvibesonly421 .

finally started a tag list for my works here, so if you're interested— pls check it out. muchas gracias mis putitas (gn) (endearingly) 🖤

[infiniteglitterfall]

Uggghhh, what is UP with Canada?!

In Vancouver, the Schara Tzedeck synagogue's windows were smashed on April 19th.

In Toronto on April 19, five windows at the Kehillat Shaarei Torah synagogue were smashed with a hammer.

In Toronto on April 26, someone set a sign on fire at Beth Tikvah Synagogue....

....And again on April 28.

In Toronto in May, Jewish community members started escorting a kid to school because he was being bullied by peers who told him, "We're going to do to you what Hamas did to Israel," pushed him, kicked him, threw stones at him, and told him, "we need to kill you." This had been going on for six months. (His family had gone to both the school and police repeatedly at this point and it had only escalated; the kids throwing stones at him on the way to school was new.)

In Toronto on May 17th, Kehillat Shaarei Torah's windows were smashed again.

On May 25th before dawn, two people shot at Bais Chaya Muska, a Jewish girls' school in Toronto.

On May 29th, in the middle of the night, someone shot at the Belz Yeshiva Ketana school in Montreal.

In Vancouver on May 30, someone poured fuel on the doors of the Schara Tzedeck synagogue, then firebombed them.

In an article on June 7, Rabbi Lisa Grushcow of Emanu-El-Beth Sholom synagogue in Montreal said people have yelled “Hitler was right!” and “Jew!” at her congregants as they arrive for Shabbat services and that Jewish kids are being bullied in local schools.

On June 1 in Toronto, a man smashed the window of the Anshei Minsk synagogue with a rock.

On June 3 in Kitchener, someone smashed the front door of Beth Jacob synagogue.

On June 19th in Montreal, three small bullet-like holes were somehow made in the windows of Falafel Yoni. (I don't know, all the articles go out of their way to say they don't know WHAT made the holes.) Falafel Yoni is owned by a Jewish man who was born in Israel, and has appeared on boycott lists despite the owner never having said anything political about Israel.

On the same day, down the street from Falafel Yoni, someone smashed the windows of a nearby gym whose co-owner is Jewish and had also been born in Israel.

On June 30 in Toronto, someone threw stones at the Pride of Israel synagogue, then at Kehillat Shaarei Torah, smashing windows (again) in the latter.

On the weekend of July 27th, a father and son in Toronto were arrested for planning a terrorist attack and murder on behalf of ISIL, which is wild.

On July 29th, someone torched a bus belonging to the Bobov Hassidic school in Toronto.

And smashed the windows of a DIFFERENT Jewish school in Toronto, Leo Baeck Jewish Day School, and set it on fire.

On July 31 in Toronto, guess which synagogue had three signs set on fire? That's right: Kehillat Shaarei Torah.

Plus one sign set afire at Toronto's Temple Sinai Congregation the same night, presumably by the same arsonist, who might even have been the stone-hurler of June 30.

There are probably ones I missed. Just putting this list together took like three hours, though. I kept having to go, "Wait, surely that can't be the same synagogue AGAIN" and "they only mention the closest major intersection, which one was this?!" and "that can't be a different one, how many windows did they smash??" and go look for more sources. Plus a couple of articles were giving conflicting dates for one of the incidents.

And nobody ever gives actual dates, they just say shit like, "Blah blah blah was reported Monday...." so I have to look at the article date and then look at a damn calendar.

I went back as far as April because everything I found was referring to earlier incidents. Back to April. February and March were relatively quiet, at least in the news. Although interestingly, February is when the most hate crimes in Toronto had been reported, at least as of ... oh, I see.

As of March.

On the bright side, I did discover that Kehillat Shaarei Torah consistently has great jokes on its sign.

[areyouwell]

Autophobia

Noun: An extreme and irrational fear of being alone. Children or adults with this condition often suffer from severe panic attacks at the thought of being completely alone.

Ch.5.5

Ch.5, Ch.4, Ch.3, Ch.2, Ch.1 <--

Paring: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of a depressive spiral, atypical methods of self-harm, severe mental breakdown

Word Count: 6.8k

A/N: just a little follow-up chapter cuz if i put this all in one it would have been almost 20k words. let's not talk about how my mini-chapters are over 6k words i'm fluent in yappanese let me monologue

Taglist: @badbishsblog @reidsworld @idioticstar @toogaytofunctiondangit @ghostyv @wolviesgirl @over-bi-the-wayside @justice4billiam @holyhumorliteraturelight @cxptainbuck

The last twenty-four hours had been a complete blur. Numbly going through the motions of packing a rucksack, letting your body take you to where you needed to go whilst your mind was stuck in a loop. Eighty years. Eighty years. That’s how long you were kept from the world. That’s how long you’d been fed lies and bullshit. Eighty fucking years. And everything about your life, about who you are, what you’d been through, was in that venomous folder you couldn’t bring yourself to open. Nobody looked at you the same way. Ororo could barely stand to be in your presence, having to leave every time you entered the room. Charles kept looking at you with fucking sympathy and you wanted to knock his bald head clean off his shoulders. Scott kept apologising every time he passed you in the hallway, saying he didn’t know and would have done things differently if he had. Kurt and Hank barely knew what the fuck was going on and you hadn’t seen Jean since before the raid. 

And then there was Logan. Who kept almost tiptoeing around you, asking if you were alright every five fucking seconds, asking if you needed anything or if you wanted him to do something. Honestly, you wanted him to shut the fuck up. You wanted them all to shut the fuck up. You hadn’t processed anything. Hadn’t been allowed to process anything. After you woke up, you’d explained to those in the med-bay what Dr.Kremlin –or whatever his stupid fucking name was– had told you. Charles filled in the gaps, and you were given all of thirty seconds before you were taken upstairs to pack a bag and to meet Logan in the garage. You felt nothing as you swung your rucksack in the backseat of the beaten pickup truck, clambering into the passenger’s side and falling into dead silence. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. Not to Jubilee, not to little Artie. Not even to Kitty. 

At least your trip away made more sense now. Charles wanted you out of the mansion so he could monitor those neurotransmitters from the supposed environmental research facility without you catching wind of anything. Not that you’d know anyway, but maybe he thought it was safer if you didn’t know. What you didn’t know couldn’t hurt you, right?

How ironic did that feel?

You’d been driving for around four hours in complete silence, your head resting against the slightly smudged window, eyes trained on the outside world as it blurred past, a kaleidoscope of greens, browns and greys. Feet perched on your seat, your arms tucked atop your knees as you subconsciously made yourself as small as possible. You didn’t know how long left you had of the drive, and honestly, you didn’t care. He could keep driving forever and it wouldn’t matter to you. 

“Y’alright?” Logan broke the long silence a little tentatively, his voice hushed as if not to disturb you. You found it vaguely amusing. He could shout at the top of his lungs and it wouldn’t disturb you. Not at the moment. You didn’t care. Didn’t even care to respond. It was a stupid fucking question anyway. You’d felt like this only once before. At least, only one time you could remember, if that was even real. And it was the days that followed after Jade’s death. A bus could have hit you and you wouldn’t have been able to find it in yourself to care. 

Logan sighed through his nose. Stealing a glance at your huddled form, staring unblinking out the window, he went to rest his hand on your shoulder but thought better of it as you tensed. Seeing you like this, so utterly devoid of emotion, was almost jarring. He was used to seeing your smile and hearing your laugh. Fuck, even when you lost control and tried to kill him was better than this. At least he could smell the fear on you. But he couldn’t smell anything right now. Just the oil of the engine and dust of the seats. You’d faded. Not just your personality or your mental state, but everything about you had faded. Suppressed. This was nothing like when you lost control. He had an idea of how to bring you back then. But this?

He was way out of his depth. 

“Talk to me,” he urged quietly, and he thought his pleas had fallen on deaf ears until you finally raised your head, turning to look at him blankly.

“About what?” Though your voice was completely flat, he was still glad to hear it. If he could get a response out of you, then perhaps he could bring you back after all. If he could just get you to talk to him…

“Anythin’. How you’re feelin’. What you’re thinkin’. We have a long ways to go yet.”

Your shrug wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. “So? You’ve never had a problem with silence before.” It was all he was going to get out of you before you returned to leaning against the window, your vacant eyes falling to watch the grey skies beyond. Suffocating quiet consumed the truck once again, only the hum of the wheels against the tarmac acted as a symphony for your thoughts. “Ya know what’s fucked?”

Logan almost jumped as you talked again, not expecting you to continue the conversation. Though he couldn’t say he wasn’t glad. “I don’t even know what’s real. If it was all a simulation… I don’t even know if this is real. If you’re real. Or just another sick twisted plot produced to make me believe I’m living a life that I’m not.” It was a thought that had plagued your mind since the raid. If everything in your past had been a lie, how did you know any of this wasn’t just more bullshit spun to widen the web?

Stretching out his hand, this time he didn’t hesitate to pry your own from your folded arms, clasping your knuckles in his palm. “‘M real, sweetheart. This is real. We’re real.” He held his breath, waiting for you to pull away from his touch, but you didn’t. Instead, you raised your head from the window again, offering him a small smile that didn’t even come close to reaching your eyes. He squeezed your hand and found a kernel of hope kindle in his heart as you weakly squeezed back. You’d be okay. He’d make certain of it. It didn’t matter how long it took, or what he’d have to do. He wouldn’t stop until you were okay. “Get some rest, we’ll be on the road for a while.” He pulled your hand up to his face, pressing a light kiss against the front of your wrist where the scars from your past fed into the present, before interlacing his fingers with yours. 

“Logan?” your voice was barely audible, timid in a way that had him fighting the urge to pull over, gather you in his arms and hold you until all of this blew over and you could be safe again.

“Mmm?” was all he could say instead, always ready to listen.

“You–” you paused, finding the words heavy in your throat and stuck on your tongue. You hated feeling like this. Feeling the need to be reassured. Hated coming across as insecure or needy, but just this once, you needed to know. “You’re not gonna leave, right?”

Wordlessly, Logan flattened your hand over the centre of his chest, and you felt his heartbeat beneath your fingers. “Not whilst this is still beating.” 

It was the first emotion you’d felt since waking up, and you couldn’t stop a silent tear slide down your cheek. His devotion to you incarnate, beating beneath your palm. You knew the weight of his words, and felt their meaning in your soul. He wasn’t going to leave you. Not now. Not ever. And it was one of your fears put to rest, knowing that he wasn’t one for lying. 

“Okay.” You responded quietly, your free arm shifting to hug your knees whilst he returned your other, not letting go of your hand. And you found you didn’t want him to. You were afraid earlier that any kind of touch would send you into a spiral, but now he held your hand in yours, you never wanted him to let go. 

“Sleep, firefly. I’ll wake you when we get there.” He hushed, and you nodded, curling up against the humming door, letting the soft vibrations of the truck lull you to sleep. 

True to his word, a slight shake to your shoulder had you jolting awake, eyes flying open, heart racing as you tried your best to gauge your surroundings as quickly as you could. 

“‘S okay,” Logan soothed, and your breathing calmed slightly, whatever dreams had been haunting your unconscious mind faded into nothing with each swipe of his thumb against your shoulder. “We’re here.”

Your eyes scanned the woods beyond the windscreen as he opened his door, the hinges squeaking with age. It was dark out, meaning you’d been on the road for at least eight hours and four of those you’d been asleep for. There was the distinct smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the upholstery of the seats, and you looked down at the source, a burnt-out cigar lay discarded in the central unit, brown paper blackened at the roach. 

The door to your right opened and Logan offered you his hand. It wasn’t that you needed help, and you really fucking hoped he knew that, but you took it simply as an excuse to touch him as you stepped out of the truck, the smell of pine needles hitting you almost instantly as your feet touched soft earth. Wherever he’d taken you, this was certainly off-grid. It was so peaceful here. To the point where you’d surpassed tranquillity and landed right back into unease. It was too peaceful here. 

“Where are we?” You asked as Logan retrieved both rucksacks from the back seat, mindful not to slam the door shut before locking up the truck. Swinging both backs across each of his shoulders, he took your hand again, leading you around the hood of the truck and you finally saw your new halls of residence. 

A sizeable pinewood log cabin. Dark on the inside, but it looked homely enough. A small pair of antlers adorned the front door, piles of firewood stacked neatly beneath little shelters around to the left. You could imagine this as a forest getaway for some rich family who owned several yachts and a sports car. But when Logan produced a thick iron key from his pocket, you blinked. “Is this yours?” 

It was the most emotion he’d heard from you since he’d started driving eight hours ago, your words delicately laced with surprise. He smiled back over his shoulder. “Belonged to an old friend, left it to me when he passed.” He wasn’t ready to launch into that whole story, not yet. You had enough to deal with without him banging on about his own past. Sliding the key into the lock, he turned it anti-clockwise until the iron gave way, giving the door a gentle shove as it swung open. It definitely needed doing up, but he was happy to do that himself. “Home sweet home,” he murmured, vaguely hoping all the electrics still worked as he flicked the light switch.

The cabin was illuminated in a soft orange glow, the faux candles on the walls giving the same ambience as torch flame. The interior was cosier than you could possibly have imagined. A comfy-looking, though slightly faded brown sofa faced a broad hearth with yet another stack of kindling piled next to it, a red and green tartan print blanket draped over the back of the sofa. Logan shrugged off his jacket, hanging it on one of the multiple cast iron coat pegs lining the wall by the door, setting the rucksacks down next to the dark wood dining table. There were no arches or doorways that you could see, an open floor plan joining the small, rural kitchen area to the lounge.

A set of stairs led up to another floor behind the hearth, various antlers and horns of different woodland animals hung on almost every available wall, as well as a TV, which you weren’t expecting. Every cupboard looked identical, even the fridge, learning which one it was due to Logan immediately grabbing out two bottles of larger for you both. 

You smiled as you inhaled, and recognised the distinctive amalgamation of smells. It was him. Pure, unfiltered Logan. 

Crossing to one of the windows, you ran your fingers over the corrugated radiator, noticing the various blankets and pillows set up on the windowsill looking out into the dark green woodland beyond, brown woollen tassels hanging a little too close to the heater, to the point where you tucked them in. Staring out into the forest, you held your arm tightly until Logan’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, tucking you into his side and handing you the second bottle of golden liquid. 

“What’ya think?” He asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and you moved your hand from your arm to hold his wrist against your shoulder. 

“It’s very you.” You offered as much mischief as you could muster, which wasn’t much considering your circumstances, and unfortunately resulted in a confused raise of his brow. 

“That’s a good thing, right?”

You huffed an exhausted chuckle, pressing your head into the space between his shoulder and chest. “Yeah. It’s a good thing.” You breathed, before raising the bottle to your lips and taking a long sip of the icy cold beverage. He held you in silence, offering to be whatever you needed him to be, and for right now, you just needed him close to you. You didn’t know what had happened in the past, and you didn’t know what was going to happen. You couldn’t hide forever, and there would come a day where you would have to face the contents of that folder. But it was enough for now just knowing you weren’t alone, and when that time came, you wouldn’t be alone. 

“There’s a bathroom down the hall or you can use the ensuite upstairs if you wanna freshen up. I can get started on makin’ dinner, should have some preservatives lyin’ around somewhere.” He looked towards the cupboards and you wished you had the energy or emotional bank to tease him properly about his cooking. But you didn’t need to, he looked back at your face of slight mock disbelief, a small, almost bashful smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “I’ve picked up a few things over the last couple months.” 

He didn’t resist as you weakly shoved at him, his smile widening as you showed small signs of your old self before your eyes took on that faraway look again and you retreated back into your protective shell. He knew it was a defence mechanism, he’d seen it in the kids now and then. When things got overwhelming or something went wrong, they’d shut themselves away behind emotional walls, appearing almost hollow before he’d sit them down and pry their emotions out one thread at a time. It nearly always resulted in them sobbing their eyes out, but it was a tried and true method.

One he was planning on using on you when he felt the time was right. You couldn’t shut yourself away forever. He wouldn’t let you, for one. There was no future where your past wins over and you remain this way. Even if it resulted in you drowning the cabin in shadow as you lost control, he didn’t care. In this state, any emotion is a good emotion. 

Setting down your bottle, you clung to his wrist for as long as you could before the increasing distance forced you to let go to retrieve your rucksack. You’d packed essentials, being under a strict time limit. A few spare pairs of clothes, toothbrush and toothpaste, cleanser, moisturiser, a Swiss army knife and as much underwear as you could stuff in the little space that remained at the top. You swing the bag over your shoulder, heading to the stairs before Logan caught your forearm.

“Shout if you need anything. I’ll be right here, ‘kay?” He looked so sincere, so serious it almost broke you. The first time he’d said those words to you, you’d laughed them off, teasing him for being overprotective. You couldn’t find the energy to do the same now, thinking back to how things had changed so much in the last day or so. Well, since you returned, really. You simply nodded in response, attempting to offer him a smile that could ease his worries but clearly failing miserably as his brows pinched in concern.

You had nothing left to give him, your emotional reservoir completely drained. So you simply turned away to head up the stairs, guilt gnawing at your chest. You didn’t want him to worry about you. Fuck, you hated it when he worried about you. Even about mundane things, you’d wave off his concerns. But you knew this was an issue that couldn’t be solved by telling him to ‘take his concerns elsewhere’ because where else would he go? You’d pried him away from his home, from his friends and teammates because he had some twisted obligation towards you. It was selfish of you to ask if he was going to leave. You’d all but trapped him into staying by asking that very question. He was too good of a man to say no, he was going to dump you off and dip. 

You hated it. Hated how much he was giving up for you. You didn’t deserve any of this, and he certainly deserved so much more. A wall erupted in your mind, locking your guilt away with everything else you were supposed to be feeling at the moment, your heart once again emptying of the hurt it had felt, leaving you with blissful numbness.

Cresting the top of the stairs, you were faced with one of the homeliest scenes in the house. A large four-poster bed piled high with various pillows, cushions and blankets stood against the back wall, yet another window seat snuggled against the window straight ahead of you, overlooking the opposite side of the forest. Two hunting rifles, one barrel crossed over the other, hung triumphantly above the headboard, yet another set of antlers positioned between the two guns, larger than the other sets you’d seen yet. You couldn’t imagine the choice of decor was Logan’s idea, at least you vaguely hoped it wasn’t, but it made you wonder who this place originally belonged to. 

Your shoulder went limp as you carelessly dropped your bag to the floor at the foot of the bed, turning to your left to see the door to the bathroom slightly ajar. Crossing over the thick rug on the floor, you pulled the door open, eyes widening in slight surprise. It was a lot bigger than you’d expected for an ensuite. A large bathtub took up most of the space, the shower standing right next to it. You were glad they weren’t one and the same, for some reason you had a vendetta against bathtubs that doubled up as a shower. Maybe the reason lay in that fucking folder, who knows?

Stripping yourself of your sweaty clothes, you cracked the window open, allowing fresh air to circulate around the room before fiddling with the taps and switches of the electric shower. You wondered how often Logan visited, considering how well kept the place was, and how well everything still worked. Steam rolled from the shower into the rest of the bathroom as you stepped beneath the stream, your skin tingling with the heat. It was a pleasant sensation, to feel something other than all-consuming guilt, sinking despondency or nothing at all. You cranked up the dial on the temperature, hissing slightly as the water increased from warm to scalding, staining your skin red raw. 

The feeling was addictive, turning ever so often to get that kick of pain on whichever side of your body wasn’t beneath the volcanic stream, inhaling as the pain drowned every other sensation in your chest and head. There was no room for anything else other than the burning against your flesh. You only wished you could turn the dial further, but it seemed you’d reached the maximum. 

It could have been anywhere between a few minutes and twenty years before Logan came up to check on you, you’d lost complete track of time. There was a soft knock at the door, a vague call of your name you barely heard and partially ignored in favour of getting lost in the heat. At what point you dropped to the floor, knees hugged against your chest, you couldn’t recall, eyes too focused on the pattern of the droplets against the tiled floor to look up as he entered.

“Christ it’s like a sauna in here, can’t fuckin’ see anyth–” He stopped instantly as he saw you huddled on the floor in the same position you’d spent a good portion of the journey in. But that wasn’t what scared him. It was the angry red of your skin that had alarm bells ringing loudly in his head. He rolled up the sleeve of his flannel shirt, preparing to plunge his hand through the cascading fall to switch the power off. But the moment his skin came in contact with the water, he hissed loudly. “Fuck! ‘S fuckin’ scalding sweetheart.” You didn’t move. Didn’t even look as if you’d noticed him. Panic surged in his veins, gritting his teeth tightly as he endured the searing burn of the lava stream to twist the handle for power, taking a breath as the waterfall eased from a deluge to mere droplets. 

Only then did you look up, as if snapped from a daze. He crouched before you as you blinked at him, remembering where you were and what you were doing. However, what you should say in this moment never came to you, only able to stare straight ahead at him, his pinched brows and wide-eyed concern only fuelling the self-loathing in your gut. You hated the way he touched you so gently as if you deserved to be touched like that. You despised the way he draped a large, fluffy towel around your shoulders as if you’d done anything to warrant such comforts. 

And you couldn’t stand the way he hooked his arms beneath your knees and carried you from the bathroom, all without a single word. And you loathed how your body reacted, leaning into his touches like you had any right to comfort. You’d all but dragged him away from the life he’d built for himself. Dragged him away from people like Marie and Bobby. Fuck, you couldn’t even think about them right now. You’d stolen one of Marie’s best friends from her, how could you ever go back there now?

Would you ever go back there now? You hadn’t even thought about it. Most likely not. Why would they let you? You’d killed a team member, been sent away for two years, lost control of your mutation, tried to kill not only another team member but the man you love, and have been lying to everyone you’d ever met because the life you thought you’d lived never fucking existed and it turns out you were over eighty fucking years old. Scott was right. 

He should have killed you years ago.

“Lemme grab some aloe gel…” you’d been so lost in your head you hadn’t even noticed Logan removing the towel from your shoulders to inspect the raging raw burns on your back and arms. You barked a harsh, joyless laugh.

“Why? What does it matter?” you asked savagely, and Logan turned from where he stood near the bathroom doorway, slowly looking at you in suspicious bewilderment. “I mean, I can just heal, so who cares? I’ll just disappear into shadow and come back good as new, so don’t bother.” You shrugged, feeling burning hatred bubble in your gut. “That is, if I come back out at all, of course. Because that threat still hangs over my head every fucking day.” The shadows writhed with your growing fury, only furthering your tirade of self-deprecation. “And hey, would ya look at that, my mutation only fucking works when I’m insanely pissed off. And I lose control completely when I’m terrified, my only fucking instinct being to survive. How fucked up is that?” You continued, laughing bitterly as you stood from the bed. “Probably some result of whatever the hell is recorded in that file. Eighty years, by the way. Eighty fucking years. Here I was, the fucking asshole who thought she was thirty-two. Imagine that?” Your fingers found your scalp, scratching desperately at the roots of your hair as if to claw your way into your own mind and pry out your memories. “And you just seem to be fucking fine with everything!”

Logan didn’t so much as flinch as you directed your inferno of rage toward him. Sure, his heart shattered with your every word, but not because they hurt him.

“I’ve lied to you. For the past couple of months, I’ve straight-up been lying to your face. About everything! I’ve dragged you away from your friends, from your family, all because I manipulated you into thinking you owed me fucking anything. All those bullshit sob stories are lies. None of them even happened. And ya know what? I can’t even say if that’s true or not because I don’t fucking know.” You gestured to your surroundings wildly, laughing manically as the shadows whipped out from the walls like vines. You always knew the day would come when you completely lost your mind. 

“I killed the woman I loved because I couldn’t control myself. I tried my fucking damnest to kill you too, because it seems I just fucking bleed toxicity. And I don’t even know how twisted that makes you for still being here. For still caring. It’s fucking pathetic. I tried to fucking kill you, and all I can see is your ridiculous, unwavering sense of devotion. Do you know how fucked up that makes you? How little must your self-worth be that you’re still here? That is if this isn’t just another simulation created to test my mental durability because who fucking knows at this point? I sure as shit don’t. And ya know what’s worse? No matter what happens, I still have to read that fucking folder. Because we sure as hell can’t hide out here forever, and the only way I can even begin to understand anything is the one thing I can’t bring myself to do.

“So instead, instead I’ll just make everyone suffer along with me. Strength in numbers, right? I’ll just force you to isolate yourself away instead of getting the fuck on with it and reading that fucking file. Nah, I’d rather torture the people I care about, because that’s just what happens. That’s what always fucking happens. And I can’t seem to stop,” your hands returned to your hair as you slowed down, squeezing the sides of your head as if to silence your mind. “It never seems to stop. It’s all just so fucking loud. I just want it to stop… I just want everything to stop…” You sank to the floor, drawing your knees up to your chest, your back pressed against the end of the bed. “I’m so tired, Logan. I’m so fucking tired.” Your voice faded to a whisper as you screwed your eyes shut, your mind still a roaring tornado of anguish and heartbreak. You didn’t want to hurt him. Fuck, that was the last thing you wanted to do, but you did it in a desperate bid to keep him safe. Maybe, if you sank enough knives into his chest, he’d walk away. The shadows receded into their natural places as you withdrew back behind the walls inside your head. 

Logan thought he’d seen vulnerability before, both in you and in others. But the way you looked now, naked, trembling on the floor, your head tucked behind your knees, hands clawing at your own hair… 

Nothing could have prepared him for that. 

He said nothing, silently crossing the floor to kneel next to you. Softly, he removed your nails from your hair, setting your arms limp by your side as he cupped either side of your jaw, raising your head to look at him. Tears flowed freely from your eyes as you desperately searched his face. What for, he didn’t know, but he let you look. He let you hunt in the corners of his brows, digging around the slope of his nose, finally returning to his eyes. What you found, or rather didn’t find, pulled a sob from your chest, and he tucked your face beneath his chin. Wrapping his arms around your naked body, he just held you as stuttered sob after stuttered sob wracked your body.

Grief was a funny old thing. Always lurking around the corner, rearing its bittersweet head when you least expected it. You cried. You cried for Jade. You cried for Rowan. You cried for the other members of NLMO. You cried for Kitty, and her guilt for hating you. You cried for Ororo, having been burdened with the knowledge not even you wanted to know about yourself. 

You cried for Logan. Holy shit did you cry for Logan. You didn’t want this for him. Only the previous morning was he talking about being a normal couple and doing ‘normal couple things’, and now he was stuck in a relationship with a woman who didn’t even know who she was. Who didn’t know what parts of her were real and what parts were fabricated? Your voice scratched your throat raw, every breath like rusty nails in your lungs as you sobbed harder than you ever remember in your life, both real and fake. 

And he held you through all of it, gently whispering sweet nothings against your damp, tangled hair, soothing soft caresses against your bare skin with his calloused hands, fingertips grazing every scar he could reach, from the healed burn on your calf to the serrated needle in your neck. His hatred for the Kreva’s only grew with each newly discovered scar on your body, even as your full-bodied cries quietened to mere hiccups of despair. 

Tentatively he drew your head away from his damp neck, using his thumb to wipe away the salty lines carved down one side of your face, and using his little finger for the other. “C’mon firefly, let’s get you changed. Gotta do somethin’ ‘bout these burns too…” 

You shook your head with teary incredulity. “I don’t understand… why are you still doing this? Why do you still care? After everything I've just said. After everything I’ve done… why?”

“Because I love you.”

Your mind fell completely silent as you stared up at him in utter, petrified shock. “What…?” you managed to whisper, to his slight knowing smile.

“I love you.”

You shook your head again, though this time you looked horrified. “You’re insane.”

Logan nodded as if he already knew this. Of course, he was insane. But not simply because he loved you. He was insane because if anything happened to you, nothing and nowhere would be safe from him. He would walk through hell itself to get you back, and make as many deals with as many devils as he needed to. What was insane was the lengths he would go through to protect you. 

“Who am I, Logan? You read the folder, you’ve seen everything… how can you love what’s in there? Who am I?” You almost pleaded with him, and he caught the sides of your neck in his palms. 

“‘M gonna need you to listen real close, okay? That folder doesn’t define you. You are who you are in spite of what’s in that folder. I didn’t read all of it… I– I don’t know if I can. But from the reports I did see, you’re still you. You were almost killed because you stepped between your brother and four bullets to the chest, and I’ll be fuckin’ damned if I said you wouldn’t do that with who you are now. What you endured is fuckin’ harrowing, I’ll be honest. There were very few happy moments from what I saw, and fuck, if you don’t you deserve to be happy, none of the rest of us do.

“I don’t know if I’d read that entire folder if you gave the rest of my life, which I’m thinkin’ is a real long time. But if that’s how long it takes for you to read it, I’ll gladly spend the rest of my days with you. I don’t give a shit where we are. At the school, in this cabin, hell, we could be squatting under a bridge for all I care. I’m tired of being too damn scared of saying I love you. Because I fuckin’ do. And you’re crazy if you think any of this changes a goddamn thing about how I feel.”

It was your turn to be rendered completely speechless. Somehow, in one fell swoop, he’d put the fears that hovered around your head concerning him to rest. The terror that he was going to leave you, the fear that you weren’t good enough, that you didn’t deserve him melted away as you peered into his hazel eyes shining with such conviction you wanted to sob into his arms all over again. 

“You love me?” you asked a little diffidently, and Logan rolled his eyes with a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. 

“It wasn’t obvious? I love you. And before you ask; yes. This is real.” you blew out a breath as he answered your question before you’d even had a chance. How did he know you so well? His hands moved from either side of your neck to your waist, helping you back onto your feet. You continued staring at him in awestruck adoration, still unable to quite believe what he’d said. He loved you. You don’t know why it came as such a shock, he’d shown you almost every day since you danced in the kitchen. Probably before that, in the way, he’d helped redesign your room. In the care he’d taken to learn about your mutation and adapt your new living situation accordingly before he even met you. Before he even believed you existed.

You followed almost blindly as he led you back into the bathroom, opening the cabinet behind the mirror and retrieving what he went to get before you exploded in front of him. Turning you around, he swiped your hair to one side, and you winced slightly at the cooling balm touching your shoulders, his hands gently kneading at the stiff muscles. The aloe took almost instant effect, soothing the angry burns left behind by your shower.

He worked in comfortable silence, snapping the lid back of the bottle and placing it back on the shelf when he was done. His fingertips grazed up and down your slickened arm, before placing both hands back on your shoulders and guiding you back out the bathroom to sit atop the bed. 

“I love you, too.”

Logan froze. Though it seemingly came out of nowhere, you’d said it like you’d wanted to say it for a long, long time. In the moment, he didn’t think he’d cared all that much that you hadn’t said it back to him, but hearing you say those words now, those words he’d been yearning to hear since he first set eyes on you and you teased him for something or other filled him with a warm sense of belonging. 

You smiled and his heart stopped as your eyes shone along with it. How did he get so damn lucky?

Bending at the waist, he tilted your head up with a finger beneath your chin, his other hand braced against your cheek as he moulded his lips against your own, finding an instant, slow rhythm. And if he hadn’t known you were utterly exhausted, he’d have you there and then, gasping and whimpering on his cock. But he could tell by the way you kissed him back, you were shattered. Not that he was in any rush. From the looks of things, it seemed like the two of you would be hiding away for some time.

Pulling away a fraction, Logan reached for the clothes he’d pulled out for you earlier from his closet before he interrupted your shower. It wasn’t anything spectacular, just a pair of incredibly loose sweatpants and a faded t-shirt of his. He slipped the shirt over your head, biting back a smile as it all but hung off your shoulders, and you shot him a flat look. 

“I have my own clothes, ya know?” You pretended you were reluctant, though showed no signs of hesitation when he opened the waistband of the sweatpants for you to step into, pulling the drawstring tight around your waist. 

“I know.” Was all he responded, and you snorted a small laugh as he stepped back, almost to admire his work. You were positively drowning in fabric, the short sleeves of the t-shirt reaching your elbows, sweats hanging low off your hips. But it was comfy and smelt like him, so honestly it didn’t matter to you. “C’mon, I made soup.” He outstretched his hand toward you for you to take, which you did with a suspicious raise of your brow. 

“You had fresh ingredients for soup?” You asked, following behind him as he led you back down the stairs, the crackling of the lit hearth filling you with a sense of cosy tranquillity you never expected to feel again, not after everything that had happened.

“A’ight so I found a couple cans of soup and heated 'em up, same difference.” As if being parted from you robbed him of breath, Logan brought you back into his arms, feeling his chest loosen when you didn’t resist the way he walked you over to the gas stove.

“I’m going to ignore that,” you instinctively took the wooden spoon from the rack of utensils to the right of the backsplash, stirring the bubbling pot and grimacing slightly as you felt the bottom of the pan. Definitely burnt. Though you couldn’t exactly blame that on him. He’d been a little preoccupied with making sure you didn’t plunge the cabin into suffocating shadow. “A gas stove in a wooden cabin is a bold choice.” You mentioned absently, turning the dial for the gas down and watching as the blue flame lessened beneath the iron pan. Logan set his chin atop your head, arms still circling your waist.

“Not my decision. Previous guy’s choice.” he offered as a means of explanation, and you shrugged in acceptance. Much like you thought with most of the decor in the cabin, whilst there were a few things you’d noticed that you were sure were his, the rest you couldn’t see being his interior design choices. Not that Logan had much interior design, even his room at the mansion was pretty barren. 

Reaching above you, Logan pulled open one of the cupboards, keeping one of his arms still wrapped around your middle, and started rifling through the contents. There was a slight clatter of boxes before he pulled one of them out, setting it down on the counter. You eyed it curiously, a warm smile tugging at your lips as you read the italic cursive on the front of the box. 

Honey and Chamomile tea. You dropped your head back against his chest, heart almost exploding when he left briefly to retrieve two mugs, one of them you knew like the back of his hand. 

When the fuck had he found the time to grab your favourite mug? He stood next to you, gas clicking rhythmically as he went to light a second burner, the huff of ignition breaking you from your stare of wonder and watching as he placed the black kettle atop the flame. It was rudimentary, old school but you kind of liked it. It suited him. 

Logan’s heart and eyes softened as he looked down at the top of your head resting against his bicep, not bothering to fight the urge to press a kiss to your hair. 

“I love you.” You whispered, and the words struck him like a bolt of lightning, still completely unused to both saying and hearing them. He let the warmth in his chest wash over him, let the encompassing adoration flood his veins and fill his heart. He couldn’t be by your side in the past, couldn’t save you from the horrors you’d endured. But he was going to make damn sure he was there for your future, whether you’d stayed in the cabin or managed to return to the mansion, he’d ensure he was by your side for all of it. 

Never again would you face these things alone. 

“I love you, too.”

[superblysubpar]

series masterlist | <- Prologue | Chapter 2 ->

chapter summary: As terror reigns in the food court when the Mind Flayer comes to collect, an old friend returns to Hawkins.

🎧 : tracks 02-12

7,615 words // my blog is 18+ // please see the masterlist for warnings - this chapter contains canon-typical gore, mentions of alcohol, blood, vomit, nausea, and parental death // spiderman divider made by @saradika-graphics

“Hey,” his voice cracks, the back of his hand wipes at his nose.

“Hey,” you echo, looking down at the duffel bag at your feet.

A trunk slams closed, knocked twice by your dad’s palm in case you didn’t hear it the first time.

When you look up, he’s smiling at Steve and that same palm is clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, son, you coming with to the train station?”

Steve still hasn’t looked at you, and a mumbled, “No Sir,” and your mom’s unsubtle glare at your father and frantically waved hand from the porch makes him finally catch on.

“Oh, right…um…” he looks at his watch then you and Steve apologetically, “We gotta get going soon, kid, okay?”

“I know,” you nod along with the words and blink about a billion times to keep them at bay, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

Your dad squeezes Steve’s shoulder before he jogs up to the front steps and raises his hands in surrender to your mother, the pair ducking their heads and hissing whispered scolds and apologizes at each other that you try to ignore.

“Did you, um,” you clear your throat and kick the toe of your converse against the crack in your driveway, desperate to say anything impressive, lasting, monumental in terms of your feelings and the moment, but nothing seems right. “You…um…”

Steve doesn’t give you the chance anyways, stealing the air from your lungs when his arms wrap around you quickly, tightly, and like they have no intention of ever dropping. Yours move just as fast, wrapping around his waist and pressing you as close together as possible, your nose squished against his shoulder that dampens beneath your cheek.

He squeezes you harder, a shaky breath slips out of him as your fingers curl into his shirt, knowing what he’s about to do and you can’t stop it.

“Don’t,” he gasps, like speaking is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, he sniffles, and he lets you go, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Steve-“ your tears slip further down your cheeks, turning the cement at his sneakers a darker gray.

His fingers press to his eyes as he quickly jogs down your driveway, a small shake of his shoulders, and then he’s around the corner and gone from your sight.

Your hand presses to your mouth, but the sob still escapes.

It’s all a blur after that.

The getting in the car, arriving at the station, the getting on the train and resting your temple against the cold glass of a window as your mother’s thumb soothes over your knuckles.

The town of Hawkins, Indiana turning more blurry each second, like it’s a distant and underwater memory, until it disappeared altogether.

Your eyes snap open as your forehead smacks the glass window, hard, as the brakes beneath the bus scream in protest at the sudden stop.

Simple Minds blares then fades from your ears and as you push down your headphones to just catch the driver’s apology.

“…‘Bout that. Looks like we got some kind of road closure, let me go see what’s going on folks.”

By folks, he means you and two other passengers who are rolling their own necks and rubbing at bleary eyes.

Around your neck, Simple Mind fades, whispers of We Belong tickle your ears as you look out the window.

At first, you just blink at what you see. A weary and anxious version of you stares back, one with frizzled hair and sunken skin under her eyes and stained and wrinkled clothing. The night beyond her too dark to make out more than the top of a tree line and the edge of a road sign. But then you catch the faint trail of dark clouds against the darker sky.

Not clouds, but a plume of smoke.

“Hawkins!” The driver’s voice whips you and your reflection’s attention to the front of the vehicle, not realizing you’ve stood while staring, hand now gripping the seat back in front of you so tightly, your knuckles hurt.

A uniformed soldier stands next to the driver, solemn faced and waiting.

The bus driver waves his hand at him and says, “Maybe you should have missed the bus, kid.”

“I’m sorry…” your finger slams the stop button on your walkman as you step into the aisle of the bus, “What’s going on?”

The bus driver rolls his fingers at you and your things, motioning you to pick up the pace so it seems as he sighs. “You’re getting off here, since your destination is Hawkins.”

The military man starts towards you, his boots heavy and thunking the whole way down to your seat ominously as the other two passengers just stare and don’t offer any of their help or even a reassuring smile.

“What do you mean I’m getting off here? What am I - hey don’t, what do you think you’re…” your tone sharpens as the uniformed soldier picks up your bags. Feeling as if you have no choice but to start following behind him as he walks back the way he came with each of your bags slung over his shoulders. “Excuse me? Where are you going with my things? Hello? What’s going on?”

“Some sort of fire or something blocking the road,” the driver’s tone attempting to assure you but doing the opposite as he adds on, “The military will escort you the rest of the way into Hawkins.”

“The military will…” you start, confused, as you’re basically shoved down the steps of the bus and you turn back to face your driver with wide eyes as your feet hit the road, “Why is the military in Hawkins?”

The driver snorts and just yells, “Good luck!” then the door slams closed in your face.

Your hands run through your hair as you watch the bus continue without you, watch as it turns down the road it’s directed towards instead of going straight - a blockade made out of olive and tan vehicles and accompanied by flashing blue and red lights in it’s original path.

“Miss,” a deep voice to your left makes you jump, a hand flies over your heart to settle it.

“Sorry,” the uniformed man apologizes, but his hand gestures to an open military Jeep, your bags in the back already as his brisk voice urges you, “I’ll be driving you to where you need to go.”

Your feet carry you a step towards him, seeing now that he can’t be much older than you.

“What’s going on? Why is the military here? Why…”

“The National Guard is usually called in for these sorts of things miss,” he encourages you forward with a gentle tug of your elbow, voice less severe and more soothing.

“These sorts…what? What happened?” You blink at him as he helps you take a step up into the jeep while holding your door open.

“Relief aid after a disaster, miss.”

“Relief aid after a disaster?” You clarify, certain you’d misheard him.

“Yes.”

Your hand stops him from closing the door as you frown, narrowing your eyes.

“What sort of disaster?”

“A fire,” he sighs, eyeing your hand, and you think he might honest to god be considering slamming the door anyways.

“The National Guard was called in to help after a fire?”

“A big one. Can you please-“

“Where?” You accuse, pointing to the smoke, “That’s not Hawkins. Why can’t we drive into Hawkins on the bus?”

“The mall just outside of town. The new bus route to Hawkins goes by the mall. There’s a stop there. Can we go now?”

He glares at your hand until you move it to your lap, then slams your door closed, like that’s all he’ll be saying on the matter.

Turns out, it was all he’d be saying period.

The entire twenty minute drive into town is silent after your several follow up questions go unanswered. And when he lets you out at your unlit and locked house, he quickly climbs back into the driver’s seat and goes back the way he came.

Your fingers brush your temple before they drop in a half-hearted salute as you scowl and mutter under your breath, “Protect and serve, alright.”

You’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours now, save for your nap on the bus that left you more unrested than rested. And now, standing on your front porch, no keys and no lights on and no car in the driveway, you’re beyond stressed, tired, and in need of a gallon of coffee and a hug from your mom.

As you stare up at the stars and think of some sort of plan - it dawns on you what day it is and why your parents might not be home. Your legs and back ache and beg you to sit as you make your way down the driveway once more, leaving your bags right there on the porch - nobody is going to steal your shit.

This is Hawkins.

The worse thing that’s ever happened here is when Sarah Gillespie’s mom had that owl fly into her hair in 5th grade.

As your feet bring you around the corner of Cornwallis, you see the big house at the end of the street is just as dark as your own.

There isn’t a line of cars down the block or kids playing with sparklers or running around with flashlights for night games. There’s no adults all boozed up and laughing around a bonfire, waiting for fireworks. No grill smoke in the air or splashes from the pool in the backyard.

Just one woman, mumbling to herself in a matching skirt and blouse as she yanks a large trunk down from the brick step to the curved walkway.

“See how you like it when I’m not here to buy the groceries, or take your car in for its wash, or pour your whiskey and tell you dinner’s ready you lying, cheating, son of-oh!”

Vivian Harrington’s hand jumps to her chest as she turns to see you next to her car. A mess of your old best friend’s hair and eyes and a few of the same freckles as she blinks at you for a few seconds and then gasps your name and envelopes you in a surprising hug.

Not so surprising though, when you smell brandy on her red lips as she takes the smallest of steps back and asks, “What on earth are you doing here sweetie?”

“I…” It’s a shock to hear her voice after so long, shocked that she’s still Mrs. Harrington, though a slightly more tipsy one, but maybe that was just naivety shielding you from that before, “I was looking for my parents. You didn’t have your party for the fourth?”

“Gosh,” she says, grunting again as she bends to pick up her luggage, offering you a charming smile when you pick it up easily for her. She wipes her brow before resting her hands on her hips to watch you with the next two matching bags. “Honey, I think they might still be at the carnival? Larry threw a whole big thing this year. And we haven’t had one of those parties in…four years? Five? Whenever…John,” she grits out his name before continuing, with a smile you can hear her teeth grinding in, “Started going to the office in Chicago more.”

She slams the trunk down as if it’s an axe and the closure a head.

A shiver drips down your back as she glares at the house.

“Chicago?”

“So he tells me,” she waves a hand and sniffles, dramatically, scrunching her nose as her forehead furrows in a way that you’re sure she’ll be pulling and tugging at in a mirror and fretting over later. “Anyways, that’s where John is and I,” she huffs as her heels sink in to the gravel over their driveway before she tugs open the driver’s door, “I will be in Michigan. At my sister’s house on the lake for the rest of the Summer.”

She makes a little oof noise as she misjudges the seat distance from her butt, righting herself and patting at her hair.

“Mrs. Harrington, are you…” you trail off, unsure if it’s really your place to ask her if she should be driving. Especially when she eyes you cooly and her tone is icy.

“Am I, what, dear?”

Your mouth clamps closed as your clammy fingers flex at your sides before they close the door for her.

“Um, before you go,” you force your best smile and polite tone, “Would you happen to know where Steve is?”

Her fingers turn the key and the car rumbles to life loudly as she squints her emerald eyes at the windshield.

“Work? Could be still at work I suppose probably not at this hour…maybe a date? The carnival perhaps? I never know anymore with him, he’s very…moody, lately.”

“Moody?” You ask, your smile turning into a frown.

“God, yes,” she moans and leans out the open car window, forehead in her palm as she stage whispers to you, like she’s told this secret to everyone, “Just sits out by that pool but never swims in it anymore. Ever since that Wheeler girl broke up with him. It’s honestly been a terrible time trying to fix it all. I mean, I’m well respected, as you know, but there’s only so much I can say and do, you understand?”

“Su…sure,” you nod along like you know what she’s talking about and she reaches out and grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze.

“You’re welcome to wait here for him if you like, I’m sure he’ll not be too long and he can give you a ride to look for your parents? I would, but…”

When she trails off and smiles at you, you take a step away from her car, message clear.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington, drive-“ She’s already halfway down the driveway, fingers waggling out the open window as you finish, “Safely,” with a wince of your shoulders as she nearly takes out the mailbox.

Your shoulders fall as the taillights burn red, then disappear and the quiet night returns. A pricey perfume lingers in the air and floats on the warm Summer breeze. An owl hoots as you sit on the brick doorstep and lean your head against the post, wondering what in the world you’re going to say to him.

Originally, you thought you’d have so much more time to prepare. Thought on the bus ride from New York to Chicago you’d think of something. When you didn’t, you were sure from Chicago to home you would. And even then, you were supposed to be home - supposed to see your parents, sleep in your childhood room and wake up to pancakes with a smiley face made out of bacon and whipped cream before attempting to go find Steve.

And why hadn’t your parents told you about the carnival? They were expecting you, shouldn’t they have been home? Though your dad can’t pass up a corndog, so maybe they just lost track of time. It’ll be fine. Once Steve is home, you’ll…

“You’ll what?” Question muttered under your breath as your head falls into your palms, elbows resting on your bent knees. “Hey Steve, remember me? No? Cool, can I have a ride home?”

A frustrated laugh and groan slip past your lips as you knock your head against your knees and fight off the urge to scream. You know it’s not reasonable to think he wouldn’t remember you at all, his mother did and who knows how much she’d had to drink.

But you know it’ll be weird. Know you’re both very different people than the ones who saw each other last. Know you’ve had lives outside of one another for a very long time.

You’ve gone to school and graduated. Had jobs. Dated, and thensome, multiple people in the years it’s been. He probably made new friends. Has a social life you don’t fit in to anymore - that was already becoming clear the last time you were here.

The words ‘that Wheeler girl’ and ‘moody’ make your teeth scrape against your bottom lip, cheek to your knee as your back rests against the post and you keep your eyes on the end of the driveway, waiting.

The sound of loud, dragging footsteps makes your eyes pinch closed harder before they start to flutter open. Your mouth is dry and your back and neck may be permanently curved from the crouched position you had been sitting in for -

Every bone in your body protests in the snap of you standing upright, blinking at the dark blue sky just starting to turn lighter, pale pink brushed across the top of the trees. The sound of birds chirping barely breaking through the cotton in your ears until you hear a low, deep laugh that pulls your attention to the end of the driveway.

A boy who looks familiar and yet not at all is walking up his driveway. Longer than you’ve ever seen it brown locks all pushed back in a futile attempt as strands fall over his forehead when he smiles at -

“Oh fuck,” you whisper to yourself and blink your eyes closed then open as your tongue wets your lip and you wonder how the hell you’re going to explain just hanging out at his doorstep as he’s showing up with a girl after being gone all night long and -

Your stomach clenches at the sound of his voice, clearer as he gets halfway up the drive.

“That asshole better have my car in the driveway by tomorrow, is all I’m saying, okay?”

Steve’s got his arm slung around the girl’s shoulders, her’s around his waist as they walk slowly, like they need help themselves, but they’re supporting the others weight too. She stifles a yawn with a free hand before speaking.

“I just think you need to sort out your priorities and also…”

The girl’s voice is a little raspy, tinged with sarcasm and sleep as she trails off when she looks up and spots you.

Steve looks at her, the same furrowed lines his mom had hours ago forming on his forehead and the corners of his mouth curved down in a frown when his gaze leaves her eyes to follow their line to you.

He stands up straighter, his arm lingers against her but then falls limply at his side as he takes a step towards you. He scuffs his heels over the loose gravel of the walk and blinks at you.

Steve’s entire body is one big bruise from what you can see, the worst of it all being one of his eyes swollen and dark purple, his lip split fairly fresh from the way the red on his chin and cheek are so stark against his tan skin. His hands go to the top of his head, all of his knuckles broken, blue and purple or dried maroon and the gesture makes his shirt that’s covered in something that looks like a foul mixture of puke, blood, and something slimy lift, exposing the faintest line of skin and dark hair that disappears into his very short shorts.

It all makes your stomach burn and your chest feel so tight when he swallows and he just keeps staring at you. Part of you wants to find whoever did this and strangle them with your bare hands and the other part of you is…well you don’t know what it is except confusing, and all you can think to say is:

“What are you wearing?”

The girl’s laugh barks out of her in one short burst before her hands slap over her mouth. Until she’s letting them drop and saying, “Steve? Steve!” As he takes off in a run.

His shoulder slams into the gate of his backyard as you and the girl run after him, only skidding to a stop on his back patio as he falls directly into his pool, fully clothed.

Turquoise water illuminated by the underwater lights splashes up and out over the lips of the pool as his body sinks to the bottom. A dark blue Adidas hits the bottom and pushes him back up forcefully, his body shaking as he gasps loudly when his head breaks the surface of the water.

“Fuck! Shit! Oh my god this hurts!”

“Yeah no shit, Harrington! You’re covered in cuts and you just dived into chlorine!” The girl throws her hands up into the air.

Steve’s hands push him up and out of the pool so he can roll out of it ungracefully. He lays with his back against the cement, chest heaving while he keeps his eyes closed.

When he opens them again, he looks at you, then stands with difficulty it seems. Water drips off of his outfit, it curls his hair behind his ears, and pools in his cupid’s bow.

He swipes at his eyes, wincing, and blinks at you but talks to the other girl, “Rob-Robin,” he shivers through the words, teeth clicking together, “You see her too, right? I’m not…this isn’t like a weird dream, right?”

The girl, Robin, looks at you, then Steve, “Yeah, I see her. Who’s…her?”

“I’m-“ Your voice breaks when he gasps out your name in a barely choked back sob.

He falls forward, head landing heavily on your shoulder as his body curls into yours, while shaking fingers grip your shirt at your hips and he just sobs. Cool pool water and his warm breath compete to make you shiver as you run a hand over his spine.

Your eyes widen as they stare over his shoulder at the girl who’s watching him with as much worry as you feel. It’s a whisper against his temple, and it’s all you can think to say, “Hey, stranger.”

His sob rattles your chest as he holds you tighter, like he has no intention of letting you go.

Steve’s staring at you.

And, to be fair, you guess he doesn’t really have anywhere else to look and you’re staring at him too.

“Take a picture,” you soak another piece of cotton with alcohol as you whisper, “It’ll last longer.”

“Sorry,” he clears his throat as he looks down at the floor then immediately back up into your eyes. His one good eye bounces between yours before his tongue pokes at the cut that just won’t quit on his lip as his adam’s apple bobs and he says, “You shouldn’t have come back.”

The words make you flinch, just barely, but enough for the cotton next to his eyebrow to nudge against his skin just a little too hard.

“Shit,” he hisses, grabbing the hem of your shirt and tugging while his lips pout, and he whines, “That’s not what I meant. Don’t attack me.”

Your eyes roll as your fingers go back to tenderly swiping over him, being more gentle with him than you would an egg you don’t want to crack just yet. Each second you slowly patch him up a new discovery about the boy you don’t really know anymore reveals itself in forms of facial hair, freckles you’ve never seen, something that smells an awful lot like your mom’s hairspray, and eyes that haven’t changed one bit aside from almost swallowing his pupils whole because they’re so dilated.

“Glad to see you’re still a dramatic baby,” your voice is as soft as the touch of your fingers against his jaw. Your pulse quickens when he leans his weight into the hold more, his eyelashes fluttering while you turn his eyebrow into the light. “Maybe if you sat still and kept your mouth shut for more than two seconds I could finish this.”

“I like her,” Robin’s voice rises with the steam from behind the closed white shower curtain directly across from the counter Steve is leaning against. Her words breaking up the quiet ‘Never-Ending Story’ theme she had previously been humming.

Not for the first time tonight you wonder, a) if Steve didn’t have something to lean against, would he collapse, and b) how long Robin and Steve have been dating.

You still aren’t sure what is going on. Why they are so beat up. Why Robin didn’t want to shower alone or why the silence seemed to make Steve crazy until his shoulders relaxed when you suggested turning the stereo in his room on. The voices and music of Journey faintly coming from the other room as Robin threw clothes over the shower curtain and Steve spread his legs for you to stand between while he dripped pool water all over the white tiles. All mumbled apologies as knees and thighs bumped, as his hand squeezed at you whenever you started on a new injury.

Like now, as some sort of healing ointment rolls over his brow and his fingers dig into your hip. Your murmured sorry lost as he frowns at the air and sarcastically asks, “Oh do you? Nobody asked for a comment from the peanut gala Buckley.”

“Gallery,” Robin and you say together.

Steve’s frown turns more pout and you sigh when his lip starts bleeding again. He holds an arm over his stomach, fingers twitching at his ribs when you carefully place a bandage over his brow.

“I’m pretty sure it’s gala.”

Your thumb gently swipes over his lip with a towel, his gasp warm against your nose as you lean in to inspect it.

“Dingus,” Robin’s sigh more dramatic than his, “Please, I have to hear, why you’re so certain it’s gala. Peanut gala? Why would peanuts be going to a gala?”

“Oh,” he speaks around you trying to get his lip to stop bleeding, a useless attempt since he won’t stop moving, “And gallery makes so much more sense? At least mine gives Mr. Peanut a reason to wear his top hat and coat and eyeglass thingy.”

“Monocle,” you offer quietly, taking his hand from your elbow and assessing the damage to his knuckles. “And I don’t think peanut gallery is about Mr. Peanut at all.”

Steve’s hand pulls out of your hold, his fingers curl under your jaw and nudge it up, so you’ll look at him. He shakes his head no. “You shouldn’t have come back. Why’d you come back? Why are you here?”

Your pulse races, far too close to his fingers, and you wonder if he can feel it. Wonder if he can see it in your eyes how scared you are and how brave you’re trying to be.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?”

He seems to think you thought he meant here, at his home, and not Hawkins, because his jaw clenches as his thumb taps at your chin and you wonder if he even realizes he’s still holding your face.

“I didn’t say you shouldn’t be here. I asked why you’re here. Because,” he laughs, he shakes his head like he can’t really believe it, “I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around it. And sure, I’m not the smartest guy around and I took some pretty hard hits tonight, but even I know that it’s weird for a girl, one who I haven’t spoken to in over three years, to have been here, sitting at my doorstep, waiting for me, and is now patching me up like…like…”

“Yeah?” Your voice cracks as tears threaten to spill over your lash line. Body too hot as steam from the shower clings to your skin and anger starts to boil over inside of you. “Well I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around why that boy who doesn’t understand why the girl, one who he used to call his best friend until he stopped calling her and never once came to visit her, started sobbing when he saw her and is covered in injuries he won’t explain!”

“I’m sorry,” Steve laughs, and stands up, toe to toe with you as he looks down his nose and huffs a breath out of it, hand letting go of your face to grab your shoulders and shake, “But when he stopped calling her? And yeah, I didn’t visit! Because you stopped visiting, because-“

“I only stopped calling because it was embarrassing!” You shout at him, shoving his chest and watching his face twist in pain when you do.

Steve gasps and you swipe the tears falling down your cheeks away as you both glare at each other. He rubs his hand over his chest and side with a grimace.

“Take off your shirt.”

He shakes his head no.

“Take off your shirt right now Harrington or I swear to god I’ll-“

“You’ll what!?” He pouts at you.

Your fingers tug at the hemline of his shirt, yanking at it as you grumble, “Still so fucking stubborn, I can’t stand you-“

He swats at your hands and grumbles right back, “I can’t stand you…”

His name is gasped out of you as you get his shirt up and over his ribs. He gives up, arms falling limply at his sides as you continue to pull at the shirt until it’s around his neck. He stares at you, both of you not saying a word but understanding as he slowly raises his arms with a wince and you pull the fabric carefully over his head.

It falls at your feet as tears fill your eyes, your fingers brush over purple and red splotched and angry skin. Steve flinches as your fingers glide over his collarbone, hands instinctively going to your hips again and squeezing. Goosebumps rise to the surface of his skin as your tears fall down your cheeks once more.

“Hey,” he whispers, he pulls you into his chest, one that you can’t believe is covered in dark hair. Arms that ripple with muscles you’ve never seen circle around your waist as he mumbles into your hairline, “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

Your nose presses to his neck, dragging against his skin as you shake your head no and pull away from him.

“You tell me who did this right now.”

Steve stares at you and then he runs his hands through his hair and closes his eyes.

A throat is cleared and you jump, hand over your eyes as Robin’s voice cracks behind the curtain, “Sorry, didn’t really know when to break that up, but I’m getting pretty cold in here…”

Neither of you had heard the water turn off, or noticed the mirror was growing far less foggy during your screaming match. Steve’s cheek blossom pink as he throws a towel over the curtain.

Your arms cross over your chest as Steve’s do the same while she pulls the shower curtain back.

Robin smiles shyly at you and then looks at Steve.

“You got cocoa?”

His brows furrow together and he looks at her like she’s crazy when he asks, “What?”

“Hot cocoa,” she clarifies, holding the towel to her chest and then walking into his bedroom.

She starts pulling open drawers until she finds what she’s looking for. When you both just stare at her, she whistles and turns her fingers for you to spin.

Steve rolls his eyes but does as she asks and you do the same. A towel drops and clothes slip over skin while the radio plays quietly.

“Conversations like this are always easier with cocoa, I think,” she says, much closer now and you turn to find her digging around in his drawers for a comb, a sweatshirt and shorts on.

Steve hands her one as he asks, “Conversations like this?”

Robin shrugs her shoulders, looking at you in the mirror as she detangles wet hair easily and mumbles, “Understand why you got your nickname now. Top tier products, dingus. I approve.”

He rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Robin. Focus.”

“Right, well she,” Robin nods her head back towards you, “Wants to know about all of this,” she gestures to all of Steve’s face and bruised body with a hand. “Christ, you’re hairy. And after tonight, I think I deserve to be filled in on quite a bit, don’t you? So. Cocoa? Marshmallows?”

The way Robin raises her eyebrows at Steve and doesn’t leave much room for arguing has you rolling your shoulders back and asking him, “Your mom still keep that fancy cinnamon kind on the top shelf in the back of the pantry?”

Steve’s a terrible story-teller.

He paces while he talks, he gestures with his hands and leaves sentences hanging in the air as he waits for you to fill in gaps he doesn’t quite remember or know all the details of himself. He asks you to give him a second when he sips his own cocoa and closes his eyes trying to remember things, rubbing at his Hawkins Phy Ed sweatshirt while he thinks. Steve bounces around in a non-linear, confusing timeline order that has you and Robin asking question after question and him clenching his jaw and telling you that, “He’s getting there, alright?”

And none of it makes any sense. None of it.

Not Will Byers going missing but not missing. Not the spray paint on the theater and Nancy Wheeler sleeping but not sleeping with Jonathan Byers. Not the dinner with Barb’s parents and oh yeah his party with the pool and Nancy and Barb going missing afterwards. Not the supernatural dogs that are actually lizards. Not the gray fleshy human not human that he hit with a baseball bat full of nails while Jonathan and Nancy set it on fire in a bear trap and the Christmas lights talked to Joyce Byers. Not the world that’s somehow underneath you but not anymore because the gate, whatever the fuck that is, is closed. Not the girl with superpowers who doesn’t have superpowers anymore though, you guess.

Because that’s what Steve thinks, now, caught up to tonight and the few days leading up to it. He’s just finished telling you about the creature, the giant thing made out of people that destroyed the mall and caused the so called “fire” the National Guard was called in for.

Your name is barely heard through the ringing in your ears as you frantically search his entryway for keys.

His hand shakes your shoulder, hard, and you stop, blinking tears away as he asks you, “What are you doing?”

“Keys,” you gasp, fingers rubbing at your eyes, “I need your car keys. I need to go home, I-“

Steve shakes his head, “I don’t have my car. They had to keep it to sweep it for bugs and explosives and-“

Your head shakes as you rip your shoulder from his hold and yank his front door open. Heartbeat thudding in your ears in time with the soles of your sneakers against the pavement as you run down his driveway.

Sprinklers tick on lawns and mowers wave to you as you run down the street. The town of Hawkins oblivious to what’s been happening underneath them, around them, oblivious that their loved ones could be gone, could be in danger.

Your stomach heaves at the thought, anger with yourself fueling your sprinting legs to go even faster. How could you stay at Steve’s so long? Why’d you go there in the first place? What if-

Your feet only slow when you reach your house.

The driveway still sits empty.

Your bags still rest on the porch.

A sob rips out of you as you run around to the back of the house and search the ground. A large rock hits your fingers, and you don’t think twice about grabbing it and throwing it at your back door.

Your hand pushes through the shards of glass as you unlock the door and push it open.

Steve finds you on the ground, clutching your stomach and screaming, chemical bottles open and drained on the tiles around you, bags of your mother’s gardening soil ripped open on the table and his stomach heaves.

He pulls you into his chest and tries to get you stop, pressing his nose to your cheek and rocking you as he pleads, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, you have to stop. You have to stop screaming. Please be quiet, don’t-“

Your hands shove at his chest as you scramble over your bags and boxes that had been shipped a week prior, left in the entryway unopened.

“Get away from me,” you sob, rushing to the stairs as you yell, frantic, “Mom! Dad!”

Photos of you and them stare back at you each skipped step up the staircase as you turn on the lights with shaking fingers and beg the universe for this to be some sick and twisted nightmare. When you push open their bedroom door and find the bed unslept in Steve says your name softly, behind your shoulder.

Your hands shove at him when you turn to face him, smacking at his chest and hoping it hurts as you sob, “Why didn’t you check on them! Why didn’t you call me!”

Steve’s eyes fill with tears, “I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone! I shouldn’t have even told you! I could get in a lot of trouble, I could-“

“We have to call the police, we have to call-“

Steve shakes your shoulders, begging you to listen to him. “We can’t. Hopper knew. He’s dead. There’s nobody else to tell. The government already knows. It is the government.”

“Why’d you stop writing to me! Why didn’t you come with them to visit! Why didn’t you…you…” Your hands shove at him harder, tears and snot all over your face as your fight drains out of you. Anger turns to grief turns to hatred turns to hopelessness in seconds within you, not even knowing what to be the most upset about anymore.

“You stopped coming back,” Steve chokes out, grabbing your hands and pulling you towards him slowly. “Because every time I ran into your dad at the store and he asked me if I wanted to come over for dinner I knew I had to say no because I’d feel like a loser. Coming over here and pretending I was a part of your family still, knowing you didn’t want that anymore. Would have to pretend like the pictures of you and hearing about how much better your life was in New York wasn’t killing me because you didn’t need me or Hawkins anymore, okay?”

He falls to the ground with you in his arms as you sob, clutching his shirt in your fingers and pressing your screams to his chest so they’re muffled.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles into your hairline as his arms squeeze around you tighter and he presses his cheek to the top of your head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

The key to your dad’s Bronco swings loosely from your fingers as you hop up the step to the door and tap your knuckles against it.

When he doesn’t answer, you let yourself in and close the door softly behind you as you glance up the stairs.

Music plays loudly from the cracked door of his bedroom and when you hear his voice singing along, you lift the camera from around your neck and start fiddling with the settings, pulling the shutter back as you climb the staircase quietly.

As you peek through the ajar door, you find Steve in front of his mirror, twirling a can of Farrah Fawcett spray in the air while his other hand runs through damp, not wet, hair, before he catches the can in the air and sprays twice.

Then, he sings directly into the can and you snap a picture of it.

He spins at the sound of your laugh and frowns at the held aloft camera in his face.

“Please,” you smile timidly at him as your shoulder rests against the doorframe and the toe of your sneaker nudges the door open wider. “Don’t stop the performance on my account.”

Steve quickly presses the power button on his stereo and picks up a vest from his desk chair. His cream colored shoulders slip into the maroon vest and your lips twitch at the coincidence of the song and outfit he’s chosen today.

“They don’t knock in New York?” He asks, pulling on a pair of Nikes. Lacing them up and avoiding your gaze as he looks around the room, eyes landing on a sheet of paper and nodding his head, like he’s reminding himself of its location.

“Oh they do,” you shrug your shoulders, “ S’why I left.”

“Ha-ha,” he bites his cheek when he stands, hands finding a home on his hips, “So what’s up? Why are you here?”

Something in your chest tightens at the question, especially when he grabs the sheet of paper and looks at you with a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes and adds, “Don’t you have work?”

Your head shakes no, as you beg yourself to say something, anything, to let him know how sorry you are. To let him know even an ounce of how you’ve been feeling lately. But nothing seems right and it’s selfish to want to have this conversation right now, so you just say, “I start on Monday. Wanted to come say good luck on the interview today.”

He sighs, cheeks and tips of his ears pink as he walks past you out of his room and down the stairs. “Thanks.”

“Family Video, right?” Your tone forced into something light and pleasant as you follow him. “Sounds like a good gig.”

Steve snorts as he grabs his car keys from the table. “Yeah, okay.”

He holds his front door open for you as he walks out it and you follow with a confused, “You don’t think so?”

“No, I do,” he locks the door behind him, shoulders staying up at his ears even after the shrug of them is over, “I just don’t think you, the newest photo journalist and first female one at The Hawkins Post, actually thinks being a clerk at Family fucking Video is a good gig.”

“Well, I do, and that’s all I wanted to say so…” your sweating fingers fiddle with the key as you try to catch his gaze and smile at him, deciding that everything you actually wanted to say isn’t worth it, not when you’re not even sure he’ll want to listen to you. “Good luck, Harrington.”

Your back turns to him as your hand waves pathetically when you start down to his mailbox and Robin Buckley bikes up his driveway.

She smiles at you and hops off her bike, “Hey! How are you?”

“I’m good, good…” your tongue licks over your bottom lip as you squint from the sun at her friendly smile, shielding your eyes with your hand, “Good luck on the interview, today.”

“Thanks!” She turns to Steve behind you, “Ready, Dingus?”

He must nod or something because she waves at you and starts guiding her bike up the rest of the driveway.

When you hop into your dad’s car and turn the key in the ignition, the cassette you’d been playing starts blaring loudly. Your fingers curl around the steering wheel as you inhale then exhale, trying to find the courage to face another day without them and without the Steve you desperately needed, but weren’t even sure existed anymore.

Things weren’t the way they had been with you two, maybe they wouldn’t ever be that way again.

Your head smacks the roof of the car when Steve says your name at your open window, breathlessly.

He winces as your hand rubs at your temple and the other turns the stereo down.

“Sorry, but do you…” he swallows and crosses his arms, uncrosses them and shoves his hands in his front pockets and rocks back on his heels.

“Do I…?” You offer, heart thudding in your chest when Steve looks up from where his sneaker kicks at the gravel and smiles at you.

“Would you um, if I get this job, I’ll get free rentals, and I was just thinking that maybe we could, if you wanted to, have a movie night this Friday? Grab a pizza or something and…talk?”

“Yeah,” you clear your throat and sniffle, blinking your eyes about a billion times and telling yourself to just wait until he’s gone to start crying. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Cool,” he smiles around the word. A real one. One that meets his eyes.

“Cool,” you echo with your own smile.

Steve taps the roof of the Bronco twice and it makes something in your chest tighten and melt at the same time. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder and starts walking backwards, “Well I should…”

“Right, yeah, good luck,” you tell him again, yelling it out the open window.

Steve smiles at you once more and then jogs up to his car, whistling along to the song playing out of your car. Robin stands at the door on the passenger side of his BMW, pretending not to watch but blatantly watching while Steve says something you can’t hear. His arms held out in a gesture that seems to say, ‘what?’ ,before he’s clapping and motioning for her to get in the car. Even from this distance you can see her eyes roll.

Your smile is barely hidden, bottom lip squished between your teeth.

Maybe things not being like they were between you two will be a good thing.

Change is inevitable, and time will keep ticking by whether you’re ready for it to or not.

[unfortunate17]

Wilmon and "can I walk you to the bus stop?"

thank you 💜

this one FULLY got away from me, but hopefully you don’t mind too much 💀. I promise one day I’ll write happy, fluffy wilmon and not just them screaming at each other - but for now, here’s them screaming at each other (again)

cw: mildly nsfw

“Can I walk you to the bus stop?”

Simon snorts, wiping fiercely at his eyes as he struggles past the school gate, hobbling towards the bend in the road. For the first time in years, he wishes his mother could pick him up from school like she used to when he was little. She always knew how to cheer him up - the two of them could turn the radio up, maybe even manage to drown out the pounding in his head. “No.”

Despite keeping his eyes trained on the ground, Simon can hear Wille stumbling beside him. “Simon, come on, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I saw Vincent push you - it looked like it hurt.”

Simon collapses into the bench the second they reach the bus shelter, the pain in his ankle subsiding immediately. “Oh, so now you care if I’m okay or not?”

Wille stills, picking nervously at his nails. He wets his lips, “What do you - what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Simon sneers, “you never seemed to care before. You know how many times I’ve walked down to the bus stop by myself?”

Wille wrings his hands, his dark eyes wide as he stands there in his expensive sweater and new sneakers. “I’m - I’m sorry - I didn’t know that you - ”

“You’re always sorry,” Simon buries his face in his hands, trying to keep the tears at bay, “And you’re always - you always have an excuse. That’s why you never let me stay,” his voice breaks, something deep and dark and ugly rising in his chest. “You didn’t want people to know I was with you - you just - you’d fuck me and just make me - ”

“I never did that,” the shock in Wille’s voice is palpable. Gravel crunches under his feet as he steps closer, moving to take a seat at his side. “You’re the one who didn’t want to stay. You always said Linda was waiting for you and - ”

“I lied,” Simon breathes, tears finally welling over. He sniffles embarrassingly, “Of course I wanted to stay, why would you - Wille we were dating. And you just - stopped talking to me because I didn’t want to hide it anymore.”

“That’s not what happened,” Wille breathes, aghast. His face is pale, mouth trembling, “you - you left. All I did was ask you to wait - and then you - you said that we had time, you said you were - ” his voice drops, low and hoarse, “you promised me you were mine - and then you left.”

Simon makes an incredulous noise, “When the fuck did I - ”

“When we were having sex,” Wille bursts, and a hazy, pleasure-soaked memory blooms at the forefront of Simon’s mind.

It had been raining that night - storming even, but neither of them had even spared the window a second glance, too lost in the heat of each other’s skin. Wille had fingered him that time, and then promptly finished before he could even press inside, squirming with embarrassment as Simon laughed.

They’d spent the rest of the time kissing, Wille’s palm tight around him, driving Simon further and further into madness. He vaguely remembers that Wille had been talking the entire time too, his voice sweet and breathless, telling Simon how good he looked, how hot he was, how much Wille loved him.

At the very end, he’d pulled Simon in by the hip, nuzzling their noses together. “You’re mine, right?” he’d asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Simon had gasped back, nearly drunk as he scrabbled at his shoulders, “always, Wille. I’m always yours - I’ll always be - ”

Wilhelm had kissed him then, hungry and deep. “One day I’m actually going to fuck you,” he’d murmured into his mouth, sending sparks showering down his spine.

It had been those words that had finally tipped Simon over the edge, chest stuttering as he watched Wille work him through it. After it was all over, he’d laughed, “If you ever last that long.”

Wilhelm had been adorably bashful, ducking his head, his face pink, “it’s not my fault, okay? You’re so hot.”

For the next half hour Simon had spent with Wille, they’d curled up together, Wille’s head tucked under his chin. “Maybe you’ll finally get around to it sometime next year.”

Wille’s arms around him had tightened, squeezing so hard Simon’s ribs had hurt, “Yeah,” he’d said breathlessly, kissing the skin over Simon’s heart, “next year.”

Now, the memory sits heavy in his stomach, making his heart clench in his chest. “That was sex talk,” Simon says, shivering.

Something in Wille’s expression shatters. “So you didn’t - “ his throat bobbles as he clears his throat, “you didn’t mean it, did you?”

And Simon feels it now - the age old urge to be cruel, to protect his own heart from this closeted, rich boy who has the ability to break it in half on a whim. Still, he’s never had much self-preservation, not when it comes to witnessing Wilhelm in pain. Slowly, he takes his hand, threading their fingers together one by one. “I didn’t say that,” he whispers. “I never said I didn’t mean it.”

Wille tightens his grip, shifting to cradle Simon’s hand in both of his own. He leans his head against Simon’s shoulder, sending a shock of warmth down his spine. “Let’s fix this?” He begs. “Please, Simon? I can’t live like this anymore.”

Simon swallows back a tight clutch of emotion, turning to press a lingering kiss to the top of Wille’s soft hair. “Okay,” he breathes, leaving the I can’t live without you either unsaid.

[onlyhappyvibes]

Bay window bus 🤙🏻

[clemsblog]

[demoralised]

V12 Volkswagen bay window bus

[rebouks]

Robin sighed wearily as Levi came sauntering toward his locker, tugging something off his back and gesticulating wildly. Against his better judgement, he removed his headphones to listen to whatever his classmate was blathering on about.

Levi finally retrieved what he was after and triumphantly brandished a post-it note in Robin’s face.

“You think this is funny, huh?!”

The note thrust in front of him had the word “ashole” written on it, spelt with one S. Robin knew that Levi had written it himself and stuck it on his own back, but there wasn’t much point in entertaining the other boy’s idiocy; instead, he shrugged indifferently.

“C’mon Mutey, deny it at least.” Levi scowled accusingly, waving his post-it like a sad little flag.

Robin shook his head and rolled his eyes as he kicked his locker shut; he wasn’t in the mood for Levi’s increasingly desperate, stupid games.

“Oi!” Levi spat, dropping his note as he took off after his target.

Robin winced as he slammed through the double doors, their old hinges rattling with indignation, but he was much faster than his shorter classmate and he was already ahead. He almost grinned as he expertly launched himself down the staircase, feeling the familiar prickle of frustration beating within Levi’s chest as he sped after him.

Gravel spat haphazardly around Robin as he ground to a halt behind a confused Oscar, but Levi wasn’t as quick; he collided into his father face first, landing at his feet with an unceremonious thud.

“Watch-…” Levi’s exclamation died in his throat as he gazed up at the figure looming over him and Robin realised he’d never seen Oscar before. He’d only attended Bay Cove Elementary since the start of term and for the last few months, Robin had either been picked up by his grandparents, or taken the bus home.

“You okay down there, pal?” Oscar’s brow quirked slightly, glancing between Robin and Levi questioningly.

Levi stuttered something unintelligibly, hastily scrambling away from Oscar and giving it legs toward the closest bus. He was terrified.

“Is that kid bothering you?” Oscar asked.

Robin shook his head, already making his way toward the car.

Oscar hummed, slamming the door shut behind him in his usual, heavy-handed way. “You sure?” Robin scoffed as he fastened his seatbelt. “I’m sure. He just wants me to say something.”

“Oh, yeah?” Robin nodded. “He takes it personally that I don’t.” Oscar’s brow shot up. “He tell you that?” “No.”

“How’d you figure?” Oscar cast as sideways glance at Robin as the station wagon roared to life, its windows juddering in their frames as if in protest. “It’s obvious.” Robin shrugged loosely.

“If he’s being a pain, you just let me kn-…”

Robin turned toward Oscar with a grin. “Why, what’re you gonna do? Meet him in the playground during lunch, show him what for?” Oscar cackled, throwing the gear stick into reverse with a clunk that reverberated around them as harshly as his laughter.

“Something like that.” Laughing in turn at Oscar’s response, Robin replied, “I’m good, dad.” Oscar tore his gaze from Robin and focused on the rear-view mirror. “Alright, well-.. ready for the dreaded dentist?”

Robin slumped in his seat unenthusiastically. “Can’t wait.” Oscar nodded in agreement. “Shit, ain’t it?” “Something like that.” Robin smirked playfully.

Previous // Next

[starlit-crossing]

A Ghost of Yourself Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - Stuck in the System

---

The days that followed Danny’s half reveal were primarily uneventful. The GIW were still swarming the state and with his hiccup at the state border they had begun to search Indiana as well. Since he was so far north it had taken a day to leave. With each stop he was able to test the limits of his parents’ invention. If the GIW were near the Greyhound routed stops, he would be able to practice keeping his emotions in check. As his parents had explained, any expression of emotion on a standard level or higher seemed to trigger the tracker.

Anything from frowning, laughing, even going wide eyed seemed to ping on the radar. Thinking about emotions and keeping any thoughts internal didn’t seem to have enough strength to activate the device. It wouldn’t be long before his parents realized this and figured out a way to upgrade the tech. At the very least it was enough to get him to Gotham without being tailed.

After leaving Indiana things began to quite down. Danny was able to grab a few things during the scheduled stops. Books, crosswords, and the like were the only things keeping boredom at bay. Sleep was a welcomed friend on the drive, allowing him to skip many hours that would’ve been spent staring out the window. As Gotham approached sleep became harder to hold. He could barely fend off the instinct to bounce his leg.

Blüdhaven soon came into view and each stop felt longer than the last. On the second to last stop in the city, a small group of men made their way onto the bus. Each was dressed similarly, a chorus of jeans and t-shirts, all of them looked to be in their mid to early thirties. They had climbed onto the bus just after everyone had hopped out to stretch and use the restroom. They had squeezed themselves into a single row towards the back with duffel bags at their feet. The oldest of the four was leading the group and had a scar running down the side of his cheek. The youngest picking up the end looking like he’d explode if you tried to talk to him.

They were obviously not part of the group and were up to no good. Part of Danny wanted to at the very least tell someone, to get the authorities to involved to question them. That was the last thing he needed right now, so he turned a blind eye and shuffled back onto the bus with everyone else. Gotham and Blüdhaven had their own heroes that could worry about some sketchy guys sneaking around. So, he kept his head facing forward, he only had a little longer to go.

“Hey, Boss?” He heard one of the men whisper rather loudly. “What do you think happened to Ricky? You know he don’t up and leave like that.”

“If I’m being honest, he’s probably in a cell. That car was stolen, and we hadn’t gotten the chance to switch the plates around yet.” A gravely voice answered mostly the man with the scar.  “So long as he keeps his mouth shut, we can still finish the job. So, let’s do the same and just get to Gotham.”  It hadn’t even been five minutes when the sirens went off behind the bus. The driver pulled off to the side of the road. Danny could hear the one of the men’s breathing quicken and a zipper being undone.

“What do you think you’re doing?” The oldest urged, the zipper quickly closing.

“I’m getting ready! There is no way they just happened to pull of this bus!” Another voice frantically answered, if Danny’s guess was right, it was probably the jumpy one from earlier.

“Keep it cool, the driver probably ran a red or something.” The leader said trying to calm him down.

“Or Ricky ratted us out to the police. You know he doesn’t want to go back to jail and would do anything for a lighter sentence.” The young one unzipped the duffel, the clicks of a gun being cocked sounding behind him. The next few seconds happened faster than Danny expected. The leader of the small gang growled in annoyance grabbing a rifle of his own firing it into the ceiling of the bus. The other passengers fell in between the seats trying to garner any cover.

“Drop your weapons!” An officer shouted from the front of the bus as he ran up the steps. Rather than listening to the man’s reasonable request the gang leader moved forward and grabbed the closest civilian to him.

Fuck! Danny thought as his shirt was stretched as the older man pulled him from his seat. Holding him close, the leader aimed the gun to his head, eyeing up the officer ahead. When everything settled the men were in a standoff. Danny forced himself to keep a straight face, I haven’t gotten this far just to die as a hostage a city away! He caught the stare of the police man who looked confused at his lack of a reaction. Sirens wailed in the distance as more cops were making their way here. Danny searched for anything that could help, he couldn’t risk his powers and there were too many people here to chance fighting the men with guns.

Tired of the quiet the man holding him began to shout demands, “What are you doing just standing there! We want a car! And nobody better do anything or we’ll start shooting!”

*Crash!* Danny watched as something crashed through the window. It was a small silver canister about the size of Danny’s hand. Smoke began to fill the bus causing everyone to cough and blocking his vision. Someone must have entered through the back emergency exit as fighting could be heard behind his captor. Danny took the chance, shoving his elbow into the leader’s stomach and grabbing the gun from his hands and throwing it down the aisle. The man roared in rage swiping the air in front of him. Danny dodged easily, even the Box Ghost faster than this guy. Danny could hear the cop behind him trying to get people out, so whoever was in the back of the bus was hopefully on his side. He took advantage of the smoke cover, using its cover to keep the on viewers from seeing him pummel the guy. His previous captor wasn’t ready for the quick barrage of jabs coming at him from the teen previously known to him to be weak and scrawny.

Danny was about to try a knock the leader out when he saw the man convulse and fall to the floor. Standing where the old guy stood was a man dressed in black and blue wearing a domino mask and holding two black sticks the length of his fore arms. It was definitely a superhero, but not Batman though there was a bird on his chest. He spun the sticks around before storing them away.

“Hey, kid, are you okay? Let’s get you off this bus.” He asked, placing a hand on Danny’s shoulder.

“Yea, I’m fine but I need my stuff.” Danny explained, keeping his tone even, he walked over to his seat and grabbed the backpack. Nothing seemed to be amiss and aside from the bullet holes in the ceiling it didn’t seem anyone had gotten hurt. The hero followed him off the bus making sure he went to the police and ambulance rather than sneaking off. A woman stood near; she was dressed nicer than the other cops with a bulletproof vest over her uniform her brown hair in a low ponytail.

“Nightwing, good to know you’re back in town.” The woman said exasperated. So, this guy is called Nightwing. Okay, that’s an actually a good hero name, also the first hero I’ve met outside Amity. Danny thought excitedly watching the two speak.

“It’s just a visit, Chief Rohrbach. I just got back from helping the League and the Bat wanted me to stop by Gotham. I was just passing through and thought I could help.” Nightwing seemed more relaxed now, his hands on his hips despite the fight moments before.

“None the less we appreciate it when a hero has their eyes on helping our city. So, who’s the kid?” The chief’s attention on him. Both adults’ gazes were focused on him now.

“Uh, I’m Danny. I was on the bus to visit some family in Gotham?” He lied, hoping that was enough for them to just pat him on the back and let him continue his merry way.

“Okay, Danny and is there a last name to go with that? You were just in a shooting we should probably give your family a called.” Ms. Rohrbach asked pulling out a notepad.

“I plead the fifth?” Danny retorted sheepishly.

“Kid, that’s not how that works and you’re not under oath.” Nightwing laughed, “Listen if your home life isn’t safe or you’re worried about being in trouble we can help. Just give the officer your name and we can help.”

Danny looked between the two of them, before sighing. “Nope, can’t do it. Just Danny for me, thanks.”

“Okay then Danny, you can join be in the back of my car and we’ll take a trip down to the station.” The chief rolled her eyes grabbing his arm and leading him to the car. Once he was inside sat on the leather seats, she locked the doors and turned to Nightwing. The stepped away just far enough that Danny couldn’t make out what they were saying. He strained to hear anything, but they kept their voices at a whisper. Eventually the cop came back, sliding into the driver’s seat before pulling away from the bystanders and scared bus riders.

“So… Am I being arrested?” Danny questioned; she gave him a strange look in the rear-view mirror.

“No, but we can’t just let a kid go back on the streets after being held hostage. Without your last name or the names of your guardians, we’re going to have to find somewhere for you to stay till things get sorted out.” She lamented; eyes glued to the road ahead.  “Fortunately for you, I had just been helping one of our local CPS agents safely place a kid into one of the few foster homes we have. So, I know that everything in Blüdhaven is full at the moment. You get your wish kid; you’re going to Gotham.”

“Really? You have that few homes willing to take on new kids in Blüdhaven?” He inquired, leaning his head against the window.

“Oh, we have plenty of homes, but it’ll never be enough due to how many kids are in the system. Not to mention the ones willing to take in metahuman youths.” She went on, pulling on to the highway connecting the two cities.

“I’m not a metahuman.” Danny stated. Not a lie, but also not the whole truth.

“I never said you were it doesn’t change the fact we need a place for you to stay safe. For yourself and for whatever courts might need you to testify down the line. I had someone give the Gotham police department a heads up on our arrival, so we’ll have somewhere to stay very soon.” She smiled.

“Oh, joy.” Sarcasm almost bleeding through as he watched the highway race by.

---

When Danny arrived in Gotham, he was not given the courtesy of tour. Or an explanation as the once sunny skies of Blüdhaven were replaced with the dark, grimy overcast of Gotham.

Sam would both love and hate this city, he thought looking at the old gothic architecture and gargoyles sitting among the buildings. The lack of plants would’ve been a large downside for her. They had briefly stopped by the GPD to grab photos of him and to get the address of the home he’d be staying in. The home was a simple town house with raw brick walls and dark red door, located just outside the business district. The couple who owned the home reminded Danny of Tucker’s parents. They were dressed for suburbia; the interior of the house kept simple with dark brown tables and cream shag carpet.

“I know we can trust you’ll look after Danny for us while we work to locate his family, Mr. and Mrs. Danbury. We’ll be in touch within the next few days after we have his case work figured out.” Chief Rohrback had decided not to bother the GPD with dropping him off and wanted to personally see he had made it to where they wanted him to be.

“It’s no problem, we’ll keep an ear out for your call.” Mr. Danbury smiled, following her to the door. With a click of the door and the turn of a lock he was stuck in the foster care system. They led him to a room with a twin-sized bed made with a plaid comforter and plain sheets. The room came with a desk for schoolwork and a dresser which he ignored as he didn’t have many clothes with him. Not to mention there was no way he was staying.

“Okay, Danny feel free to settle in! We know it’s early but we’re making some spaghetti for dinner if you feel up to eating. We know it can be hard to adjust but it’s easier to sleep with a full belly!” Mrs. Danbury suggested cheerfully. He’d stay for dinner at the very least, who knows when he’d have a chance to eat a real meal again.

He left his bag on the desk and read till the couple called for dinner. They spoke to him freely, careful not to mention his lack of expression. They explained how they’d been fostering for the last ten years and had lived in Gotham their whole lives. Saying how dangerous the city could be and that they felt it was only right to do their part to help families were disrupted by the consistent attacks on the city.

They showed him photos of their past fosters and laid some ground rules for his stay there. No going out past dark, avoid Crime Alley, don’t eat any snacks before dinner, and other simple rules. The couple even gave him some extra ones due to him not being a native Gothamite. If a villain attacks, run, or hide and if you can’t get away follow what others are doing. If you see a lot of plants, suddenly avoid them. If someone in a clown mask enters a building just leave and a more all related to the villains that seemed to run rampant every other month.

By the time he headed to bed Danny felt like he had a good idea of what to avoid in Gotham. All of which would only help him as he waited for the Danbury’s to go to sleep. Sneaking out was a sinch, lifting the window open and moving the screen to the side, Danny was able to make his way onto the fire escape. It was laughable how easy it was to make his way down and start walking down the street. Gotham was certainly different at night; the smog hung low in the sky and if anyone was out, they looked like they were up to no good.

Danny never understood the saying a city never sleeps when in Amity; it was a sleepy city and too oblivious most of the time. Gotham felt alive in comparison, the streets breathed history and walls felt like they had eyes. He had been following his phone’s map to the harbor on foot for the last hour before he heard a thump as something landed behind him. He turned expecting a trash bag to be slumped over or a fallen bike. Instead, there was nothing, spinning around to go back to his desired path he came face to face with Nightwing once again.

“Shouldn’t you be in a foster home, right now?” The hero smiled.

“Shouldn't you be helping Batman with a crime or something?” Danny returned, keeping his eyes on the phone. He needed to keep moving, he couldn’t risk going back or being sidetracked again.

“Touche, but he can handle himself. You however have been in a crime today and still sounding off about it. Where do you think you’re going?” He had kept walking, hoping the hero would take the hint, he didn’t need saving.

“Anywhere but here! The Danbury’s are nice and all, but I need to get going, places I need to be.”

“Nice try, kid but I can’t just let you leave! Whether you like it or not, you’re a runaway and I can’t just leave you. Come on, I’m taking you back to the station.” Nightwing started grabbing Danny and dragging him a couple blocks before hitting a button. An alley was lit up as the headlights for a really nice car turned on and the engine roared to life. “Good thing I took the car and not the bike.”

Danny was placed inside as the hero got in the driver's seat and took him back to GPD. Annoyed, the police called the Danbury’s and let them know Danny was going to be rehomed. The next time Danny stayed for two days before getting away. Nightwing found him again and dragged him to the station. They repeated another three times each home getting him to stay longer but unable to keep him there. The last home, the Geller’s, had no clue how he got out with security cams and locks on every door and window throughout the home. The foster system was running out of homes that could handle a runaway teen. Finally, the GCPS made a call to a not a foster parent but a successful adoptive parent who would have the means to keep Danny in check. Or at the very least his butler would as Gordon called in a favor to the one, Bruce Wayne.

---

Hello! Sorry for the tardiness in the delivery of this chapter! But it is here and is my longest chapter so far so it was worth it! It took me a while to figure out how I wanted the scenes to play out and I ended up scrapping a lot of my writing that I wrote during my breaks at work.

Again I want to thank everyone who is enjoying the story so far. Seeing everyone interact with this has been so fun and we've broken over 3k in views across all platforms! Can't wait to see everyone's reactions as the story continues and I will see you all later this week!

Master post - Chapter 3 Prev. <<< Next >>>

[sicknessbysalem]

ooh I’ve been a sucker for sick before/during a performance lately and i deeply adore your fics!! so maybe any of the members of lex and soren’s band trying to make it through a performance or a recording session while feeling absolutely awful? your choice of who!

absolutely! i added that into this WIP i had of a very sick soren.

if you have any more requests, comments, concerns, etc., send them my way!

tw for emeto (lots of emeto), fevers, sick on tour.

The world outside was a blur of lights and movement, the faint hum of the city filtering through the window of their tour bus as they rolled into the next stop.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and equipment, a familiar atmosphere that Lex had long since come to associate with life on the road.

But tonight, the usual energy was subdued, the dim lights casting long shadows across the cramped space, adding to the quiet heaviness that hung in the air.

Soren lay curled on the narrow bunk, his back pressed against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut, every shallow breath a careful, measured effort to keep the nausea at bay.

He’d been fighting it for hours now, a low, insistent ache that had started as a vague discomfort, a faint queasiness he’d hoped might pass with a little sleep. But as the hours dragged on, the nausea had settled in deeper, twisting in his stomach like a clenched fist, leaving him feeling weak, hollow.

Lex sat beside him, his hand resting lightly on Soren’s shoulder, his fingers tracing gentle, absent-minded circles against the fabric of his shirt.

The touch was grounding, a steady presence that kept Soren anchored, even as the sickness gnawed at him, a relentless pressure that refused to ease.

Lex’s long, dark hair fell over his shoulder in soft waves, a few loose strands brushing against Soren’s arm as he leaned in, his gaze fixed on Soren with a quiet, unspoken concern that cut through the haze of discomfort, a reminder that he wasn’t alone.

“Do you want some water?” Lex’s voice was soft, a quiet suggestion that lingered in the air, a gentle nudge that didn’t press, didn’t demand, just offered a small, fragile comfort.

Soren shook his head, the movement slow, deliberate, as though even the slightest shift might set off the nausea again. His hand drifted to his stomach, his fingers pressing lightly against the ache, a small, useless gesture that did nothing to ease the discomfort but brought him some measure of focus, a distraction from the relentless churn in his gut. He could feel the cool sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him feeling feverish, weak, a quiet, unyielding reminder of the sickness that had settled in deep, refusing to let go.

Lex’s hand drifted up to Soren’s hair, his fingers brushing through the pale strands in a soft, rhythmic motion, a small, grounding gesture that seemed to ease some of the tension, the weight pressing down on him.

Soren leaned into the touch, his breathing shallow, each inhale and exhale a careful effort as he fought to keep the sickness from overtaking him, from dragging him under.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, strained apology that lingered in the air, tinged with the quiet frustration of his own body’s betrayal. He hated feeling like this—weak, dependent, a weight on Lex’s shoulders when he knew they both had enough to worry about.

Lex shook his head, his hand moving to Soren’s back, a steady, reassuring touch that eased the tightness in Soren’s chest, the quiet anxiety that had been gnawing at him since the nausea had set in. “Don’t apologize,” he replied softly, his tone warm, a quiet reminder that he was here, that he didn’t see this as a burden, that he didn’t mind the weight. “Just focus on breathing. You don’t have to push through this alone.”

Soren took a slow breath, his head dipping as he closed his eyes, willing the nausea to ease, to give him even a moment’s reprieve. But the sickness clung to him, a low, insistent ache that twisted deeper, sharper, with every passing moment.

His stomach clenched, a fresh wave of nausea rolling over him, sharp and relentless, leaving him gasping for breath, his body tensing as he tried to fight it down, to hold it back.

But the sickness refused to be ignored, clawing its way up, relentless, and he barely had time to brace himself before his body gave in, a harsh, involuntary heave that left him breathless, his hand flying to his mouth as he fought to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.

Lex’s hand moved to his shoulder, a steady, grounding touch that kept him anchored, kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.

“Hey,” Lex murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady presence that cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the warmth of his touch, the gentle reassurance that he didn’t have to carry this alone. “Just breathe—I’m right here.”

The nausea surged again, sharper this time, an insistent pressure that left him trembling, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control. Lex’s hand moved to the back of his neck, his fingers warm, comforting. He could feel the faint, damp chill of sweat beading along his forehead, a quiet reminder of his own weakness, the vulnerability he’d never quite learned to accept.

Lex pulled him forward a bit, getting Soren to lean over the edge of the bunk, where despite Soren’s will, his lunch made an unappetizing reappearance into the plastic bin Ksenia pushed in before she took her residence in the living area of the bus. Ksenia was never one for caretaking, so she left ample space for Lex to do his thing.

When the worst of it passed, Soren slumped back, his breathing shallow, uneven as he tried to steady himself, to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, his hand pressed against his stomach as he fought to keep the nausea from rising again, the sickness a low, relentless ache that left him feeling hollow, weak.

Lex’s hand drifted to his shoulder, his fingers brushing through Soren’s hair in a small, soothing gesture, a quiet, grounding presence that kept him steady, a reminder that he didn’t have to bear this alone.

“You’re okay,” Lex murmured, his voice soft, a gentle reassurance that lingered in the air, a warmth that seemed to cut through the discomfort, to settle over Soren like a blanket, easing the tension, the weight that had been pressing down on him.

Soren managed a faint nod, though he could feel the nausea lingering, a quiet, insistent ache that refused to ease, a reminder of his own body’s betrayal. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a heaviness that left him feeling drained, hollow, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to hold it together, to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.

“Think you can rest a little?” Lex asked, his hand resting lightly on Soren’s shoulder, a quiet question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didn’t have to push through this, that he didn’t have to hold it all alone.

Soren nodded as he let out a slow, careful breath, his hand resting on Lex’s knee, a small, grounding touch that kept him steady, kept him anchored in the warmth of Lex’s presence.

He knew, on some level that he had someone beside him, someone who saw him, who understood. But the thought of leaning on Lex, of letting himself be vulnerable, left him feeling exposed, fragile, a quiet discomfort that he couldn’t quite shake.

“I’ll be okay,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, unsteady assurance that lingered in the air, a quiet hope that he could hold it together, that he could push through, if only for a little longer.

-

The hours wore on, and the low ache in Soren’s stomach refused to ease, twisting and tightening until it felt as though every breath, every small movement, was a battle against the nausea that seemed to coil deeper, sharper with each passing moment.

He lay there, curled in on himself, his forehead pressed against the cool wall of the bunk, his breaths shallow, careful, as though even the slightest shift might tip him over the edge.

Lex hadn’t moved from his side, his hand a steady, comforting presence on Soren’s back, tracing gentle circles, the rhythm grounding, familiar. He could feel Lex’s gaze on him, warm and concerned, a quiet, unspoken question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didn’t have to bear this alone, that he could lean into the comfort, the support Lex offered so freely.

“You’re really not looking great,” Lex murmured softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, a gentle observation laced with concern. “I’ve got some ginger tea I could make, or… I have something stronger if you want.”

Soren managed a faint shake of his head, the movement slow, hesitant, as though he were trying to push past the discomfort, to hold onto the fragile control he’d managed to scrape together.

The thought of taking anything felt distant, unreal, his focus turned inward, fixed on the relentless ache, the quiet, insistent nausea that gnawed at him, leaving him feeling hollow, weak. Soren wasn’t even sure if he could hold it down, tea or otherwise. So, why bother?

But Lex didn’t push, just shifted slightly, his hand moving to rest on the back of Soren’s neck, his fingers warm, steady, a small, grounding touch that seemed to ease some of the tension coiling in Soren’s chest, a warmth that cut through the sickness, the discomfort, if only by a fraction.

Soren leaned into the touch, letting out a slow, unsteady breath, his body slumping, the exhaustion settling over him like a weight, leaving him feeling drained, empty.

The nausea crested, sharp and insistent, a fresh wave that twisted in his stomach, leaving him breathless, his hand gripping the edge of the bunk as he fought to keep the sickness at bay, to push it down, to hold it back.

But his body betrayed him, the nausea rising with a force that left him gasping, his throat tight, his stomach clenching painfully as he felt the sickness clawing its way up, relentless, unyielding.

Lex was there in an instant, his hand moving to Soren’s shoulder, a steadying touch that kept him grounded, that kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.

“Okay, okay my love, I’ve got you,” Lex murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady reassurance that cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the warmth, the familiarity of his presence. “Just breathe—it’s alright.”

But the nausea refused to let go, clawing its way up with a force that left him trembling, his body giving in to the sickness in harsh, involuntary waves. He barely had time to lean over the trash can before his body gave in completely, each heave leaving him breathless.

His throat burned, the acidic taste sharp and bitter, a reminder of his own body’s betrayal, the vulnerability he could never quite accept.

Lex’s hand moved to the back of his neck, his fingers gentle, soothing, a small, familiar touch that kept him steady.

“It’s okay,” Lex murmured, his voice a quiet, constant presence, a warmth that settled over Soren like a blanket, easing the weight, the discomfort that had been pressing down on him.

The sickness dragged on, each wave sharp, relentless, leaving Soren weak, breathless, his hand gripping the edge of the trash can as he fought to hold himself together, to keep the nausea from overtaking him completely.

He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, drawn, a reminder of his own weakness, the quiet shame that lingered beneath the discomfort.

When the worst of it passed, he slumped back, his body sagging against the bunk, his breathing shallow, uneven, each inhale a careful, measured effort to keep the sickness from rising again. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a heaviness that left him feeling hollow, weak, and he closed his eyes, willing the nausea to ease, to give him even a moment’s reprieve.

Lex reached into his bag, pulling out a small orange bottle. Soren heard the familiar rattle of pills in plastic. It was only then he realized he probably threw up the antipsychotics and did not, in fact, want to face trying again even if he feared what might happen without them.

“Don’t worry, it’s not those meds,” Lex said, Soren wondered if Lex could read his mind, “I’ve got some anti-nausea meds. They work wonders, really. It’s what made me stop puking during our New York stops.”

Soren hesitated, even as the nausea twisted, sharper now, a relentless ache that refused to let go. But Lex’s gaze was steady, warm with an unspoken encouragement that settled over him.

And, Soren thought, Lex had been vomiting for days, unrelated to some sort of virus, during their four stops in New York. And if what Lex said was true, that he took it then, it really did work wonders.

With a slow, shaky breath, Soren gave a faint nod, his hand drifting to Lex’s, a small, reluctant acceptance of the care that Lex offered so freely.

Lex offered a faint, reassuring smile, his fingers brushing against Soren’s as he opened the bottle.

Lex handed him a pill and a small glass of water, his touch steady, gentle, a quiet reassurance that seemed to ease some of the tension coiling in Soren’s chest, a warmth that cut through the sickness, the discomfort, if only by a fraction.

“This should help,” he murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady encouragement that kept Soren grounded, even when everything felt so miserable.

Soren took the pill, the cool water soothing against his throat, a small comfort that settled over him like a blanket, easing the sharp, relentless ache that had been gnawing at him.

And as he leaned back, he let himself breathe, let himself sink into the warmth, the comfort that Lex offered, a small, fragile acceptance that settled over him, a reminder that he didn’t have to bear this alone.

Lex stayed beside him, his hand resting on Soren’s shoulder, Soren let himself lean into the comfort.

The nausea lingered, a low, insistent ache that refused to ease entirely, but with Lex beside him, with the gentle, constant touch of his hand, Soren felt a small, precious peace, a comfort that cut through the discomfort, that reminded him he wasn’t alone.

And as he closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth, the familiarity of their connection, he felt the quiet, grounding reassurance that he didn’t have to carry this alone, that he didn’t have to face it all on his own.

-

Morning brought a tentative hope that the worst of the sickness had passed. Soren lay on the narrow bunk, his eyes half-closed as he took careful breaths, feeling the familiar ache in his stomach but noticing, with some relief, that it was duller than the night before.

The nausea lingered, a quiet, uncomfortable reminder of his body’s rebellion, but it was manageable, a low, insistent ache that didn’t overwhelm him, that allowed him a small, cautious optimism for the day ahead.

Lex sat beside him, a steaming cup of herbal tea cradled in his hands, the scent of ginger and chamomile filling the air, soothing in a way that seemed to settle Soren’s nerves, to ease some of the residual discomfort.

Lex’s gaze was warm, soft, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his eyes, but he offered a faint, reassuring smile as he handed the cup to Soren, his hand lingering on Soren’s shoulder, a gentle, grounding touch that settled over him like a blanket.

“Think you’re up for the interview?” Lex asked, his voice soft, careful, a quiet question that didn’t press, that allowed Soren the space to answer honestly.

Soren took a slow sip of the tea, feeling the warmth spread through him, a small comfort that eased the tension coiling in his chest.

“I think so,” he replied, his voice steady, though he could feel the faint edge of uncertainty lingering beneath the words. “I’m… better than last night, at least,” he added.

Lex nodded, his hand moving to rest on Soren’s back, a gentle, reassuring presence that kept him grounded, that reminded him he didn’t have to carry this alone.

“If you’re feeling up to it, we’ll take it slow,” he murmured, his voice warm, a quiet, unspoken encouragement that settled over Soren like a blanket.

With Lex’s support, Soren found the strength to get ready, moving through the familiar motions of his morning routine, each step careful, measured, as though he were testing the limits of his own endurance.

The nausea lingered, a faint, uncomfortable ache that settled low in his stomach, but he pushed it down, held onto the hope that he could manage, that he could push through the day without letting it affect their plans.

By the time they reached the interview venue, the ache in his stomach had dulled further, a faint, manageable discomfort that left him feeling cautiously optimistic. He took a slow breath as they entered the studio, the familiar hum of pre-interview preparations settling over him, grounding him in the routines he knew so well.

Lex stayed close, his hand resting lightly on Soren’s arm, a quiet, steady presence that kept him anchored, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, even as the faint edge of discomfort lingered, a quiet, insistent ache that refused to let go entirely.

The interviewer greeted them with a warm smile, her energy bright and welcoming as she introduced herself, diving into the questions with an ease that put Soren at ease, that allowed him to settle into the familiar rhythm of answering, responding, moving through the motions with a practiced calm.

He could feel the discomfort lurking beneath the surface, a faint, nagging reminder of the night before, but he managed to push it down, to keep his focus on the conversation, on the quiet, grounding presence of Lex beside him.

As the interview wrapped up, Lex’s hand moved to Soren’s back, a gentle, comforting touch that settled over him like a blanket, a small, unspoken reassurance that he’d made it through, that he’d managed to hold it together, if only for a little while.

Soren let out a slow, careful breath, feeling a faint, tentative relief settle over him, a quiet hope that he could get through the rest of the day, that he could push through the lingering discomfort, the quiet, insistent ache that had been gnawing at him.

But as the day wore on, the nausea began to creep back, a low, relentless ache that settled in his stomach, twisting with each step, each small movement.

By the time they reached the venue for the night’s show, Soren could feel the discomfort intensifying, a sharp, insistent pressure that pressed against his ribs, his chest, leaving him feeling weak, unsteady.

He took careful, shallow breaths, each inhale a measured effort to keep the sickness at bay, to hold onto the fragile control he’d managed to scrape together.

Lex noticed almost immediately, his gaze softening as he took in the tension in Soren’s posture, the way he was gripping his stomach, his jaw clenched against the discomfort.

Without a word, Lex moved closer, his hand resting lightly on Soren’s back, his fingers tracing gentle, soothing circles, a quiet, grounding presence that seemed to ease some of the tension, the weight pressing down on him.

“Hey,” Lex murmured softly, his voice a gentle, steady reassurance that cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the warmth, the familiarity of his presence. “You sure you’re okay for this?”

Soren managed a faint nod, though he could feel the nausea building, sharper now, a quiet, insistent ache that settled low in his stomach, twisting with each breath, each careful movement.

“Yeah… just… need a minute,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, unsteady assurance that lingered in the air, a quiet hope that he could push through, that he could hold it together, if only for a little while longer.

But even as he spoke, he could feel his control slipping, the nausea rising with a force that left him breathless, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t ignore.

He pressed his hand tightly against his stomach, his fingers digging into his side as he fought to keep the sickness from overtaking him, to hold it back, but the ache only grew sharper, more insistent, a weight that settled heavily, unyielding.

Lex’s hand drifted to Soren’s shoulder, a small, grounding touch that kept him anchored, that kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.

“If you need to sit this one out…” Lex’s voice was soft, careful, a gentle suggestion that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didn’t have to push through this, that he didn’t have to hold it all alone.

Soren managed a faint, weak smile, though he could feel the nausea clawing its way up, sharper now, a quiet, relentless pressure that left him trembling, his hand gripping the edge of the nearby chair as he fought to steady himself, to keep the sickness from dragging him under.

“I can handle it,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, desperate assurance that lingered in the air, a quiet hope that he could hold it together, that he could push through the discomfort.

But the nausea surged again, sharper this time, a relentless ache that left him gasping, his body giving in to the sickness with a force that left him breathless, weak.

He barely had time to lean over the trash can Lex had set beside him before his body gave in, a harsh, involuntary heave that left him shaking, his hand gripping the edge of the can as he fought to hold himself together, to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.

Lex was beside him in an instant, his hand moving to the back of Soren’s neck, his fingers warm, comforting, a small, familiar presence that kept him steady, that kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.

“I’ve got you,” Lex murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady reassurance that settled over Soren like a blanket, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, that he didn’t have to carry this on his own.

The sickness dragged on, each wave sharp, unrelenting, leaving Soren weak, breathless, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control. He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, a reminder of his own vulnerability, the quiet shame that lingered beneath the discomfort.

When the worst of it passed, he slumped back, his head hanging, his hand still pressed to his stomach as he fought to catch his breath, the nausea lingering like a dull ache, a reminder of his own body’s rebellion. He felt weak, hollow, each breath a careful, measured effort, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to hold it together, to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.

Lex’s hand drifted to his shoulder, his fingers gentle, soothing, a quiet, steadying presence that kept Soren grounded, that reminded him he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, babe, you don’t look good at all,” Lex said softly.

“I don’t feel good, at all,” Soren said, sighing softly, “But I’ll… I’ll be alright.”

“Yeah, because the reamins everything you’ve eaten in the past three days looking like some fucked up recipe for disastwr in the trash is a very clear indication you’re totally fine.” Lex said sarcastically, chuckling softly.

“If you ever describe it that way again, next round goes on you,” Soren mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head on the dressing room vanity.

Lex stayed beside him, his hand resting on Soren’s back, a quiet, grounding presence that kept him steady.

And in that small, quiet space, Soren let himself lean into the comfort, the warmth, a fragile, tentative acceptance that he didn’t have to face this alone.

As showtime drew near, Soren could feel the discomfort creeping back, sharper and more insistent with each passing moment. The cautious optimism he’d felt that morning, the faint hope that maybe he was on the mend, had faded, replaced by a familiar ache that settled low in his stomach, a relentless, twisting nausea that left him feeling hollow, unsteady.

He took careful breaths, willing the sickness to ease, to give him enough strength to get through the night, but the nausea only grew, sharper now, a quiet, insistent reminder that his body was protesting in ways he couldn’t ignore.

Lex stood beside him, his hand resting lightly on Soren’s shoulder, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles against the fabric of his shirt. It was a quiet, grounding gesture, a familiar warmth that cut through the haze of discomfort, if only by a fraction.

Lex’s gaze lingered on him, soft, concerned, a quiet, unspoken question lingering in his eyes, but he didn’t press, didn’t demand an answer, just stayed close, his presence a steadying comfort that kept Soren grounded.

“You sure you’re up for this?” Lex asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a gentle question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didn’t have to push through this alone, that he didn’t have to carry the weight on his own.

Soren managed a faint, strained smile, his head dipping slightly as he nodded, his voice steady, though he could feel the tremor lingering beneath the words. “I’ve got this,” he replied, his tone firm, a quiet determination that belied the nausea twisting in his stomach, the sickness that clung to him, sharp and unyielding. He’d pushed through before—long nights, rougher shows, moments when he’d felt weaker, sicker than this. He could manage, he had to.

As the band took their places on stage, the roar of the crowd washed over him, a deafening wave that usually settled his nerves, that reminded him of the rhythm they’d built, the routines that held them steady. But tonight, every sound, every bright flash of the lights felt like an assault, each sensation amplified by the discomfort gnawing at him, leaving him feeling off-kilter, exposed.

Lex stayed close, his gaze flicking to Soren every now and then, a quiet, subtle check-in that kept him grounded, that reminded him he wasn’t alone. Soren’s hand drifted to his stomach, pressing lightly against the ache, a small, futile gesture that did nothing to ease the nausea but brought him some measure of focus, a distraction from the relentless churning in his gut.

He could feel the sweat breaking out along his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, a reminder of his own body’s rebellion, the weakness he could never quite accept.

The first song began, the familiar chords reverberating through the stage, grounding him in the routine, the rhythm he knew so well. He focused on his guitar, each note a small, careful movement that kept his mind occupied, that allowed him to push the sickness down, to hold it at bay, if only for a little while.

Lex’s voice rose over the crowd, steady, powerful, a sound that seemed to cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the present, in the familiar warmth of their connection.

But as the minutes ticked by, the nausea grew sharper, more insistent, a low, relentless ache that twisted in his stomach, leaving him breathless, weak.

He took careful breaths, each inhale a measured effort to keep the sickness from overtaking him, to hold onto the fragile control he’d managed to scrape together. But the sickness refused to be ignored, clawing its way up with a force that left him gasping, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t fight.

Soren took advantage of a small instrumental break, slipping to the side of the stage, his movements careful, deliberate, as he braced himself against the wall, his hand pressed tightly to his stomach as he fought to keep the sickness at bay.

He barely made it to a small trash can set discreetly offstage before his body gave in, each heave dragging him under, leaving him breathless, weak, his throat raw from the acid, the strain.

The sickness was relentless, each wave sharp, unyielding, leaving him trembling, his hand gripping the edge of the trash can as he fought to steady himself, to keep the nausea from overtaking him completely.

He could feel the cool sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, a reminder of his own vulnerability, the quiet shame that lingered beneath the discomfort.

He barely had a moment to catch his breath before the next song began, the familiar chords pulling him back, forcing him to push the sickness down, to hold onto the fragile control he’d managed to scrape together.

He wiped his mouth, his hand shaking slightly as he steadied himself, forcing himself back onstage, back into the rhythm, the routine that kept him grounded, that allowed him to push through the discomfort, if only for a little while.

Lex’s gaze met his as he stepped back into place, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his eyes, but Soren managed a faint, reassuring smile, a quiet assurance that he could handle it, that he could push through.

He could see the worry in Lex’s expression, the way his gaze lingered on Soren, a silent question, but he didn’t press, didn’t demand an answer, just continued, his voice steady, powerful, a grounding presence that kept Soren anchored.

But as the night wore on, the nausea grew worse, sharper, a low, relentless ache that refused to let go, that twisted in his stomach with each song, each note. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a heaviness that left him feeling hollow, weak, and he took careful, shallow breaths, each inhale a measured effort to keep the sickness from overtaking him, to hold onto the fragile control he’d managed to scrape together.

Another instrumental break offered a brief respite, a small window for him to slip offstage again, to find a quiet corner where he could brace himself, his hand pressed to his stomach as he fought to keep the sickness down, to hold it back.

But his body gave in, each heave dragging him under, leaving him breathless, weak, the taste of acid sharp and bitter on his tongue, a reminder of his own body’s betrayal, the vulnerability he could never quite accept.

He leaned heavily against the wall, his breathing shallow, uneven, each inhale a careful, measured effort as he fought to keep the nausea from rising again, the sickness a low, relentless ache that left him feeling hollow, weak.

He knew he couldn’t keep this up, couldn’t push through the night without consequence, but the thought of stepping down, of leaving Lex to handle it alone, left him feeling exposed, vulnerable, a quiet discomfort he couldn’t quite shake.

As he made his way back onstage, he could feel Lex’s gaze on him, a quiet, gentle concern lingering in his eyes, but Soren forced a faint, reassuring smile, a small, fragile assurance that he could handle it, that he could push through.

Lex’s hand brushed against his arm, a small, grounding touch that kept him steady, a reminder that he didn’t have to carry the weight alone, that he didn’t have to hold it all on his own.

But as the night drew to a close, the sickness refused to ease, each wave sharper, more insistent, a reminder that his body was reaching its limit, that he couldn’t push through without consequence.

By the final song, Soren could barely hold it together, his body trembling, weak, the nausea a relentless ache that left him feeling hollow, breathless, each breath a careful, measured effort.

Lex glanced over, his gaze soft, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his eyes, but Soren managed a faint nod, a small, fragile assurance that he could handle it, that he could push through, if only for a little longer.

And as the last notes faded, as the lights dimmed, he felt a small, tentative relief settle over him, in the form of Lex’s arms wrapped around him.

-

The afternoon sun poured through the bus windows, casting a warm, gentle light over everything, a contrast to the relentless exhaustion that had plagued Soren over the past day.

He sat at the small table, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hands, the faint scent of peppermint and ginger filling the air, soothing in a way that reminded him of Lex’s own quiet attentiveness, the careful way Lex had stayed beside him through the worst of it, grounding him, comforting him.

The sickness had lingered through the early morning, each hour a quiet battle against his own body, but by now, the nausea had faded to a dull, manageable ache, a faint discomfort that was nothing compared to the sharp, relentless sickness that had gripped him the day before.

He took a slow sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through him, easing the last remnants of tension that clung to his body, a reminder of the vulnerability he could never quite shake.

Lex sat across from him, his long, dark hair falling in loose waves over his shoulders, his gaze soft, warm, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his expression.

He’d been watching Soren with a gentle, attentive gaze, his gaze lifting every so often from his phone or his notebook.

“Feeling better?” Lex asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a gentle question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didn’t have to push himself, that he could take things slow, that he could let himself recover at his own pace.

Soren nodded, managing a faint, reassuring smile as he set the tea down, his hands resting on the table as he leaned back, letting out a slow, careful breath.

“Yeah,” he replied, his voice steady, though there was a faint edge of exhaustion lingering in his tone. “Finally feels like it’s passed… thanks to you,” he added, a small, grateful smile flickering at the corners of his mouth, a quiet acknowledgment of the care Lex had offered so freely, so gently.

Lex waved off the thanks with a soft smile, but his gaze lingered, a subtle warmth in his eyes that conveyed more than words ever could—a quiet understanding, a comfort that had always been there between them, a connection that needed no explanation.

He leaned forward, his hand reaching across the table to rest lightly on Soren’s, a small, grounding touch that kept them both anchored, a reminder that they didn’t have to face anything alone, that they had each other, even in the quiet, vulnerable moments.

As they sat there, the silence stretching between them, Soren’s gaze drifted to Lex’s face, noticing the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight tension in his expression, a subtle discomfort that hadn’t been there before.

It was small, barely noticeable, but Soren had known Lex long enough to recognize the subtle shifts, the quiet signs that hinted at something deeper, something Lex wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

Lex cleared his throat softly, a faint, almost absent-minded sound that Soren had come to associate with Lex’s own discomfort, a small, unconscious habit that often preceded the early signs of sickness. It was subtle, a quiet tic that most people wouldn’t notice, but to Soren, it was a small, telling detail, a hint that Lex might be feeling the first stirrings of whatever illness had overtaken Soren. Lex only ever cleared his throat this much when he was feeling like he was about to vomit, as if doing so would dislodge the sickness from his throat and go back down, a habit picked up to avoid throwing up, Lex always hated getting sick like that.

“You alright?” Soren asked, his tone light, casual, though there was a faint, gentle concern lingering beneath the question, a quiet, unspoken hope that Lex might be willing to acknowledge the discomfort, to let himself lean into the support that Soren was ready to offer.

Lex glanced up, his gaze meeting Soren’s, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something unspoken in his expression, a small, vulnerable look that settled over him, before he brushed it off with a faint smile, a small, self-assured nod. “Yeah… just tired,” he replied, his tone calm, steady, though there was a faint edge of something else lingering beneath the words, a quiet discomfort that hadn’t quite settled.

He cleared his throat again, a small, almost reflexive gesture, his gaze dropping to the tea in his hands as he took a slow sip, his movements careful, deliberate, as though he were testing the limits of his own endurance. Soren’s gaze lingered, a quiet, gentle concern settling over him as he watched Lex, taking in the small, subtle shifts in his posture, the faint way his hand trembled as he set the cup down, the way his gaze seemed to drift, unfocused, a quiet discomfort lingering in the background.

“You’re sure?” Soren pressed, his voice soft, a gentle, unspoken question lingering in the air, a quiet hope that Lex might let himself lean into the comfort, the support that Soren was ready to offer, a small, tentative invitation to share the weight, to let Soren take care of him for once.

Lex’s smile was faint, a small, grateful expression that flickered at the corners of his mouth, a quiet acknowledgment of Soren’s concern, though he didn’t answer, didn’t give any indication of the discomfort that lingered beneath the surface. Instead, he reached across the table, his hand resting lightly on Soren’s, a small, grounding touch that kept them both anchored, a reminder that they didn’t have to face anything alone, that they had each other, even in the quiet, vulnerable moments.

As they sat there, the quiet stretching between them, Soren could feel the faint, subtle tension in Lex’s touch, the quiet discomfort that lingered in the background, a small, unspoken reminder that there was something more beneath the surface, a hint of vulnerability that Lex wasn’t ready to acknowledge. But Soren didn’t press, didn’t demand an answer, just held Lex’s hand, a quiet, grounding presence that kept them both steady, a reminder that they didn’t have to face anything alone.

And as the afternoon sunlight filled the space, casting a warm, gentle glow over them, Soren felt a small, quiet understanding settle over him, a reminder of the quiet strength, the connection they shared, a bond that needed no words, no grand gestures, just a hand on a shoulder, a quiet, steady comfort that held them both, even in the vulnerable moments, even in the quiet, unspoken understanding that lingered between them.

As the silence stretched on, Soren couldn’t shake the faint, lingering feeling that hinted at the possibility of Lex coming down with the very same illness he’d struggled through.

It was subtle, a small, almost imperceptible shift in the air, a quiet tension that lingered in the background, but Soren knew, in that small, fragile moment, that he would be there, that he would offer the same care, the same quiet support that Lex had given him.

Soren didn’t miss the way Lex set down his mug of tea like it had personally wronged him, or that the mere thought of drinking more would make his body stage an all out rejection. But, he didn’t say anything about it, Soren didn’t ask.

Soren moved to sit next to Lex, closing the space between them, wrapping an arm around Lex’s shoulders as if that would protect Lex from whatever knocked Soren so badly.

“Come here,” Soren said, rubbing Lex’s shoulder, “I’ve got you.”

[hoseokslefteyebrow]

004

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara X Reader

Genre : Angst turned fluff

Summary : Miguel has been creating distance between the two of you, something he regrets when robbers come to wreck your house. He hopes he's on time to save you.

Warnings: kinda ooc Miguel, reader is injured

Wordcount: 1.2k

Miguel O'Hara Masterlist

Miguel has been creating space between the two of you. And he's well aware of it. He hates it as well. He believes he's doing it to keep you safe. You've always been a distraction to him, in a way. He would usually put you above everything, always. He's not ignoring you though, he can't lose you.

Currently, he's in another dimension, looking trying to wrap up a mission with an anomaly. One of Doc Ock's variants. So far, it hasn't really been going well, the man is strong, the universe he belongs to almost as modern as Miguel's own universe. It makes the job all the more tougher. Currently, he's working with Jessica, and the spiderman of this universe.

" Miguel, he's too strong. You gotta bite him." Jessica calls out through his ear piece.

He cringes under his mask. This Doc Ock was not something he would like putting his fangs in. The man looked disgusting.

" You sure there's absolutely no other way?" He checks.

He can almost hear her scoff.

" You got something better?" She throws back.

He huffs.

" Fine, get him in a corner, and contain his damn tentacles!" He instructs her grumpily.

However, as he's readying to jump off, his watch goes off, vibrating against his wrist. Layla knows he's busy, so it must be important.

When he glances at the screen, he reads your name. He thinks about it for a good second. Back when he programmed Layla, he had instructed her that your name was always allowed to pop up. Especially so since he nearly always told you when he would be busy. He forgot to do so today though. Deciding it must not be important, he ignores the call. However, before he can jump off, his watch goes off again. It's also you, again.

He picks up while jumping off the building, going back into the fight.

" N/N, what is it? Am kinda bu-"

" Miguel!" You whisper shout his name.

It catches his attention. You rarely keep your voice down. You're usually pretty loud.

" Are you ok-"

" P-Please. H-help. I don't- I don't- Shit." The line hangs from your side suddenly.

Miguel feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sound of your exasperated voice. You're definitely in danger.

All at once, he looses a little bit of control. He'd never be able to forgive himself if something were to happen to you, but he also couldn't leave his teammates hanging. Thankfully, they were already in position, restraining Doc Ock successfully.

It doesn't take him long to bite the disgusting man.

After all, his lady needs him.

-

Miguel's breath is uneven, panic filling his chest as he swings towards your building. When he reaches there, his heart shatters. The windows to your specific apartment is broken, glass shattered all over the floor. When he steps in, there's an even bigger mess. Glass everywhere, furniture broken and blood. There's blotches of blood in random places. Yet you're nowhere to be seen. He hopes it's not yours.

" Layla, scan the place for Y/N." Miguel tells the AI softly.

" On it." She tells him, uncharismatically easy.

" I can't find Y/N's signature, but there's a few small heat signatures in her bedroom."

Although full of questions, he goes to check out your bedroom. However, once he's stepped in, he realized it's the small fish tank on your desk. A bunch of fish swimming around like usual.

Before he can panic even more, his watch goes off yet again. He doesn't check to see who it is to pick up.

" Boss?"

It's Margo. Surprising him.

" Margo I'm bus-"

" Y/N is here boss. She's in the med bay."

He hangs up as he swings back to HQ. Thankfully, it doesn't take him long to reach medbay, spotting Margo soon enough.

" Boss!" She calls him.

His mask disappears as he approaches her. His usual scowl replaced by an uncharistic vulnerable look. Margo has never seen him scared before, but than again, you are the last person he has.

" Y/N? Where's she? Is she okay?" He questions her quickly, eyes scanning the place.

she nods, trying to keep him calm.

" Yeah. Don't worry, she's further in the back resting up. She's okay- but she's in bad shape. Come." She informs him, before bringing him to where you're resting up on one of the beds.

Margo calls your name, bringing you out of the headspace your headphones had put you in. She nods to Miguel before leaving the two of you be.

You're indeed in bad shape. You're wearing your own clothes, so he can't see much, but your face is bruised up. A particular nasty one lies under your left eye, and there's another nasty one on your right cheek. Your lip is also split.

The two of you resume your awkward staring fir a moment, as you so often do.

When you open your arms, he easily caves, falling right into your embrace as silent sobs wreck through his body. 

" Don't worry, I'm okay." You tell him gently, your voice a whisper.

He knows it's a lie when you flinch as he squeezes you the slightest bit, something you usually really enjoy.

" No you're not. I'm so sorry Perla, I should've been there-"

" This wasn't your fault, Iguel'. " You remind him gently, running a hand over his face as the two of you break apart.

His hand takes hold of your free hand, the weight a gentle reminder that you haven't left him.

" No. I'm supposed to pro-"

" Don't blame yourself like that, please. Your self defense classes really came to good use. And Margo arrived in time. It worked out." You smile at him.

Although he doesn't completely agree, he nods. Your hand falls to your side, folding over your intertwined hands. His free hand moves to gently wipe some stray hairs to the side of your face. You smile at him.

" Your apartment though, it's completely wrecked." He tells you.

You make a pout.

" Did you go to check?" You ask him.

He nods.

" Are Bubbles alive?" You ask him.

He can't help but grin at your words. All your fish are names Bubbles, because you can't tell them apart.

He hums.

" Yeah, they were swimming the same circles as they always are." 

" Thank god. I'd be sad if they died. They're cute." 

" You know, you can stay with me for now? I don't mind." He suggests, going back to topic.

You look at him blankly for a second.

" Are you sure? I could-"

" I don't mind. " He tells you honestly, ears a little pink.

You nod.

" Depends, can Bubbles come?"

005

000 - Taglist

@adamsloverboy

@ihateuguys

@alchemist421

@julesclues

@bxrbiewrites

[pearblossomrain]

summarizing my home country's gp for myself:

● SIGNIFICANTLY more boring than baku 😭😭

● kmag returned but we did not get terror out of the track terrorist man. horrible!

● man i don't even know what vcarb is smoking bc softs?? halfway through?? speaking of softs why'd mercedes start hamilton on softs too that's 💀💀

● holy shit are we actually losing ricciardo??? red bull owes the man flowers and a fruit basket (if they aren't giving him the seat) for keeping norris from fastest lap ngl

● massive congrats to liam lawson though cos he does deserve it after his last year's performance and they've benched him long enough but ofc it's sad for ricciardo esp for someone who's been racing for so long (minus his break)

● not great from ferrari overall but that's on their quali tbh cos the recovery from that shitshow wasn't bad really and they were smart with pitting sainz early but i believe they're incapable of having 2 good strats....

● that's another mclaren double podium but i have to say that giant chrome logo is incredibly ugly 😭

● kind of surprised verstappen kept his red bull in 2nd? maybe the rb garage finally got their shit together! or maybe not cos its a miracle perez managed to end up within the points tbh...

● honestly INSANE defending from hulkenburg someone give that man minister of defence rn i feel like he did nothing but keep cars behind him, which unlucky for leclerc cos he was behind him AND alonso which is like 2 steel walls atp.

● that colapinto bit at the start was magnificent tbh i didn't see it until later but hell yeah that's the idgaf energy i want from someone who doesn't have a seat next year!

● idk what the hell happened with albon's car and why he retired i'm gonna have to go check but damn that's unlucky...

● seriously just bad luck for leclerc all around cos his times were good and he overtook quite a few times but he was against some ministers of defence today i fear 💀

● PLS DONT STOP THE COMMUNITY SERVICE JOKES THEY'RE SENDING ME INTO ORBITTT

● no safety car?? in SINGAPORE?? im throwing tomatoes out my window in the vague direction of the marina bay circuit rn 🍅🍅

side note: it's hilarious as a sgrean to watch the gp bc these are the same roads my slow ass bus takes every week.

side note 2: welcome back britney to the commentary! also when kimi appeared i said "omg my son" and my friend asked "ollie?" and i had to be like "...no my other son" 😭

side note 3: it's like barely 18 hours after the race as i type this and i just saw them dismantle the barriers with my own 2 eyes from the double decker bus?? damn that's FAST??