#clenching my coffee so hard the glass is gonna shatter

[quick-catton]

feel like i just speedran getting covid and the bubonic plague simultaneously. debating whether my belt or charger would be a more efficient noose atm. oh my god. he's so

[mersuperwholocked-lowlife]

“Safe”

Word Count: 1,622

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (brief), minor OC Characters, Reader

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Daughter!Reader

Warnings: angst, slight tw; mentions of past abuse but nothing too graphic

A/N: hi, i might die, I live in America, bye

Masterlist 

You sat up in your bed, looking around your room before walking to your room. You slowly crept out of the bed, walking to the door, before seeing the chains on it. It was locked. They weren't going to open it till morning. Looks like it was time for Plan B. You had made a plan to leave your foster home for months. But tonight, you were going to leave. You were going to finally get out.

You took your backpack, stuffing it with your belongings. You froze, holding a picture of you and your dad as you clenched your jaw. You wiped your face, ripping the photo in half, throwing it out.

You hated him, there was no hiding it.

You threw your bad over your shoulder, walking to the window. Second story. If you jumped, you could run. Maybe. 

You took a deep breath, opening your window, struggling.

Shit

It was jammed. You tried lifted it open once again, taking a deep breath, as it was still jammed.

You jumped as you heard knocking on the door, as your heart stopped.

Shit, I’m so dead!

“Fuck it,” you muttered to yourself.

“(Y/N)?” you heard your foster mom called, you could hear the keys dangling as she undid the lock.

You but your lip, using all your strength as you kicked the window, causing the glass to shatter.

“Young lady what’s going on in there?!” she yelled.

You took a deep breath, jumping out of the window.

Ow

You were a bit disoriented as you got up, taking a second before you started to run.

---

“Kid, you have to order something, or you have to get out of my diner,” the waitress warned, standing next to you while you sat in the booth.

You took a deep breath, nodding your head.

“I���ll take a coffee,” you replied, leaning against the window.

She sighed before nodding, walking away.

When you planned to leave, you never imagined it to be this hard, but it was. Every day was a struggle of where you were gonna go, what you were gonna do, how you were gonna live. You were barely surviving in a hotel room. It’s only been a week.

You heard the morning news play on the small TV, tensing as you heard your name.

Shit

It was talking about you. A picture of you appeared on the TV. It was talking about you running away.

That’s my cue to leave 

You knew you couldn't live like this forever. You put your hoodie on,  keeping your head down as you ran out of the diner, before collapsing into Sam and Dean.

“Whoa, are you okay, kid?” Dean asked, looking at you.

You looked at him, clenching your jaw. It was him. He froze, looking at you. You knew he knew and he knew that you knew.

You kept silent, looking down as you pushed past him, feeling anger boiling through your blood.

Sam raised his eyebrow, looking at Dean, confused.

“Where did that little girl go?” the waitress stood by the door, next to Sam and Dean.

“Is she in trouble?” Dean immediately asked.

“Dean, it’s none of our business,” Sam said.

“She was just on the news. Her parents are looking for her. She apparently ran away a few days ago,” the waitress explained.

Shit, Dean thought.

Even after all those years, he knew it was you. 

“Dean?” Sam asked, waving in his face.

“That little girl is my daughter,” Sam’s face dropped in shock as he looked at Dean.

“What do you mean, 'daughter’?” Sam asked.

“It’s a kinda long story…”

---

You ran into your hotel room, slamming the door shut as you took a shaky breath. You jumped as you heard someone knock on your door.

You decided to stay silent, pretend you weren't there.

“(Y/N), I know you’re in there. It’s me. I-It’s Dean,” you tensed up, hearing your dad after all these years.

You stood frozen, debating whether or not you wanted to open it. It was your dad. But he left you. 

“Please, let me explain myself. Just open the door and we can talk. Please, (Y/N),” he begged.

You felt a tear slip down your cheek as you quickly wiped it. You deserved an explanation. But you didn't want to open the door. You knew as soon as you did you would forgive him, he would come back, and then he’d leave you again. But this time there was nowhere to come back. You lived in foster care since your mother died, almost 8 years ago, while Dean was off doing god-knows-what.

You felt your heart racing as you put your hand on the doorknob, pausing.

“You have one minute,” you pulled the door open, your voice low as you looked up at him.

He looked at you, with gentle eyes as he stepped into your room.

“(Y/N), I was going to come back, I promise,” you shook your head, already knowing he was lying.

“Shit happened, and before I knew it, it was too late. I didn't hear about your mother until 6 years ago. I promise you, I would never abandon you like that,” he said.

You scoffed, crossing your arms.

“It was never too late, Dean,” you spat, taking a big breath.

“I waited for you to come back, every day. Every single day when I was in that hellhole, I prayed that you could come and you would save me. And you never did. They controlled me, they put chains on my door. And you never came,” you wiped your tears from your eyes.

“(Y/N), listen,” he began.

“No, you listen, Dean. People called me crazy, they called me out of my mind. They said that you didn't come back because you didn't care about me. You didn't care about us. Do you know how hard it is to defend someone who won’t show up?” Dean looked down, listening to your pain-filled voice.

“I’m sorry, (Y/N). I wouldn't forgive myself if I were you. But you have to know. After my dad went missing, something went wrong. It wasn't safe for me to come home. Then my dad died. That thing that killed him was still out there. I didn't want to lead them to you and your mother,” he explained softly. His eyes were bloodshot as you looked up at him.

“I didn't want to put you in danger. That’s why I didn't come back. I should've told you, and I’m sorry, that’s on me.” 

You felt your heart racing as you took a step back, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“I missed you,” you said softly.

“I know, I missed you too,” he said, as he sat next to you.

The two of you sat next to each other in silence, as you tried to slow your heart rate slightly.

“(Y/N),” you looked at Dean as you sniffled.

“Why did you run away?” he asked.

You knew that question was going to appear sooner or later. You ran your fingers through your hair, feeling your heart rate slowly pick up.

“T-They…” you couldn't bring yourself to say it.

You were mad at him, you knew he was mad at himself, but you couldn't bring yourself to say it. If he truly left to keep you safe, then he would feel worse knowing they only caused you more pain.

“Yeah?” he put his hand on your shoulder.

“They hurt me,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper as you looked down.

“They did what?” you saw Dean’s body tense from the corner of your eye.

“I couldn't take it anymore,” you cried.

“Shit. I should've been here,” he ran his fingers through his hair, in distress.

You shook your head, leaning against him.

He wrapped his arm around you.

“Come with me. That other man you saw with me…” he began.

“He’s your brother, I know. I thought you said it was dangerous,” you said softly.

“It’s safer with me than without me. I just want to keep you safe, (Y/N). I don’t want to leave you, knowing what they’ll do,” you heard Dean’s voice break as you looked up at him.

“What if they find me? I-I’m scared. I’ve hated living like this,” you cried softly, holding onto Dean.

“Hey, they're not gonna get you. I promise you that I will keep you safe from now on. I’m sorry I didn't before, but I swear I will now, okay?” he kneeled down in front of you, putting his hands on your shoulders as you nodded softly.

“Okay, c’mon. We gotta go,” he stood up, holding your hands as he helped you up.

You wrapped your arms around him tightly as you sobbed.

“Please don’t let them get me, Dad. Please,” you cried as you gripped onto him.

“They won’t, (Y/N), I promise. I got you, I got you, kid,” he wrapped his arms around you, pressing his lips against your forehead, before resting his chin on top of your head.

You closed your eyes, sinking into his arms as you felt warmth in your body. You felt safe. You gathered your things as you held Dean’s hand, walking out of the room.

---

It only took a few minutes for you to pass out, closing your eyes as you laid on the back seat of the Impala.

“Well?” Sam asked, looking back at you. There was no waking you up now.

“Yeah, she fell for it. Kids really are dumb. Hopefully, this will send the Winchesters a message,” ‘Dean’ turned around, taking a picture of your sleeping figure.

“Yeah, the boss better praise us,” ‘Sam’ smirked, looking at you.

[ofmythsandmadness]

pretty eyes.

you love diego hargreeves pretty eyes, sober and drunk off your rocker. only, when its the latter, it’s a little harder to hold back your eager compliments.

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WARNINGS & DETAILS: gender!neutral reader. mention of alcohol & drinking, some fighting later on in the chapter (it’ll make sense when it comes), idiots being idiots, mutual pining, a tad bit of angst. WORD COUNT: 6.5k NOTES: at the end (read please).

BUY ME A COFFEE HERE. | CHECK OUT MY OTHER WRITINGS HERE.

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“DO YOU KNOW WHY THE SKY’S BLUE?”

Diego didn’t look back, but from the sounds of tiny pants and dull clunks of shoes hitting the ground, he knew enough to paint a picture. You, struggling to rid yourself of the coat he forced you to put on, dropping the heels you claimed you hated so vehemently, all the while probably grinning from ear to ear like he imagined little kids looked on Christmas Day. He knew you’d be waiting for his answer, just as you always did, expecting something greater than he could give you in his own flustered state.

Sometimes you were predictable. But he liked that about you.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“No, silly! I’m asking you!”

“Oh.” His tongue danced across his bottom lip, wetting the chapped skin before responding. “I dunno. Sorry.”

Only a sparkling laugh and a thump answered him. He whirled around to see you flat on your butt on the ground, staring up at him with drooping doe eyes. It would be an irresistibly pretty sight, if he knew it wasn’t from extreme inebriation and you were completely off your rocker at the moment.

Still, pretty.

“Help me up?” You laughed, waving your hands aimlessly towards him. “Puh-lease?”

Diego grimaced slightly but moved anyways. He grabbed at your hands (clammy, another symptom of your heavy drinking choices)  and yanked you towards him. Only he overestimated you and greatly underestimated his own strength it seemed -- instead of lifting to your feet like any normal person, you practically flew towards him, landing just under his chin and flopping against his chest.

And Diego froze.

Normally he would have pulled away and shrugged it off as a mistake. Neither of you would mention it again and would move on with your lives, forgetting how close your bodies had been and the way your gaze was intoxicating upon itself. He had rules for those things; never getting too close to a friend who made his heart beat in a rather unfriendly way was one of them.

But as you looked up at him, still smiling dopily and eyes almost crossed, he couldn’t remember a single thing about rules or precautions or anything of the sort. All that was on Diego’s mind, was you.

Your smile softened a tad, painted lips closing over your teeth and only hinting at the dimples he had stared at many-a-time before. Up close, he could see flecks of black under your eyes, staining flushed skin with ebony freckles that no one could believe was natural. He didn’t know the word for it, but guessed it was from you rubbing at your eyes and forgetting you had painted them hours before. Despite it, you still looked absolutely radiant.

“You have really pretty eyes.”

Diego blinked, startled by your giggled statement. “W-what?”

“Sooo pretty,” you gushed. One of your hands left his chest -- he hadn’t even realised they had been pressed there, but he suddenly missed the warm sensation -- and caressed his cheek. He shuddered at the touch. “Maybe the pre...prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen!”

If merely standing near you was heart-attack inducing, Diego was certain that all this was going to explode the vessel. Any second at that point, it would just burst and coat your grinning face with its guts--

-- he shook his head, ridding himself of both that image and the foolish thoughts flooding around it. You were drunk. Everyone said and did stupid stuff when they were drunk. Right? Like the time he lost a fight with a lamp post -- he wouldn’t do that sober, but alcohol made everyone a fool. You just chose compliments over actions, maybe.

The saying ‘drunk words, sober thoughts’ lingered in his mind for half a second, but he pushed it away. That only worked in late night television or shitty rom-coms, not reality. Not with them.

“You should get to bed,” Diego said gruffly, pulling away from your fingers. He didn’t miss the flash of disappointment on your face, but tried to push it away for his own emotions’ sake. “You’re gonna want to, ‘fore all this hits.”

“You should smile more.”

Diego froze. He didn’t turn back to her that time, knowing it would only hurt him more, but he couldn’t bring himself to move another inch.

“Your eyes are fu...cking beautiful, but your smile?” Clapping echoed paces behind him; his jaw clenched with every smack. “Diego, you’re so pretty!”

He reached behind him blindly, scrambling and feeling stupid before finally launching onto you. Still avoiding your charming smile, he pulled you along, leading you out and into your bedroom. “I’ll be back to get you some Advil. Sit down.”

“I wish you’d smile more,” you said, completely ignoring every word he said. You fell down to your bed with a plop. “It lights up those pretty pretty, pretty eyes so much...so fucking pretty, Diego! I can’t even think of any other words, that’s how be-yew-tiful you are.”

“Okay, I--”

“-- and you always look so grumpy. It’s so funny!”

Diego should have been long gone, at that point. For his own sake and for yours, because you would hate that you rambled on so much, and he was going to pay for the emotional turmoil you were putting him through. But he couldn’t. He simply stood, still and awkward in your bedroom doorway, watching as you tried to twist your face to look like his own.

It didn’t work at all. Your lips fought angrily to smile again, and your eyelids just drooped, so far you looked stoned, or maybe like a zombie ready to bite. But even if you looked beyond ridiculous, his mind still screamed at how adorable it was, and despite himself, Diego smiled.

“See! See, there - there it is!” You pointed frantically at his own face, like he didn’t know it was there. “God, I wish I had a mirror to show you how pretty you are! Lil...lil sunshine boy!”

Okay, ‘sunshine boy’ was new. It took a little bit of the piss out of everything, and he was able to grumble and walk away finally from your singing self. Calls of his name paired with nonsensical titles followed. Diego tried his best to ignore them, but he knew the coos would haunt him later. Even as he searched for a glass, the sounds bounced through his head like injured bats in a cave; no way out and too blind to escape, forced to flit around endlessly until someone ended their suffering.

But Diego, unfortunately, did not know how to do that. So he simply bore the weight of your compliments knowing that they were nothing but sounds and syllables made up by a confused mind, trying to push through the night with as little baggage as possible.

As he walked back to your room, he sighed. This wasn’t how he planned things to go. It had been a good night -- sure, he might not have had as much fun as you looked like you were having, dancing and drinking and laughing, but at least he was with you. And he liked that, and the lax nature you took on when you drank, making him feel less pressure about constantly being the best version of himself. He hadn’t felt like he needed to put on a show, he was just Diego, for better or for worse. And somehow, you didn’t mind that.

He only wished that he could have more than that and all the time.

“Okay,” he said, clearing his throat after the word came out garbled. “Uh - got you this, you’re gonna want to drink it and take these now. Okay? And I’m putting these here for tomorrow morning, so you can take that as soon as you’re up. You got that?”

Your head bobbed up and down excitedly, but he knew you didn’t take in a word he said. So as you swallowed the tablets and gulped down the water, he scribbled out a note to remind you of what definitely went right over your head.

Diego paused, pen slightly trembling in his hand, before jotting down two more sentences. Thanks for last night. Had a good time being with you, as always. He hesitated, hovering over the slip of paper before cursing and scribbling out the lines with added violence. He tried again, being a little bit more poetic (which wasn’t much, but words really were not his thing) only to be disappointed again, pushing down on the pen so hard he was sure it would burst. Once he was sure nothing but scribbles could be made of the mess, he put the note under the Advil bottle and stepped away.

“You wanna change out of that?” He asked, gesturing to your clothes. “Doubt that’s comfortable.”

“Nah,” you drawled. You smiled up at him and even dared to wink (it was more of a sloppy, half-assed blink, but it still made his head swim). “I’m just comfortable. Do...you…’re you comfortable?”

Diego chose not to answer that. He pushed you back gently, deciding not to fight with you on changing and instead just going with sleep. You didn’t fight him much. If anything you leaned into it, holding onto his hands for seconds longer than you should and mumbling sweet nonsense up at him.

“You know,” you sang, “you know what, Di...Diego?”

He didn’t pause. “What?”

“I would do anything...and everything...in order to make you smile forever. You know? Anything.”

Those were the words that weighed heaviest on Diego’s conscience as he drove back to his place. It was as though they had erased everything else, anything that had happened that day or any time before and just left that in its place. He didn’t know why, but they stuck, and as he wove through the dimly lit streets, your voice floated about like a bodiless apparition, set to destroy his mind and drive him mad.

Diego had had his heart broken several times before. It happened almost easily in his childhood, normally by the hands of his vindictive father. He had learned how to patch it up, sew up the cracks and try to make it so it wouldn’t happen again, and eventually he got better at that. But it shattered again when Ben died, and he realised that they were just kids, forced to play heroes in a horrifically gruesome world they didn’t belong in. That took a while to mend, but he did, until he screwed up at the police academy and Patch left him too. After that he had let the fragments just sit in piles in his chest, digging at his ribs and leaving him winded after long nights in the cold darkness. He hadn’t cared; he thought that was what was expected of him. Nothing but a broken heart to hold him when the nightmares got too bad.

But when you came along, he didn’t have to stitch himself back together. You did it for him. Somehow without him noticing you had snuck into his chest and unravelled the poor stitchwork and blotted out the stains left that he hadn’t bothered to clean up. Over time, you had managed to make it almost brand new again, and it was a whole new experience of smiling and watching as you failed to finish your joke again, only because you were already laughing too hard. Of getting wasted on Wednesday’s when your job sucked more and dancing down the streets up to your apartment, uncaring of those who watched. Of you chiding him for the cuts and bruises collected from his vigilante expeditions, but always being there to wash them out and make a fresh pot of tea. Of you, merely existing, and allowing him to bask in your sunshine a while longer.

But hearing those soft words leave your drunken lips, spilling out like tar from someone so angelic, hurt. Diego didn’t think that was possible with you.

He sighed, turning down the street towards the gym. It would be a sleepless night again.

YOU WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING CONFUSED AND ACHING.

Not as much as you normally would be, which was a nice change of pace -- you assumed you had enough common sense to take premature headache meds, knowing how bad the hangover got for them. But your drunken self did not have the thought of changing out of your stiff, uncomfortable going-out clothes, instead draping yourself across the mattress smelling like the shitty bar you had careened in and leaving every part of your body pissed off. Sweaty fabric clung to your skin, leaving you feeling soggy and misworn and eagerly wishing you could have made better choices earlier.

You groaned and slipped out of the comforter, already missing its heavy warmth. Slowly you staggered over to your desk where you must have left the Advil for that morning. “Thank you, past me,” you sighed, twisting open the cap with a grimace.

A paper caught your eye, small amongst the stacks of work files you had yet to comb through. Downing one pill, you grabbed it, taking in the scribbled letters through tired, squinting eyes.

Leaving this for you because you’re too drunk to remember what I said. Take these and drink water before you die of a hangover. I’d hate to find your body that way. Also left your things on your kitchen counter, they’re not stolen. Also left your burrito in your microwave -- you insisted on buying one last night, so don’t forget about it. Take care.

Underneath were two lines of thick black scribbles, covering up whatever was written under that and leaving only a scrawled ‘Diego’ as your final clue. But, despite whatever mystery the pen covered up, you smiled and pinned the note to your bulletin board.

“Thanks, bud,” you grinned, speaking like he was there to hear. “Hope I wasn’t too annoying last night.”

You went about your morning with a smile despite the pounding pulverising your muscles, and enjoying the lazy Sunday hours spent cleaning up. You even spoiled yourself with a long shower, eating up your hot water minutes with joy, knowing you’d hate yourself for it two weeks later. After an hour of cleaning up, washing your face free of the makeup smudged across your cheeks and devouring that burrito left for you, you finally felt refreshed and better about things.

You glanced up at the time. Diego would be up, probably manning the desk for Al as he did most Sunday’s (the facet of his job he hated most). But, at least that meant he would be available to take your call. You missed him, even after seeing him just the night before, and selfishly craved the distraction of his low rasp. Maybe you could even make him laugh, cheer him up during his boring shift.

But five minutes later, you were left disappointed when none of the three calls went through. You tried not to think too hard on it -- he was a busy guy, and was either working or doing his other line of work, and ignoring your call meant nothing. Course, it probably didn’t look good for a boxing gym, but...you’d settle.

You would just call back later. He would definitely be available to talk then.

IT HAD BEEN A WEEK SINCE YOU LAST TALKED TO DIEGO, which was the longest either of you had gone without even speaking to one another in the history of your friendship.

On its own, the fact wasn’t so troubling. You were both working adults who had their own lives to sort through, jobs and bills and other friends that you didn’t like half as much as each other, grocery shopping and patrolling the streets alike, filling up both schedules easily. But the two of you were closer than that, and definitely more than just friends that saw each other every other week. You didn’t care about those friends like you cared about Diego.

And it hurt, that he was going to such lengths to avoid you.

Every time you stopped by his gym, Diego was gone. Al simply shrugged off your questions with a non-committal ‘I don’t keep track of the shithead’ and even when you went to knock on his door to check if he was lying, you got nothing. No regulars knew either, which was strange; he always liked to spend his afternoons training with a couple people, sometimes you if you showed up at the right time. You considered doing just that and waiting for him to show -- but even after hours of sparring, the man was nowhere to be seen.

You had tried everything, to the point where Al was annoyed and you felt like you were losing your mind. Surely Diego hadn’t just disappeared off the face of the earth. That didn’t seem right or possible and you knew you hadn’t made him up, because you had the pictures and notes to prove it. You could see his face, disgruntled and sometimes smiling in the photos you had snapped of him -- so why couldn’t you find it anywhere else?

With all options exhausted, you gave up for a few days, allowing yourself the chance to catch your breath. However, with that came the exhaustive process of trying to figure out why on earth Diego was avoiding you. And unfortunately, all that linked back to your last night spent together, and the bitter realisation that you must have fucked up the night somehow and left him not wanting to see you again.

And that thought broke you.

Thursday night was spent crying alone on your couch, trying to push past the depressing thoughts and failing miserably. You couldn’t remember half of what you did that night, but you knew he hadn’t been drinking as much as you, and alcohol always rendered you a ranting, rambling fool that he must have had to deal with. He had got you home, but for what? And what if it was all in that stupid note he had left you, scribbling out the real reason he was leaving you high and dry?

You threw the note out that night, staring down at it in the trash with tears pooling in your eyes. If only you could know why.

The issue was, Diego was more than just a friend to you. Sure your relationship had been built on totally platonic foundations, but it soon blossomed into so much more. He was a companion, your partner, the man who made you feel comfortable enough to wheeze into laughter-induced tears with, or just sob against his shoulder without feeling judged. He was the guy who brought you fast food when you forgot about dinner when work ran late, and the one who let you sleep over when you didn’t want to be alone. He made you smile by just being there -- like, you would open your door (or window, usually) and just grin like an idiot at the mere sight of his face. He was just Diego, but that meant more to you than you had ever been able to say.

Maybe, hell, you loved him. Was that so bad? It hadn’t been intentional to fall -- one day you had just been eating pizza on your countertop way too late in the night, and you looked over and realised your heart had only ever fluttered so violently for him. That he was the guy you could imagine spending the rest of your days with and never getting bored. Of course, you didn’t act on it, knowing that it was a platonic relationship and admitting such would destroy it completely -- but that didn’t mean your official break-up didn’t hurt any less.

You skipped work Friday, something you never did.

When your coworkers called, you wrote it off as illness related, while still drowning in the sorrow of being left high and dry.

Friends hit you up to make some ‘end of the week’ plans, but you ignored them.

You fell asleep at nine that night -- the earliest you had in aeons.

You stayed in bed for most of Saturday, staring at the ceiling or the photos pinned to your walls of the two of you, wondering if this was all just a weird dream you were going to wake up from.

Six hours later, you hadn’t woken up from your dream, but you had made up your mind.

One hour after that, at almost ten o’clock at night, you were rolling up to that same boxing gym you had haunted for that week, dressed in dark activewear and parked a ways away from the actual space. Steely-eyed and with your jaw clenched, you marched out the vehicle and into the building, knowing full well what you were going to find. You had a plan, and whatever it took, you were going to put it into motion.

Maybe it wasn’t the greatest plan, and maybe you had only just come up with it, with barely any time to consider it’s workability and whether or not you were just throwing words together, but nevertheless, you persisted.

You were going to get Diego back.

“DIEGO FUCKING HARGREEVES,”

The man, back turned away, stiffened and immediately went to move,

“run and I will end you, boy,” you growled, stomping towards him with force; he could practically feel each stomp echoing in his chest, cracking him down to the size of a pea. Somehow, he couldn’t move, frozen in place by your command. “Okay?!”

“H-hey, I--”

“--why the hell have you been avoiding me?!”

His eyes were wide and panicked and frantically, he searched all around for a way out. Unfortunately, your body in front of him blocked his only exit, leaving him stammering for answers you knew he didn’t easily have. “Look, I--”

“--I have been worried and scared and sad and out of my mind this entire week,” you snapped, jabbing a finger into his tank top, pushing him back in his steps. Your anger dug deep into him, thorns grabbing onto every bit of vulnerable flesh -- and the worst part was, you were absolutely right.  “You know that? I have called everywhere I could -- I even called the police, wondering if you were in custody and I just missed that news drop. But no, you were just gone, avoiding me for who knows what reason!”

“I didn’t--”

“--what did I do, Diego? What happened, what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing! You’ve done nothing.”

“Then why won’t you even look me in the eyes?” you hissed back, staring up at him in hopes he would catch your gaze. But he didn’t; his eyes still looked far away from yours, searching for something to give him a way out with. “You won’t even look at me, that’s how pissed off you are at me.”

“That’s not true.”

“I get if I did something wrong, but you can’t just pull away from me like that -- this friendship isn’t built on shit like that. I can’t cope with this void left by you deciding you don’t like me anymore!”

“That’s not what happened,” he insisted, his own voice raising in volume. “I swear!”

“Then what, Diego? What possible reason could you have that isn’t related to me doing something wrong? Because that’s all the evidence I got out of this and unlike you, I have zero detective skills so I’m working on one freakin’ theory here!”

His eyes averted to the ground, staring down at the both of your feet, one pair tapping angrily and the other shuffling in hopes of escape. He felt himself folding in, a habit he had broken a long time ago with you, one he thought he had killed off forever. But apparently it hadn’t. 

“You can’t even answer me,” you shuddered. Your sneakers squeaked against the shiny linoleum, leading you back a step. “You - I don’t understand this. At all. And you can’t even give me an answer why? D-don’t I deserve a reason for why I hurt you, Diego?”

“No, c’mon. I…” he hesitated once more as expected. Whatever he was planning on saying died in his mouth and thickened his tongue, leaving him once again stumbling for an excuse. He felt your eyes on him as well as his father, reproachfully clicking his tongue at once again, his stuttering, bumbling fool of a son. “I did...I didn’t…”

“Forget it. Screw this.”

“W-wait, don’t leave--”

“--I’m not leaving!”

He froze, holding onto your bicep in an attempt to stop you. Slowly, his hand fell away, “w-what?”

“I’m not leaving,” you repeated, and slowly he watched as a devilish smile stained your cheeks, pulling away the angry lines of before. “I didn’t come here to leave, I came here for answers. And I guess I just have to fight you for ‘em.”

At that point, Diego’s head had been through the wringer so much, he felt like it could just pop off if he wasn’t careful. And yet still, his eyes bugged out and he stared at you in complete shock, unsure just how he was supposed to process that last sentence.

“I’m sorry, what?!”

You shrugged like it was nothing at all, “c’mon. I know you’re better with the physical stuff and I wanna catch you off guard, finally get an answer out of you. I’m gonna, like, fight you for the truth.”

He watched as you toed off your shoes and shrugged off your thin jacket, letting it fall to the floor behind you with little care. You seemed ready, like you had planned this all along -- and had you? What was the reason behind all this? Was there something that he just wasn’t getting, in his state of emotional disarray? Or were you just losing your mind because of him?

“L-look, I’m s-sorry, but I,” he paused, trying to form the syllables in his mouth so they weren’t so thick and jumbled. “I can’t just fight you.”

“Sure you can. We spar all the time.”

“But w-w-why?”

Once more, your shoulders lifted and fell; ever the nonchalant dramatic. “Call it a bet. I win, you tell me why you avoided me for so long. And if you win, which you probably won’t but if you do…” you grimaced. “I’ll leave and you never have to see me again.”

Diego baulked. “I don’t want that.”

“Clearly you do,” you jabbed back. “Right?”

“No. I don’t. I don’t want to lose you.”

You huffed; clearly you didn’t believe him, but you also seemed set on the idea that you were definitely going to win, so he wasn’t sure where he stood in that. “Fine, pick your prize and keep it to yourself. I don’t care.”

Diego still hesitated, hovering to the side as you wrapped your hands. There seemed no way out of the situation, but surely there had to be - surely you weren’t just going to hop into the ring for an explanation.

Was this some ill-fated revenge?

You must have noticed his expression, because he heard you laughing from a whiles away. “I’m not looking to hurt you, Diego. Trust me, no matter what you do, I’d never want to do that.”

His heart fluttered.

“It’s just,” you cocked your head, thinking over your words before smiling again, “like you said when you first started training me. Freestyle, baby.”

You had deepened your voice tremendously to mock his own -- and while it was a horrible impression, it did call back to the one you did before of him. Not that you seemed to remember that, you had been piss drunk, but the thought still made him cringe.

All this, because of him. He screwed it all up and for what?

“Rules are the same as always. First person to pin the other down for more than five beats wins. No serious hits, so like, don’t break my nose or anything.”

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled, even as he stepped into the ring. “We don’t need to do this. We can just talk.”

You sighed and looked back at him. There was a fierceness in your eyes, a determination for something he wasn’t quite sure of -- like there was a plan in motion, only he couldn’t figure out where the steps lead. “I didn’t come here to walk away, Diego. I’m here to win a bet and get my friend back, and also kick his ass if I have to because I’m desperate. You can’t convince me to leave, so wrap your hands and let’s get this going!”

“But-”

“-it’s either this or I just stare at you until you crack,” you said, no longer smiling. “And I doubt you want that typ’a torture, do you?”

He stared at you askance. “Really?”

You didn’t answer him with words that time.

The fight was fast, and almost evenly matched -- you had a slight advantage with your eye on your prize, and he was faltering with every other blow knowing he couldn’t bear to hurt you. But the pace picked up and soon it was like you were one fluid being, predators locked on and desperate to claw the other away from them while simultaneously, drawing them back in. Fists flew and every so often he saw the sparks fly from the fire in your eyes, catching on everything he turned from and leaving him surrounded by the flames you spilled.

For a moment, Diego thought he had it. He had managed to pivot away from your last onslaught and pulled you away from the centre, edging into the corner where he could finally pin you down. His arms outstretched and for a moment he was actually smiling because it felt like the good old days -- sparring way too late into the night when he should have been working with the girl he secretly loved and the stars watching from way above, admiring the gruesomely pretty sight.

But in a flash, everything switched.

He lunged, you slid.

When he fumbled, your legs wrapped around his own, pulling him back and flipping over one another like beetles rolling in the hot sun.

You were everywhere, smothering his smoke with your body, forcing him down before he even realised what was happening.

Diego blinked, and suddenly you were on top of him, legs on either side of his waist and your hands holding his own up above his head. Your expression edged on feral as you grinned down at him, straddling him and fighting everything he pushed back with.

But he couldn’t fight back. Not when you were on him and everywhere and he could smell your shampoo as your hand dangled around him, dripping your scent around him like he was in that poppy field from Wizard of Oz, ready to give into the toxin and be one with the flowers. Your hands held his own and he wished he could slide his fingers into the clasp, holding them to him and kiss each bruised knuckle with tenderness he didn’t know he possessed. Your hips, legs, chest pressed against his own, both heaving and waiting for the other to move and interrupt the tension rising with every passing second.

“One,” you began, voice low and teasing. Did you know what you did to him? “Two…”

Diego writhed in your hold, but it was no use. You had him. He was yours and he would be satisfied to be so for the rest of your days, if only you never let him go. His gaze flitted across your face, tracing the way your eyebrows furrowed and relaxed with the numbers, eyes still wide and filled with emotions he didn’t quite know how to read. Sweat beaded on your brow and stained your cheeks and yet still, he thought you were as perfect as you could be, mere inches from his own darting eyes.

“Four...four and a half…” your smile grew and you got a little closer, almost touching his face with your own. “Five…”

He didn’t dare to breathe.

“I win, Hargreeves.”

But despite the hushed declaration, you did not move. Your body stayed over his, hands pushing his own down with gentle force but keeping him locked under you. Your eyes remained on his own, locking them in place as your face grew nearer. Soon enough your nose was just touching his own, nudging softly and turning so it fit better against his lips, which were parted and so close to pressing against your own-

-but you pulled away.

Just as Diego’s eyes had shut, your weight left his and he was left to sit up confused and watch you stomp away. You slipped out of the ring and down to the ground with a soft thump. He watched you unwrap your knuckles and to his surprise, he saw your hands shake with the movement. 

“This was a mistake,” you mumbled to yourself. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear. “This was stupid, I have to-”

“-don’t go,” he mumbled. In one swift movement Diego had jumped back to his feet and pulled after you. You stumbled back a few paces; he raced after, hurrying to your side with an aggression he didn’t know he possessed. “Don’t go.”

“Diego, I-”

“-I pushed you away because I screwed up,” he said, all in one breath and so fast he wasn’t sure if you could understand him. “I messed this up. We’re only supposed to be friends, I know that, but I-I can’t not be in love with you, not when you’re that perfect and so beautiful and you make me smile e-even when I feel like the shittiest sh-sh-shit and-”

“-kiss me.”

“What?”

You stepped forward, angling yourself just under his chin. Your chest heaved. “Kiss me, asshole.”

And slowly his hands moved on their own accord, cupping your cheeks and holding you to him. His eyes darted down once, staring at the pink lips before reaching your own again for a silent affirmation. When you nodded in his hands he acted, pulling you to him quickly and pressing his lips against his own, finally.

It was fast and passionate, both beings pulling at the other, urging the other closer than the skin they already pressed against. His one hand left your jaw to hold your neck, angling your face so he could better caress it, smudging himself across your lips with little care. He felt your own touch against his back, sliding down to his hips and pulling -- without even thinking, he moaned, feeling your lower body roll up against him and leave his mind in overdrive.

You pulled away for air finally, gasping only to be pulled in again for a softer, gentler kiss. He pecked the corners of your mouth before finally taking your lower in between his teeth, biting softly before sucking on the tender swollen skin. He pulled away then, dropping his forehead to your own as you both took another breath.

“If…” you paused to inhale, grinning through the gasp of oxygen, “if I knew you were holding all that back, Diego, I would have kissed your ass a lot sooner.”

“I’m...I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you murmured. He felt your hands leave his waist, pulling up to the one he still had cradled against your cheek. Your head leaned into the gentle touch. Even as your fingers held his. “I just...is this why you stopped talking to me?”

Diego shook his head softly against your own. Once more his heart faltered and threatened to burst, but he ignored it. “No, I just...I realised that I was-”

“-sorry, I don’t - you have an eyelash.” He froze as your fingers stroked his cheek, pulling away the evidence that had caught your attention. Your eyes darted up to his for a moment, and he watched as they widened and brightened under his perplexed gaze. “Your eyes really are pretty.”

His heart stopped for a beat.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“That’s why I stopped!” he exclaimed. He pulled away from you then, gesticulating wildly around like the air was going to supply you with answers. “That’s why!”

You frowned, cocking your head like a lost puppy. “You...because of your pretty eyes?!”

“What? Wait, no, that’s not why.”

“I’m so confused right now, bud, and I just--”

“--last week,” he rushed, cutting you off before he could lose momentum again. “I took you home. You were wasted, and you kept talking and - and you told me I had pretty eyes.”

Still, you looked bewildered.

“I-I have been obsessed with you since the day I met you,” he said, soft and unsure if any of the words would come out right. Or if they themselves were the right ones to say. “I couldn’t help it. And I didn’t let myself act on it because I knew that it wouldn’t wo-wo-work out, you’d get mad and I’d lose you. I rathered having you as a friend, then losing you cause I was in love with you.”

“Love?” you questioned, barely a breath of a sound lingering between them.

“But that night, you went on and on and I realised then that I was too gone to keep it in. And I realised that you wouldn’t feel the same...and I didn’t want to hurt you, so I left. And…”

“Diego Hargreeves, that is the stupidest thing I have ever heard.”

His brow furrowed low, anger mingling with befuddlement on his flushed skin. “Hey, I-”

“-first of all, you really think I would just hate you because you thought of me as more than a friend?! Even if I didn’t like you - which I do, by the way - I wouldn’t do that, I value you too much. But second of all, you’re telling me that you never noticed how much I liked you back?!”

“I-”

“-I have felt like an idiot for the past year, holding in my feelings for you and wishing you could feel the same way. And when you left, I thought - I thought that was it, and that I screwed things up when I was drunk, which I guess I did but-”

“-you didn’t screw anything up, I did!”

“No you didn’t, I did! I’m the drunken initiator!”

“I shouldn’t have just left!”

“Okay, so we both screwed up!” you shouted, throwing your hands up in the air in exasperation. “But dammit, Diego, I have loved you for ages, and you - we - this is what it came to?!”

“Well, I-”

“-I can’t believe this!” you chortled. “All this time?!”

“I guess so,” he said, voice catching on the ‘so’. “I guess, yeah.”

“Holy crap.”

“Ha. Yeah.”

“I love you,” you giggled, breathless and still flushed, messy and beautiful in the shitty gym lighting. “I love you, Diego Hargreeves.”

His heart didn’t break. It didn’t even crack. Diego instead felt the slight twinge as the organ settled in his chest, content and buzzing with the panted cry. The breaklines of before didn’t feel so harsh, mended by your shiny eyes and swollen lips that he wanted to stare at until the end of his days. For once, his heart actually felt whole.

“I love you too,” Diego mumbled, smiling like a little kid. The muscles in his face, rusted over with age and disuse, groaned at the extreme grin but he kept it on anyways, smiling down at you with the strangest feeling of happiness coursing through his body. “A lot.”

And you beamed. “Have I ever told you, your eyes look like, a thousand times prettier when you smile?”

A/N: WHY DO I KEEP WRITING ALCOHOL BASED IDIOTS TO LOVERS FICS?? Have I any other creative thoughts?? Does this make me seem like that’s all I think about?? These are the thoughts that now run through my mind as I rush to post this...and truthfully, I don’t have an answer. I swear I’m a little more creative! I just...have a hankering for these things. Oops.

I wrote this weirdly super super fast and it’s super nonsensical, especially the middle bits? But I weirdly like it. I’m not sure. The plot is a ~little~ wonky but I’m rolling with it!

I’m open to make more stuff on here, I’ve gotten quite bad at it but I like writing these things as practice pieces. So, if you want to read more, requests are open and you can find a list of prompts (if you want them) in my masterlist. I’m putting out an updated list later on in the month, but I also am just open to have any sorts of requests. xx

(also as always - if you enjoyed and you want more, follow, reblog, and consider buying me a kofi! linked in my bio bc tumblr doesn’t like direct links on posts, please check it out if you’re feeling generous because I’m recently unemployed and any bit helps. but sharing this post and showing others the work is appreciated a great deal and i love you if you do!)

[buckyskorpion]

11 hours - part six

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

Summary: bucky is the mystery you can’t wait to solve. if you can get out of his bed long enough, that is. a biker au.

Warnings: gang-typical violence, sex scenes, alcohol mentions, probably more to come so stay tuned

A/N: so i was gonna leave this on ANOTHER doozy cliff hanger but i genuinely thought i would get lynched so i decided to just leave it at a baby cliffhanger. a lot happened in this chapter and a lot of seeds have been planted for future chapters..... so lemme know what you think hehe. predictions?? angry letters?? pitchforks??? lemme know!! i wont be taking tags for this so please dont ask.

title taken from 11 hours by wet | playlist | please donate to my ko-fi!

masterlist 

“You’re very calm for someone with a gun to their head.”

Honestly, you had been thinking the same thing. Sure, your stomach feels like a snake pit and your hands are sweating and you don’t think you’ve ever been more aware of your own heart beat, but other than that - you don’t understand why you aren’t panicking more. There are three men standing in front of you, one behind, all with guns. They’re wearing matching leather jackets with an octo-head patch on the sleeve, and they all look very scary. Briefly, you wonder if Bucky has a jacket like this, with a patch on to match his family. It’s an irrelevant detail you can’t help but fixate on right now.

Bucky. Hopefully listening on the other end of the phone you have tucked in your back pocket which your kidnappers haven’t been bothered to check yet, thankfully. You flex your wrists against the zip ties holding you to a chair and ask, “Where am I?”

“You should know,” your stalker turned kidnapper says with a condescending sneer. “You followed me here.”

“The Lerna?” you clarify, for the sake of hopefully someone on the other end of your mobile picking it up. You glance around at the old-style bar; chipped wood and beer stains, a rickety pool table one of your stalker’s friends is using as an arm rest. You curl your nose up at it - a little proudly, you note it has nothing on Sam’s bar.

“Do you recognise the place?” your stalker asks. That throws you. You want to ask what he means by that, why you would recognise this gross bar you’ve never stepped foot in, but you clench your teeth and school your face.

Once your dad sat you down in a chair much like this one, in his office at the house you grew up in. You were eleven, maybe, and you didn’t quite understand why he was tying your hands to the back with a necktie but you went along with it. He did this, sometimes - would orchestrate some strange lesson when his nightmares got really bad, his ghosts chasing him inside the house until he saw enemies in lampshades and kitchen cabinets. To keep you safe, he would say, and then he sat opposite you and asked what you would do if anyone ever put you in this position against your will.

“Kroshka, they will use anything against you,” he had said, and you see that now with the way these men are looking at you for any weakness. But you didn’t understand then, you were a kid thinking your dad was spiralling again, so he had cast around until he found a beer bottle on the coffee table. “See, like this. When the label is flat it’s fine, but as soon as one little corner lifts you can’t help it - you have to peel it all the way off. Don’t give them any corners, kroshka.”

You blink, once. The man in front of you scowls when you don’t answer, presses forward into your space in a show of intimidation. You try not to flinch, but that fear you were missing before is starting to set in real fast. What did he mean, do you recognise it? And why the hell are you so prepared for a situation like this, almost as if your dad has been training you for it since you could remember?

“Fine,” your stalker says, his breath fanning over you with how he’s leaning into your space. “Maybe you can answer something else, about your boyfriend.”

“Dunno who you’re talking about,” you say. It’s not a lie - technically, you hadn’t had the ‘boyfriend-girlfriend’ chat with Bucky yet. This man is not appreciative of your loopholes. He grabs your hair and yanks your head back, pressing his glock into your neck. You shiver, both at the pain and the cold of the metal. Through gritted teeth and mild hyperventilation, you say, “As a matter of fact, I dunno who you are either. That’s kinda weird, dontcha think?”

You can practically hear Bucky in your head telling you to shut up, but he’s not here right now. No corners, just like your dad said. Doesn’t mean you can’t try and find some corners of your own.

What you meant as a question to buy some time, with a bit of attitude on the side, sends your stalker reeling back from you. He’s confused, eyebrows drawn down low and his friends behind him look to each other with the same expression. Now, you’re confused as well. Everyone in the room stands (or sits, in your particular predicament) in a pure state of what the fuck is going on. It would be funny, if there wasn’t still a gun to the back of your head.

“You don’t know the patch?” the man asks, gesturing to the sleeve of his jacket. When you don’t respond he continues, slowly, reiterating his question from before but as a statement, “You don’t recognise this place.”

You have zero idea what’s going on, but whatever you’ve said seems have thrown your kidnappers for a bit of a loop, so you decide to roll with it. You say, and hope to god the man standing behind you doesn’t shoot you for it, “I’m starting to think you’ve lost control of this situation, pal.”

From the corner of the room behind you, a familiar husky-toned red head says, “Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

Shots ring out, shattering the windows as one by one your stalker’s friends drop like dominos. Someone crouches behind you and cuts you lose with a knife, and you hear it clatter to the floor as they launch over the back of your chair feet first into your stalker. Natasha. The flash of her red hair over your shoulder as she sends him flying is unmistakable. You scramble from the chair, fumbling for the knife she dropped but your hand slides through something thick, wet. The man behind you with the gun lies dead, throat slit, his blood now all over your fingers. It mesmerises you in a sickening way, making your stomach turn and your vision go fuzzy.

You’d never seen a dead body before. Now they are all around you, the bar smelling like blood instead of beer and the sound of bullets pinging off glass the only noise other than Natasha grappling with your stalker. She’s so small compared to him but she has her thighs clenched around his throat and he gasps for breath, clawing at her legs. You watch, stunned, as he gets a grip on her and throws her off, sending her crashing into the wall with a groan.

She hits the floor and you see red - all you can think is that’s Bucky’s family and that man is walking towards her, his gun trained on her body as she tries to pull herself to her feet, so you stop thinking at all. You picture the back of your stalker's neck like the dartboard at Sam’s bar and you throw.  

Bullseye. Just like your dad taught you.

The man drops, knife buried in his neck and haemorrhaging blood. He gurgles this awful, awful sound as he clutches at his throat, trying and failing to push the blood back in. Natasha looks from your still outstretched hand, trembling in place, to meet your gaze. You can’t begin to decipher her expression, nor do you want to. You feel like you’re going to throw up, or choke, or scream, or all three. The man you just stabbed in the neck groans in pain, eyes rolling, coughing blood from his mouth in thick clumps. You can’t feel your hands anymore.

The door bangs open and you flinch, stumbling back until you trip on the chair you had been tied to and fall to the floor in a crumple of limbs. It’s Bucky, eyes wild and larger than life with a rage you’ve never seen before. He has a huge sniper-rifle slung over his back as he strides into the bar, stepping right over the writhing body of your stalker.

“I’ll deal with you in a second, Rumlow,” he practically growls, kicking aside the man’s hand that tries to grab for him. You scramble to your feet, practically tripping over yourself to get to Bucky. Doesn’t it say something about you that you run towards the man responsible for the death all around you?

You crash into Bucky hard, the force of the impact knocking the breath right out of you and once it’s gone you can’t get it back. It feels like his arms encompass the entirety of you as he holds you so tight your feet leave the ground. His chest rumbles with words but you can’t hear him, your ears are ringing and your chest is tight because panic attack, you dumbass. You press your face into Bucky’s neck and hope that’s enough to escape the scene unfolding around you.

“Get her out of here, I’ll deal with this,” you hear Natasha say somewhere behind Bucky but you refuse to lift your head to see.

Bucky attempts to pull away from you to look at Natasha, you can feel him try and twist his head but the inarticulate whine that rips from your throat stills the both of you. It’s mildly embarrassing, the sound you’ve just made, but it’s out there now. Bucky shifts his grip so one big palm rubs soothing strokes up and down your spine and you feel yourself becoming boneless with every pass of his hand.

“I’m not fucking lettin’ him get away with this,” Bucky says, low, threatening - if you were this Rumlow guy bleeding out on the ground, you would be afraid.

“And he won’t,” Natasha says, and then like she has to remind Bucky of his own thoughts, “but you have other priorities right now. Get her out of here.”

You feel Bucky nod, his scratchy chin moving against the top of your head. He kisses your temple and holds the back of your skull with one big palm, pressing your face further into his neck. It means you don’t see the carnage of the bar when he moves to place an arm around your shoulder and steer you out the door, stumbling under his guidance on shaky, cotton-fuzzy legs. He’s hurrying you, but as gently as he can. Once you feel the bright burn of sunlight on your skin you pull back from Bucky’s neck, blinking in the now empty street and Bucky’s piercing gaze as he looks down at you.

“Are you with me?” he asks, his hand dropping from your skull to squeeze the side of your neck. You still feel like you’re sipping each breath through a straw but you nod. You can see in his eyes he needs you to be with him right now, to get out of here, so you try and blink away the fuzzies in the corners of your vision and focus on his face.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and christ, now is not the time for that stinging pressure behind your eyes you hate so much. You hope Bucky understands - sorry for not listening to him, sorry for getting you both into this mess, sorry for not being strong when he needs you to be.

Bucky shakes his head vehemently, tugs you in harsh and strong by the grip he has on your neck to press a bruising kiss to your forehead. Your eyes flutter close at the fierce way he holds you, presses emotion into your skin like the tattoos littering his skin - a brand of your own, in the middle of this eerily empty street with the blood of strange men on both your hands. The thought makes you shake, so you twist your fingers in the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt and breathe him in deep.

“I’m sorry, doll,” he says, then pulls away from you. He grabs one of your hands from out under his shirt and links your fingers, beginning to drag you down the street. Looking back over his shoulder, he says with a grimace, “We gotta go.”

He leads you to his bike, squeezed between a brick wall and a dumpster in a side alley a block away from The Lerna. It roars to life before you’ve properly swung yourself on the back, and you aren’t bothering with helmets this time as Bucky eases the bike out from it’s tight spot with unsettling ease. All you can do is hold on tight and close your eyes as Bucky leads you away, weaving through the city in nonsensical loops before you feel the air open up around you and the familiar sounds of Brooklyn.

Bucky takes you to Steve’s tattoo in Red Hook, the first time you’re been back there since that fateful run-in with Natasha. You’ve checked out completely by the time Bucky parks - he has to lift you off the back of the bike because your legs won’t work, and he all but carries you inside. Steve is quick to rid the shop of the two customers looking at designs out front as Bucky settles you on the couch by the tattoo beds. You sink into the faded red leather without feeling a thing. Distantly, you notice the kid who usually mans the tills looking at you like you’ve grown a second head, and you suppose you deserve that.

“Stevie, I think she’s in shock,” you hear Bucky say, and the childhood nickname makes you smile. You watch Bucky’s face crease up deep concern at the dreamy look on your face, so you suppose you should stop smiling like a crazy person. A giant blonde head swims into your view, just as concerned, and he drapes a blanket around your shoulders.

“Bucky,” you say, your eyebrows drawing down as you fumble for his hand. He squeezes your fingers and mumbles something to Steve who leaves you again, his voice mingling with the kid’s somewhere over Bucky’s shoulder but you can’t focus on that. All you can do is swim in the back of Bucky’s too-deep stare and say, “I killed him.”

“No, no,” he says, shifting closer between your thighs as he kneels on the floor in front of you. This would be funny to you in any other moment, something to tease him for as he takes both your hands in his and squeezes them together, silently imploring you to stay looking at him. He says, “That’s not on you, sweetheart, it ain’t. You didn’t kill him.”

You’re crying now, properly, which you suppose is a good sign because you don’t think people in shock can cry. You watch as something cracks in Bucky’s eyes as he watches you break apart, but you can’t stop now you’ve started. You say, “I did, I killed him. How do you do it? How do you just- I feel like my throat’s gonna close up. How do you live past this?”

Bucky’s face darkens, smoothing out to something stone cold and frightening. You don’t feel scared, though, as he leans into your space so close you almost feel cross-eyed trying to stay glued to the blue of his eyes. He searches your face for something and says, no room for argument, “You did not kill that bastard, you hear me?”

“But-“

“No,” he says, simply, and that’s that. “The only reason you were in that position is because of me, doll, so no. You didn’t kill him. It’s on me, and I live with that so you don’t have to. You got that? You don’t ever have to live with that.”

You don’t know how he makes you feel like he’s physically reached into your chest and pulled out your guilt through your throat, but he does. You can see it clenched tight in his fist, his eyes shuttering down dark as he shoves it between his own teeth to hold. It’s too soon for the feelings clawing at your ribcage but you feel them just the same, that cigarette burn he left on your heart aching so bad you could scream from it. You extract a hand from his to run down his cheek, along his jaw, cupping his face in your palm. He closes his eyes, shudders as though swallowing down the guilt for the both of you.

I love you for that, you think to the soft flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. I’ll love you forever for that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Natasha returns to the shop, and Sam bundles in not long after that, the four bikers sit around Steve’s prematurely closed tattoo shop and have a family meeting. You can’t help but feel like the kid who’s stayed up past their bedtime to try and hang with the adults, the words flying over their head and sleep pulling at their eyelids but they fight to stay awake anyway. Bucky pulls your head into his lap as he sits on the couch beside you, so you lie there and let him stroke your hair while they discuss what happened over the past two hours.

Two hours, and that’s all it’s taken for your whole world to spin on it’s axis. You’d learnt to throw knives at tree trunks with your dad as a fun, albeit unconventional after-school activity. And now you’ve buried a knife in someone’s neck, you’ve been kidnapped and tied to a chair and watched Bucky gun down men from a rooftop with his sniper rifle. He pulled the trigger with the same fingers he’s carding through your hair now, nails scratching at your scalp in a way that makes your toes tingle. How is that at all ok?

“We’ve started a turf war with Hydra, now,” Sam is saying, sitting backwards on a chair facing Bucky and spreading his hands out in a placating gesture as Bucky bristles. “It was unavoidable, alright, I’m just saying.”

“Not necessarily,” Natasha says. “Rumlow has had a vendetta against Bucky for years. He could’ve been acting alone.”

“It is strange we haven’t heard anything from Pierce,” Steve says thoughtfully. He is pressing an icepack to Natasha’s back, already bruising from where this Rumlow guy threw her into the wall. She’s lifting up her t-shirt and you can see a glimpse of a back piece standing out stark against her pale skin. Giant, feathered wings and a talon, a mosaic piece of what looks like a large hawk spanning the length of her spine.

“When Pierce finds out it was us that shot up his bar, though,” Sam says, making meaningful eyebrow movements to the group. They all nod thoughtfully and fall into silence.

None of these names make much sense to you - Hydra, Pierce, even Rumlow who you’ve gathered by now was your stalker. Was, because he’s dead now, and the thought turns your mouth dry and rusted. You shift in discomfort, drawing Bucky’s attention down to you as he gives you a concerned once over. He had done a thorough analysis for any injuries, even after you’d assured him you were fine, but you can tell he’s still unconvinced.

Unfortunately for you, all your wounds appear to be mental. They’re getting deeper by the second.

“I keep thinking,” you say to Bucky, “why was he so surprised I didn’t know where I was? Or who they were?”

“Hydra is our biggest rival,” Bucky says, and huffs a laugh at your crinkly brow so he clarifies, “They’re another gang, one we’ve had a lot of run-ins with. Rumlow especially. He wasn’t our biggest fan.”

“So he expected you to have told me about him, and Hydra,” you say, the name unfamiliar on your tongue. He nods, and you have to ask, “Why didn’t you?”

Bucky frowns at that. “I already told you - the more you know, the more dangerous it is.”

“And I already told you, no secrets,” you say, frowning just as deep. A beat passes and Bucky doesn’t budge, just glares down at you like he can physically bore his opinion into your brain and make it yours. Exasperated, you say, “Bucky, it didn’t matter anyway - the danger found me. Telling me things like that isn’t going to make a difference.”

“It would’ve if you’d listened to me and not done the stupid thing,” Bucky says, raising his eyebrows. He may have a point, but you aren’t going to back down that easily. Bucky knows you, he knows if you see a loose thread you’re going to pull it. The fact he thought you’d listen to him tell you what to do at all is laughable.

“This gang is your life,” you say, and you don’t bother to hide your frustration now, “They’re your family. I’m no safer not knowing what’s going on - I got stalked and kidnapped regardless. Clearly, it’s dangerous no matter what, so just tell me, Bucky. Whatever it is.”

Bucky stares at you for a long time. Steve, Natasha, Sam - they cease to exist in this room with you. Those first few weeks, when you refused to stay the night in Bucky’s bed and would only see him to fuck - you used to be scared of looking into those eyes for too long, for fear of getting lost. Now you dive head first, a part of you hoping you do get lost so you never have to find your way back out again.

Eventually, Bucky clenches his jaw tight and says, “You’re right.”

You blink, surprised. You hear Sam whisper to Steve, “did you record that?”, and honestly, you wanna ask the same thing. Except the way Bucky is look at you- dread curls thick and choking in your gut. You look up at Bucky and he seem so far away, out of reach even though you feel him all around you. He continues stroking your hair but it’s absentminded, his mind far away too.

You are drawn back to the tattoo shop by Sam saying, “I gotta say, Barnes, your girl is smart as hell. Keeping your phone on you and out-smarting Rumlow in a hostage situation? Pretty badass.”

Bucky smiles briefly down at you, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. You turn to Sam and say, “I got the impression out-smarting Rumlow isn’t really that hard.”

Everyone laughs at that, even Bucky, and it clears away some of the dread eating away at your stomach. But it’s still there, acidic and bubbling no matter what you do to smother it.

Eventually, they grow tired of talking in circles about Rumlow and Hydra and the possibility of the feds showing up (Bucky assures everyone the cops will find no rifling on the bullets and won’t be able to pin them to the crime scene, but Sam mutters heard that before and an argument erupts about some debacle in Bucharest so you tune out). Bucky takes you back to his apartment, tucked securely in his leather jacket in the best kind of shock blanket you could ever ask for.

For the first time, you noticed the tiny embroidered star on the sleeve of his jacket. You wonder if all Bucky’s friends have the same star on their jackets, because they’re not just friends, they’re a gang. One you feel suddenly, irrevocably intertwined with since they’re the only reason you aren’t sitting in a jail cell for murdering someone.

You feel jittery as you walk into Bucky’s apartment, almost nervous. It looks the same as this morning, the coffee cups you used for Steve and Bucky still in the sink and hoodie of his you’d worn last night draped over a chair. But everything is different, now. It’s all changed, there’s weird new shadows over everything long after Bucky turns on the light. You linger in the doorway to Bucky’s bedroom while he rummages around for sweats and jumpers, laying out a pair for you before he begins changing himself. He shucks off his t-shirt and you see his tattoo sleeve, the mottled scars hiding underneath, and your heart flies out of your throat before you can stop it.

“So do you guys have a fun, spooky name like Hydra or what?” you ask, closing your eyes with a grimace as soon as you ask the question. What are you, twelve? Bucky doesn’t answer and you’re too afraid to open your eyes too see the look on his face.

You’re startled when you feel him kiss your cheek, sensing his large frame towering over you and blocking out some of the soft bedroom light. You open your eyes to find him smiling down at you, laughing at you with his eyes as he says, “Not so spooky. Steve named us, he called us the Howling Commandos. The HC, for short.”

You crinkle your nose up at him and he flicks the tip with his ringed fingers. You say, “That’s very old-fashioned.”

“Nat teases him for it all the time,” he says, “She calls us her barbershop quartet.”

You smile, imagining Bucky in suspenders playing the accordion, and say, “Now that I like.”

The longer Bucky looks at you the more sober he becomes, mouth becoming pinched and jaw muscle ticking. He holds you soft by the biceps and walks you back until you hit the wall, still gentle, but bracketing you in now so all you can see is the weight of whatever complicated thing is running across Bucky’s face.

“You scared the fucking shit out of me today,” he says. He shifts, grips your jaw tight so his rings dig into your skin with none of the gentleness of before - he means this. “Never do that again.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, twisting in his tight grip to press a kiss to his fingertips. He softens, allows you to pull him in flush against you by his waist, his bare skin so warm under your hands. “And, thank you. I don’t- I guess I’ve never had someone come save me before, I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t thank me,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He kisses you, a rough press of chapped lips against yours and is gone again before you can react. Says, “I’m sorry, too.”

“Come back,” you say with a pout, and you have just enough time to see Bucky smirk down at you before he’s kissing you again. It’s just as fierce, almost painful, but the rough slide of it distracts from the burn in your chest and your racing thoughts like razorblades. You lick into his mouth, chasing away the ghosts nipping at your heels, and he presses you back into the wall with a thunk hard enough to leave a bruise on your tailbone tomorrow. You don’t care. It feels good to hurt in a way that’s physical.

The ease with which Bucky picks you up makes your head spin. It’s all you can do but pepper kisses along his stubbled jaw as he carries you to the bed, lips suddenly ripped from his skin as he dumps you on the covers. He is quick to follow, squashing you down with his tongue in your mouth before you can take another breath. This, you know. All the messy feelings and heartache and fearfearfear that beats in time with your heart, that maybe you’ll lose him or he’ll lose you and you came so close today, is unfamiliar to the both of you. But arching your back off the bed so he can take your shirt off, scrubbing your fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck as he peppers kisses across your tits with a trail of goosebumps left behind - this is how you know Bucky best.

He makes quick work of your clothes and you fumble with his jeans, laughing into his mouth as he bats your hand away to do it for you. Bucky bites your bottom lip in playful admonishment and you chase his mouth as he tries to pull away. He places one big palm on your clavicle and pushes down, holding you against the bed. He shakes his head at you with a smile.

“Stay,” he says like he would to a dog, grinning wide as you glare at him. But you do as you’re told as he leans over you to grab a condom with his left arm. Maybe you bend the rules a little to trail kisses up the bits of his outstretched forearm you can reach. Over a shadowy skull, the stem of a rose, what looks like military windings near the crook of his elbow and tiny handwritten letters that spell S N S. Sam Nat Steve, because Bucky might be a tough guy to most but he’s a giant sap deep down.

Bucky shudders at your touch, and it makes you wonder if the scarring under his tattoos is extra sensitive. Or maybe he is just sensitive to anyone touching him in such a vulnerable place. You flick your eyes up to watch him watch you, lip drawn between his teeth and a dent between his eyebrows you ache to soothe if he wasn’t still holding you down. You don’t stop, even though he looks physically pained with every brush of your lips against his skin. You trace the edges of another small wolf with your tongue, like the ones on his chestpiece, and watch as his eyes flutter closed when you get close to the paper-thin skin of his inner wrist.

That hits Bucky’s limit. Suddenly his hand on your chest slides up to your neck and he’s leaning over you, left arm braced by your head and his mouth swallowing yours. You groan against his lips at the rough drag of his hands down your sides, gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. He makes your brain go fuzzy, the only coherent thoughts being Bucky and touch me more. He seems to understand. His fingers find your clit, smoothing slow circles which spark embers in the pit of your stomach. Bucky’s mouth falls open as yours does, as if to breath in the whine he draws from you.

“Fuck, you always sound so good,” Bucky groans. He buries his face into the side of your neck, taking advantage of your thigh trapped between his legs to rut against you while he continues playing with your clit. Every time Bucky gets filthy with you it’s like the first time, shocking and almost embarrassing in the sexiest way possible. Heat floods your cheeks and makes you lightheaded, unable to stop the moan he draws from you. You’re rewarded by Bucky’s teeth in your neck, the sensitive spot just over your pulse point, and if you’re being honest you could come just from this.

Bucky’s cock growing harder against your thigh, as his hips shift in rhythm with the circles he draws on your clit, becomes too difficult to ignore. To gain his attention you twist and nip at the closest piece of skin you can find, Bucky’s ear, and he engulfs you in a kiss which steals the breath right out of you. You buck your hips, hoping to nonverbally convey the demand get in me right now, and Bucky doesn't need any more hints than that.

He fumbles with the condom for a second and you take the time to sit up on your elbows and look at him. Bucky is so beautiful, drawn in harsh lines and stark contrasts. Tan skin turned paler against the opaque black of his tattoos, colour swirling in-between and it should be jarring, but you think he just looks like art. Bitten red lips, startling blue eyes pinning you to the mattress as he catches you staring - such bright, primary colours because he is a statement piece, and one you could look at forever.

Bucky grins almost bashfully as you stare at him, leaning back over you to kiss you soft and sweet in a sharp juxtaposition to the rough tumble which got you here. Again, he sends your head spinning when the tender kiss is punctuated by the unexpected push of Bucky’s cock in your cunt. He bottoms out before you can blink, throwing your head back out of the kiss with an untamed groan - both pleasure and pain, in the good way. Bucky drags his teeth from your lips down your chin and neck, biting a mark into your collarbone to set the tone for the bruising pace he creates as he pounds into you.

He doesn’t do anything in halves, you think. You gaze up at him with an almost dopey smile while Bucky fucks the literal breath out of you. You lift your hips to meet him as he bottoms out with every thrust, watching in awe as his face creases up in ecstasy - it’s you who brings him there. He palms your tits like he can’t help himself, loses control in your pussy because you make him feel that good, and the thought makes you giddy. Drunk, almost, as you drag your nails down his chest and nearly come once again just from the moan you draw out of this brilliant, dangerous, gorgeous man.

“You take it so well, baby, fuck,” Bucky pants, eyebrows creasing as the pleasure gets almost painful in its build. You know the feeling. Bucky’s mouth is always your undoing, rolling your eyes back into your head and the sounds you’re making turning positively feral. He kisses you again, more a slam of mouths than anything finessed, and says, “Never gonna get over this, never gonna get over how good you feel.”

“Bucky, you gotta-“

“I gotta what, huh?” Bucky grins at the pleasure-addled panic he brings you too, not wanting to come too fast but also needing to let go before you actually explode. He knows exactly what he’s doing, balancing on one hand to thumb harshly at your clit as he says, “You want me to stop? I don’t think so, sweetheart, I think you wanna come on my cock just like this, wanna hear me tell you how good you are, how sweet you are for me all laid out like this-“

Everything whites out as you come, hard, all your muscles spasming like crazy with the orgasm that rips through you. Bucky’s voice is drowned out, but it doesn’t matter what he’s saying anymore, he’s made you feel like you’ll never catch your breath again. Bucky thunks his forehead against yours, collapsing on top of you as the fluttering clench of your cunt around his cock becomes too much. His thrusts turn sloppy, his breath hot and ragged across your face as you press lazy, barely-there kisses to his cheeks - all you can muster in your fucked-out haze.

Bucky comes with his eyes closed, eyelashes tangling with yours, and you cling to him with all four limbs as he shakes through his orgasm. The release was so needed for the both of you, the events of the last twenty-four hours frying your nerves to the point where it was either fight, cry, or fuck. It feels so good to have Bucky on top of you, inside you, all around you in every single sense and it warms your heart in a way you didn’t know was possible until now. Until Bucky.

Maybe that’s the afterglow talking, and you should stop. But you can’t help but press another kiss to Bucky’s cheek, and another, over his nose and across his still-closed eyelids until you reach his mouth and he can kiss you back just as soft. You hope he gets it. You hope he feels it too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You go to see your dad, eventually. The chaos of yesterday kept you attached to Bucky’s hip - you showered together in the morning, and he allowed you to pretend it was just the water and not tears soaking your face. But he made you cuddle with him on the couch and fed you an omelette like you were incapable of feeding yourself, and maybe you were, because the reality of what happened in that shitty Manhattan bar was starting to eat away at your executive functions. It took all of your strength to convince Bucky you would be ok and that you’d come back to him as soon as you were done, but it was time to pull on a thread you’ve been ignoring for far too long.

It turns out, that paranoid over-questioning part of your brain doesn’t turn off even during a traumatic event. Your dad lets you in without a word, tugging you into a side hug as you both walk to the kitchen to make tea.

The house you grew up in has taken on a different light since the Lerna. The kitchen chairs aren’t the same, reminding you too much of ziptied wrists and a gun in your face. Why can you superimpose the memory of Rumlow holding you hostage to one you have of being eleven and tied to a chair by your father? You shouldn’t be able to do that.

He nudges your hip, jerking you out of your staring contest with the dining chairs, and offers you a mug of tea. You both sit at the table, either end, the fruit bowl a mediator between you. He looks tired, old, like he always has somehow in your memories from childhood. He’s still your dad, the same man who always been there because he’s all you’ve ever had. He loves you, you know does. Ya lyublyu tebya, luna. But he has always been the first to say your paranoid streak runs a mile deep, and once you find a thread-

Well. Everyone knows how that ends.

“Do you want to talk about it?” your dad asks, and it’s like he knows you aren’t here to ask for boy advice or moan about a case or your skyrocketing rent.

There’s a lot you want to talk about. Why did I learn to throw knives instead of joining the soccer team, like normal kids? Why did I learn how to survive an interrogation instead of going to sleepovers, like normal kids? Why did you train me to question everyone and everything in this world, but I’ve always blindly believed you? Like a normal kid would, you suppose, the only normal you’ve ever really gotten. Always believing your dad is the superhero of six-year-old dreams, someone who would never keep you in the dark.

“No,” you say, taking a sip of tea. It burns your tongue to numbness, but you can’t bring yourself to care. We had the secret language for only us - why did I never think you might have secrets from me as well? You grimace into your tea and say, “Not right now, I’m sorry.”

“Tayny budut presledovat tebya vechno, malysh,” he says. Secrets will haunt you forever, little one.

You don’t dare look up from your tea as you say, “Ya dumayu, ty by znal vse ob etom.” I guess you’d know all about that.

He gives you leftover curry in a carry bag when you leave. Kisses you on the cheek and lets you go, but you can feel him watching you the entire time it takes you to walk down the street and out of sight. As soon as you round the corner you retch into the nearest bush, a well-manicured rose which you silently apologise to as it gets covered in your bile.

This guilt isn’t something Bucky can save you from - it feels like it’s eating you alive. You had never, ever thought you would get to the point where you’d be leaving a bug stuck to the underside of your dad’s kitchen table, but you suppose you never thought you’d be stalked and kidnapped either. You wipe the your mouth with the back of your hand as your stomach finishes emptying itself of tea and betrayal, and try to tell yourself you won’t find anything, you're just being paranoid. But you know you will.

Maybe you always have, and that’s why you’ve been too scared to pull on the thread you’ve known has been dangling in the back of your mind since you were a kid. Just one secret you wanted to leave, one dark corner you didn’t want to shine a light into. That’s never been in your nature. You spit the foul, acidic taste from your mouth onto a poor, innocent rose bud and think with just as much bitterness as the bile coating your throat, that’s not who my dad raised me to be.

Part 7

[fangirlwriting-stories]

Reflecting Light

Chapter Four:

They were stopping in another town just a couple days after the last one, and Janus and Virgil both seemed to be looking forward to this visit, as the blacksmith to which they were dropping off supplies was a friend of theirs.  But apparently, the weapons supplies were not the only thing they were leaving.

“Caffeine plants?” Remus asked, with a confused head tilt.

“He has a weird side project he works on in his free time,” Virgil said, opening another crate of the plant they were talking about and counting the plants inside.  “He says he’s trying to make a drink that can keep you awake for longer.”

“He sounds weird,” Remus said with a grin.  “I can’t wait to meet him.”

“Oh lord, I hope you two don’t get along,” Virgil muttered.  “You would be a disaster pair.”

“Ah, the best kind of pair!”

“Mmm-hmm,” Virgil said, sounding not at all happy with the prospect.

They got to the town a couple hours later, and after eating breakfast, Remus went with Jackson to grab the items from the cargo hold for the blacksmith, who he had learned was named Remy.

Remus grabbed the boxes that Jackson directed him to, and carried them out to the deck, and then carried them down to put them on Remy’s cart.  Remus stayed down to talk to this Remy person as Jackson opened the last box he’d brought down.

But just as he was about to ask Remy about what kind of weapons he made, Jackson called his name.

“Remus?”

Remus glanced over, and saw Jackson holding the lid to the box.

“These aren’t the caffeine plants,” Jackson said.

Remus blinked and jogged over to see that Jackson was right.  Inside the box looked to be the food for the kitchens on the ship.

“Shit,” Remus said.  “Sorry, Jackson.”

“All good, that’s why we check them,” Jackson said, putting the lid back on.  “I’ll go grab the right one, don’t worry about it.”

Remus nodded, and turned again with the intent to ask Remy his question, only to be met with Janus’ irritated gaze.

“Uh… sorry?” Remus said again.

Janus sighed, and waved his hand dismissively.  “Don’t worry about it.  Just don’t do it again.  We can’t afford to waste a ton of time.”

Remus winced and nodded.

Remy didn’t seem to take Janus seriously, though.  “Janus, girl, you’re too hard on these guys.  I thought it was Remus’ like, first day on the job.”

“Oh, he’s a sap,” Virgil said, elbowing Janus.  “He just puts on a stern persona in towns and forgets to take it off around you.”

Janus shot a glare at Virgil that didn’t look at all serious.  “No,” he said.  “That’s not what’s happening at all.”

Virgil and Remy both laughed in the way that meant that was exactly what was happening.  The knot of anxiety in Remus’ chest loosened a little bit.

“So you’re the newbie, huh?” Remy asked, turning and smiling at Remus before he could say anything else.

Remus nodded.

“Nice.  I’ll pay you if you try my latest batch of Coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“It’s a drink I’m working on that keeps you awake.  That’s what I’m calling it.”

“He will most certainly not be doing that, the last person who tried it nearly had a heart attack!” Virgil exclaimed.

“Yeah, and now I know that some people have a higher tolerance for caffeine than others!”

“More like you have a higher tolerance than everyone else in existence,” Janus said with a roll of his eyes.

Remy seemed about to protest again when Remus spoke.  “Okay.”

Everyone turned to look at him.  “What?” Janus asked.

“Okay.  Let’s try the potential death juice.  Should be fun.”

Both Janus and Virgil were staring at him.  Remus tucked his hands behind his back and squeezed them together.  Remy was starting to grin.  “Really?”

“It’s been way too long since my last near death experience,” Remus said with a shaky nod.

“Fantastic,” Remy said, full-on grinning now.  “Come with me.  Don’t worry, I’ll have him back to the ship before you leave!”

“Wait, hang on!” Virgil called, but before he could say anything else, Remy grabbed Remus by the arm and dragged him away from the ship towards the town a little bit back from the dock.

Remus had been in two other towns in his life, and he’d already established them as very similar to each other.  Most towns had people milling about, shopping at different stands or talking to people as if their lives were so incredibly important compared to everyone else’s.  Remus hadn’t expected this town to be any different, but the scene shifted when Remy stopped in front of what was clearly his shop.

The sign said ‘Blacksmith,’ which would have been pretty straightforward if not for the fact that the whole thing was made out of broken swords.  Remus grinned as they passed under it.

There were weapons of all kinds behind the counter of the main room of the shop.  Remus would have been very content to stay and look at them and play with a couple, but Remy dragged him further back into the shop and into a room that clearly had a different purpose.

He had several different fire pits and stoves set up.  Remus would admit he hadn’t seen fire pits indoors before, but Remy clearly knew what he was doing, as all of the fires were burning and the shop was still standing.

Remy walked over to one of the stoves, and Remus tried to shake off the sudden spike of anxiety in his chest that came with him doing that by stepping back a little and starting to pace back and forth across the room and clench and unclench his hands.

“Okay!” Remy called, very loudly.  Remus jumped and slid back another foot.  Remy spun around a second later, fast enough that Remus slid back again.  “So here’s some Coffee from the last batch I made!”

He held up a pot and walked back over towards where Remus was.  Remus took another step back and pressed himself against the wall next to the door they’d come through.  He pulled the sleeves of his hands down and grabbed onto them from the inside, then let go and did it again.  Remy didn’t seem to notice his behavior, just reached for a cup on a nearby table and poured some of the liquid in his pot into it.

“Here you go!  Try it out!” Remy said, shoving the cup into Remus’ now-shaking hands.  He tried to latch his fingers around the cup before Remy let go, but didn’t move fast enough.  The cup slipped from his fingers and shattered when it hit the floor.  Remus jumped again.

“What the hell?!” he snapped, glaring up at Remy before he dropped to try and pick up the mug.  “You didn’t think to make sure I had a grip on the thing before you let go of it?!”

Remy blinked in surprise and crossed his arms.  “Sweetheart, you’re the one who just broke my mug.  Doesn’t seem to me like you’re in much of a position to be snapping at me.”

“Yeah, well you’re—” Remus’ snapped, jumping up again.  He stopped when his breath caught, and he pressed a hand to his chest.  “You’re— you—”  He gasped for air that he couldn’t seem to find and shoved his hands into his hair, tugging on it.  “You’re the one who made the stupid cup out of glass!” he snapped.

Remy didn’t reply right away.  “Are— are you alright?” he asked after a second.

“I think I have broken glass in my hands now, thanks for asking!” Remus screamed, yanking on his hair again.

“What?!  Don’t stick your hands by your head, then!” Remy cried, grabbing Remus’ hands and pulling them down.

Remus screeched and shoved Remy backwards.  “Don’t touch me!”

He had no idea if Remy actually would have listened or not, because a second after he shoved him backwards and then slammed himself back into the wall again, the door opened next to him and Virgil came in, followed by Janus.

Remus moved further away from everyone, which unfortunately led to him pressing himself back into a corner.  After a couple seconds Virgil seemed to have picked up on something, because he started towards him with a purpose.

“Remus?  Hey, you alright?”

“Obviously not!” Remus snapped, pressing his hands into the wall and trying to ignore the sting that came with that.

“Okay, okay yeah, stupid question,” Virgil said, holding his hands up.  “Remus, I think you’re having a panic attack.  Do you know what that is?”

“Weird air thing,” Remus choked out, sliding down the wall.

“Weird air thing?” Virgil asked, crouching down with him.

“No air,” Remus gasped.  “Can’t breathe.”

“Yes you can,” Virgil said.  “I’ll do it with you.  We’re gonna breathe in for four seconds, okay?”

Virgil took a large, exaggerated breath that Remus tried his best to copy.  He couldn’t make it all the way to four, though.

“No no no,” Remus said, trying to tuck himself further into the corner.  “Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t—”

“I’m not gonna touch you,” Virgil said, moving his hands behind his back to show he meant it.  “It’s alright.  Let’s try again, okay?”

Remus didn’t make it to four that time either, but Virgil didn’t seem to mind, and just started over, until they’d managed to breathe in for four seconds, hold for seven, and breathe out for eight enough times that Remus finally managed to stop feeling like the room was closing in on him.

Virgil stayed far enough back the whole time that Remus could be sure that he wasn’t going to hit him or hurt him in any way, and when he finally managed to start breathing again, Virgil was still sitting several feet away, which helped Remus not immediately start panicking again.

Virgil smiled slightly.  “You okay now?”

Remus looked down at his hands.  Sure enough, there were some pieces of glass stuck into his hands.  He was about to reach for some of the pieces to pull them out when Virgil spoke up again.

“Don’t do that,” he said.  “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I know how to patch myself up,” Remus replied.  He paused for a second.  “I probably should use some tweezers, though.”

“I have some,” Remy said.  Remus glanced up and saw him and Janus both standing further back.  Janus was throwing the remains of the broken cup in the trash.

“Sorry about your mug,” Remus muttered.

“It’s alright,” Remy said, waving his hand dismissively as if it was water until the bridge and not something that happened thirty seconds ago.  “I have more.  I’ll go grab those tweezers.”

He headed through a door that looked like it led to a house area.

Janus turned from the trashcan and moved forward to stand next to Virgil.  “Need a hand?” he asked, offering one to Remus.

Remus hesitantly moved his arm so that Janus could grab it and not end up getting glass caught in his hands.  Janus held on to his arm and pulled until Remus managed to stand.  He let go as soon as Remus was standing on his own and moved back so Virgil could stand too.

“How… how did you know how to do that?” Remus asked hesitantly, moving back from Virgil and Janus, but close enough to still have a conversation.

“I’ve had panic attacks since I was a kid,” Virgil said.  “It doesn’t happen as often to me anymore, but both Janus and I still know how to handle them.”  Janus nodded next to him to confirm that.

“Did something set this one off?” Janus asked, still looking concerned.

Remus winced.  “I’m just… not good with people being upset with me,” he mumbled, shifting his feet around.  “Sorry.”

No one said anything for a second, until finally Janus spoke again.  “I’m sorry, Remus.”

Remus glanced up again.  “What?”

“Virgil’s explanation was right.  People tend to think I’m going soft if I treat my crew like I would when we’re all alone.  As a high-ranking rebellion member, that’s an issue.  But if that bothers you so much I’ll find an alternative.  I wasn’t trying to freak you out so much.”

Remus took in Janus’ face.  He looked honestly regretful, and Virgil still looked concerned.  Neither of them looked irritated, or like they were annoyed with the way he’d reacted.  “Oh,” Remus said weakly.  “That would be… good.  Uh, yeah.  Thanks.”

Janus smiled a little and nodded.

The door opening to the right caused them all to glance over.  Remy was coming out with a pair of tweezers in his hands.  “Okay,” he said, starting over towards Remus.  “Here you go, sweetheart.  Be careful.  If you leave any glass in your hands it could get infected.”

Remus nodded.  “I know.”  He took the tweezers and headed over to the table in the back, starting with his right hand so he could be steadier with his left before trying to get the other pieces out of his left hand.

“Okay,” Virgil said with a sigh behind him.  “I’ll try this batch, Remy.  If you’re sure it’s safe.”

“I added like, 80% less caffeine plants than I did last time,” Remy reassured, as they both started over to the pot and mugs again.

“Here,” Janus said, stepping forward once Remus got the last piece of glass out of his right hand.  “Let me help with your other hand.”

“I got it,” Remus said, switching the tweezers over.

“You’re left handed, aren’t you?  Let me help with this one then.”

Remus hesitated for a second, then handed the tweezers over.

“How’d you know I was left handed?” Remus asked as Janus worked on the glass.

“You tie things down using your left hand as your dominant one,” Janus explained.  “And I notice details.”

“Apparently,” Remus muttered.

They were both quiet for a second.

“Remus?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you mind if I ask why you know how to patch yourself up?”

“Oh, I was just a reckless kid,” Remus lied.  “And there were a ton of other kids growing up with me, so I couldn’t always get attention when I was hurt.  It was just easier to teach myself how to deal with it.”  At least part of that was true.  Roman had gotten far more attention when they were kids— or well, he’d gotten far more positive attention.  He had seemed to understand the benefit of shutting your mouth and doing what you’re told in a way that hadn’t clicked for Remus, at least not until Shane.

Janus nodded with a slightly relieved look on his face that meant he believed that.  “Well, I’m sorry you had to do so much by yourself,” he said anyway.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  Roman had helped a little.  He’d at least made Remus feel less alone, and then they’d met Patton and Logan and things had kept improving.  But Remus really didn’t want to talk about Roman right now.

Janus finished cleaning his left hand and bandaged both of them to cover the cuts.  The bandages probably weren’t necessary, as Remus had had worse injuries and not bandaged them before, but Janus insisted.  It took him a couple minutes to finish the bandages.  Remus tried not to think about how much faster Patton would have been.

“Hey, why did you two come back here anyway?” he asked as Janus finished wrapping.

“Virgil was concerned about you trying caffeine so he wanted to come and make sure you’d be alright.  He just didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Janus said dismissively, as if that wasn’t a truly bizarre reason.

“Why would that matter?” he asked.

Janus gave him a confused look.  “Remus, we wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Well, yeah, but I told you, I know how to patch myself up,” Remus said.  “It’s not a big deal if I do.”

“It… would still be concerning because you would be hurt, and that’s not really an ideal situation,” Janus said, now looking very concerned.  “We don’t want you to get hurt, Remus, even if you know how to patch yourself up.”

Remus was about to question the also bizarre sentiment of someone not wanting him to get hurt when Remy and Virgil emerged from the house again.  Virgil did not appear like he’d had a heart attack, thankfully.

“How was this batch of Coffee?” Janus asked as they both turned.

“Closer,” Remy said with a grin.  “I’m gonna tweak it a little more and then I think it’ll be ready for selling, but Virgil says it’s working like it should.”

“I don’t feel tired anymore,” Virgil said with a confirming shrug.

“Nice,” Remus said with a small smile of his own.

“Alright, well we do have places to be,” Janus said, adjusting his coat and standing up a little straighter.  “We should head out.  Put us down for another delivery next month, Remy, and maybe we’ll buy some Coffee if you’re selling it by then.”

“I will put you darlings down for some,” Remy said with a large grin.  “I’m sure you’ll just adore it.”

With that, the three of them headed out of the shop and back towards the ship, which Remus had very much missed and very much appreciated to be going back to.

“Hey, Remus?” Virgil asked, as they headed into the dock.

“Yeah?” Remus asked, turning.

“Is that the first time you’ve had a panic attack?  You seemed to have something of an idea of what it was.  Have you had them before?”

Remus hesitated for a second.  Roman knew about them.  He’d helped Remus when he could, but neither of them had ever really been sure how to handle them.  Remus’ panic attacks had usually presented themselves in the form of irritability and anger, coupled with the lovely feeling of being unable to breathe.  Roman had been the only person Remus didn’t mind touching him when he was like that, so when Remus finally admitted that was what was happening Roman had mostly held him close while Remus waited until he could breathe again.  It hadn’t been a fantastic system, but it had worked alright.

He wasn’t sure what Virgil would want to do, but he nodded anyway.

“Would you want me to teach you that breathing exercise?” Virgil asked.  “It works really well for me, and if it doesn’t work for you I know a couple of other ones you could try.”

“That… sounds nice,” Remus admitted.  “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“‘Course I wouldn’t,” Virgil said with a smile.  “We can do that tonight.  I’m pretty sure this Coffee is going to keep me up far later than usual anyway.  It’ll be fun.”

Remus wasn’t so sure about fun, but it would definitely be helpful.  It seemed that Virgil and Janus were both about as much of that as possible.  It might take him a minute to get used to that, but if it kept going like it had been, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.

Chapter Five

[theneverfinishedstory]

6. Six-Shooter

(Whoops I am several days behind in yeehugust )

Mirage collapsed in a heap. Gasping in for air, she tried to keep from dry-heaving or worse, actually throwing up the corn mush she ate for breakfast. Breakfast that was only maybe three hours ago when the sun hadn’t even gotten up. Shakily holding herself up on her elbows, she heard the patient footsteps of one of her mentors behind her. Her leg shot out just as the person came close. 

“Gods damn it,” Ransom swore. He barely caught himself from falling into the dirt next to her. Mirage rolled her head back to look at him, grinning.

Even though the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, Ransom wore his beaten cowboy hat. His white hair was shaved close on the sides with the longer unruly pieces stuck out under the hat across his forehead. Even with the shade from the brim, Mirage saw white eyes looking down at her. Like other members in their branch of the Shifting Sands caravan, he wore a marigold colored bandana around his neck. On it was the broken hourglass symbol. Tiny grains of sand spilled from the shatter and pooled around the glass. Ransom’s shirt underneath was buttoned up to the top, his sleeves were unrolled and firmly buttoned at the wrist, and his pants went down to the heels of his boots. Being a drow in the desert sun was a life of avoiding it. Mirage hadn’t heard him complain about it yet though. 

“I came down here to tell you your form is all wrong. You aren’t nearly as quiet as you think you are and I think I could outrun you even if you had a head start,” Ransom said, his drawl quiet in the early morning. 

Mirage dropped to the ground and rolled on her back. She scrunched her nose up, angry at the dark blue early morning clouds for no particular reason. 

 “Well, whaddya expect? I had to do a buncha push ups and then a buncha pullups and then run down that stupid hill and jump around on boulders” she huffed. “And I know I’m doing better than last week. I heard you almost say it yesterday!”

“When?”

“When you thought I was asleep and you were talkin’ to Arabella.”

Ransom made a noise of disapproval. He offered a hand to her anyway. Mirage counted to three before grabbing it and pushing off the ground. Even though the ends of her hair tended to drift up and away like smoke, sweat on the other hand, glistened on her forehead. She used the back of her arm to wipe some off. 

She smirked, “So that makes me think I’m doing better then you’re tellin’ me. You’re just mad I tripped ya.”

Ransom walked off, Mirage trailing behind him. The last week or so had been a blur for Mirage. She hadn’t been the only person the Caravan chose to train. A few others had been picked up across the desert and each Caravan branch leader got one to train. Mirage had been chosen by Arabella McClain, an impressive tiefling woman. Ransom Jericho was her second and in charge of running Mirage ragged. Every day there were countless exercises building stamina, strength, and flexibility. While Mirage had never been very out of shape she had never been this in shape either. She was seeing changes to her body and even felt like there were a few in her mind too. Everything seemed a bit sharper and her reflexes felt more natural then they ever. What she really wanted was the thing Arabella and Ransom kept calling ki. With that, the possibilities were endless. 

Skipping behind Ransom, Mirage leaned a little closer, asking, “Since I’m gettin’ better, are ya gonna show me the cool gun trick?”

Ransom snorted. “What cool gun trick? We don’t use guns, Mirage. Rule number seven.”

“C’mon, Ace was telling me all about it. The six-shooter test!” Mirage said. 

Ransom stopped in his tracks. He turned his head towards Mirage. “He did, did he?” 

“Yep.”

“Did he tell you what that was?”

“No,” Mirage said. Seeing the hard stare Ransom was giving, she took half a step back. “But he said you think I might be ready.”

“Did he?”

Mirage felt unease burn inside of her. Before she responded, Ransom started off in the direction of camp. Mirage had to run to keep to pace. At the camp, breakfast for the full fledged members had just started. Most of them had a tin plate with some reheated corn mush on it. A human man had a spoonful halfway to his mouth when Ransom hoisted the man out of his seat. The corn mush plate fell in the dust. 

“Ransom, what in the Nine Hells-” he started. 

Ignoring the outburst, Ransom called over his shoulder, “Arabella, I’m gonna need that gun.”

Scrapes of spoons on tin stopped. Grumbled conversations halted. Arabella, holding a cup of hot coffee in her hands, raised an eyebrow. 

“Why?”

“Six-shooter test.”

Arabella lowered her coffee mug. “Oh?”

“And Ace here is gonna lead it.”

“I am?” he repeated. 

Ransom let go of Ace’s shirt and went over to Arabella. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a bundle of rags. Inside the bundle, was a small silver key. Ransom took it and went over to Arabella’s pack. After taking a few bundles, he got to a small case. The key went in easily like it was a lock that wasn’t used very often. Inside was a simple six-shooter gun. He loaded it as he stood back up. Looking at Ace, Ransom motioned with it to an open space between clusters of sage bushes. 

“Mirage, you too.” Ransom ordered. 

At that, Arabella stood, yet she made no move to stop her second. Ace looked at her, eyes shining with hope. When Ace didn’t move, she said, “You heard him.”

The uneasy feeling in Mirage’s stomach was growing to be the size of a boulder. Her mouth always got her in trouble. Typically, she could get out of it. But this seemed like she was stuck in a dust devil with no way out. She walked over to the empty space, Ace, Ransom, and Arabella following. The other members remained seated but their eyes were glued to the scene unfolding. 

“Mirage, go on down there. Maybe about thirty paces or so,” Ransom said. 

She did as he commanded, but didn’t turn her back, instead walking backwards, too scared to take her eyes off of him.

 “Ace, since you said I thought Mirage was ready for the six-shooter, I guess I’ll have to agree with you,” Ransom said

He clicked the safety off and handed the gun over to Ace, who had only gotten paler with each second. 

“Since you’ve been training with her day after day after all,” Ransom said as Ace took the gun.

 “Now Mirage,” Ransom called over “What you have to do is dodge and deflect the six bullets Ace’s gonna shoot at you. Now this is pretty close range so you’ll have to be quick on your feet. And, of course, if you mess up, a real bullet’s gonna be in your chest. Keep that in mind.”

He clapped Ace on the shoulder. “Ready when you are, Ace.”

Mirage tensed and fought to control her heart rate. The way Ace had talked last night, he made it sound like it was a gun trick, not a gun test. This was not something she felt remotely ready for. Barely evening her breath out, Mirage widened her stance and raised her fists, trying to focus on the gun in Ace’s hand. But the seconds dragged on. Ace raised then dropped the gun a few times before fully aiming it at Mirage. Now the seconds turned into a full minute. Nothing happened. The gun remained pointed at Mirage, Ace’s finger twitching at the trigger. Arabella, her lips pursed the entire time, put her hand on Ransom’s shoulder. With that, Ransom grabbed the gun away from Ace and in a quick follow-up, punched him straight on the jaw. Ace stumbled to the side, almost falling over. 

Grabbing at his jaw, Ace choked out, “Ransom, it was a joke is all! Stupid joke! I just wanted to ruffle her feathers a bit!”

“Don’t you dare lie to someone using my name,” Ransom growled.

“ ‘M sorry, Ransom. Won’t happen again.” Ace said. He rubbed his jaw more as he straightened up. “Just thought-”

“That pretending I thought she was ready for something and fillin’ her head with big ideas would be funny? Or have you forgotten that this training is the most important thing we got going for us out here. And if we don’t train our recruits right they end up dead? Or have you forgotten that?” Ransom looked like he was ready to swing again.

Arabella whistled a short high pitch whistle. “Alright Jericho. Bring it in.”

Ransom clenched his fist but eventually stepped back next to Arabella. Arabella took the gun from him and started to unload it. Each bullet made a clink in her pocket. 

“Ace, take a walk to the stream and dunk your head in. Maybe the chill will clear your head of any more stupidity with our recruit,” Arabella said. “Ransom, go in the opposite direction and beat something up. Neither of you come back till you’re sane again.”

Ace nodded, turning on his heel and headed for the stream half a mile away. Ransom said something in hushed Undercommon before walking back towards the camp. He didn’t stop there, instead he walked past back towards the training grounds. Mirage stood at the other end of the impromptu shooting range slowly lowering her fists. 

Arabella walked over to her. Once close enough, she asked, “You okay, Eolian?”

“ ‘Bout shit my pants, but now that’s done with,” Mirage let out. She looked towards Ransom’s retreating back. “Did I mess up? I didn’t know it was such a big deal, honest. I woulda never brought it up! I thought it was some sorta cool move or something!”

“You didn’t mess up. Ace’s stupid,” Arabella said. “Six-shooter is an old Caravan test that I’m not fond of and don’t really like using. Neither does Ransom. And Ace should know better than saying Ransom recommended it.”

“Did something happen?”

Arabella looked down. “I won’t give you the details. That’s Ransom’s story. But someone close to him didn’t make it through the six-shooter years ago. Since then, he’s pushed against its use. But Caravan hasn’t banned it yet, so it’s still in rotation.”

Mirage glanced at the empty pistol. “So I’ll have to do that?”

Arabella moved the gun out of sight. “Not until Ransom thinks you’re ready.”

“When will that be?” 

“Never, maybe.”

[lu-undy]

Un-alone, Chapter 12

Here it is!

Lucien flicked his cigarette through the window of the taxi and the ashes fell to the grey pavement. The car was stopped a few streets away from where Lucien cast his eyes.

He knew this day marked something quite unprecedented for him and above all, for his son. But there was no way either of them could keep up the way that things were.

Through the weeks of their regular meetings, Lucien had developed new habits. First, his sleep cycles were a bit better. He would still wake up a few times per night, but he managed to fall back asleep. Then, the food. The last time Fred had seen him, he had complimented him for how better he looked. Of course, not only were the black bags under his eyes subsiding, but his eyes shone brighter too, as Lucien slowly let go of the alcohol. 

He would still enjoy a glass or a few shots when the guilt and the disappointment at his own self struck harder. But his meals grew back to a more reasonable size and his appetite was better. And as they say in French,

Quand l'appétit va, tout va. 

[When the appetite goes, everything goes.]

Lucien had also made a habit of playing on his piano. Every evening, he would spend at least an hour of his time playing with the keys. It would get him tired and hungry. He managed to incorporate other noises than shattered glass, sobs and shouts to his day. It was the radio in the morning, while he was readying himself for the day, a bit of TV in the evenings, while he played, and even after. He learnt to not forget, but distract himself. 

Testing his son further was draining him of his energy. Lucien would always come back home and feel the strain of the day weighing on his shoulders and back. 

He sighed, but the sound of footsteps broke his train of thought and Lucien blinked a few times, landing back in the taxi he had been waiting.

"You made me wait." Lucien lowered the window further.

"I'm on time!"

Lucien rolled his eyes up. 

“Do you have everything you need?” He eyed the bag in Jérémy's hand and the one on his back.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I am.”

The taxi driver went to take Jérémy’s bags.

"Get in, if you please." Lucien put his cigarette between his lips.

“I’m keepin’ this bag with me.” Jérémy sat at the back, next to his father and the driver resumed his seat before driving off. “So where’re you takin’ me?”

“Your new home.” Lucien answered. 

“Where’s that? Is that gonna be a hotel room like you?” Jéremy's eyes lit up.

“You are starting your training, of course it will not be a hotel room like mine.”

“Oh… What then?”

The taxi stopped at the CIA headquarters building. 

“You will start where you should. Thank you, driver.” Lucien paid what he owed and Jérémy carried his bags to the CIA, following his father. When they reached reception, Jérémy let his father do the talk as always and they waited. 

“What are we waitin’ for?”

“Him.” 

A man entered the reception area and went straight to Lucien.

“L! Glad to see you! Tom from archives told me you were back in action in the area.”

“Tony, a pleasure.” Both men shook hands. "This is Jérémy."

Tony was one of those who sure did look like they were part of the army. Not only was his khaki tee-shirt and camo trousers a clue, but his silhouette looked like that of a bull in human form. He was an inch or so shorter than Jérémy but packed with muscles. 

"Hello."

"Hey." 

Hands were shaken. 

"I am bringing him to you to see if I can train him to do the sort of things that I do." Lucien explained. 

"Alright, I understand. So we go for full tests, right?" Tony was staring at Jérémy, his eyes darting from his face to every bit of his slim body.

"Oui, please."

"Anything I should know about him?" 

"He is fast and his ability to jump is equally impressive." Jérémy smiled proudly at the compliment. "Yet I have not found anything else so far." Jérémy's smile vanished and he frowned. 

"You callin' me stupid or somethin'?" 

“Ah, and I forgot the loud mouth.” Lucien added. 

“Oi!”

“I see.” Tony nodded. “His room is ready here.”

“Can you show him in now?” Lucien asked.

“Sure thing. We’ll start training right after.” Tony turned to a younger soldier waiting a few metres away. “Show him in, yeah? I need a word with L first.”

Jérémy looked up at his father and the Frenchman nodded at him. Lucien then followed Tony to a common room. It was fitted with a kitchen, a few fridges and coffee machines. 

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

Tony started preparing everything. He looked at the door and shut it before going on. 

“I talked to Old Tom downstairs.” Tony started. He put both mugs of coffee on the table with some sugar and milk. “Is Jeremy…?”

“Oui, he is.” Lucien answered and nodded in thanks as he took a spoon and some sugar. 

“I could tell.”

“The resemblance, I suppose?”

“Affirmative.” Tony answered. 

“Did Tom tell you the entire story?”

“No. But he did tell me that it was far from what he would have hoped for you.”

Lucien smiled, albeit sadly.

“It is nice of him to say so.” He took a sip of his coffee. “May I ask a favour of you, Tony?”

“Of course.”

“Jérémy does not know of…” Lucien failed to find the right word.

“He doesn’t know you’re his father?”

Lucien shook his head. 

“It isn’t my place to tell him either.” Tony said with a smile that he wanted to be comforting. 

“Thank you.”

“You have nothing to thank me for. You are his superior, and I’m his coach.”

“Indeed.” 

Both men drank more of their coffees.

“How long does your program of tests take?”

“A few weeks, three usually.”

“Ah. And at the end, what exactly can I expect? I know that the system here in the United States is very different from back in France.”

“Well, first thing is medical tests. Then, if he’s fit, it’s physical. That takes about a week, ten days tops. We usually end with reflexes and logic tests. In the end, it all allows us to have a first guess as to what branch or what field would suit him best. For example, mechanics are good with logic, but a bit less good physically. Snipers are good with reflexes, less so in stamina, and so on.”

“Ah, I see. Where do spies fall in?”

“Usually, their profile is quite balanced, maybe a bit less good physically. An acute sense of logic. We do have this one test that only spies usually crack.”

“Oh, what is that?”

“I’ll call you and you’ll see it for yourself on Jeremy when we get there. You will of course be behind a half see-through window. You’ll see him but he won’t see you, we won’t tell him you’re there either.”

Lucien nodded slowly. 

“This sounds perfect, thank you very much, Tony.”

“My pleasure. These are only the first tests and it’s not uncommon that in the end they don’t mean anything, but it’s a start to get to know the recruits.”

“Indeed.”

They finished their mugs and stood up. 

“Thank you very much, Tony.” Hands were shaken. “I trust you to keep me informed if anything happens.”

“Affirmative. Thank you, L.” Tony added his second hand to the handshake and Lucien raised a curious eyebrow. “It’s an honour to test your son.”

“Well, you may tell me this if his results are outstanding.” The father answered with a chuckle.

“I am sure he will do great and he’ll be as remarkable as his dad.”

“We can but hope.”

-- Later that day --

Lucien had left the CIA headquarters and had refused to take a taxi back home. He was walking in the street, strolling really, with his hands in his pockets and a cigarette between his lips.

He was confident that Jérémy was in the best hands. He still wondered though. Would the young man have the patience to go through rigorous training? 

The Frenchman let his feet do the walking through the streets until some flashy neon lights stopped him. He raised his eyes and winced, and when his gaze met with the name of the establishment, his jaw dropped and his eyes widened.

“Mon Dieu…”

Cold sweat trickled down his spine and his vision blurred. 

“Merde…” 

He looked around and saw a bench. Lucien needed to sit down, his knees were giving up. He wobbled awkwardly to the bench and plopped down on it. He pulled his tie off messily and breathed hard and fast.

He slowly raised his sweat covered brow to the nearby restaurant. The name flashed, repeatedly, and it hurt his eyes periodically. 

"Marie…" He raised a hand to his jumping heart. 

It was the place he had sung in, all those years ago, the place he had met her. God, non… 

The fast beating heart started to ache. Lucien cursed in his breath, his teeth started chattering. Non, non, non! He thought he was over all this! Gone back to eat and sleep!

Now he didn't know anymore. What did he feel? Was it heartbreak? But she had played him! Was it regret? He should have checked her before letting her come close to him. Was it disgust? 

"Putain… De merde…"

[Bloody… Hell…]

He kept breathing with difficulty. He needed to let out this wave of anxiety and counter it, preferably with violence. 

Lucien yanked his gloves away and lowered his head, holding his hair, pulling it as he clenched his teeth. Gosh he wished he could chew something between his jaws. Lucien's eyes darted left and right and the only thing he saw on the bench next to him was his gloves… 

Passers-by did look and stare at the man chewing on his gloves, grumbling and pulling his hair out of his scalp. He was shaking and there was no way Lucien's legs could carry him. He was stuck there! With the blinking, sharp neon flash of his worst mistake taunting him relentlessly.

"Pourquoi… Mais pourquoi j'ai fait ça…? Comment j'ai pu laisser passer ça…?" 

[Why… But why did I do that…? How could I have ever let that slip…?]

The gloves fell off his dry mouth and he blabbered the words between hitched breaths. 

"Ah, merde…"

[Ah, shit…]

Lucien now realised that his fingers were shaking too. He needed to go away. The faster, the better. He didn't care if he had to crawl on the pavement. And as soon as his mind made the decision, he grabbed his gloves and darted off. 

He didn't know how but Lucien managed to make it back to his hotel. His hand found the vodka and he went straight to bed, fully clothed. 

He drank, and drank, and drank. With his body temperature on a roller coaster, Lucien was sometimes lying with his back against the wall, his shirt open and sweat beading off his brow, or completely burrowed under his blanket.

He impatiently waited for the alcohol to take him off of himself, to pull him away from his suffering, to drown his anxieties and smother them for him, because he couldn't do it on his own. Eventually, he fell asleep… 

… Until a phone call pulled him off of Morpheus' arms. 

Lucien grumbled, frowned and at first, he did not fully register that it was the telephone on his night table. He eventually groped for the lamp and then, the phone itself. 

"Allô…?"

"L? It's Tony." 

Lucien's eyes snapped open instantly and his blood froze. 

"I'm sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but you have to come here as soon as possible." 

"Is Jérémy safe?" 

"Affirmative. But we cannot continue this way and need your input." 

"Give me the time to call a taxi, I shall be on my way." Lucien answered. 

"Perfect, over." Tony hung up and Lucien looked down at himself. 

He stood off the bed and arranged the clothes he still had on before chucking an aspirin in a glass of water and downing it. He called the hotel reception and arranged for a taxi. In no time, Lucien found himself back where he had been that morning. Tony was waiting for him at reception. 

"L…"

"Tony, tell me. What happened?" 

"I think it'd make more sense if you saw it. Follow me, please." 

"But of course." 

Tony led Lucien through walls and corridors until they were out of the building and crossing some outside areas. 

"See that building there?" Tony pointed at a large, half a dozen floors tall building, a hundred metres or so away. "That's where we keep the new recruits. Behind that building, we have a large field where we train them physically."

"But this is not where you are taking me?" Lucien asked, seeing that they passed it. 

"Negative. I am taking you to the one beside it." 

Tony pushed the door and led Lucien in until they reached a room. 

"After you." Tony said and Lucien entered. 

The room had nothing but a table, two chairs, and a lamp over them. On one of the chairs, Jérémy was sitting. 

"Oh, hey L…" The young man knew he was in trouble. Everything in his body language screamed of guilt.

"I hope that Tony woke me up in the middle of the night to tell me that you were sleeping outstandingly well…"

Jérémy looked up at Tony. 

"We put all the recruits to bed and, and given that we sleep not far, and the walls are paper thin, we started hearing some… noises." Tony said and Jérémy lowered his head, ashamed. 

"Noises?" Lucien repeated with one eyebrow arched. 

"Affirmative. The kind of noises that we do not imagine we could hear here…" 

Lucien’s second eyebrow joined the first, high up on his brow. His imagination ran wild for an instant and he wished from the deepest corners of his soul that it was not what he thought the young man could be doing in his bed at night…

“Show him.” Tony asked Jérémy and the young man delicately put the backpack that had been laying on the ground on the table. Lucien recognised the bag that his son had kept on his lap in the taxi. He gently opened the zipper and Lucien’s eyes snapped wide when two fluffy, white ears popped out in the room. The rest of the head followed suit and soon, the entire cat exited the backpack.

And the Frenchman frowned. This now explained why Jérémy had insisted on keeping his backpack with him in the taxi, as opposed to letting the driver put it in the car’s boot, with his other bag.

“We cannot keep pets here. Not only are some people allergic to cats, but this is not a daycare for pets.” Tony said. 

“If she goes, I go too!” Jérémy said, stroking the long-haired cat. 

Tony looked from the son to the father. 

“This is up to you, L. I shall give you ten minutes.”

“Merci.”

Tony exited the room, leaving father and son alone. 

“So…?” Jérémy asked. 

“So indeed.” Lucien frowned as he took a seat on the chair opposite his son. He opened his jacket’s button fluidly and sat down. “Jérémy, you have to understand that your life now cannot bear to have any ties with any other living entity. You are to follow orders from superiors and your job, if you pass the tests, will require that you have no ties to this Earth whatsoever.”

“I’m not givin’ Pearl up. This job can fuck off - ouch!”

Lucien's tap behind his son's head was as swift in this impossible hour of the night as it was during the day. 

"Whatever! You can hit me and shit, I don't care, she doesn't deserve to get abandoned!"

"Jérémy…" Lucien put a couple of fingers on the bridge of his nose. "We are talking about building you a life career and you are making your start in this career difficult because of your pet cat?”

“Look, it’s simple. It’s either both of us or no one. I can go, put my stuff back in my bag and leave!”

“And return to the chaos of being bullied by seven older brothers and no perspective of a decent future?” Lucien asked disdainfully. 

“And why d’you care? What difference does it make to you if I get my life together or not?”

Lucien sighed. 

“Why are you so attached to your cat?” He asked back. 

“Meow.” Pearl went to explore the table and came close to sniff the only thing of interest on it: Lucien’s gloved hand. The Frenchman ignored her. 

“She’s… She used to be my Ma's." 

Lucien hid his surprise. 

"Your mother owned a cat?" 

"Yeah, she said that she reminded her of my Da'." Jérémy petted the fluffy feline, who lay on the table as she started to purr. 

"Your… father?" Lucien asked. 

"Yeah. Ma' used to say that my Da' was like her, a white, precious thing, only his eyes were lighter." 

Lucien looked away and took a deep breath before he sighed. 

"Why d'you care so much that I get a job at the CIA?" Jérémy asked. "You just saw me gettin' bullied in the park and boom? You just took pity on me? Pfff, I don't need your pity or this job. Pearl, get in the bag."

"Meow." Pearl refused. 

"C'mon, we're leavin' this place." Jérémy stood up and went to grab his backpack on the table, but Lucien grabbed his wrist. "What?"

Their eyes met. Confident and deadly grey versus young and rebellious blue.

"You cannot keep her here..." Lucien looked at Pearl. 

"Yeah, I know, I got it, that's why I'm leavin'." 

"Jérémy…" Lucien resumed his sentence.

"Jeremy, what? Where d'you want me to put her? She's not goin' in a shelter or anywhere like that."

"I can bring her back to your brothers." Lucien said. 

"Never!"

"Why not?" 

"They hate her! They never think to feed her and they even kick her out of their way or throw her off of the sofa. She's a cat, yeah, but she never deserves that!" 

Lucien sighed. 

"Do not lose this job over your cat, think!" He answered. "This opportunity will never come again!"

"Then you take her!" Jérémy replied. 

"What?!"

The young man picked the fluffy cat up from the table and held her towards Lucien. 

"Here, you take her. You live in a fancy hotel, I guess they won’t say anythin’ about her.”

“Jérémy, I will not care for an animal. I have just enough with you.”

“Oi! Pearl’s not any cat! And she’s better than me. She’s not fussy with food and she doesn’t scratch or bite people. Just… Just treat her right.” Jérémy looked down at her. “You behave with fancypants - ouch! C’mon! I didn’t say anythin’ rude!”

“Oui, you did.”

“Listen, it’s either you take care of her and I stay here or you don’t, and both her and I go.” Jérémy slammed the ultimatum at his father with determination. 

A long moment of silence followed, with Pearl’s eyes riveted on Lucien and her fluffy body dangling from Jérémy’s hands. 

Lucien sighed and grumbled. He put a hand on his face and stood up. He silently pushed his chair back and went to the door. A split second later, Tony entered the room with Lucien. 

“He will go back to training.” Lucien said. “Drop her down.” He looked at Jérémy.

“You takin’ her?” Jérémy asked and obeyed. Pearl’s paws landed on the table and she followed the Frenchman as he went back to the door. 

“This is the last time you wake me up in the middle of the night.” The Frenchman concluded and left, the fluffy feline on his heels. 

[ahopelessromantic]

Stops Along the Road ➳ D. Morgan

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Reader

Wordcount: Roughly 4k

Warnings: None really, some cursing, a gun wound, mentions of pregnancy, Morgan and the reader are stupid

Summary: The road to finding your way to Morgan once and for all was a long one, but you’ve never enjoyed a ride more. (A/N: I’m so happy to finally be writing again! Criminal Minds is back on Amazon Prime and back is my inspiration baby! I know this is a bit different from my usual stuff, but I quite liked the format of the little insights into the life of reader and Derek. I hope you’ll enjoy!)

The one with the flirting

“Okay, is it just me or was the captain heavily flirting with Morgan?” JJ grinned, leaning in closer to her colleagues so no one at the station would over her them. You were in the middle of packing up your stuff right by them, trying to listen in as inconspicuously as possible. „Oh god, please don’t bring it up.“ Emily laughed, sending a confused frown across JJ’s forehead. „Why that?“ „(Y/N) gets weirdly protective of Morgan when someone’s flirting with him. It’s almost like she wants to fight them every time.“ Spencer chimed in. It was just then that you realised you probably should have gone into hiding as soon as JJ had walked up to them with her ‘I have gossip’ face. „See?“ Emily grinned at her colleague, then at you. You wanted to disappear.

„Even Reid notices. You gritted your teeth. “I don’t want him to get hurt, so what? Derek is just as protective of me with guys. We look out for each other.” Emily looked like she wanted to continue poking around, but starting to feel defensive you snapped at her. “My friendship with Derek is not your business, okay? We are what we are, and no matter how weird it may seem to you, just accept it. We’re nothing to gossip about.” The bad conscience already kicked in while you made your dramatic exit, but you swallowed it down with a heavy sigh. Constantly working around the same people sometimes caused them to get a bit too close for comfort, and their eternal teasing about you and your best friend was starting to get on your nerves. The bond you and Derek shared couldn’t be described with words and certainly, wasn’t really comprehensible to people looking in from the outside, so you wished they could just take it as it was and let you two be. You had more important things on your mind than thinking about what your coworkers’ opinions on the relationship between you and your best friend, as much as you loved them. More important things like the next case that you had already been called in for, for example.

The one with the gun wound You knew that your job wasn’t easy. You knew it brought many dangers with it, and you knew that people were bound to wind up hurt at some point. But in all your worrying over your team, that was like family to you, you had never expected yourself to be the one getting injured at some point. But here you were, shot by an unsub that had been restrained by Prentiss mere moments after he had fired his gun at you. You were sitting on the floor, jaw hurting from clenching it too hard, Morgan kneeling next to you. His body exuded warmth you desperately needed, and you couldn’t be more grateful to have his soothing presence right there beside you. „Shh. Come on, keep on breathing.” He spoke calmly, but the way his hand was squeezing yours told you a whole different story. “It’s just a shot in the leg.” You rolled your eyes and groaned, trying your best to play it off. He looked at you with his dark eyes, a mix between a deadpan and a smile that only he was able to do. „Doesn’t matter, it‘s still gonna hurt and you don’t have to act all tough like it doesn’t, okay?“ You released the breath you had been holding in a cough, teeth still gritted. „I feel like once I acknowledge that it hurts I’m going to start screaming or cursing really bad. Possibly both.“ Your voice was fainter than you would have liked it to be. He gave your hand another squeeze. „Come on, let go. The paramedics will be here in no time and then they’ll dope you up on painkillers anyway. Will you unclench your teeth now before they shatter in your jaw, you stubborn woman?“ You half chuckled, half sobbed and then decided to hell with it. You relaxed your body and started taking deep breaths again, and with the breathing in came the pain. „Motherfucker!“ You yelled, an even worse string of curses escaping your lips right after. Derek just chuckled. „See, there you go. Just let it all out.“ You just glanced daggers at him. „You are so paying for the drinks next time we’re going out.“ He just chuckled. Sometimes you hated him.

The one with the wedding If someone were to ask you what you loved most about your best friend, you would probably tell them that he was easy. There was never any doubt with him, you didn’t have to question anything about him or your friendship. Morgan was your person and you were his. Period. Your support for each other was quiet, so quiet that other people sometimes forgot about just how deep your affection for each other ran. But his love was there when he placed you coffee order on your desk every morning without words, it was there when he gave you a birthday present you had once only shortly mentioned and then never spoken of again, it was there when you patched him up with your little to none medical knowledge after he had been too rough in kicking a door down once again. So it wasn’t really a surprise that he had been the one to find you hiding out in the gardens. You were sitting on a bench, feeling miserable in your little yellow dress. Normally you were a huge fan of weddings, a huge fan of love, but this one had set something off inside of you. Most of your friends from high school were long married already, your team members were tying the knot one by one, too, and here you still were, alone on a bench with no ring on your finger and no family to come home to. “Thought I’d find you out here.” Derek’s voice ripped you out of your thoughts, and you were so grateful to see his stupid face that you almost started crying. It was as if that man had a sixth sense for your emotions, a talent for always being right where you needed him. “I’m… getting some fresh air.” You lied, knowing that he wasn’t going to be fooled by it. He sat down next to you, his eyes mustering you as if they were trying to decode your emotions. “I thought you loved weddings.” You chuckled and looked up at him through your lashes. “I do. It’s just… something about this one is bugging me. I feel awful for even letting my thoughts go there, but I just couldn’t help it tonight. You know, everyone in there is happy, with boyfriends and husbands and wives and a future to look forward to, and all I’ve got is my job and a car that my best friend likes to steal.” Derek chuckled, probably picturing himself in your beloved BMW convertible for a moment. A comfortable silence spread between the two of you, and it could have stayed that way. Just two friends sitting in a garden, enjoying the evening. But you felt the urge to talk more about this gnawing feeling in your chest, to get to know if he, at least, felt like that too. “Don’t you ever get worried? About the future? That you’ll end up alone and sad, with no one to grow old with?” He exhaled, looking happy that you had opened up yourself without him having to squeeze it out of you. For a moment he looked pensive, his gaze wandering off into the distance. You watched him closely, the strong eyebrows, the delicate face. It was a face you knew like no other, a face that had seen you in all your worst moments. “No.” He finally spoke up. “I’m not worried.” He said with an almost reverent honesty that took you off guard. “I honestly don’t know what will happen in the future. But I know that you’re in it, and nothing calms me more than knowing that. So no matter what happens, there will be you and I.“ You sighed and leaned against his shoulder, causing him to place his arm around you. Somehow, those few words had calmed you. You weren’t going to be alone, ever. “I love you, Derek.” You murmured into the night. He turned his head to press a kiss against your temple. “I love you too. Now come on, let’s break up this little pity party of yours and make use of the open bar. I mean, how often do we get free booze?” You felt a smile grow across your lips against your will. “Basically never. But you have to promise to dance with me.” Morgan got up from the bench and held out his hand to you. “Honey, if you give me two more glasses of champagne I’ll even dance the chicken dance for you.” You threw your head back and laughed, taking his hand. “Alright, idiot. Let’s go give them a show.”

The one where his mother gets involved „I love seeing you two together so much.“ You blushed and, in an attempt to hide it, continued chopping the vegetables. „Derek always seems so free without you, you know? So happy. He doesn’t allow himself to be like that with anyone else.“ You dared yourself to look at your best friend’s mom, not expecting the look on her face to be so serious. „He’s just my Derek.“ You chuckled awkwardly, not really seeing the big deal in his change of behaviour around you. You acted differently when it was just the two of you as well, but wasn’t that how people were when they let their guards down? The smallest of smiles snuck across Mrs Morgan‘s lips. „Exactly honey, your Derek. He’s yours.“ You felt yourself freeze, but as if she knew exactly what she was doing the small woman smacked you with one of her kitchen towels. „You know how desperate I am for grandchildren, I’ll take any chance I get! Can’t you at least maybe think about it?“ You laughed, maybe a little bit too loudly, and rolled your eyes. „Nice try, Mrs M. But I’ll tell you when I get there.“ Morgan couldn’t help the weird feeling in his chest upon overhearing the conversation between you and his mother. Above all, of course, was the air of familiarity with which you interacted. You were never just someone who tagged along with him, these days you belonged into his family home almost as much as he did. But then, the deeper undertones of his mother’s words gnawed away at his subconscious, as if they were trying to unlock something that wasn’t there yet. Your Derek. After years of playing the role of the tough guy, the man of the family, a victim hiding the fact that he was just that, you had somehow been the first person he had allowed himself to be soft again with. For some reason, he only realised it now, how easily you had snuck past his guards and made yourself at home way beyond them. The words of an ex-girlfriend came to his mind. „I’m tired of trying to drill through your walls, Derek. There’s always some part of you that’s hidden from me and I don’t deserve that.“ She had been right, with her words, and right to break up with him. He hadn’t truly let someone new into his life in years. Not since you had come along anyway. But he shook his head and entered the kitchen with a bright smile plastered on his face. Today was not the day to think about such profound things. Today was all about his mother, and there would be other days to venture into unveiling the true nature of his affection for you.

The one where it’s enough It had been a while since the thoughts of you and him had started blooming in Derek’s chest. Maybe it had been his mother, maybe it had been the number of years you had already spent in your weird little companionship, but somehow, he couldn’t help seeing you in a completely different light. Suddenly every laugh you laughed was for him, suddenly every touch made his heartbeat speed up. It was almost as if he was a teenager again, only that his crush was his best friend and he couldn’t just run away from you without arousing suspicion. He watched you pack your bag at your desk, a gorgeous burgundy dress he had never seen before clinging to your figure. “Oh wow. You’re dressed up like that for him?” You turned around in surprise upon hearing your best friend’s voice. “Derek? What are you still doing here?” You were the last ones still at work, everyone else had left to go home or somewhere else already. You had shoved in some extra hours tonight, mainly to distract yourself from the evening ahead. An ex of yours was back in town, and he had made it more than clear to you that he had changed and that this time, he was ready to be serious about you. You didn’t even really know yourself why you had agreed to go out for dinner with him, maybe it was the fear of feeling as lonely as you had on the wedding again. Derek stepped closer to you, an almost desperate look in his eyes. You shuddered, not prepared for the intensity of his gaze. “Don’t go on this date, (Y/N). You’ll just allow him back into your life and settle for way less than you actually deserve and-“ You frowned and watched him shake his head in frustration, not able to read his behaviour. This was a side of Derek you had never seen before, one you didn’t know, and it made you anxious. But then, suddenly, he sent you one last weird look, stepped closer to you and grabbed your face to kiss you. You felt your eyes widen, looking at him in confusion after pulling away. “Wha- what are you doing?” You stammered out; afraid he had made a terrible mistake. There had always been clear lines between the two of you, lines that had never been openly discussed yet also lines that had never been crossed. Derek cupped the side of your face, forcing you to look at him. “I need to do this before I forever regret never taking a shot at us. I love you, (Y/N), and not just in the way I’ve thought. You’re not just in my future, I think you... you are my future. No one will ever fit as much with us like us. Our crazy jobs, our stupid addiction to cheesy 90’s music, the years of experience we have with handling each other through our highs and lows…We would be stupid not to at least try it.” You exhaled the breath you hadn’t even known you’d been holding in. “So don’t go on this date, don’t let this stupid guy make you think that mediocrity is all you deserve. We might not work out in the end, which I think is highly unlikely, but we definitely are anything but mediocre. I burn for you, (Y/N), and with the way we subconsciously keep sabotaging our own relationships I can’t help but hope that you feel the same.” You blinked at him for a moment, still not really sure about what exactly was happening. You didn’t even dare properly thinking it through, but not even that scared you. This felt right, as right as nothing in your life had ever felt before. It was Derek, after all. He was your person. So you held onto his strong arms, got on your tiptoes, and tentatively kissed him. This time it was him who looked at you in surprise after pulling away, his chest heaving as if he were out of breath. “I love you too.” You whispered. You looked at each other for a moment, trying to think of what to do next. And then you were all over each other.

The one where everyone finds out “We’re not telling anyone about this. This is our thing.” You spoke, closing the last two bottoms on your blouse. Derek watched you from where he was sitting on the edge of his bed, humming in agreement. “They’ll never let us live this down if we tell them that we’re together now. Can you imagine the teasing from Prentiss and Hotch?” You shuddered at his words, making your way over to him and sinking down on his lap. “This is just ours for now.” You smiled and kissed him carefully. Sometimes you still couldn’t believe you got to do that now, to just kiss your best friend whenever you felt like it. It was exhilarating, and you almost regretted all the years it had taken you to get to that point. He snaked his arms around you and pulled you closer, the warmth in his eyes robbing you of your ability to speak. “Ours.” He repeated as if he couldn’t believe it himself. You kissed him again, just to remind him of how much you were his now. Then the two of you got ready to go to work. It wasn’t exactly a rarity to see the two of you coming into the BAU together on some mornings, so you didn’t even bother arriving on separate times, and yet something seemed to be notably different about the two of you. Something so different that, when you saw Spencer slip a fifty-dollar bill into JJ’s hand, you knew that there was no keeping secrets in this godforsaken team. The teasing during the next few weeks was awful, and hadn’t the two of you loved your co-workers and friends so much you would have probably reported their bullying to HR. But nothing could overshadow your happiness at this point. You both felt as if you had finally fully stepped into life, finally stepped into your full potential. The happiest out of all the people over your getting together though, even happier than you yourselves, was Derek’s mother. She had yelled out in joy upon hearing the news over the phone, scolding Derek for how long she had known without him listening to her and making you laugh. A few months later you finally found the time to visit Derek’s family as a real couple for the first time, already feeling bad for how long it had taken you. The first half-hour was, again, spent with Mrs Morgan telling the two of you about how she had known all along and always wished for you to get together already. “Now, all I need to be completely happy is a grandchild.” She casually said over dinner and caused you to choke on your food. Derek hid his laughter in his napkin and threw you a look that just about said ‘you knew what you were getting yourself into’. “But I can see that we’re already close to that. How far along are you, (Y/N) dear?” Suddenly Derek wasn’t laughing anymore. You felt yourself freeze in shock and blinked at your boyfriend’s mother in shock. “Huh?!” You asked with the most conviction. She happily chatted on. “Oh honey, you can’t tell me that all that glowing is just from my son, as much as I love him.” You put your fork down with trembling fingers. “Mrs Morgan, I’m not pregnant.” She looked at you, narrowed her eyes, and then shrugged. “Alright. I just had a feeling.” You knew damn well that she wasn’t done with this yet, but the topic seemed to be finished for the moment and you awkwardly moved to other subjects with your conversations. Later that night, Morgan watched you getting ready for bed with the same weird look as his mother. “Should I go get you a test?” He asked. You exhaled. “I’m not pregnant Derek!”, you almost yelled in exasperation. He lowered his gaze. “But… you have been looking different. Something feels different.” You smiled and sat down beside him on the little bench at the end of the bed. “That’s because I am different. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, okay? It’s got nothing to do with a baby, as much as your mom hopes for one.” Derek chuckled and took your hands, lifting them to press a kiss against the both of them. “Do you think we should take her to a doctor? Maybe she’s not doing alright.” You laughed and shoved at his shoulder. “Now you’re just being mean, babe.” Still chuckling you crawled underneath the covers, patting the empty space next to you. He understood immediately, laying down next to you and pulling you close to his toned body. You closed your eyes and enjoyed the silence for a moment, the calm you always felt in your best friend’s embrace. “I am surprised, though.” You spoke into the silence. Derek hummed in question, his warm chest vibrating beneath your ear. “I thought you would be freaking out at the prospect of a baby. Yet here you were, just offering me to get a test.” He turned to be able to look at you, his face displaying surprise over his own behaviour. “Huh. I guess…” He inhaled deeply. “I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if it was with you. We’re gonna have them anyway, right? I thought that was part of the deal.” You both laughed. “Part of your mom’s deal, anyway.” He chuckled at your words. “But in all seriousness, I look forward to it, Derek. One day we’ll have a few little Morgans running around, and with our genes, they’ll be adorable. Your mom just caught me off guard, you know? We basically just started dating, even though we’ve known each other for so long. It would be a little soon, wouldn’t it?” Derek just shrugged and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “If it happens, it happens. I’ll take whatever life throws at me as long as I’ve got you by my side.”

The one where his mom knows best Was there a secret rule that mothers had to be clairvoyant, or all-knowing? It was a week later, and you had just emptied your stomach’s contents into your trash bin at work. You had been feeling dizzy the past few days, and your sense of smell had changed, too. For today, you decided to play it off as a placebo effect and continued with your day, even though Derek looked at your pale face in worry all day. But the next day was Saturday, the day you and Derek traditionally cooked a big breakfast together, and when the smell of his famous pancakes sent you running to the toilet you knew what was up. Your boyfriend ran into the toilet after you, rushing to hold your hair up and stroke your back. Once you were done coughing up your lungs and were able to sit up straight again, you met his gaze in shock and closed your eyes. And then the two of you started laughing. “Mother knows best, huh?” You laughed, burying your face in your hands. “Is there any way we can keep this from her? Just to spite her?” Derek chuckled and pressed the longest kiss against your forehead. “No way, I’m afraid. She’s never gonna shut up about this.” You smiled and looked at him, really looked at him kneeling on the floor with you. You thought back to the talk you had had in his childhood bedroom, the talk you had had at the wedding, the way he had been so sure of your future together. With him by your side, you were going to be alright. So maybe you weren’t going to shut up about this either.

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Coming Home

Dean x Reader

Word Count: 4980

Warnings: Smut. Relatively vanilla, but decidedly explicit. 

A/N: For @impala-dreamer​ and the “Make Me Feel It” challenge. My prompt was “The Story,” by Brandi Carlile. To me, that song feels like letting your guard down and trusting someone to see you at your worst. 

Major thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67​ and @stunudo​ for the read-throughs and suggestions, and to @justcallmeasmodeus​ @thoughtslikeaminefield​ and @cracksinthewalls​ for listening to me grumble about this monster all day. 

October, 2006

Dean can’t sleep, and what-fucking-else is new? Not like he was Sleeping Beauty to begin with, but it’s harder since Dad died. He tosses and turns on the lumpy motel mattress, listening to Sammy’s snores. His muscles ache and his eyes itch and he can’t stop clenching his jaw. It’s been a couple days since he’s managed more than a catnap at a rest stop. 

If he pauses for too long, if he lets himself rest, the grief catches up and chokes him. Dean’s fine, or he will be. He just has to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 

He gives up around 4am, leaves Sammy a note and trudges down the block to the all-night diner. 

Left foot, right foot. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. 

All the diners are starting to look alike. On good days, the familiarity is comforting. Today it just feels surreal, like he keeps driving and driving and never really gets anywhere, and the grey fluorescent lights make his vision skip and skitter strangely. 

There’s one other guy at a table in the corner, a trucker nursing a cup of coffee; otherwise it’s empty apart from the waitress wiping down glasses at the other end of the counter. He blinks away the disorientation and sits down heavily on one of the cracked vinyl stools.  

She sets down her rag and comes over, smiling, and it cuts through the grey and the cold and warms him from the inside. 

He orders a coffee and a slice of pie, and he starts eating without really tasting anything. He feels fucking cold, like he brought October into the diner with him. 

He watches the waitress tidying up, rolling silverware, cleaning the counter… Dean catches himself staring at her hips, the way she shifts her weight as she stands. 

Maybe it’s the way she moves that’s got him distracted, maybe it’s just sleeplessness making his vision blur, but one way or another he misses his mouth entirely when he goes to take a sip of coffee. Blistering-hot liquid sloshes over his hand, and he promptly drops the mug. It shatters at his feet. 

He looks down numbly at the splintered pieces as the puddle begins to spread. She’s there with a towel before he can really register what happened. 

“Jesus,” Dean spits, finally snapping back into his body. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” 

She just gives him a little half-smile and shrugs, and Dean slides off the stool to get out of her way. He tiptoes gingerly around the mess and grabs a handful of napkins to get the worst of the coffee off his lap. His cheeks are burning with embarrassment. 

When she’s done, Dean perches back on his stool to shovel down the last few bites, ready to get the hell of her way, but she sets a fresh cup in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says automatically. 

She quirks her lips in a tiny smile, and fuck, she’s cute. Dean tries to muster up his most charming grin, but it feels stiff and twisted on his face. 

“Long day?” she asks softly. She’s watching him with her head tilted to the side like she actually wants to hear about it. 

“I’m fine,” he replies. Smile, shrug, don’t think. 

She looks tired, too. She’s got dark circles under her eyes to match Dean’s, but there’s something sweet and open in her expression that makes him feel comfortable, somehow. Something about her is warm, and Dean’s first instinct is to hold out his hands like he’s thawing them over a fire. 

Her smile isn’t pitying, just empathetic, a sort of bone-weary been there, done that look. 

“My dad died,” Dean blurts out. 

He wasn’t planning on telling her that. It’s the first time he’s said the words quite so bluntly, let alone to a stranger. He’s not that guy, he doesn’t go around dumping his problems on other people, but… he looks up, meets her eyes. His chest hurts. 

“I’m fine,” he insists. 

Fine. Smile, shrug, don’t think. You’re fine. 

Dean heaves in a breath. His ribs are being squeezed by some cold iron grip, and his throat is tight. 

She reaches out across the counter and puts her hand over his, and she gives it a tiny, gentle squeeze. 

“You will be,” she offers. 

He��s not that guy, he’s just not, and the ache in his chest is this massive unbearable thing that’s about to split him open, and the longer she looks at him with that warmth, the harder it gets to hold himself together. And he needs to hold himself together. If he lets go, even just a little, he’s going to fucking drown. 

Dean yanks his hand back like he’s been burned. 

“Sorry,” she says. Her eyes look sad, but she’s giving him a tiny smile, like she understands. 

“I gotta -” he chokes out, and he stumbles as he gets off the stool. He throws some bills on the table without really looking, and he turns to go. 

Left foot, right foot. 

He doesn’t look back. 

***

March, 2008

“Fuck, Dean, just take this exit,” Sam says. He’s got that bite in his voice again. 

“I’m fine,” Dean says. He burps and puts the cap back on the flask one-handed. He gets in the right lane, though. Time for food. 

Signal. Turn. Brake. 

Time’s passing strangely. He blinks and there’s another day gone. He hasn’t got that many days left. If he closes his eyes for long they’ll disappear. 

He pulls into the parking lot of an all-night diner. Sammy jumps out and slams the door before Dean can even cut the engine, like a petulant fuckin’ kid. 

Dean shivers, goosebumps running down his neck. He takes one quick slug from the flask, then another, trying to shake off the chills, before he follows Sam inside. 

He hasn’t been sleeping. Better ways to spend his last weeks. He’s crystal-clear, though. He’s fine. Everything is bright and sharp and hard-edged around him. The whiskey just warms him up a little. 

“Ordered you a burger,” Sam mumbles, when Dean sits down next to him. “To go, so we can get to a fucking motel.” 

“Told you, Sammy, I’m fine,” Dean says breezily, and asks the waitress as she passes, “Could I get a coffee, when you get a sec?” 

He ignores Sam’s glare. 

The waitress comes over, and Dean gets a quick impression of a soft smile and curious eyes as she passes him a steaming mug. He takes a greedy sip and burns his tongue. 

“Hot coffee,” he says hastily, setting the mug down to blow on it, and then he delivers the line with an almost automatic grin. “You know what else is hot?” 

“Come on,” Sam mutters.

Dean finishes with a wink: “You.” 

“You’re not gonna spill on me again, are you?” she smirks. 

He looks up at her, really looks. Something about her smile says come inside, stay a while, like stepping in from the cold to the golden flicker of firelight.

“I remember you,” she says. “You were having a rough night.” 

“Oh,” Dean says. “Oh.” 

He stares as she introduces herself. It feels so far away, now. Feels like he’s lived a few lifetimes since then, but he hasn’t, not really; he won’t even have a chance to live this lifetime. 

He shudders and wishes he’d brought his flask inside. 

“Sorry,” she says, “Not a good memory to look back at, I guess.” 

He shakes his head. 

“No, I’m fine, just… took me a second,” he says, and recovers, pasting on a bright smile. “Don’t know how I could forget such a pretty face.” 

Sam makes an exasperated noise next to him. 

“Smooth,” she says dryly. “What’s your name, butterfingers?” 

“Dean.” 

“Well, Dean, if you make a mess again because you’re too busy flirting to remember where your mouth is, you can clean it up yourself this time. Okay?” 

The words are light and teasing, but her smile looks like an apology, like she knows all too well how hard it is to look back sometimes. 

“How ‘bout you let me make it up to you?” Dean offers. “Let me buy you a drink when you’re done here.” 

She’s eyeing him up and down, and Dean flashes his most winning smile, even though he has a sudden inexplicable urge to hide his face. There’s a bell from the kitchen window and she turns without answering. Dean’s pretty sure he just struck out, and he’s more bothered by it than he’d like to admit, but then she’s back. 

“Yeah, okay,” she says casually, handing over a couple takeout containers. “I’ll be done in fifteen.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” Sam grumbles, as he counts out bills. 

“Hey, you get your wish,” Dean says, grinning. “You get to sleep in a bed tonight. Motel’s right up the road, if I’m remembering right.” 

“Yeah. Great.” 

She’s talking to the cook, hands on her hips, and Dean catches a string of profanities. He smiles to himself and shakes his head, trying not to stare. 

“I’ll meet you out front,” he says. She gives him a little wave, and he almost trips over his feet on his way to the door. 

Sam shoulders his bag, jaw set, eyes tired. 

“I can drive you,” Dean offers, guilt slithering through his stomach, but Sam shakes his head. 

“I’ll walk. I can see the sign from here.”  

“I just - I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway.” 

“Yeah. I won’t wait up.” 

Sam turns to go, and Dean feels panicked, for a second. He’s going to blink and lose another day. He’s spent too many days sniping and snapping and being a shitty fucking brother. 

“Sammy,” he says, and Sam looks back, tight-lipped. “Thanks.” 

Sam’s expression falters, the bitter mask falling away and leaving sadness in its place. 

“It’s okay, Dean, I get it,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost to the wind. 

Dean doesn’t watch him go. He gets in the car and fishes his flask out of the glove compartment. Then he leans against the hood of the car and eats his burger.

Chew, swallow. Don’t think about it. 

He sees her through the window, coming out from behind the counter. Dean sets the takeout container on the hood and gets to the front door just in time to open it for her. 

“So, where to?” he asks. 

“Not sure,” she says softly, looking down at her feet and fidgeting with the strap of her purse. 

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

Dean snorts. “I’ve told that one a few times myself.” 

She rolls her eyes and laughs, sheepish. “Yeah, okay. I… I don’t usually do this.” 

“Hey, no pressure,” Dean says. He holds his hands up and takes a step back. “If you say the word I’ll leave right now, no harm done. Okay?” 

She’s evaluating him, and it feels like an x-ray, the way she stares. He can see the moment she makes a decision. 

“I’ve got drinks back at my place,” she says, and adds sharply, “I’ve also got mace, so… don’t get any ideas.” 

It’s oddly endearing, for a threat. 

Her place is a tiny, cluttered studio apartment in a not-great part of town. When she opens the fridge, he sees a mess of takeout containers and bottles. 

“Beer, tequila, whiskey…” 

“Whiskey’s good.” 

He looks around and realizes there’s nowhere to sit. There’s a single stool at the kitchen table, and an armchair in front of the coffee table; the only place big enough for two people is the bed. He looks at her, and she’s blushing, like she just had the same realization. 

“Shit, sorry, this is weird,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t - I’m in a really fucking strange place in my life. Everything is… temporary, I guess.” 

“You and me both,” Dean mutters. He sits down on the floor, in front of the coffee table. She gives him a grateful little half-smile and hands him a glass. 

“Tell me about it?” She settles on the floor too, cross-legged, rolling her glass between her palms like someone who’s very used to holding a drink. 

They skip all the small talk, the flirtation and the easy questions, and they dive right into the things that Dean fucking hates talking about. Somehow he doesn’t mind. 

This was supposed to be a simple pickup, one fun night, a distraction, and instead he’s sitting on this chick’s floor asking about her childhood, finding that he actually cares about the answers… this isn’t like any one-night stand he’s ever had. It’s so much more intimate than that. 

The rules are different, with her. He doesn’t have to pretend to be fine. She doesn’t seem to pity him, when he talks about some of the fucked-up things in his life. She just accepts it. She accepts him. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been, when he finishes his third drink, but he’s starting to go hoarse. She doesn’t ask if he wants another, just takes the empty glass out of his hand. Her knee pops audibly when she gets up, and they both laugh. 

“I’m too old to be sitting on the floor, I think,” she says, heading to the fridge. “If I say we should relocate to the bed, are you going to take it as a come-on?” 

He smiles up at her, exhaustion and whiskey making his vision blurry around the edges. “Only if you want me to.” 

“Jury’s still out.” She looks down, cheeks flushed like that’s not entirely true. “But I think for the sake of my fuckin’ kneecaps… make yourself comfortable.” 

He does. He sits back against the pillows, sinking into them. She comes over and passes him a drink, and he looks up at her, feeling oddly vulnerable stretched out on her bed like this. 

“Be right back,” she whispers, and sets her own glass on the nightstand before she heads for the bathroom. 

Dean closes his eyes, thinking, just for a second. 

He wakes all at once. There’s bright gold sunlight streaming through the windows and a quilt on top of him. She’s curled into his chest, nose brushing his collarbone where his henley is unbuttoned. His hand is resting on the curve of her waist, tucked under her thin shirt. She’s just starting to stir; she shifts, settles closer, and he feels her lips on his throat. 

Dean can’t remember the last time he felt this rested, or this warm. 

He can’t remember the last time he wanted to stay somewhere. He wants to stay right here in this moment, taking in the tickle of her breath on his neck, the cheap pillowcase under his cheek, the sound of a siren in the distance. 

She pulls back slowly, sleepy-eyed. Then she smiles. It feels like coming home. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he remembers who he is. He remembers that this isn’t his life. 

He digs the phone out of his phone and snaps it open long enough to growl, “Be there soon.” 

She’s still smiling, but her eyes are sad. Dean wants to stay, more than he’s wanted anything in a long time, and that’s why he makes himself pull away. If he lets himself have this, even for a morning… if this was his life? He’s not sure he could let himself be dragged away from it, hellhounds or no. 

She takes the phone out of his hand and enters her number, “Just in case you’re ever passing through.” 

“I doubt it’ll happen,” he says roughly. “But… if I’m passing through.” 

Stand up. Deep breath. 

He feels cold, the warmth leaching from his bones already. 

This isn’t your home. 

He doesn’t have a home. Now he never will. 

She walks him to the door and he hugs her, barely feeling it, barely noticing the feather-light kiss she presses to his cheek. 

“You okay?” she asks. 

“I’m fine,” he says, and he turns to go. 

Right foot, left foot. Don’t look back. 

***

October 2008

If Dean doesn’t get out of this fucking motel, he might lose his fucking mind. 

He paces the bathroom, back and forth, feeling brittle and edgy and hollowed-out. One more nightmare, one more argument, and he might snap. He’s sick of Sammy’s fucking face, and looking at his own in the mirror is even worse. 

He sees hell whenever he closes his eyes. 

He dials her number before he can talk himself out of it, and she picks up on the second ring. 

“Hey,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t - I mean, I ended up coming through after all. I don’t know if you remember me, but… this is Dean.” 

“I remember you,” she says. He can hear the warmth in her voice, even through the static. 

She texts him the address: new place, same town. He tells Sam not to wait up. 

He’s not sure why he’s nervous. He’s not sure what it is about her, but there’s something about this chick that he can’t shake. The important thing is that it’ll be fun. It’ll get his mind off things for a night. He rolls down the window and turns the music up. 

Don’t think about it. 

When she opens the door, Dean’s heart jumps crazily in his chest. 

“So, do you want to go out, or...” Dean starts, as she closes the door behind him. 

“Can we just pick up where we left off?” she asks, breathless. 

Dean can smell the fresh, sweet scent of her hair. He feels dizzy, hot and cold all over, and when he leans in to kiss her it feels like falling.  It’s deep, syrupy-slow, her mouth opening easily under his, intimate and familiar. 

She lets out a barely-there whimper, deep in her throat. 

“Bed,” he chokes out. He’s not sure he’ll make it that far. 

He grabs her again, stumbling, as they practically fall through the bedroom door, and she whirls around to face him with this fiery, blazing look that makes him forget how to fucking walk. Her back hits the wall and he crashes into her. She slips her hands under his shirt and drags her nails down his lower back, and Dean gasps, grinding into her helplessly. 

“Please,” he pants. He kisses her neck, bites her jaw, whispers it again: “Please.” 

She yanks at the hem of his shirt. He almost rips her tank top. She shoves, sends him stumbling backward, and reaches back to unclasp her bra, letting it fall unceremoniously. Dean takes a step backward, still staring, so the edge of the bed against the back of his knees takes him by surprise. He sits down hard and scrambles back.

She pauses at the foot of the bed, letting him look. He rakes his eyes over smooth curves, speechless, as she unbuttons her jeans and shimmies them down her hips, and she crawls up the bed in nothing but plain black panties. 

She straddles him, pushing at his shoulders until he falls back against the mattress. He runs his hands over her, up her sides, trying to memorize the lush pillowy swells and dips of her, the velvety feel of her skin. Her mouth is hungry on his. 

She’s moving, slow and snakelike, rolling her torso so that he can feel the slight drag of her hard nipples up his chest, then twisting her hips, rubbing herself against him. It’s almost too much even through his jeans, all this hot rough friction. He grips her hips and rocks up against her, and she lets out a tortured little whine as she breaks away from the kiss. 

She gets Dean’s zipper down, tugs, and he lifts his hips obligingly so that she can get his pants off. He kicks at them awkwardly, making a face, and she giggles; it’s a nervous giggle, and it dies in her throat when he rolls on top of her. He pauses with his hands braced on either side of her head, and she stares up at him, cheeks flushed. 

“What do you -” he starts, and before he can finish the question, she reaches up and brushes the pad of her thumb over the curve of his lower lip. He flicks his tongue over it and watches her eyelids flutter. He ducks his head to kiss the hollow of her throat, then her collarbone. 

“Thought about this,” she says. “I was kicking myself, after. For being too scared to make a move, for -” 

She gasps when he slips his hand down the front of her panties, dragging two fingers down through silky-slick heat, running them up again, teasing before he pulls the thin fabric down. 

“I was wondering,” he confesses. He hooks his hands under her thighs and holds her in place, and she shudders at the first brush of his tongue. 

“I don’t do that - don’t invite strangers over,” she pants. “I don’t trust people, but you - fuck, do that again.” 

“Taste so good,” he mumbles. It’s barely audible, the way his face is buried between her legs. She squirms, thighs shaking as he gets his lips around her clit. 

The words are rushed, high-pitched, spilling out along with tiny gasps and sharp inhales: “Thought about your mouth, fuck. Thought about this. It was - you do a thing, with your tongue, and - right there, oh, fuck, just - you kept licking your lips, and... Dean. Dean.” 

He sneaks a glance up at her. She’s arching her back, fingers twisting in the sheets, saying his name over and over in this broken, reverent voice. Dean feels raw and strange, like he’s the one spread-open and vulnerable here. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to think about it. 

She practically convulses when he slips two fingers into her, but he’s holding her down with his other hand. He works her with his fingers and sucks in quick little pulses, lost in the way she tastes. She grabs his hair, pulling him down against her, gripping so hard it stings his scalp, and it’s so fucking hot he feels like he could come just from this: her taste on his tongue, her fingers in his hair, her ragged voice as she says his name one more time. She shakes and shudders as she comes. 

“Gorgeous,” he can’t help but whisper, pressing a kiss to one of the stretch marks that show like pale tiger stripes on her thighs. The scar tissue doesn’t taste any different than the rest of her skin, but he kisses another to be sure, then drags his mouth up, nipping at the soft skin under her belly-button, licking a drop of sweat from the valley between her breasts. 

She’s panting, cheeks stained pink and sheened with sweat, looking up at him with glittering unfocused eyes, and the clench of pure fucking desire in his gut hits him like a freight train. The first slick press of his cock is almost too much. He closes his eyes and sinks in slow, feeling the give where her body opens up and lets him in. Her breath hitches in her chest when he grinds down, as deep inside as he can be. 

One of them is shaking, and Dean thinks it might be him. 

He kisses the underside of her jaw, mouthing at the soft salty skin there, and rolls his hips, and the wet-hot surge of friction is so fucking good. Part of him wants to move, snap forward and give in, fuck into her hard enough to obliterate the swelling sensation in his ribcage. Part of him wants this to last forever. 

He’s present in his skin in a way he hasn’t been in ages, frantic with all the input from his senses, lit up and fizzing with it. The strangled cry that rips from his throat sounds foreign, like an animal, like something wild… she digs her fingers into the muscles of his shoulders, tilts her hips up, and he’s so close to the edge of his control already. 

The physical details of it, the actual act, that’s nothing new. It’s this feeling in his chest. It’s the way he feels like he’s about to shatter. 

“There,” she groans. He opens his eyes enough to see her, and his vision is blurring, images of her coming through like shots from an unfocused camera: lips parting around his name, eyes rolling back in her head when he hits the right spot, sweat trickling down her temple to soak tendrils of hair. 

Dean’s so fucking close, so fucking hard, it’s like his entire universe is narrowing down to the throb of blood pulsing in his cock, the way she’s clamping down around him as she grinds up to meet every thrust, writhing under him, pulling him close, her fingernails fiery points of pain at the small of his back. 

This is so much more than he expected. He can’t breathe.

She lets out a gasp and a sweet little sob, arching up, and he can feel her all around him, soaking wet and searing hot, so good it blinds him. His hips jerk forward one last time, as if he could possibly get any closer to her. He gives in and lets himself go under. 

The tension bleeds from his muscles, leaves him wrung-out and quiet. He keeps rocking into her, soft shivers of pleasure rippling through them both, as she reaches up and cups his face between her hands, tugging him down for a kiss. He rests his forehead against hers for a moment, close enough that their breath mingles in the damp thick air between them. He kisses the tip of her nose, then her eyelids. He moves back to pull out. 

“Don’t go anywhere,” she whispers. “Stay.” 

“Can I go like six inches to either side?” Dean asks, and she makes a face, giggling, as they shift over together, trying to move without putting any real space between their bodies. 

Dean settles in between her sprawled legs, resting his head on her chest. Her heartbeat is slowing, gradually. He focuses on the sound of it, the feel of her ribs rising and falling under his cheek as she breathes, and she runs her fingers through the short damp hair at the nape of his neck. 

He wants to stay right here, just like this. 

He could pretend, for one night. He could pretend to be someone else, someone who gets what they want. 

“If I fall asleep, wake me up in half an hour,” she says dreamily. “Let’s do that again.” 

He can feel the waves closing in over his head. 

Her fingers slow and then stop. Her heartbeat goes low and even. 

When he’s sure she’s asleep, Dean shifts, doing his best not to disturb her. She doesn’t stir. He gathers his clothes and gets dressed silently. 

She looks so peaceful: hair tangled, skin glowing, lips curled up in a smile. She looks warm. Dean’s chest aches. He sneaks one last glance at her before switching off the light and turning to go. 

He doesn’t look back. 

***

February 2010

Dean waits for a moment, staring up at the dark sky, but there’s no answer. He wasn’t really expecting one. 

Deep breath. Drink. Swallow. 

He wipes away the tears, steeling himself to go back inside and pretend that nothing’s wrong. 

The wheezy voice echoes in his ears: going through the motions. 

Deep, dark… nothing. 

He wants to deny it, is the thing. He wants to deny it, but he can’t, even to himself, even to the quiet nighttime sky. But that dark nothing is easier than letting himself feel. When he slows down, when he rests, when he allows himself to feel anything, it all crashes over him, swamps him, fills his lungs and makes him choke. 

Inside, you’re already dead. 

When was the last time he felt alive? 

He sees her clearly: head thrown back on the pillow, lips parted, saying his name like a prayer. If he lets himself remember, he feels a ghost of her warmth and a swelling, fluttering fullness in his chest. 

Something inside him snaps. 

He practically runs to Baby, flings himself blindly into the driver’s seat, starts the engine with trembling fingers. He hits the gas and the tires squeal. 

The cold air slaps against his face, and his heart pounds, and he almost turns around five times before he hits the right exit. It’s not hard to find her place again, but it doesn’t occur to him until he’s knocking that she might’ve moved. She might not be home. She might have a fucking boyfriend who’s going to punch him in the face. 

She opens the door. 

He can see hurt and shock and something bright (hope?) flickering across her face, and then she looks him up and down. 

“Dean,” she says softly. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m -” 

“If you say ‘fine’ right now I’ll punch you in the mouth,” she says matter-of-factly. There’s no judgement in her eyes, just familiar wide-open warmth. “It’s three in the morning. You snuck out, like a fucking asshole, and then I didn’t hear from you in over a fucking year. So. Are you okay, Dean?” 

He has to force the words out; it feels like they’re scorching his throat. 

“No. I’m not.” 

He sways on his feet and sags against the doorframe. It’s pulling him under, one wave after another. 

She wraps her arms around him and squeezes, holding him close, right there in the doorway. He runs his hands up her back and buries his face in her hair, taking deep heaving breaths that burn his lungs. It’s all he can do to keep his head above water. 

She presses her lips to his pulse and whispers against his skin: “Come inside, Dean. Stay a while.” 

She pulls the door closed behind him as he takes one shaky step, then another. 

He doesn’t look back. 

.

.

.

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[hatsukeii]

Sorry if this is becoming a Tsukki stan blog with all the requests you get for him lmao. All of your precious depressed!Tsukki asks got me thinking. How would he comfort his girlfriend who is having nightmares about him committing suicide after she found him cutting or maybe attempting? I had to break into a friend’s house a couple years ago to stop him from committing suicide and as much as I love him, the thought of that night still haunts me. Thank you for even reading this honestly. 🥺

Okay this was on my list for one of the requests I had to do asap bc it seems like a serious issue that needs attention so I’m putting off the matchups and hcs and doing this one first.

But like it’s still super late I’m sorry-

Plus there’s nothing to be sorry about lol this blog becoming a tsukki stan blog is 100% okay-

I sure as hell hope you’re doing alright, and that your friend is safe, you two seem like amazing people:)

Darling, I’m right here//Depressed!Tsukishima x Reader

Word count: 1600+ (A bit shorter than usual I’m sorry-)

Warnings: Depression, attempted suicide, mild swearing

Summary: You wake up to a reoccurring nightmare.

“Tsukishima?”

“Kei? What are you doing?”

Thank god you had to get to school extra early that day. There Tsukishima was, sitting on the train platform, his feet dangling off the edge. “Kei?” He stayed silent, ignoring you as a bright light headed towards his direction. You knew he was depressed, but you sure as hell didn’t think he would actually try to commit suicide. Your eyes widened as you watched his hands push himself off the platform, landing onto the train tracks. You lifted your leg, desperate to rush over and pull him back up, but it was as if your feet were bolted to the ground, refusing to move. “COME ON! MOVE!” The train was now nearing him, it was guaranteed that it would hit him if he didn’t get out in the next three seconds. You tried to scream, tears flowing freely down your face, but nothing came out. You felt your throat burning, however all that was produced from your mouth were inaudible wheezes and whimpers. Your legs wouldn’t cooperate with you however hard you tried, refusing to leave the cold ground. Your fists were clenched so tight crescent shaped marks etched themselves into your palm. Everything went into slow motion as the train came into sight. Tsukishima sent you one last glance, smiling softly, before everything was painted red and his body was gone. Time seemed to go straight back to normal right afterwards. At the same moment, your legs decided to detach themselves from the ground, and your voice came back almost instantly. “KEI? KEI NO!” You bolted to the platform, hoping to find something, anything, that could convince you this was fake. The air around you was thick, the smell of blood wafting into your nose as you stare at the train tracks in horror. “Why? Why couldn’t I save you just now?” Your heart was thumping furiously, blocking all foreign noise out as you squeezed your eyes shut. You don’t even know what happened, but the second you opened up your eyes, you were in the hall at school, students crowding around your locker. “Wait, you were there when he did it?” “Why didn’t you save him?” “How could you just let him jump off?” The questions never stopped coming. You slammed your hands over your ears, frantically trying to shut out the haunting voices. “No, nononononono stop, please! Please, I couldn’t do anything I couldn’t save him!”

“I COULDN’T SAVE YOU!”

You gasped, hitting your head on the coffee table as you bolted upwards, cold sweat dripping off your forehead as you panted. Tear stains were evident on your face, although you swear you didn’t know you were crying. Your hair was a disheveled mess, strands of baby hair sticking out of your head. Grabbing your sheets in one hand and your chest in the other, you continued to pant heavily, your mind racing in between your reoccurring nightmare and reality. Why was it that again? That was at least a year ago, and yet it still haunted you to this day. You were quick enough to grab Tsukishima from the platform during his attempt, but was that nightmare going to happen if you couldn’t pull him back to safety in time? Would he have died just like that, with no one knowing until a day later? Just the thought of the possibility made you shudder. Your hands made their way next to you, where your boyfriend was comfortably sleeping. Scrambling for his chest, you heaved a heavy sigh when you felt his steady heartbeat on your palm, breathing along to the beats on his chest. You gulped down your saliva, gripping his shirt tightly, as if you were too afraid to even let go for a second. You weren’t going to let him go ever again. Not when he obviously needed support and affection. You looked around Hinata’s living room. The movie from an hour ago was still on, however all the boys were already fast asleep. Kageyama was peacefully snoring away on the couch, Hinata was drooling all over his pillow, Nishinoya was grumbling in his sleep, Tanaka was making weird punching motions, and Yamaguchi stirred a little bit, his eyes squeezing shut. You pretended to lay down again, not wanting to concern the freckled boy with your sudden outburst. His body eventually went limp again as he continued to snore softly. Seeing that the coast was clear, you sat back up, trying to calm yourself down for the third time this week. Your hand was still grabbing onto the blond’s shirt, feeling the soft fabric in between your fingers.

“(Y...Y/N)?”

You froze.

Shit. You forgot that Tsukishima was a light sleeper.

Feeling him shift underneath your hand, you instantly let go of his shirt, gripping onto the mattress Hinata gave you two instead. The mattress dipped a bit, Tsukishima starting to carefully sit up. His hair was messier than usual, despite it being relatively short. Rubbing his eyes, he gave your hunched over figure a glance, completely confused. “(Y/N), what are you doing up so late?” Rapidly turning around, your hand landed on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. Next, it went up to cup his cheeks, then his arms as your eyes took in his entire body frantically. Finally, your arms wrapped around his neck, burying yourself in his presence. Awkwardly, he returned the embrace by patting your back with one hand, the other arm wrapping around your waist. Your mind was on the verge of insanity. His attempt at suicide was still overwhelming to you, even if it’s already been an entire year. Most people would ask why you haven’t moved on, but truth be told, you couldn’t. Tsukishima was still depressed, he could very well try doing it again, maybe this time in an even more subtle way. In a way where not even you can stop him. You were scared. Anxious. Terrified. Just the thought of him leaving you forever was too much to bear, and brought you to tears. You would have frequent nightmares about him killing himself in various ways. Pills, hanging, jumping off a roof, and the worst of them all, jumping into the train tracks. His initial attempt. And every single time, you wouldn’t be able to save him. You would be stuck to the floor, hopelessly draining yourself of your energy as you try to scream. “I couldn’t save you, what? Why? How are you here? I thought you jumped in? This isn’t a dream right?” 

That was when it struck Tsukishima. Everything was clear as day now. The reason why you came to school sleep deprived every day. Why you constantly fell asleep in class. Why you were always last online at three in the morning. “Why did you never tell me about this?” He could feel the wetness of your tears as you forced your face into his neck more. “Didn’t want you t-to worry more than you already do. I’m gonna go crazy if I see another c-cut on that beautiful skin of yours.” His hand stopped, resting in the small of your back. “(Y/N)...” He didn’t think his self harming tendencies and his suicide attempt would affect you this much. He never thought anyone really cared. However when you hauled him home and screamed at him after catching him trying to jump into the train tracks, that ignited something in him. He now had someone he had to- no. Wanted to protect. One person cared enough to save him, and that was all it took for him to realise a bit of his self worth. He would do anything to keep you happy and safe. One of your first requests was for him to stop cutting. He had stopped scattering his skin with cuts, despite his crippling depression. He had done it just for you, and it felt amazing. You usually just waved him off with a casual “Insomnia’s a bitch” whenever he asked about the dark eye bags, or the questionable time you were last online. Never did the thought that you were still traumatised from events that happened over a year ago pass his mind. He should’ve known that this would affect you badly. How could he have been so selfish? Disregarding your emotions as he tried to end his life. He felt terrible. He was pissed at himself. For being so selfish and foolish.

He heaved a heavy sigh, mentally punching his nuts. Moving his hand from your back, he caressed your head tenderly, as if you were a glass statue that would break with the tiniest push. You sobbed even harder, squeezing him tight. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” His eyes fluttered shut as he held onto your trembling figure, peppering your head with tiny kisses in an attempt to comfort you. You smelled like shampoo and roses. He couldn’t help but take a sniff. You were the sole reason he was still here, living and breathing as he plummeted through his hole called life. Without you, he would’ve been dead ages ago. You were the guiding light in his life, reminding him about everything he should live for. Everything he should be happy for. Taking your head off his neck, you look straight at him with teary eyes. “You’re here right? This is real?” His heart shattered at the sight. His beautiful, amazing, precious, perfect girlfriend, was crying because of him. He pushed your head back into his shoulder, giving you the biggest hug as he held his grip on you tightly.

“Darling, I’m right here. I’m always gonna be here.”

Ahhhh I hope you liked it even though it’s a lot shorter than what I usually write🥺👉👈💖💕

Tags: @ewfilthymundane @izzyphantomgamer @sunshines-and-tatertots @tiger1719 @trashcanweeb @inlwlevi @itmekisuu @just-another-bored-writer @justachillgirl @burnt-tomato @for-ests @bokutokoutarou @kaylacinderella @random-fandomlover @xonfusedsoul @estherwritess @macaronnv @talks-a-lot-of-stuff @agentvicinity @sakusasgarbage @tiredgr3mlin @emsvegetables @fullmetalfangirl21 @poppirocks @mariechan123 @tokyoghoose

Dm or comment if you wanna be included in the taglist or if I forgot to tag you!

[finnsucks23]

bakugou/the walters i love u so? sfw

A/N: This one hurt me a lot, I guess the only thing I know how to write with Katsuki is angst 🥺

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader.

Warnings: Angst, Manipulation, Break up.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You were warned.

But that smile killed you.

How could you ever deny him?

Katsuki Bakugou was everything you ever wanted in a man, and when he showed you the slightest bit of kindness one day, you fell.

You fell hard.

I just need someone in my life to give it structure.

The first day you spent with him felt like heaven, he held your hand and admired the fact that yours was so small compared to his own.

"I feel like I could break you, it's kinda cute actually." The ash blond smirked, you thought of it as a term of endearment.

Looking back on it now, you wonder what he meant.

To handle all the selfish ways I'd spend my time without her.

The first month was everything you hoped for, the sex was amazing, and so was the small moments.

Though sometimes you'd argue here and there. But who doesn't when you are young and in love?

You'd do anything for Bakugou...

The fourth month of doing whatever you were doing, you decided to ask the hothead you'd grown to care for a rather dumb question.

Hey, Katsuki?

Yeah, what's up?

This might be a stupid question, but uh what exactly are we?

He left you on read that entire night.

Everything I want but I can't deal with all your lovers.

You ended up learning the hard way what Katuski Bakugou was really about.

A week after avoiding you completely, you finally cornered him in a bar where he was chatting up another woman.

She was beautiful of course, and you broke down in tears believing that you actually had something special.

"Hey, I promise you... she's just a old friend. Y/n, would I ever cheat on you?" He fiened a look of remorse as you began to question yourself.

Were you just making a big deal out of nothing?

"I'm sorry I overreacted, we aren't even officially together." You tried to laugh it off, taking a deep breath as you felt your heart ache.

"We are now, you're the only one. Okay?" He assured you, giving you that same smirk.

You nodded.

Saying I'm the one, but it's your actions that speak louder.

He gripped your thighs tightly, holding you closer to him as you tried to push him away, angry once more because he came home late yet again.

"It's hard being a hero, Y/n. You know that." He growled, pulling you back onto his lap. You sighed and gave in, lolling your head to the side to give him access to your neck.

He began to nip playfully, leaving small kisses and hickeys in his wake.

Giving me love when you are down and need another.

The glass shattered against the floor, the pieces broke into beautiful shimmers of glitter.

"Get the fuck out!" You screamed, tears flooding your vision as your heart burned. You took a step back as he stepped closer, he was trying to keep his cool as you looked as if you went mental.

"Y/n, let's just talk-" you picked up a glass plate and threw it at him, he dodged it and grabbed onto you.

You flailed around and sobbed, trying to get away as he put your arms in a lock.

You shook your head, thrashing about to try to break free though you knew it was useless.

"I love you, okay? I'm sorry!" He let go of your arms and just held you by your waist.

You gave in and held him close, he wouldn't cheat in you again... would he?

I've got to get away and let you go, I've gotta get over you.

You stared blankly at the TV, feeling hollow inside as you gripped the whiskey glass in your hand.

But I love you so.

The door lock clicked as you froze, hearing the chatter of two people coming in through the front door.

I love you so.

A woman giggling made you swallow thickly, tears began to burn but you refused to let them slip.

I love you so.

"Suki~" The woman laughed, stumbling in with your fiance as they had their bodies pressed together so firmly.

I love you so.

"Oh shit!" The woman screamed as she spotted you sitting on the couch, you just let out a breathy chuckle and sipped on the whiskey.

"I thought-" Bakugou sounded hurt when he saw you, then again you just assumed he was faking it.

He didn't really care about you.

You stood up and set the glass on the coffee table, with a smile you looked the woman in the eyes.

"I hope he doesn't treat you like he treated me."

With that, you grabbed the suitcase full of your clothes and personal belongings.

I'm gonna pack up my things and leave you behind.

"Y/n- C'mon, you don't want to do this." His crimson eyes pooled with regret as you walked past him, avoiding his hand as he went to grab you.

"I'm just tired of it." You sighed, walking towards the door.

This feelings old and I know that I've made up my mind.

He grabbed your wrist, keeping hold of you as you tried to pull away.

"Let go, Bakugou." You seethed, clenching your teeth dn you tried your best to hold back and not lose your shit.

"Why can't you forgive me?" He huffed, his eyes wide and teeth grinding together.

"Why can't I forgive you?" You laughed, "I can't because you did this too many times. I fucking agreed to marry you, and this is what I get? You're pathetic." You slipped from his grasp.

I hope you feel what I felt when you shattered my soul.

"I wasted nearly five years on your ungrateful ass, and I get nothing. Nothing. I loved you with everything I had, Bakugou. You're inferiority complex has nothing to do with me." You took a deep breath as you stepped out the door, not bothering to look back.

"You're dead to me." You sneered.

Your words cut deep and he felt like he couldn't breath.

'Cause you were cruel and I'm a fool, so please let me go.

You ignored his pleas as he called for you, begging you to stay and trying to lure you back with empty promises.

You only smiled, feeling like the hold he had on you for years was finally broken.

[theimprobabledreamersworld]

Yayy! Despite trying to fight off a monster of a cold, I’ve got a new chapter written! :D

As I mentioned yesterday, this one is written from Logan’s POV because I’ve been wanting to create a back story for him in this story :) 

I’ll post the chapter under a line on here, but please check it out on Ao3 too! I love reading comments and stuff to find out what people think :)

Hope you like it!

Taglist: @psychedelicships  @edupunkn00b  @jwillowwolf @kacklingisanart @look-ma-im-on-tv @stardustlv @lost-in-thought-20

Chapter 5. My Heart Was Made Of Stone. And You Broke It Twice.

“But the wind has changed. My walls are weakening. They’re gonna fall soon. And I’m gonna need you.”

Logan was a man who always kept his emotions in check. He never let himself get too consumed by any kind of feeling. Happiness, sadness, love, hate, anger… Ever since he was sixteen, he refused to be vulnerable ever again. If you’re vulnerable, you can be broken. He had been broken far too many times when he was growing up.

His parents were agreeable, he couldn’t deny that… but he was never enough for them. Even as a young child, nothing was quite good enough. He remembered when the class teacher told his parents that he was the first child to learn how to write his name… he stretched up to show them and they let the paper flutter to the floor saying it wasn’t neat enough. He was only four! It got worse as he got older. Every time he was proud of something he had achieved, like getting a high grade, he was always asked why it wasn’t full marks. The unattainable goals were never reached and it took a lot to even vaguely satisfy them. He worked himself into the ground for the entirety of his school life, it affected his health, but they still weren’t happy. He was never strong enough, creative enough, serious enough, smart enough… and it hurt so much to know that. His friends however were amazing, they would always encourage him and make him take breaks when they knew he was working way too hard. They could always cheer him up and he was eternally grateful for that. Logan clenched his fists… he hated how much it knocked him down when he would walk in smiling over something that happened at school, to be told they weren’t interested and to just go and study. He always set himself up for the fall almost every day… no wonder emotions became such a hinderance. Luckily, music was his salvation for about eight years.

Logan took his head out of his hands, readjusted his eyes to the light and felt how raw they were from crying before staring at the dusty piano in the house intently. He used to be pretty good at playing. He loved his classical music, and still does. Just not playing it anymore. When he still had lessons, he was always thrilled with the challenge of increasingly difficult pieces given to him by his teacher. It was funny, his music teacher was the only person who ever truly believed in him. He was also the one person who could convince Logan to perform. The last concert he ever played in was the day before his sixteenth birthday, he played his most difficult piece to date… Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu Op 66. They decided on that because it was originally a piece that no one was ever supposed to hear, Chopin never wanted it to be released after he died… but they did it anyway. His teacher said that he could then perform it however he wanted to, artistic interpretation and all that. He practiced and practiced at school so his parents wouldn’t hear it before. When it got to the concert, and his parents actually turned up, he was genuinely surprised. He walked out on the stage and sat down looking for his teacher who gave him a smile and a thumbs up, then the music began. He felt almost like he was watching himself play, he had never played with such determination before and as the final note rung out… there was silence. Before the room broke out into applause, his teacher was standing up clapping vigorously, then some of his classmates and other parents stood up too. His parents however were sat down, clapping politely with a neutral expression on their faces and Logan’s smile faltered. He gave a quick bow and walked quickly off the stage. His teacher followed him and gave him a hug while telling him how proud he was. Logan couldn’t stop the tears, he had never cried in front of another person, but no one had ever been proud of him before either. How embarrassing. The first time he had been shown positive interest by someone he respected, and he cried until the top of their shirt was damp with his tears. His teacher just held him and told him everything was okay. After he had calmed down and the tears had stopped, he went to go and join his parents for the second half of the concert, but their seats were empty.

In that moment, he didn’t get upset again and stayed unusually calm, and he knew that this was the final straw. He stayed at a hotel for the night at the insistence of his teacher, that way he could sort out his head and start looking up different apartment options. Which he did realise could be tricky as a sixteen-year-old… but he was smart, reliable, didn’t drink or smoke and had a substantial amount of money at his disposal. He waited until the morning and snuck back into his parent’s house to collect all of the things that he deemed necessary. Thankfully, the hotel manager was understanding and let him stay for the bare minimum price until he could find an apartment for himself. It took a few months, and the landlord had to be persuaded by his music teacher, but he found an apartment which was close to everything he needed and was affordable. One day, he would repay that teacher back for everything he had done for him.

He looked at the calendar, the picture of him and Virgil smiling and holding up their wedding ring hands was taunting him on the wall. He noticed the date. Wow, it had been ten years since he left without looking back, and he never heard a single word from them.

That was clearly for the best.

Ever since then, he never let emotions get the better of him ever again. However, as he looked around at the decimated living room, he had clearly broken and let all of those emotions consume him once again. Logan inspected the damage, as he traced the hole in the wall, the shattered photo frames and glass covering the floor, it caused his heart to fill up with regret. His heart was already full of pain, the regret was enough to make his heart quite literally tear in two. Virgil was the first person he felt like he could be vulnerable with again. When they first met, there was something about him, something that reminded him of himself. Maybe this guy was just as broken as he was, as he saw him hiding in the corner of the coffee shop trying to stay away from the world. He told Virgil this many times, but he had encased his heart in stone to keep it safe. As their relationship developed, as stupid as it sounds, he could feel the stone wall cracking and breaking off piece by piece, and he honestly didn’t mind in the slightest.

Now, he didn’t know what was going on with his heart. He was hurt, he was angry. It’s not every day you find out that the man you’ve been married to for the last five years spent most of his life as a well-trained and dangerous assassin. Going by Virgil’s words alone, the body count to his name is staggering and who knows how many people he’s hurt over the years. The argument they had earlier in the evening was playing on repeat in his mind.

“I couldn’t tell you!” Virgil shouted across the room.

“Why the hell not?! I’m your fucking HUSBAND Virgil, you are supposed to trust me. No matter what’s happened in your past!” Logan rubbed his forehead in frustration.

“Okay, you want to know why I hid everything from you? I did it to PROTECT you! My past is something that can be used against me, it is still being used against me. If anyone from it came after you… I would never be able to forgive myself!” The tears wouldn’t stop rolling down Virgil’s face as he spluttered out the words while his body shook with sobs.

Despite the hurt of seeing Virgil in so much pain, Logan couldn’t contain his anger. “What makes you decide if I need protecting? I can handle myself, ever since I was sixteen I’ve been on my own… You know that!”

Virgil sighed, like he was debating whether or not to say his next sentence.

“Remember when we met all those years ago? You told me about how you were attacked and how scared you were after it? Well… it was me. I was the guy who saved you. Every day since that moment, I vowed that I would protect you no matter the cost. Then I fell in love with you along the way, and I’ll love you until the end of time. If you want to know the truth about me, I know he gave you something. Look at it, and I won’t blame you if you try to turn me in to the police afterwards. I have to go now though, otherwise you will get hurt… I’m sorry, Lo.” Logan was left dumbfounded, and Virgil ran out of the front door, slipping away into the night.

There had been so many lies and too many secrets. He remembered that USB stick he threw in a drawer months ago. He opened it up and stared at the blue object, the label that read ‘Virgil… ?’ taunted him mercilessly. He looked over at his open laptop that was spared from his destructive anger, should he look at it?

Logan shook that thought away instantly, he needed to clear up first before making any kind of decision. He crouched down on the floor and started to sweep the glass over towards the sofa with his hand, just so he could clean it properly soon. He got to the first photograph, him and Virgil sitting in a restaurant holding hands and smiling at the camera. That picture was taken by Thomas and Nico, their two closest friends… He thought he should text them and see if they could come over. Virgil left half an hour ago, and he already felt too alone.

He’d contact them later, but for now. He wanted to stare at photographs and revel in his memories.

[offtopicoverload]

The Forever Breakup

@bubblybabynailpolish 's post on Talia & Jake's friendship hcs got stuck in my head so I wrote a quick one-shot about Jake comforting Talia and MC if they broke up.

~3000 words

“We broke up!” Talia chokes through sobs, her eyes unleashing a waterfall of tears and mascara flowing in watery streams as she does.

Jake stands shell-shocked; a situation he was not prepared for - or even expected to encounter - has shown up at his door, pounding incessantly until he flung it open to find a distraught Talia on the other side.

Without hesitation, he pulls her inside, letting the door fall shut behind them and guides her to the sofa, where she collapses atop it. She wipes at her eyes hurriedly, but it does nothing to stop the onslaught of tears cascading down her cheeks. Jake drops beside her, pulling her into his embrace and soothingly rubbing her back.

She cries into his shoulder for what feels like an eternity to Jake, one that he never wants to experience again, until she quiets enough for Jake to ask the all-important question: “What happened?”

The sobs course through her body again, “I don’t know!” she croaks, trembling in her skin. That’s when Jake takes notice of her clothes: A loose-fitting tank top and shorts even though it’s dark, below freezing, and the middle of January. He detangles himself from her, much to her chagrin, and gathers a thick blanket from across the living room.

He takes a detour into the kitchen, grabbing bottles of water and chocolate biscuits to try and cheer her up when she’s feeling better. He sets them down on the coffee table when he returns, draping the blanket around her shoulders after.

He starts towards the thermostat to turn the heat up and warm her quicker, but her hand delicately grasps at his, drawing his attention down to her. He opens his mouth to explain himself when Talia whispers, her voice already hoarse and strained, “Can you stay? Please?”

Jake does what he’s asked out of concern, love, and fear for his best friend. Talia doesn’t ask him nicely, she doesn’t say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ to him. They’re not formal or polite, they tease each other mercilessly and couldn’t care less about playing nice. But the plea in her voice triggered alarm bells in Jake’s mind, so he does as requested.

She shifts closer, nearly on top of his lap, curling up against him with her head on his chest and the blanket pulled tight around her. Jake doesn’t ask any questions, just combs his fingers through her hair in what he hopes is a comforting manner.

Talia spends what feels like hours shaking and crying under the blanket, Jake’s arms holding her tight until sleep eventually steals her, her shoulders relaxing and sobs quieting. Jake stays with her for a while longer, careful not to disrupt her.

When he’s confident she’s fast asleep, he slowly pulls away, letting her sink into his sofa cushions with a whimper. Jake stands, staring down at her with a broken heart; his best friend has shattered in front of him, and he has no idea how to fix her.

Then the rage starts to boil under his skin, lighting a fire inside him that he can’t extinguish. He grabs his jacket from beside the front door, carefully and quietly pulling the door open and closed before determinedly exiting the building. He pulls his keys from his pocket, unlocks his car, and starts driving in the direction of Talia and Lilac’s building, intent on getting answers and intent on seeing Lilac for who she really is, cruel and stupid for hurting Talia.

---

Jake stands outside Lilac and Talia’s - Lilac’s - flat, fist poised to knock on the door. He takes a few deep breaths, anger still simmering inside of him but lessened from the wildfire it was a short while ago. He raps his knuckles against the wood, jamming his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting or doing something stupid.

Lilac opens the door with red eyes and tear stains on her cheeks, “Um, hi,” she greets half-heartedly, Jake’s resolve crumbling in an instant.

He starts shifting awkwardly on his feet, transferring his weight from foot to foot and pulling his hands from his pockets to wring them before him. “So I heard, er - Talia -” he cuts himself off at the expression of pure pain on Lilac’s face.

Her gaze drops to the ground and her hand holding the door starts gripping it for dear life, her knuckles turning white. “Can we please not do this?” she sounds just as desperate as Talia did, and Jake swears he can hear his heart crack in his chest.

He takes a step closer, reaching to place a hand on Lilac’s shoulder, hoping to steady the slightly swaying woman. But she flinches away from his touch and he lets his hand fall back to his side. His brow furrows in confusion before he asks, “Do what?”

Lilac sniffles, a few tears threatening to spill from eyes from what Jake can tell with her head down, but she doesn’t bother to wipe them away. “The protective big brother thing. I know you just want to help Tals, but now is really not the time.”

He stands still for a moment, sorting through her words carefully. Then he reaches out again, his large hand carefully prying her smaller one from the door, and nudges her inside the flat.

She’s resistant, not moving unless Jake directly guides her, but she enters all the same. They stand beside the closed door for a moment, the silence deafening in Jake’s ears, but he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask if she’s okay, her shaking hands saying otherwise.

Her hair curtains around her face, preventing Jake from seeing any expression but the haunted and heartbroken one from a few instants ago. Though he doubts there’s much more she’s feeling right now.

Jake glances around the room, finding an uncharacteristic mess. There’s crumpled tissues on the kitchen bar and sofa, a bottle of vodka on the coffee table and whiskey on the kitchen counter. A pile of blankets in the corner has been knocked over, crocheted blankets spread across the living room in heaps, and shattered glass gleams in the hallway.

“Why are you here? You gonna kick my arse for Tals?” Lilac’s jokes, drawing Jake’s gaze. Only there’s no humour, not to Jake at least. Not when there’s shards in the hall and bandaids on her hands and feet.

Jake swallows the lump in his throat at the state of Lilac and Talia, of their flat, of their relationship. “No,” he answers calmly. “Well… maybe that’s why I came. But now I’m worried.” He takes a step closer. Lilac shifts her weight. “What happened?” He takes another step. Lilac slumps at the question and crosses her arms protectively. One more step. Lilac runs her hands up and down her arms. “Talia couldn’t tell me.” One last step, just as Lilac’s shoulders begin to tremble.

Jake pulls her into his arms, letting her sob silently against him in a manner all too familiar, yet simultaneously brand new. He rubs her back until her knees buckle from under her, then he gently lowers her to the ground, her hands grasping at his jacket as tears soak the fabric. “What happened?” he repeats the question for the third time tonight.

Lilac’s shoulders stop heaving as they were, but still shake as she draws in uneven and difficult breaths. “We - we fought. About my family.” Jake grimaces, the small pieces he’s heard from the couple about Lilac’s childhood not triggering a positive reaction. “And I -” her voice cracks and she gasps, no longer able to form any words.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jake shushes, “You don’t have to tell me. It’s personal, I get it,” he continues rubbing her back and offering more reassuring noises and sentiments.

“I said she wasn’t my family if they weren’t,” Lilac whispers the words into Jake’s jacket, her voice uneasy but somehow even, regardless of all the tears. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was just angry but I still did. And then she said that if she’s not my family then they sure as hell aren’t. And she’s probably right, it’s just hard. But then - then I told her she doesn’t know me or my life, she has no say. I acted like she’s not my life, Jake,” her voice is desperate again, her hands fisting in his coat.

“She is, she so is. She’s everything and she was just trying to help and I wouldn’t let her, but then she said she might as well leave and I said okay fine, even though I didn’t want her to, and then she left and I didn’t stop her, why didn’t I stop her?” she gasps, her breath hitching as she tries to catch it. “And I can’t fix it and now she’s gone and oh my God,” she heaves in a breath after her rambling with a splintered voice, tears trailing down her face again as she stares at Jake’s shirt.

Then her eyes fly up to his, meeting them for what feels like the first time tonight, “Is she okay?!” she grabs his forearms, tugging him forward and staring into his eyes desperately, searching for something.

He nods quickly, “She’s fine, she’s at my flat,” he rushes. Lilac lets go immediately, falling back to sit on her heels. “Well, she’s not okay but she’s safe. She was asleep when I left.” Lilac nods stiffly, her hands clenching at his words.

Jake sees a bandage on her hand and carefully reaches out, eager for a change in topic. He has a hard time with heartbreak, but cuts and bruises he can handle, “What happened to your hands?”

Lilac shakes her head, slowly pulling her hand back to herself, “I just - broke a glass. I’m fine,” she answers quietly.

“How’d you break it?” he asks, just as quiet, and lets his hand land on her shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze.

“I threw it.” Her body’s still, voice hesitant while her eyes dig into her lap.

Jake’s taken aback by the answer, but does his best not to show his surprise at her admission to a violent outburst, “Why’d you throw it?”

“She left,” Lilac whispers, her only response for a long moment.

Then she swallows harshly, “I was drinking but it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t stop and I hate myself and I was so mad and I threw it. And it hit the wall and it shattered, and I felt bad. She liked that glass and I broke it because I suck. So I tried to pick it up but I couldn’t find the broom because she always moves it ‘cause I knock it over, so I tried to use my hands but then it cut me and I kept stepping on it and I gave up and just drank some more. And it wasn’t enough, but I didn’t want to break any more of her glasses.”

Jake nods along, carefully reaching out and taking hold of her hand. He inspects her for any unbandaged cuts, and, when none are found, squeezes her hand, “Are you bleeding anywhere?”

She shakes her head, “Not anymore.”

He nods cautiously, glancing back around the room. He can still see the light bouncing off the shards scattered across the room, but most of the mess is out of his line of sight. He releases her hand and stands, gently patting her head as he passes.

He makes his way to the closet at the opening of a separate hallway, pulling it open to find a broom and dustpan inside. He’s seen Talia shove it in there countless times, always muttering about Lilac forgetting where it goes. He pulls it out and shuts the door, turning to the splintered glass on the hardwood. He meticulously sweeps it up, careful to get every last sparkling fragment.

When he’s done he walks to the kitchen, dumping the glass in the bin before returning the broom to the closet. Then he carefully scoops the tissues from the counter into the bin, repeating the exercise in the living room, too. He places the bottles of alcohol next to the others by the fridge, screwing the caps on tight. He tugs the fridge door open in search of water, finding a few bottles in the door.

His careful footsteps lead him back to a slumped Lilac that hasn’t moved since he left her, hands gripping one another tightly as she stares at the dark wood beneath her with dull eyes. He sits beside her, folding his legs in front of him, and offers an open bottle.

She only takes it when he prys her fingers apart and wraps them around it. She takes careful sips, never once meeting Jake’s concerned gaze, and he’s almost grateful for it. Almost grateful that he doesn’t have to see any more pain tonight.

His fingers start to skate along her spine, “Feeling any better?”

She laughs a horrid, broken, crumbling laugh, “No. No, I’m not, Jake, and I don’t -” her voice cracks before returning, barely audible, “I don’t know if I ever will at this point.”

He stops his skating, “Why not?”

“I broke it and I can’t fix it,” she sniffles.

“You can buy another glass,” he suggests hesitantly.

She chuckles that heart-shattering chuckle again, “I didn’t mean the glass. I meant us. I can’t go back, that’s forever.”

“Right,” he mumbles sheepishly. “Maybe you can though?” he tries an optimistic outlook, one that Lilac isn’t a fan of.

“No. She left because I made her. That makes it real and permanent and forever. It’s a Forever Breakup, Jake.”

Jake asks the dumbest question he can think of before he can even stop himself, “Do you want it to be forever?”

“Of course not,” she spits. “Of course not,” she repeats, more controlled now, “But I can’t fix it; she left.”

Jake leans into the optimism, the romantic inside of him getting the better of him, “Maybe if you try right now? Sooner rather than later, you know?”

There’s that crushing tremble of vocal cords again, but no words follow. Lilac just shrugs, defeated and hopeless, taking a chug from the water bottle she’s been slowly tracing with a nail.

A buzzing sounds from the kitchen, recognized by Jake as his own ringtone. He stumbles to his feet, rushing over to grab his phone from the counter. Talia’s contact is on display, the vibrations nearly sending the device crashing to the ground.

He answers, cautiously stepping into the far hallway and towards the washroom, “Hello?” he almost whispers.

“Where are you?” Talia’s voice sounds panicked, her breathing quick.

“I, um, I’m sorry, I came to your flat. I’m with Lilac.” Jake fidgets with his jacket’s zipper, nerves starting to overwhelm him.

“Oh.” The other line is quiet for a while, only staggered breathing flowing from the speaker. “Is - is she okay?”

Jake lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, “Not really, honestly. She broke a glass you liked and I think she feels really bad about.”

“Okay.” She’s reflective, voice turning distant. “Just a glass?”

“Yeah,” Jake confirms. Then he pauses, brow furrowing, “Does she usually break stuff?”

“No. Well, kinda. She dropped a mirror on accident once. A mug, too, but she got really worked up about it.”

Jake can't help the smile from splitting his lips at the ease of Talia’s voice, her typical attitude falling back into place. “Was it your mug?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?” Talia asks warily.

Jake grins wider, “No reason,” he attempts to breeze past it, maybe annoy her along the way.

“Whatever,” Talia huffs.

Jake chuckles a little, glancing back to Lilac, finding her legs now stretched before her as she leans forward, head still drooped. Jake’s laughter falls away at the sight.

He takes a deep breath before proposing a thought that’s rattled around his head since he found the flat in chaos, “Maybe you guys should talk. Work through things sooner than later?” he repeats that phrase again, hoping Talia might accept it more than Lilac.

“You think we could?” Talia’s cautiously hopeful on the other end of the line, a clattering sound that Jake can only hope isn’t the destruction of one of his own glasses.

“Yeah,” Jake answers softly, “I mean, I believe in you guys. One argument doesn’t have to wreck everything.”

Talia goes quiet again, leaving Jake to shift nervously. He hasn’t forgotten Lilac’s insistence that they’re over or Talia’s unabashed heartbreak, but he tries to push past the anxiety slowly flooding his chest, determined to fix this and prove they’re not as fragile as a glass. A sigh heaves in Jake’s ear, “Fine. I’ll come over, but you better stay. I need a place to crash if this doesn’t work.”

Jake smiles softly, “Deal. But only in the car. This is your business and I’m not getting any more involved,” he warns.

“Yeah, okay,” Talia concedes, the sound of keys jingling and a door shutting stretching Jake’s smile wider, his eyes glancing back to Lilac once more, this time finding her leaning against the kitchen counter.

---

A knock echoes through the flat. Lilac’s eyes fly up in a panic from the kitchen, finding Jake’s calm ones already staring back from the living room. He gives her a gentle smile and an encouraging nod.

Jake’s only taken a few steps towards the door when it slowly opens, Talia stepping in the room with her hair now tied back and one of Jake’s jackets - a leather one she bought him, actually - falling from her shoulders. She shuffles inside, keeping her eyes on Jake to avoid the grey ones staring in shock at her profile.

Jake smiles reassuringly at her too, carefully but quickly making his way to the door. He pats Talia’s shoulder as he steps outside and closes the door behind him. But he’s slow enough to hear a nervous ‘hi’ and a watery ‘hey.’

He walks out of the building and uses the flashlight on his phone to find his car, unlocking it with the click of his keys. Slipping into the driver’s seat with a sigh, he lets his head fall back to the headrest. His eyelids start to feel heavy, being awake in the late hours of the night a rare occasion for him.

His phone buzzes, jolting him awake. He scrambles to find it, pulling it from his jacket pocket and finding a large 2:43 on his lock screen. A text notification is just below it, with Talia’s name at the top.

He smiles down at the screen, sticking his key in the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. He navigates back to his own flat in low light from street lamps, watching the few people still awake go about their late nights and early mornings.

When Jake slumps into his bed, yanking the covers up to his chin with a contented sigh a half hour later, he can’t help but smile at the two words that had greeted him on his phone screen, relishing in the abolishment of The Forever Breakup: ‘we’re okay.’

[xxx-cat-xxx]

Keeping Company

Authors: @whumphoarder and @xxx-cat-xxx

Summary: While attempting to look after his migraine-riddled mentor, Peter manages to injure himself badly enough to need Tony’s help. 

Word Count: 3k

Authors’ note: Basically, Bethany and Cat are incredibly predictable people, so we each wrote our favorite whump tropes (Tony + migraine, Peter + stitches) and combined them to make our first collab story in response! Hope you enjoy reading as much as we enjoyed creating it together :D

Link to read on Ao3

Tony spits saliva into the toilet bowl for the umpteenth time, wishing that his stomach would get it over with and empty itself already just so that he can get back to bed. Not that it would make much of a difference; his head hurts no matter where he is, but he knows the rest of his body is not going to like the hour he just spent kneeling on the tiled bathroom floor come tomorrow.

“Tony? Are you in there?” someone calls quietly from outside the door. It takes Tony’s migraine-riddled brain a moment to place the voice. Peter, right. Peter, who is staying over at the lake house this weekend to help him upgrade FRIDAY’s interface while Pepper takes Morgan downtown for a day trip.

“Tony? Can I come in?” Peter calls. He sounds a bit more anxious now, making Tony realize that he never actually answered.

“Yeah,” he rasps, and his head thanks him with another vicious throb of pain that he can feel reverberating in the pit of his stomach. He reaches back for the doorknob with an arm that isn’t there before recalling that he took the prosthesis off in the garage because it was hurting him earlier. Then he remembers that he didn’t even lock the door to the bathroom. God, he’s a mess today. “‘S open.”

Peter steps in and immediately winces at the sight of Tony slumped on the floor. “Hey. Uh, did you throw up?” he asks.

Tony shakes his head. “Just nauseous.”

“Ah, okay.” The worry in Peter’s voice is clear. Tony has been getting migraines more frequently since the snap, but the kid has never witnessed one quite like this before. It was bad enough that Tony didn’t even make much of a fuss when Peter sent him to bed after his hands were shaking so badly that he’d slopped coffee over some exposed circuits in the mainframe and shorted them out.

He squints up at Peter. “Don’ worry, kid. It’ll pass.”

Peter nods. He crosses his arms awkwardly, looking like he’s not quite sure what to do with them, and leans against the doorframe. “Uh, how long have you been in here?”

Tony shrugs a bit. “An hour? Two?”

Peter’s face falls. “Why didn’t you tell me it’d gotten this bad? You said I should just do my homework because you were gonna fall asleep anyway.”

“Well what would you have done about it?” Tony retorts. It comes out ruder than intended and Peter’s gaze immediately drops to his feet. A pang of guilt hits Tony and he sighs, sluggishly rubbing his forehead. “Sorry. ‘S just frustrating.”

“No, it’s okay,” Peter reassures, sighing as well. “Just wish I could do something.”

“Build me a new brain,” Tony jokes weakly. “Sell this piece of crap on eBay. Someone’ll buy it—they always do.”

Just then another wave of nausea washes over him. His stomach clenches and for a moment he’s sure he is going to throw up. He bends back over the bowl and squeezes his eyes shut, breathing out carefully. Saliva is pooling in his mouth and the urge to gag is overwhelming, but still, he fights it. Despite how close he and the kid have gotten in the months following Thanos’ defeat, Tony isn’t quite ready to let Peter witness him losing his lunch.

“Actually,” he gasps out after swallowing thickly, “I think there’s some ginger ale in the kitchen. Can you, uh...?” he flaps his hand around.

Peter nods eagerly. “Yeah, for sure,” he says, and disappears through the open door.

The moment he’s out of the room, Tony gags. Nothing comes up, but the pain accompanying the movement is so bad that it sends white lights crisscrossing through his vision.

After another few dry heaves, he lets his head sink down against the rim of the bowl with a low moan that luckily nobody else can hear. He’s shaking and drenched in cold sweat. Pretty pathetic, Iron Man, he thinks.

Then he hears the sound of glass shattering downstairs.

Tony lifts his head weakly. “FRI?” he rasps. “Wha’ was that?”

“Peter appears to have broken a drinking glass,” FRIDAY reports, her volume a bit lower than usual.

“Hm.” As long as it’s not that hideous French sculpture in the dining room that Pepper’s grandmother gave to her, they should be fine. Not that Tony wouldn’t  love  an excuse to finally be rid of that thing—it gives him the creeps. “Is he alright?” he croaks.

“He assures me he is perfectly fine and will be clearing the mess up momentarily,”—Tony gives a small, satisfied hum and lets his eyelids drift back closed—“just as soon as he manages to stop the bleeding,” she finishes.

“Hm… wait, what?” It takes about two seconds longer than usual for Tony’s impaired brain to latch on to the meaning of that sentence. “What bleeding?”

“I’m totally fine, Mr. Stark!” Peter’s voice hollers up the stairs. Tony winces at the sound; he always forgets about the kid’s enhanced hearing. “Got it handled!”  

“In attempting to catch the falling glass, he sustained several lacerations to his right hand,” FRIDAY informs. “Most are superficial, though one of the cuts is bleeding quite heavily and may require medical attention.”

“God, kid, what did you do this time?” Tony groans quietly as he reaches for the sink to pull himself upright. The change in altitude dials up the pain another few notches and makes his vision swim. He maneuvers his way through the dimly lit master bedroom, swaying almost drunkenly.

The sunlight streaming in through the hallway windows when he opens the bedroom doors feels like a personal assault. Tony groans in pain, unable to stop himself, and brings his elbow up to cover his eyes. “FRI, blinds,” he manages to say through clenched teeth. The AI immediately draws the integrated blinds and the hallway blissfully darkens.

“Mr. Stark? Are you okay?” the kid calls from downstairs. “Don’t come down―I got this!” The slight waver of Peter’s voice at the end of the sentence however makes it clear to Tony that the kid has not, in fact, got this.  

“Too late,” he calls back, and then flinches at the volume of his own voice.

The stairs are a challenge with the added aura and wooziness on top of the usual balance issues he still has whenever he doesn’t wear his prosthesis. Holding tightly to the railing with his left arm, Tony concentrates on putting one foot in front of another. He has to stop twice—once to wait for a dizzy spell to pass, and the second time to breathe through another wave of nausea—but he makes it down in one piece.

“Pete?” he asks when he reaches the landing.

There’s a clattering sound and a muffled swear from the kitchen.

“Whatever you’re doing, just stop,” Tony says tiredly as he moves toward the kitchen, keeping his hand on the wall for balance. “Just sit down, and wait for….” he trails off, standing at the room’s threshold now and getting his first glimpse of the scene. “Yikes.”

It looks like something straight out of a B-grade horror flick. Peter is crawling around on the crimson droplet-stained floor, frantically trying to pick up glass shards with his left hand while holding his right—wrapped in a thick, bloodsoaked wad of paper towels—pressed against his chest. He glances up when his mentor stops in the doorway, eyes wide. “I’m fine—I promise,” he blurts.

“Yeah, you and me both, kid,” Tony mutters. He stands there for a moment, his gaze traveling blankly from the blood and glass pieces littering the floor, to the kid’s Pokémon-socked feet, and waits for his sluggish brain to formulate a plan of action.

“Broom,” Tony decides finally, and side steps carefully in his leather-soled slippers over to the pantry to retrieve it.

“Uh, did you still want the ginger ale?” Peter asks nervously. “Because it’s right over there,” he rambles, nodding to the bottle on the counter as he continues picking up glass. “It’s not cold or anything, which is why I was gonna put it in a cup with some ice, but—”

“Pete,” Tony interrupts.

Peter glances up at him. “Yeah?”

“I’m not all useless, alright?” Tony says. Peter opens his mouth like he’s about to protest, but Tony just holds up a finger, shushing him. “Just let me help you. Please.”

Closing his mouth again, Peter gives a single nod. “Alright.”

Tony grabs the broom and uses it to clear a path across the floor to Peter. The closer he gets, the easier he can see the kid’s pallor, which does nothing to decrease his worry.

“Alright, let’s see it,” he says, nodding to Peter’s towel-wrapped hand.

Looking reluctant, Peter peels back his makeshift bandages. Fresh blood immediately starts flowing from a deep, lateral gash spanning across the top of Peter’s palm. Smaller, superficial cuts cover his fingers, and Tony can see at least one piece of glass still sticking into his hand just below the thumb.

“Jesus…” Tony breathes. He isn’t a squeamish person, but this would be sickening even if his stomach wasn’t already on the verge of crawling up his throat. “How did you even do that?”

Peter gives a pained smile. “Super strength? Tried to catch the glass on the way down, but I guess I grabbed it too hard. Kind of embarrassing, actually...”

Tony swallows thickly. “Please don’t ever try to catch me if I’m falling.” He briefly closes his eyes, breathing out, and then forces himself to open them again. The blood flow from Peter’s palm hasn’t stopped; on the contrary, it is now steadily dripping onto the floor. “Alright, stitches,” he decides, covering the wound again. “Bathroom. Let’s go.”

Peter doesn’t protest, but he does pale somewhat upon hearing the word ‘stitches.’ Whether it’s from nerves or the blood loss starting to take its toll, the kid is visibly unsteady on his feet once he gets up. Tony would have offered a supporting hand, but he isn’t faring much better himself. The two of them start shuffling down the hall like a pair of tipsy penguins—Tony holding onto the wall for balance, and Peter clutching his injured hand to his chest, swaying ever so slightly.

“Sit down,” Tony orders once they reach the bathroom, motioning at the toilet. Peter obeys, letting himself sink down onto the lid with a heavy exhale. Tony flips on the overhead light and can barely suppress a moan when the brightness hits his retinas, but if he has any hope of fixing this, he needs to see.

He leans into the doorframe a little and briefly wonders just who he pissed off in a past life to deserve this delightful day before turning his attention back to the teenager currently bleeding all over his luxury white bath mat.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter mumbles. “You should just lie down, actually―I can take care of this on my own.”

“Sure kid,” Tony huffs. “If ‘taking care’ means passing out on the bathroom floor.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You’d rather us both pass out on the bathroom floor?”

“Gets lonely down there. Can keep each other company,” Tony mutters. He pushes himself off the wall and moves over to the medicine cabinet to start gathering the supplies they’re going to need. The suture kit he locates quickly enough, but it takes him a full minute to remember where Pepper keeps the tweezers and his hands are shaking so much that he almost drops the box of gauze pads. Then he pulls Morgan’s little step stool out from below the sink and sits down on it next to Peter. “Give me your hand.”

Upon closer inspection, there are two small pieces of glass still embedded in Peter’s palm. It takes Tony a couple of tries to remove them with the tweezers, but eventually he succeeds. Then he picks up the bottle of disinfectant from the counter and holds it out to Peter. “Can you open this?”

Peter gives him a puzzled look. “Aftershave?”

“Hm?” Tony frowns, then squints at the label of the bottle. “Oh.” He sets it back down. “Just testing you.” Peter rolls his eyes and Tony reaches behind himself for the correct bottle this time. Between their two working hands, they manage to remove the childproof cap and Tony gets the bottle in position over Peter’s hand.

“Okay, deep breath,” he advises.

Peter sucks in a sharp inhale, then bites his lip as Tony pours bubbling disinfectant over the cuts. Once the wounds are clean, Tony uses his teeth to tear open the packet containing the (thankfully pre-threaded) surgical needle. Peter gulps at the sight.

Tony carefully picks up the needle with forceps. “You alright?” he checks.

“Yeah, fine,” Peter grits back, looking anything but fine. “Let’s just get it over with.”

That turns out to be easier said than done. Try as he might, Tony can’t get his eyes to focus properly on the wound and his trembling fingers keep causing the needle to jump—not to mention the kid’s anxious flinching. After five full minutes of fiddling with the needle, Tony’s barely managed two stitches. Then the pungent stench of disinfectant mixing with the scent of Peter’s blood suddenly becomes too much for his stomach to take.

“Hang on,” he mutters before standing up and spinning around just in time to heave violently into the sink.

(So much about not throwing up in front of the kid.)

“Tony?” Peter asks in a weak voice when Tony’s retching tapers off.

“Just gimme… a minute,” Tony gasps, trying to breathe through the blinding pain searing through his skull. He shakily wipes his mouth, praying that he isn’t in for another round. “Sorry. I’ll fix it.”

“I know, I just—” Peter looks down at the needle, which is still stuck in his hand mid-stitch, and breathes out a careful exhale. Sweat is glistening on his face. “Maybe it’d be better if you just talked me through it?”

Somehow, the kid manages to look at him with both pleading and pity, and it causes a flare of anger in Tony’s chest at his own patheticness. He has to swallow hard to clear the tightness from his throat before croaking out, “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do that.”

Peter picks up the needle and forceps with his left hand and follows Tony’s muttered instructions. The knots are the hardest part to explain. Tony has to talk Peter through which direction to pull the threads and how many times to wrap them around before tying them off, and it’s taking all of his patience to do so.

“It’s like the time May tried to teach me how to tie my tie for homecoming,” Peter murmurs, pulling the needle through his skin with the forceps. “Same frustration, just more blood.”

Tony huffs a bit and massages his own aching temples. “Still can’t believe you made it to sixteen without ever wearing a tie…”

“No, I’d  worn ties before,” Peter retorts, keeping his voice low, “but Ben always tied them for me.” He lets out a little hiss as he tugs the thread to pull the skin closed.

“Not so tight, kid,” Tony corrects. Peter nods and gives it more slack. It seems to be helping the kid to have something else to focus on besides the sutures, so Tony continues. “Jarvis had me doing double windsors the same week I learned to tie my shoes. Think I was three.”

“Child prodigy...” Peter huffs, though there’s no heat behind his words. After a moment he says, “Did Jarvis teach you to do stitches too?”

“Nah, that was Rhodey.” Tony feels his stomach twisting again at the recollection of that night and shudders a bit. “Don’t mouth-off to drunken frat boys, kid. Never ends well.”

Peter smirks a bit as he starts the next suture. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Eventually, they manage to finish stitching the wound closed. Tony douses him with antiseptic again, then wraps Peter’s hand in gauze bandages until it vaguely resembles an oven mitt.

“Okay.” Tony lets his head fall back against the counter and sighs exhaustedly. “Congratulations, kid—you just cleared another level on the way to becoming a full Avenger.”

Peter grins weakly. “It was kinda badass, wasn’t it?” He gazes down at his hand as if he can’t quite believe what he just did. Then he looks over at Tony and his face sobers. “You should go lie down. And I need to clean up the kitchen.” He starts to get to his feet, but the second he’s up, the color seems to drain from his face. Tony shoots out his hand and grips the kid’s bicep. “Or maybe I’ll just sit for a minute,” Peter murmurs, sinking heavily back down onto the toilet lid. “Or two.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Tony says in concern. “Please don’t faint and break your leg or something. I’ve hit my capacity for field surgeries today.”

While Peter rolls his eyes, Tony mutters for FRIDAY to dim the lights. The brightness in the room immediately decreases to a minimum and Tony could honestly cry in relief. Giving up all pretenses, he slides down off the step stool and stretches out on the floor mat, crossing his arms behind his pounding head to make a sort of cushion.

“Gross,” Peter mutters.

“I threw up Pep’s carrot soup today,” Tony murmurs in response, letting his eyes slip closed. “Don’t talk to me about gross.”

He lies there for a minute before he feels Peter getting up and stepping over him toward the sink. The water turns on briefly, then goes off again and the next thing he knows, a cool washcloth is being draped over his forehead and eyes.

“Thanks, kid,” he breathes. “Now let’s never do this day again.”

Peter groans and lies down beside his mentor on the absurdly plush bath mat.  “Agreed.” 

Bethany’s fics | Cat’s fics

[optimistic-dinosaur-nacho]

Bloodshed AU

Chapter 7

Warnings: Nudity, Gore, Language, Adult Themes (Slight smut) Summary: Steve Rogers works in a research and tech company in New York. He’s been digging into myths and footage on a creature known as the werewolf. Vicious as they are, he hunts them. With a lot of failures, his team thinks he’s crazy. He may prove them wrong.

Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Characters (Bloodshed Seven)

Chapter 8 is gonna be awesome. Chapter 7 and 8 are gonna be my favorites of all time!

I do not post my stories on any other websites. So if you see them anywhere else, it’s there without my consent. 

Reblog, like and comment!

2 Years Ago.

“Go!” The girl screams, the silver-haired boy starts the car and starts to drive out of the forest. The girl sobs in the passenger seat as the boy reaches over and holds her hand. “Sis, you need to call the police. Do it, now!” 

The girl digs for her phone and pulls it out, she turns to his window side and gasped. “Pietro!” Glass shatters on his side and the beast yelps, pulling away from the window as the boy drove off the road and crashes into the tree.

The girl pulls away from the dash, looking down at her clothes, her sweater covered in blood and she turns to the driver. “No! Pietro!” She grabs his shoulders and shakes him. “Wake up, Pietro... Wake up!” She chokes a sob.

The girl gasps to the loud and long howl of the beast. She pulls her door open and stumbles out. Kicking herself away from the crash, she stumbles onto her feet and runs into the forest.

Another howl was called. She whimpers, stumbling over twigs. The forest could go on for miles. She knew there was a road a little ways out. She runs and trips over the log, crashing into pine needles and dirt. She turns around and picks up a rock, “Stay away from me!” She shouts.

The forest was quiet.

Her panting was harsh and short. She threw the rock over the brush and a low growl erupts from it. She stood up again and continued to run. She heard rustling on her left side. Her right. And behind. 

She sobs and meets the hard ground, she realized she stood on the road. Headlights began to shine and she waved her hands, “Help! Help me please!” The truck stops in front of her and she rushes over to the driver.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” The man jumps out, she stumbles into his arms. “There’s something in the forest! They killed my brother! They-”

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down-”

“My brother...” She sobs and the man looks out to where she came from. Nothing was following her. Not anymore. The man looks down at her, “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Wanda... Wanda Maximoff...” She says. He continues to hold her, “Where’s your brother?” Wanda points out to the forest, “We crashed on a dirt road. They... jumped through the window and broke it.” The man sees the blood on her and scans her body, “Are you hurt?” He asked.

She shook her head, knowing she did hit her head hard on the dash, “Call the police, please...” The man nods, shrugging off his jacket, “Here. Take this and sit in the truck. I’ll call the cops.”

He leaves her in front of the truck as he goes for his phone. The girl looks out to the forest. Shaking under his coat, her cheeks soaked in her own tears. She sobs quietly on the road.

.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” The police asked, the girl sat in the back of the ambulance truck. She still had the trucker’s coat as she stared at the ground. “Wanda Maximoff.”

“And what was your brother’s name?”

“Pietro Maximoff.”

“You’re twins,” The officer wrote the things down, “Do you have any parents? Anyone who we can call?” He asked. Wanda looks up to him, her lip lifting up with a low growl, “My parents died in a bombing. Here in Sokovia. Have you not heard? The man who did it got away with just a simple amount of money.”

The officer nods, “I do. And I’m sorry to hear that.” He continued to write some things down and he reaches for his belt and held them there. “You wanna tell me what happened?” Wanda looks over and sees what was Pietro’s body. Being dragged on a gurney into the other ambulance. 

Wanda felt the tear fall, “It was them...” The officer furrows his brows and looks around, “Who is them?” He asked. Wanda lifts up her hand and shook in pure rage. The officer felt chills run up his spine the way she looked. Like a insane woman.

“The Bloodshed Seven...”

Steve sat there in the dark, the only light was still the window as it beamed in the center part of the room. He could see the soft glow of her face. Almost a hint of red glow in her eyes, he thought he might be on something.

Steve looks down in the book and sees that Erik had written down a few questions. He flicks his blue orbs back up to her.

“We read about you in an article back in 2013, you were 18 at the time. Your brother-”

“Pietro,” She blurts out. Steve looks up to her and nods, “Yes. Pietro. They reported that you both went out to visit your grandparents who lived in the woods? Can you tell me what happened?”

“Cold...” She mutters, Steve furrows his brows at her.  She repeated the word in a low whisper. The man shuffled in his seat a little bit as she trailed off, dazing somewhere else. This woman was out of her mind. He needed to keep this going before she does flip out. “Wanda. I need you to focus-” Wanda grabs his shirt and tugs him forward, she was a few feet away but she was quick enough to snatch his shirt into her fists.

“They killed her! They killed Pietro! I was almost killed!” She tugs him back and she stumbles back into the darkness again.

“Like little red riding hood... running,” She says in a higher octave, sounding like a child. Steve fixes his shirt, feeling the uneasiness wash over him, feeling the hairs on his arms stand up. His breathing picked up as he watched her closely. What was the point to get this out of her? What was up with this cold blue moon? Was it a hunting season for the werewolves?

“Out jumped the big bad wolf...” She says in a low voice, picking at her hair as Steve watched her carefully. She felt his gaze and looks up to him, “Bloodshed seven hide... Come out under the cold moon. Little red riding hood has nowhere to hide. The wolf takes her. Tearing her limps, piece...”

Steve felt the nightmare rush through his thoughts. Those dark red eyes staring at him like the devil. Ripping his limps off, piece...

“By piece.” Steve looks over to the woman as she giggles in the corner. “Run. The boy who cried wolf. They will not help you...” Steve felt her dark gaze as she smiles up at him. “You’ll die in the forest... alone.”

Steve felt his heart clench in his chest, he rushed out of the room and the nurse never came to aid him as he rushed out of the building. The large slam of the front doors got Erik’s worried attention and spotted Steve come out, clenching his chest. The old man rushes up, “Rogers! Are you okay? What did she tell you?” He says, hovering his hands over the frightened grown man.

Steve doesn’t respond and slaps the journal into his chest, “We need to leave. Take your damn journal, I’m dropping your ass off at the lab.” With that, Steve jumps in the truck and leans over, panting heavily as he leaned on his wheel. 

The growling filled his ears and he shook his head.

What a crazy woman.

Steve hadn’t contacted the three weirdos from yesterday. Not after seeing Maximoff in that hospital. Gave him a horrifying shock and his nightmares had gotten worse. He didn’t sleep well last night. He remembered when his thumb hovered over his phone to dial Natasha. 

But he only closed it.

Steve needed something to help him think. He barely slept that night, so the diner across the street wasn’t so bad to clear his head. He sat in one of the booths and stared out the window, watching the cars pass by like it was some normal day for him.

In his mind was just the nightmares and that girl’s face.

The boy who cried wolf.

“Hey,” Someone spoke up, Steve turns to see Y/N, her large smile creeping up to her face. Steve seemed to grin at her, “Morning,” He says. Y/N had her coffee in hand, “I thought that was you. I was looking from across the diner,” She lied. Looking, he thought. How long has she been looking at him? 

Y/N hadn’t spot him across the diner, it was the scent of him that made her come over. Her wolf went feral once again but she gained control. “May I?” She asks, gesturing to the empty booth, Steve nods. “Go ahead.”

Y/N sits in front of him and grins, “You’re lucky to see me again. Such a huge coincidence,” She softly chuckles. Steve grins up at her with the half-lidded eyes. Tired but such gentle and genuine eyes.

She lowers her head and Steve lifts up his, “So you and James?” Y/N looks over to him and she furrows her brows. “Bucky?” Steve gestures to her, “You and him...?” He trailed off.

Y/N realizes what he means and softly chuckles, “No! Oh no, we’re just really close friends. I consider him a brother.” Steve nods, maybe that’s why Bucky seemed a bit defensive toward her.

Protective brother.

“I think he hates me,” Steve admits, Y/N peers up at him hurtful, “No,” She lies, trying to sound truthful. “He doesn’t hate you. He just... He’s just a grump. Mostly he’s tired. Working on bikes...” Y/N raises her cup to her lips. 

Steve grins at her and he slowly turns away, “Have you heard about werewolves roaming around your home?” He asked, noticing the way she pauses and lifts her head up, slightly choking.

“Werewolves? As in a man who shifts into a wolf? I mean some people can mistake bears as other things, I’ve seen wolves but not... werewolves,” She clears her throat.

Steve drops his head, “You know anyone who could have seen one?”

Y/N raises her head again, eyes narrowing at the slightest, “I honestly don’t know. I’ve seen videos and stuff but you know. College kids, crazy people who just beg for money. Like that Rogers guy.” Y/N grins and Steve felt his heart stop.

Y/N noticed and looked up to him, “Hey, you okay?” Steve lifts up his head and sees the worry in her eyes. He spots the flashes of the cold blue eyes reflect off her normal color eyes. 

He hears large growling in his ear again. His heart beating against his own chest. The flash of those blue eyes of a werewolf, he shook his head and glass shatters. Y/N and Steve turn to see the waitress on her knees, cleaning up the mess of the plastic plates. 

Steve placed his hands on the table and thought for a moment, “Sorry, I should go. I-” Y/N watches as he slides out of the booth and out towards the door. Y/N instantly stands up, “Wait, Steve.”

Steve pushes through the doors and he hears footsteps behind him. “Steve, wait!” He turns and looks at Y/N who runs up. “Hey, I’m sorry if I upset you for what I said.”

Steve tried to shake his head like it was no problem, “No, it’s fine. I just...” He pauses and sees the concern gaze coming from her. Does she not know who he was? 

Y/N’s lips part, “I also wanted to... make up an offer.”

Steve doesn’t speak, letting her continue for her offer. She pants, “Did you want to come over for dinner? My family and I were having lasagna tonight. And I thought you’d like to get to know my family better. I surely knew we had a rough start and I think Ada likes you very much.”

Steve looks at her up and down, a tough gaze before he nods once. “Okay. Is eight alright?” He asked.

Y/N softly grins, “Make it seven. I’ll pick you up.” Steve grins back at her and they hear someone call for her. Steve spots Bucky on his bike, waving at Y/N. Dark shades covering his eyes but Steve knew Bucky was trying to kill him with looks. “I should go,” She says.

Steve looks over to her and nods, letting her walk off to Bucky. Steve and Bucky had kept their stares once Y/N greeted him. She hops on his bike and Bucky gave Steve one more glance. Keeping his eyes on the man, Bucky revved his motorcycle and rides off with Y/N. Leaving Steve there on the sidewalk. The man puffed out a long sigh. This dinner was not gonna end well.

.

“You did what?” Roman spats, Y/N could hear his wolf growl in his throat as she turned away from him. “I think we had a rough start! Besides, this guy doesn’t even look like he knows anything,” Y/N says, throwing her arms out in a shrug.

“Oh, so you pity him?” Randall asks.

Y/N’s wolf growled at him and that only made him smirk. “Whether you mutts like it or not, you can eat upstairs.” Ada wasn’t even in the conversation. Tatum was the one laughing through all of it. Bucky had been in the corner with his arms crossed. Not at the moment to jump in because this was about Steve. Something was off with the wolf man and Bucky didn’t trust the man.

“You think Roman can handle a human? His big bad wolf comes out like Ada’s worst days-” Roman’s wolf snarls at the teenager and Tatum’s wolf lets out a scared whine. Ada rolls her eyes at the two, “Y/N, I think what you’re doing is not what we all want. It’s not following our rules.”

“Then having sex with one another is not breaking the rules? And I didn’t know Roman had something down there,” Y/N remarks, Roman growled and storms up to her. The two back up into a wall and Y/N gets caged in Roman’s body.

His scent singed her nostrils as his flared. Her wolf growled loudly and so did his, both sharing deadly glares. “Is Ada your new Omega? Huh?” Y/N pushes, Roman grabs her throat and Ada was quick enough to rip the two apart.

“Enough you two! You!” She points at Roman, “Keep your distance! I don’t want to deal with a fight right now! And you!” Ada shouts, pointing at Y/N. “You keep your mouth shut.” Silence fell once again and Ada looks over to the clock. 

It was almost 6.

She breathed out slowly, “We’ll allow this dinner. But if I hear another bitch comment from one of you two again, I will chain one of you outside. Do I make myself clear?” She asks.

Roman and Y/N glance at each other, both glaring for challenge with their eyes. Surely everything the whole group does is how off their growls, teeth, eyes and stance. Roman happened to be an Alpha. But not to Y/N. With a snap of Ada’s fingers, she points at the two, “Do I make myself clear?” 

Y/N and Roman turn away from each other and Roman walks off without another word. Ada sighs, “Good. Now. Randall put on a damn shirt on. Tatum, you as well. Bucky, can you set up the table?”

Bucky rolls his eyes and heads into the kitchen. Ada turns to Y/N and sees the look on her face, the dark haired woman walks over and gently rubs Y/N’s shoulders. “Hey, calm down. He’s not gonna mess with him. I won’t let that happen. Go or the food will get cold.”

Y/N glances at Ada and watches her walk off. Y/N takes the car keys and heads for the car. She drove down to the town and waited for Steve to leave his room. Y/N could hear the click of his door and saw Steve step out of his room. He gets into the passenger seat and grins. “Nice ride,” He says, Y/N grins.

“Not nicer than the motorbike,” She said.

Steve grins, “I have one in New York. We would’ve rode back.” Y/N chuckles softly, “You consider being the one to hold me by the waist?” Steve shakes his head with a small smile, “Could be the other way around. I know how to ride one.”

Y/N doesn’t take that as a flirting thing and she softly laughs, pulling out of the parking lot to her house.

Once they reached her house, Steve gets out and waits for Y/N to meet up with him. Y/N was the first to step up to the doors and enter in the large cabin home. Steve could smell the food from here and Y/N shouts out to the family. 

Y/N takes Steve into the dining room. The fireplace was lit and the dining lights were on. He heard large thuds, “Watch out!” Tate shouts, almost crashing into Steve’s shoulder as he flies into the room like a wild animal. Randall walks in afterwards, slightly giving Steve a glare up and down.

This family didn’t like him.

Y/N reassuringly gave him a pat on the back. “Let’s eat,” She said. Tatum and Randall sat on the one side, both starting shove each other. Ran gave the boy a glare and Tate returns with laughs. 

Ada comes over and puts wine on the table. “It’s nice to see you again, Steve.” The man looks up and softly grins. “Thanks. You too.”

“Wine or beer?” She asked.

Steve looks over to Y/N for an approval, he stammers, “Uh... beer?” He asked. Ada nods but then Y/N raises her fingers, “I’ll grab them.” Y/N gives Steve a small glance as she stands up from her seat and walks over to the fridge, finding the bottles of beer.

“I’ll take one!” Tate shouts, only to receive a punch from Randall, “Ow!” The boy grunts. Steve inspected the two who probably had no manners on how to act around guests. But he didn’t mind it.

Her family was probably foster kids.

Neither of them looked relatable. He should ask her about it but he didn’t want to push more into her life. Y/N sits down next to him and popped open the caps. The two boys settled down and Steve saw Bucky walk in at the corner of his eyes.

Steve took a glance and Bucky watched him as he walked to the other side of the table with Ran and Tate, taking a seat there. Steve seemed to swallow hard as Ada joins at the table.

“I hope you like lasagna and garlic bread. Unless you’re a vampire,” Ada jokes, Steve chuckles along with Y/N but his was cut off by the look from Bucky. He cleared his throat and reached for his beer. Distracting himself with the taste stinging his taste buds.

Roman was the last one to enter the dining room. It wasn’t audible for Steve but Y/N sensed his wolf low growled as he sat down across from Ada.

“Roman. You remember Steve,” Ada says, sounding to nice as she was. Roman doesn’t even respond as he shoots a dark stare toward Steve and Y/N cleared her throat.

Steve needed to start something common to keep the silence from being awkward. He spoke, “What do you guys do? Like outside the house?” He asked.

Ada looks up and looked over to the family if one of them were going to speak. No one did so she cleared her throat, “Randall here cuts trees. A lumberjack, you can say. For about 6 years and he can name every tree,” Ada grins.

Steve manages to smile and Randall glares in return. Ada looks over to Tatum, “Tate here, he was home-schooled. He’s nineteen but he doesn’t consider on getting a job.”

“Yeah. It’s time he moves out,” Randall mutters, raising his glass to his mouth. Tatum shoves him and they scowl at each other. Ada grins, “Bucky here, he just works in the garage. Fixing an old motorbike he found in the scrapyard.” Steve looks over to Bucky who picked at his food and raised it up to his mouth.

“And I’m just an at-home mother. Roman is the alpha around the house,” Ada adds, laughing as it was a joke. Steve took it as one when Y/N forced a smile on her lips and Roman kept his eyes on Steve throughout the whole dinner.

Y/N’s wolf growled every time Roman would glance at her. It was around 9 and Y/N thought to return Steve back to the motel. So, he said goodbye to the family before heading out to Y/N’s car. She jumped in and pulled onto the dark highway. 

The silence was awkward but the music was calming to them. Y/N seemed to get use to his scent. But her wolf thought otherwise. Y/N gently shook her head, “I’m sorry if my family... was odd. They never had someone come over in years.”

Steve turns, “How come?” He asked.

Y/N chuckles, “They just live so far out and they don’t talk to many people. We just have each other.” Steve nods and turns away to look at the road again. Y/N glances over to him, “Have you visited your mom?” She asked. Steve inhales softly and nodded, “I did.”

“Is she doing well?”

Steve grins softly, “Better than I ever seen her. She worries about me though. After my dad died, she thought I would struggle because him and I was going out more than ever. I joined the army and she gotten even more worried. Then I left when I found out she got cancer.”

Y/N nods softly and sighs, “I send her my regards. And to you.” Steve gazes over to her and grins sadly. Taking her regard nicely. “Thank you.”

The rest of the drive was calm and nice, Steve liked it. Y/N stopped at his room and Steve opens the door. “Thank you for dinner,” He says. Y/N swats her hand at him, “It was nothing. Besides... I’m open anytime to help.”

Steve smiles and closes her car door, walking towards his room. Once he did, Y/N looks up front and grips her hands on the wheel. Her wolf is going feral. Growling. For hunger. She barely ate at that dinner.

She craved it. His scent lingering on the passenger seat. Stealing a glance at the back of his head. She growled and ripped her keys out of the ignition. Seconds he got up to the door, Steve heard her door close and he got his motel room door open. With a turn, he felt hands grab him. Then a pair of lips crash onto his.

His body leans back but his head leaned into Y/N’s lips as she pulled him by his shirt. Steve’s hand reached for her waist, pulling the loops of her jeans as they back into his room and Y/N kicks the door close.

Steve shoves her, crashing into the TV. None of them seemed bothered by the crash as Steve tugs her shirt. He grabs her waist and rips her up onto the surface. She pulls his flannel off his shoulders and slipped her hands under his shirt.

He took that sign and ripped it off, going back to kiss her with need. His hand grabs her waist and she lets out a breathy moan.

The morning sun beams through the tangerine colored curtains. The fainted buzzing noise on the ground inside the unbuttoned dark jeans. Steve opens his eyes to the buzzing sound as he turns on his back and leans a bit off the bed to reach for his jeans.

Taking his phone in hand, his phone notified him a missed call. 

Missed call from Natasha

Steve placed his phone on the nightstand that had no sign of the lamp anymore. He looks at the lamp on the ground and slowly sat up from the bed. Viewed the whole room that looked like animals had invaded the space. The TV was on the ground, his cigarette packet and personal things are sprawled all over the ground.

He sees black bra on the edge of the bed and turns to see Y/N’s bare back. He rubs his face and yawns softly, taking in the scene around him. 

He’d have to ask for a maid to clean it up. Maybe a new room. Y/N was good friend’s with Erik, perhaps he’ll understand. Steve didn’t want to get up. Instead, he looked to his right and reaches over with his left hand to rub his finger down her spine. Y/N doesn’t stir, hair falling over his cheeks while he leaned in to kiss behind her ear. Then her jaw. Her jaw to her shoulder. Y/N stirs this time, moaning softly. 

His hand trails down her body as she turned onto her back to look up to him. Steve continued to pepper her with kisses before he pulled away to look at her tired eyes. Her neck covered in red bruises and bites. Hair disheveled from being pulled. Somewhere around 3 rounds, he knew she could probably go for hours. 

Some bruises have already healed, and he remembered them being dark as the night sky. Her upper half was not covered with the sheets, but he didn’t look down to enjoy those curves. Instead, he just looked into her eyes. She smiles, “What?” She laughs softly.

Steve looks up at her hair then down to her eyes again, “Nothing. Just...” He didn’t have the words as he reached up to her right cheek with his left hand. She closes her eyes to the warmth from his hand.

Her skin was warm as well. It always was. 

His thumb brushes over her cheek as she hums, “What time is it?” She asked. Steve finally looks down her chest, his hand going to her ribs now just under her breast. “It’s 9 in the morning.”

Y/N reaches up to her face, rubbing the side of it as she yawns. She turns onto her side to face him as he smiles at her. He thought about his stomach growling, wanting to grab some breakfast.

“You wanna grab breakfast?” He asked, Y/N looks down at his chest, running her hand down the gathered chest hair and a small happy trail. She hums, “We can go after a shower.”

Steve grins and places a kiss on her lips. 

She placed another on his and he reaches for her cheek, keeping her there and she sits up on top of his lap, kissing him. Steve’s palm lays flat on her back and the other hooks under her knee before he lifts her up when he stands, taking her into the bathroom.

.

Y/N sat in the booth with Steve in the diner. Y/N thanked the waiter when he placed down their coffees on their table. Y/N reaches for the cream and poured in the cup. Steve noticed she had her tank top and one of his flannels. Steve wore his blue tee and a grey bomber jacket. 

Steve grins.

“What?” Y/N peers up at him, grabbing the sugar and ripping it open with her teeth. That gave him the thought when she popped open button of his jeans with her teeth. 

“Nothing. Just...” He trails off, Y/N grins up at him with her her tilted down focused on her coffee. “You keep looking like that, you might get stuck with that look,” She says, Steve smiles at her and finally reaches for his coffee.

This wasn’t his usual thing. Sure, Steve brought women to his apartment, but he didn’t keep them for long. He wasn’t sure if he was keeping her or stuck with her. She just kept running into him. He didn’t believe in those things where you meet the one and you can’t stop running into places at the same time.

His mom had that with his father.

But he didn’t believe it. He just might, though. “So,” Y/N spoke up, shuffling in her seat, “I believe I haven’t had a full conversation from you. So, this will be a social experiment.” Y/N leans and squints at him, “Where were you born?”

“I was born in Brooklyn, New York, 1981,” He says, “You?”

Y/N leans back, “I don’t remember. My family moved a lot.” 

Steve picks up his coffee, “Well, you’re not getting far with this social experiment.” Y/N tilts her head, “I’m serious. My family never really spoken about where we were living. But I was also born in 1981,” She replied.

Steve thought where she could’ve been born in. California. Maybe New Jersey. Vermont. She looks like she’s somewhere around Europe. Y/N doesn’t really have an accent to find out where she was from.

“Anyway, what’s your job?” She asked.

Steve sighs, leaning on his arms, his head thinking on how to word it. “It’s a company for research and tech in New York. You probably know the playboy, Tony Stark.”

Y/N nods, “Yeah. Heard some nasty things from others but go ahead. What do you research?” She asked.

Steve smacks his lips together, “Let’s see, anything that could be endangered or dangerous to the world. Our recent mission was escorting refugees back to their homes. We did solve a few world problems. But, we’re really just a couple of people who research and take small missions. I actually have to be somewhere in two days.”

Y/N pulls her hands to her face, lacing them together as she looked out the window. “You plan on returning?” She asked, Steve looks over and sees that her mood seemed to change.

But he couldn’t read it enough to know what she was thinking. Before he could answer, the waiter gives them their plates. Then they ate. It seem that the question was abandoned in thought as they laughed and talked more about other things.

Steve found out that she and her family had been all around the world. She knew a lot of languages, too. Y/N’s family was also part Native and he just couldn’t help but just think about her eyes.

Y/N grins and sees his face, “You seem content,” She says, stopping her conversation about her skiing trip. Steve shakes his head slowly. “What?” Y/N asked.

Steve saw it again. “Your eyes...” Y/N reaches up to her cheek and leans forward, “What about them?” She sounded self-conscious about them. “They just... They shine a bright blue sometimes,” He says.

Y/N reaches up to her eyes and nervously chuckles, “It’s a uh-...some disorder, that I have. I guess my natural color goes to a brighter color,” She stammers, “It’s weird honestly-” 

“No,” Steve cuts her off, “It’s beautiful.” Y/N lifts her head up to him and softly smiles. He smiled back and reaches over the table for her hand. Taking it in his. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket so he reaches into his jeans and looks at his phone.

Incoming call. . . Natasha

Steve’s eyes narrow, “Sorry, I need to take this.” Y/N lets him go as he slides out of the booth and out the door. 

“Hello?”

“Steve, it’s been 5 days. Not to be pushy and mean but what’s your mother got to do with these five days? We’re starting to pack for this mission and you’re still not here. If you’re there for those things I-”

“Nice to hear you to. But look, Nat, my mother is more sick than you know,” Steve deluded, looking around the town to see people walk down the sidewalks. Car passing by.

“I don’t believe a word what Cap is saying, you know how bad a liar he is,” Steve hears Tony on the phone. Nat groans, “Tony, get off the damn phone!” Steve shakes his head at the man before Natasha spoke again. 

“Come home, you’ll only make this worse. They’ll come for you. For all of us. Please.” She pleads.

“You saying you’ll arrest me?” He inquired. Nat scoffed, “No. Did you hear arrest come out of my mouth, no- What I’m saying is, they’re gonna come looking for you ‘cause they know what you’re doing.” Steve looked around to see if anyone was watching him. If Natasha had been stalking him, she would’ve.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nat. What I’m doing is a family emergency,” He says, “I’ll be there in two days. You’ll be boarding up the stuff, I promise I’ll be there.”

“Don’t make us come there ourselves. I know you, Steve. I read everything on your desk at the apartment. This is gonna get you arrested. Maybe they’ll put you in a hospital for Christ’s sake! People will kill you, that’s how Joseph died.”

Steve stops at that and instantly Natasha regrets it, letting out a sigh, “I’m sorry, Steve. Just... please, come back. I don’t want you getting hurt in all this folktales.“ Who knew how much his team actually cared for his health. Natasha had always came to his aid. PTSD wasn’t no joke and she always was there when he needed it. Which is why he had her on speed dial for these things. She cared. But she didn’t believe him on this one.

“I should be the one to bring these things down,” Steve says.

“Why?” 

“Because I’m the one least likely to die trying.”

.

Natasha hears him hang up and she pulled her phone away, “Shit.” Sam and the rest of the team stood out in front of her along with two agents in dark suits. “Did he tell you to stay out of it?” Sam asked.

Natasha ignores Sam and looks over to Phil Coulson who nods, “Thank you, Ms. Romanoff. We’ll be sure to bring in Rogers in time for your flight to Australia.” Nat watches as she sees him walk away with a familiar face when she worked in their division.

Her brown hair bounced on her shoulders as Phil takes her out of the building. “I’m sending you and Agent 13 to Oregon. I gotten the information on his mother, we call her, we might just find him at the right time and right spot. Keep your distance. Watch him. He’s gonna get further than anyone else.”

“I might need assistance on the trucks. We’re not sure what we’re handling at this moment,” She says, accent thick and determined. Phil walks over to the car and nods, “Will do. I’m counting on you, Miss Carter. Bring him and those things in.”

“I know in my mind, he’s not in the right place. I know him better than anyone else. How do you want this to be handled?” She asked, Phil opens his car door and glanced over the car roof and smiled.

“You catch them. Don’t play nice. If he resists the action, I would start losing deep feelings for him and don’t play nice with him either. Give them hell, Margaret.”

The woman watched Phil leave the lot with his car and she stood there, the long nervous stare. Her fingers rubbing against each other nervously before she jumps into her car and starts it.

Posting edits a friend made for the series! 

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[chroniclackofselfpreservation]

Creatures of the Night

Chapter 12 - once you say it out loud it can’t be undone

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AO3

Masterlist

(TW: mild graphic imagery)

(The title for this chapter comes from "the fall" by half alive.)

Patton’s throat constricted and his chest felt like someone had wrapped it in barbed wire. He knelt in the middle of a clearing, the tall grass tickling his arms. His eyes were blurry with tears.

Virgil knelt across from him, his face limp with dread. Logan stood a few paces away, something shiny dangling from his clenched, trembling fist. He radiated anger.

Roman lay asleep at his feet.

No… his chest was still; his skin, usually golden tan and vibrant, was pale; his hand, clutched in Patton’s own, was cold and…

And lifeless.

Patton came awake suddenly, but didn’t jolt. He looked around, gradually grounding himself and calming his breathing. Logan was sandwiched between him and the back of the couch, his mouth slightly open and his face pressed into the crook of Patton’s shoulder.

They’d begun the night sitting side by side, watching animal documentaries and eating the pasta they’d made together. Now, the television had shut off after being inactive for too long, and their dishes sat empty on the coffee table.

Patton’s neck was stiff and his arm was going numb, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. His dream was a little more than disturbing—Roman was dead, for crying out loud—but Logan’s slow puffs of breath hitting his neck did a good job distracting him.

Logan’s forehead creased and his eyes, though closed, grew troubled. He made soft, whimpering noises of concern, turning his head into Patton’s shirt.

“Looks like we’re both having bad dreams,” he muttered, leaning his head back on the arm of the couch and looking up at the ceiling.

It was torture, lying here with Logan and not doing anything about it. He wished he could run his hands through his hair and kiss his forehead and lie huddled together—not by accident but by choice.

He wished for a lot of things—not only with Logan, but with Roman and Virgil as well. They’d been so close ever since they were young, but never close enough for his liking. He wanted to take all their pain and make them feel wanted.

But he didn’t.

He wouldn’t cross that boundary for fear they’d feel some sort of obligation to make him happy.

As long as they were happy.

But they weren’t. Logan was overstressed, Roman wouldn’t talk to him about whatever strange thing he was going through, and Virgil—

Logan jerked awake, inhaling sharply and clenching Patton’s shirt in his fist. He looked around, confused, then, upon seeing himself lying nearly on top of Patton, sat up quickly.

He cleared his throat. “Apologies, Patton. It was not my intention to, er… fall asleep.”

“Don’t apologize, kiddo. I think we both needed a little cat nap.” He flipped up the hood of his jacket depicting a cat face and ears.

Logan rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to chastise Patton’s choice of pun when his eyes fell on the window to their left, the morning light reflecting in his eyes. His face went slack with a look of fear.

“What time is it?”

Patton craned his head back to glance at the clock on the oven. “Seven-thirty. Wowie, we really zonked out, didn’t—“

Logan shot to his feet. “Roman?” he called, flying up the stairs two at a time. Patton followed, a pit of nerves forming in the bottom of his gut.

“They’re not here. Roman and Virgil aren’t back yet.”

“I don’t know, Logan. We can’t assume the worst. They might’ve been held up—”

“Patton, I—” Logan snapped, but stopped himself, pressing a fist against his mouth. He began again,  “Patton, I can assure you, they are not. This is an incredibly complicated situation with an innumerable amount of unknown variables, and I know you must be confused. Believe me, I understand, but there’s just—Patton I’m sorry, I—I can’t—”

Patton rushed forward, cupping Logan’s face in his hands. “Hey, hey, take a breather, Lo. It’s gonna be okay, yeah?” he said, smiling though he felt as if he’d swallowed glass. Logan knew what was going on. So, did Virgil. Why did everyone know but him?

But he did know—kind of, anyway. Right? The dreams…

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “This wouldn’t happen to involve a, uh… giant… talking snake… would it?”

Patton felt Logan grow deathly still beneath his hands.

“What did you say?”

Patton lowered his hands, suddenly self-conscious. He shook his head, “Sorry, it’s ridiculous, I know—”

“No! No, Patton, what did you—how did you know?” he breathed.

Patton’s heart stopped in his chest. “I was right?” He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat but he couldn’t. The dreams were true. They always were. But what Roman was dealing with… it wasn’t possible. Was it?

Logan sat down hard on the stairs and put his face in his hands. Patton held out a tentative hand, recoiling a bit when Logan burst into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“Logan?”

He looked up with eyes now red, pressing his hands against his lips and sniffing. “Patton, you have absolutely no idea how relieved I am right now. I’ve been carrying this for Roman on my own for months and I wanted to tell you so bad, but...” his voice broke.

Patton felt everything inside him shatter and it took every ounce of self-control he had to keep from grabbing Logan’s face again, holding his hand, and kissing away all of his pain.

He took a breath, putting on a strong smile. “I don’t know all the details, Lo, but we’re going to figure this out. Okay? Do you know where they are?”

Logan nodded, taking a breath.

“I have a general idea.”

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

...gil…

Virgil…?

What’s going on? Are you dead?

Virgil’s eyes opened slowly. He squinted a little, some sort of bright light shining on his face. His head was pounding. After a few moments, his eyes adjusted and… 

He was outside? Why was he…? Looking up, he found Roman asleep against a tree, his head lolling to the side, and Virgil’s head was in his lap.

Virgil shot upright, ears burning. The quick movement sent his head spinning and the throbbing grew worse. He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

Hello? Answer me, Virgil.

Virgil stiffened. It was Ursula. No wonder his head felt like it had gone through a meat grinder.

What do you want? he thought back venomously.

He could practically sense her eye roll. Nothing. Our connection wavered a bit and I thought you were dead, or something. I was worried for my little minion.

Why’d you… Virgil trailed off. They were in the forest. The memories of last night came rushing back, hitting him like a tidal wave. Terror ripped through him and he launched to his feet. His head felt like someone was chiseling into it with a pickaxe, but he didn’t care. He turned in circles, scanning the trees for Dorian. 

They were alone. 

What happened? Did my champion figure you out yet?  She laughed through their connection, a strangely melodic sound.  Did he try to kill you or something?

No, Virgil seethed. Go away. He prayed she wouldn’t take his dismissal as a challenge. Virgil wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist her at the moment. 

I have better things to do anyway. Paco’s teaching me how to make sangria, ciao! 

Their connection faded. 

Roman stirred, and Virgil’s unease piqued. He’d have to explain everything now, wouldn’t he? Roman was going to hate him. Then he’d tell Logan and Patton and—and Virgil wasn’t sure if he could handle any  one  of them hating him. 

But he had to own up to what he’d done. It was time. 

“Roman, wake up,” Virgil said, softly shaking his shoulder. His friend blinked a few times, looking around. 

“Where are… wait are we still in the forest?!” he cried, shooting to his feet. He looked down at his arms and felt his face with growing horror, spattered head-to-toe with the tar-like blood, and groaned. 

“Uh, yeah. I’m guessing you fell asleep after…” Virgil paused, recalling as much of last night as he could. “Wait, how am I not dead? Dorian bit me. I should be dead right now.”

“I gave you the antidote, and—hold up, look at your chest!" Roman blurted, rushing forward. Virgil looked down. His shirt was ripped almost completely open, revealing his chest. There was no wound. Not even a scar. 

"How...?"

Roman laughed, "Must be some of that power beyond description Dorian's always going on about."

Virgil's stomach dropped. "Uh, yeah. About that. We probably need to talk. Right?"

Roman looked confused for only a few seconds. His face fell ever so slightly. "Yeah. We do, but not right now."

"What?"

Roman smiled a little guiltily, "I think we should wait until we're all together. I've got some things I need to tell them, too. Besides, Logan's going to murder me himself if we don't get home soon." He started walking, and Virgil followed, trying to decide whether he was relieved or more nervous. It seemed like Roman was in denial instead of actually being fine with the situation. 

"Do they know?"

"Logan does. Patton… I haven’t told him anything. I couldn’t bring myself to. You know how he gets. He’d want to fix everything, lose sleep over it, all that,” Roman said. Virgil could tell he was trying to sound unaffected. He wasn’t doing a very good job. 

Virgil followed Roman through the woods. He didn’t look like he was even paying attention to where he was going, and yet their course never wavered. A product of spending every night in these trees for over a year, now, Virgil surmised. Despite his confidence in his sense of direction, Virgil couldn't get over how unconcerned Roman was out gallivanting around a forest that housed a considerably large demon serpent that, not six hours ago, had nearly killed them both. 

“Aren’t you worried?” he asked. 

Roman stepped over a fallen tree, considering for a moment. “About what?”

Virgil gestured to the emptiness of the woods. “I don’t know, a giant snake popping up out of nowhere and trying to kill us?”

He snorted. “Not particularly. He sleeps during the day.”

“How do you know that?”

“...I don’t,” he said slowly. “I mean, I’ve never seen him during the day, but it isn’t like I spend a lot of time in the forest outside of when I have to. I just sort of figured he hid away somewhere and slept, seeing as we haven’t heard reports of a giant snake eating hikers or terrorizing campsites. When all of this started, I’d hide so deep in the forest I couldn’t find my way back out even after the curse ended. I didn’t find my way out until well past sunrise, and never once saw Dorian slithering around, so we should be safe.”

He sounds so used to it by now, Virgil thought miserably. 

A voice echoed faintly through the trees. It sounded quite a ways away, and Virgil couldn’t quite make out what they’d shouted. Roman instantly went still as a statue and Virgil nearly tripped bumping into him. 

“Did you hear that?” Roman whispered so softly Virgil almost didn’t hear it. 

“Uh, yeah, I heard it.”

“Just checking. Follow me. Watch where you put your feet,” he said, making his way toward a cluster of bushes. Virgil followed, nerves popping like firecrackers inside of him.  They crouched behind the bush and waited. He couldn’t hear Roman breathing beside him despite his back definitely rising and falling. How was he so calm?

“Roman! Virgil!” the voice called again, and Virgil outright gasped. Roman slapped a hand over Virgil’s mouth, his eyes hard and dark, and markedly more wary than before. He held a finger to his lips as he slowly rose to his feet. 

Stay here, Roman mouthed. 

Before Virgil could do anything more, Roman leaped up, grabbed a branch of the tree beside them, and hauled himself up it in less time than it took Virgil to hiss, “What are you doing?!” The trees were sparse enough that he might be able to see who was coming, but it was definitely human. Right? Going by Roman’s reaction, it may not be. 

Was Dorian messing with them? But Roman had said that the snake slept during the day… 

Luckily, Virgil didn’t have to wait long for his answer. 

“Logan! Patton! Over here!” Roman shouted and Virgil nearly had a heart attack. He dropped to the ground at Virgil’s side, a grin stretched across his face. “Come on. They’re not too far.”

“Are you su—” Virgil started, but Roman grabbed his hand and began running. Virgil nearly fell on his face several times trying to keep up. He was far more agile as a cat, that was for sure. Bipeds were so top-heavy it had taken him several days after he first discovered his human form to figure out the whole walking-thing. 

They didn’t have to run far—and Roman ran the whole way— before Virgil spotted them: Logan, who looked so angry his face was red, and Patton, beaming with excitement at seeing his friends. 

Roman let go of Virgil’s hand and slowed to a stop, grabbing the back of his neck. “Now, Logan, don’t be—”

“Roman Nicholas Kingsley, what were you thinking?!” Logan spat, fuming. Virgil noticed Roman looked considerably more scared of the elementary school teacher before him than the demon he’d fought last night. Before Roman could say anything more in his defense, Logan wrapped him in a hug so tight Virgil thought he’d break his ribs. 

“What’s all over you?” Patton asked.

“That’d be demon blood, Padre,” Roman laughed through Logan’s embrace, having the decency to look at least a little bit chastised. Patton paled. “Demon blood that Logan is going to have a hay-day getting out of his shirt.”

“Shut up,” Logan muttered, releasing him. Dark splotches indeed adorned his button up, but he didn’t seem to care. 

“Never thought I’d say a sentence like that in the light of day,” Roman chuckled. 

Logan rounded on Virgil. “And you! You think you can pull a stunt like this after what I went through to save you yesterday?”

Patton and Roman exchanged looks, falling silent. Virgil shrank back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Logan sighed, stepping toward him. Virgil flinched, but was met with a warm embrace instead. 

“One of these days, you three will give me a heart attack,” he muttered. 

Roman laughed forcibly. “Wow, Specs, never thought I’d see the day you’d be handing out hugs.”

Logan released Virgil, who didn’t feel any less nervous, and straightened his tie. 

“We,” he said, looking pointedly at everyone, “have a lot to talk about.”

                                                * * * * * * * * * *

“Who wants to go first?” Logan asked after they’d all sat through several minutes of awkward silence in the living room. 

Virgil wrung his hands, taking a few shallow breaths before saying, “I should start. This is my fault, anyway.”

Logan sighed, “Virgil, whatever it is, I’m sure—”

“I’m not exaggerating, Logan,” he said, not meeting any of their eyes. “I’ll tell my story, then if… if you want me to leave I—I’ll go, but just let me get it all out, okay?”

“Kiddo, we’d never ask you to leave.” Patton reached toward him, but Virgil recoiled ever so slightly. Logan glanced at Roman, who had grown uncharacteristically quiet the closer they’d drawn to their house. Now, he just stared at his hands and picked at the sticky blood spots he still hadn’t washed off. 

Virgil took a breath, then began. “I’m not human.” 

Patton made a noise of confusion and Logan’s brow knit together. “What do you mean?” he asked. “You’re sitting right there; I can see that you are.”

“No—I mean, I can take the form of a human if I want to, but I wasn’t born a human. I was born a cat.”

“A cat,” Logan echoed skeptically and looked around. Patton seemed as confused as he was, and Roman had grown still as he listened. 

“I know it sounds weird, but trust me, that isn’t the worst of it. There are parts of your world that you couldn’t even imagine existing, so just… trust me, okay? I won’t lie to you.”

“Promise?” Roman muttered softly and Virgil looked like he’d been punched. 

Patton looked between them with concern. “Keep going, bud. We’ll stop interrupting.”

Virgil swallowed. “I’m not just a cat. I mean, that’s kinda obvious. Cats don’t normally turn into people, but, uh—I’m what you’d call a familiar. It means I’m bonded to a witch—we can communicate telepathically, and she can, uh, see through my eyes and stuff like that.”

A muscle in Roman’s jaw tightened. “So what, you’ve been spying on us, then?”

Virgil’s hands shook. “Not anymore, but initially… yeah. She—I wasn’t trying to—” he said, his voice wavering. He stopped, fidgeting endlessly with his jacket sleeves. “It's complicated, I know, but if you just let me explain, it’ll all make sense—”

“Then will you just get on with it?” Roman snapped. 

“Roman, please,” Logan sighed. “We’re all trying to figure out what’s going on together.”

Roman chewed on the inside of his cheek, folding his arms and falling silent once more. Logan looked again to Virgil, who appeared more and more like he was about to bolt. 

“Keep going, Virgil,” he prompted softly. 

He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing. “I’m roughly four hundred years old. I’m not entirely sure, but somewhere around there. You stop counting after a while. As a familiar, I’m able to control the age of my human form to meet my needs, which is how I was able to attend school with you all.” Virgil paused and met all their eyes briefly. Logan was having a hard time wrapping his mind around all of this, and frankly, if he hadn’t seen whatever sort of magic Virgil had been attempting yesterday, he would have thought his roommate delusional. 

To further solidify his claim, Virgil stood and—

Logan blinked. Virgil disappeared, clothes and all, replaced by an ordinary black cat. 

Patton made an inarticulate noise and squealed, “Virgil, you’re adorable!”

Before Logan’s brain could register what had actually happened before his eyes, a thirteen-year-old version of Virgil appeared in place of the cat. It was mind-boggling, seeing Virgil as a child, no different from when they’d all been that age.

Another blink, and Virgil was back to normal. Up until yesterday, Logan had only ever heard about all of this magic stuff. He only saw Roman in the aftermath of his battles. When he saved Virgil, he’d been considerably distracted from taking in all of the abnormalities around him. Now, it had just happened. Right there. In plain view. 

Virgil lowered back into his seat, his fear mingled with a sort of sad, apathetic acceptance. He didn’t tremble as he began, “In the beginning, Ursula sent me to find Roman after his mom died. I found him, but the longer I spent with you guys, I started actually liking it. I’d never had real friends before. Halfway through sophomore year, I told Ursula to shove it. I wasn’t going to be her puppet anymore.”

“That’s when your headaches started,” Logan muttered, his mind churning as he worked out the timeline like a puzzle. 

“Yeah. That happens whenever I have to resist our connection.” 

Logan looked to Roman. Virgil had mentioned his mother’s death, but his eyes had only grown slightly sadder than before. Quite the tempered reaction, in Logan’s opinion, but he still had several more questions he needed answered. 

“So, how are you related to Roman’s curse?”

“Curse?” Patton echoed, looking Roman over with a pained expression. Roman didn’t look up. 

“Roman can explain it better than I can,” Virgil admitted, shoulders hunching. “But, I was the one who took him to Ursula in the first place.”

“What happened to not being her puppet?” Roman asked. 

Virgil folded his arms, balling his jacket sleeves in his fists. “Every summer, Ursula made me return to her. She’d attack my mind relentlessly until I did, so it wasn’t much of a choice. She… managed to convince me otherwise, at least for the first few months I was back.” He looked to Logan and Patton. “Do you remember when Roman and I were in that accident on the highway last year?”

Logan nodded. Roman’s shoulder’s tensed. 

“It didn’t happen like you remember, Roman. Ursula wanted me to continue keeping tabs on you even after the curse was in place and... I was scared of you hating me. I erased your memory of what happened and replaced it so I wasn’t part of any of it.”

“You messed with my head?” Roman growled, finally looking up and meeting Virgil’s eye. “You cared more about saving your own skin than keeping me from the literal hell I’ve been living for a year?” He didn’t shout, but he didn’t really have to. Logan had only ever witnessed Roman’s “quiet anger”, as he dubbed it, once before—when his father had made Patton cry during his last attempt to establish any sort of relationship. 

It was terrifying. 

“Yes, I did,” Virgil said, staring into nothing, his face slack with heartache, “and I regret it every single day. I know I’m a coward and a sad excuse for a friend.”

“Vir—” Patton started.

“I am, Patt,” Virgil cut him off. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m a better person than I am.”

Roman pressed his lips into a thin line, inhaling slowly. “Can you bring my memories back?”

Virgil nodded, then reached out and placed his hand across Roman’s forehead. “Mind and matter fuse and mend, let the memory’s slumber end.”

Roman sucked in a sharp breath, going rigid as a board for a moment. As quickly as it had happened, it ended. Roman pulled away, his eyebrows drawn together in what Logan could only assume was a mixture of confusion and frustration. 

Virgil looked markedly paler, almost sickly. He wiped his face with a trembling hand. 

“Virgil? Are you okay?”

“I’ll be good in a few minutes,” he said, taking a breath. “There was a, uh, incident a few hundred years ago that left me magically broken.”

“Broken?” Logan asked. 

Virgil smiled, though it looked more like a grimace. “Plainly speaking, yes. When magical beings experience really traumatic events, sometimes their powers can just… disappear. It took Ursula years to finally take me to another witch who could make me a talisman that would help me use magic again. A few days ago, someone stole it. That’s why the spell yesterday almost killed me.”

Patton clasped his hands in his lap, taking this far better than Logan would have thought. He still wanted to ask about how Patton had found out about Roman’s situation. 

“Why did you try to do it, if you didn’t know it would work?” Patton asked. 

“I decided to stop running away from my problems and actually try to help Roman. I was trying to locate the person who stole my talisman. When that failed, I figured I’d at least try and give the demon a run for his money, but I ended up making things worse.” He opened his eyes, looking at them all in turn, indescribably miserable. He spread his hands dejectedly. “That’s all of it.”

Once again, they sat in silence, though this time it wasn’t nearly as awkward as it was a silence of utter disbelief. 

Patton sniffed. “Okay,” he said shakily, “Does someone want to explain what this curse is to me?”

Roman nodded, then stood and walked away without a word. Logan was about to grab his arm and tell him that if they didn’t get everything out right now, it never would, but Roman stopped him with a look. A look that both reassured him that he was coming back and conveyed such complete exhaustion with life Logan physically recoiled. 

Patton gave Logan a questioning look, and Logan tried to put on a comforting smile, but he was pretty sure all that happened was a quick twitch of the sides of his mouth. 

Roman returned a moment later, a tri-folded piece of paper in his hands. A thumbprint of dried blood stained the paper where a seal would usually go. 

“The witch Ursula gave me this,” Roman started, staring at it, “the night she cursed me. A description of the curse and instructions on how to fulfill it, and this amulet.” He reached inside the neck of his shirt and, after a moment of fiddling, pulled out the ruby pendant. “Every night, I have to go to the forest outside town and battle a demon. This amulet heals any injury or fatigue I sustain, as long as I’m wearing it. It’s been going on for a little over a year now.”

Logan glanced at Patton. He looked like Roman had ripped his heart out of his chest, but he didn’t look surprised. Roman went on to explain his heritage, this so-called Witch’s Inheritance… and what happened to his mother. 

He finished softly, his voice simply going out. 

“So, that’s it?” he asked, looking like he needed to sleep for a week straight. “It’s all out in the open, now? No more secrets?”

“Ah, not quite,” Patton said, lifting a finger. 

Logan leaned back in his chair. “I’ve been wondering how you figured out Roman’s predicament without any of us telling you.” 

Roman choked. “You knew?”

Patton flushed, holding up his hands. “Not until very recently, and I didn’t know a lot of the details, but yes. So, I… uh,” he said, suddenly looking as nervous as Virgil had been when this whole conversation started. Patton didn’t speak for a moment, his brow creasing as if trying to work something out in his head. 

“Is something wrong, Patton?” Logan asked.

He swallowed. “No, it’s just… the last person who knew about… me… left and—and didn’t come back, so...” He took a rattling breath, but put on a smile, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to get rid of whatever was filling his head. 

“Patton, we,” Logan said, looking pointedly at both Roman and Virgil, “would never abandon you, regardless of whatever it is you need to tell us. In fact,” he said, sitting up straighter and addressing them all, “no one is going to be abandoning anyone today. If you all think that I’m going to sit back and let this family fall apart—because that is what we are—you are gravely mistaken. I shall be the metaphorical duct tape, if you will. A figurative repair man, or a, uh…” he paused, racking his brain for some other analogy he could use to adequately describe his feelings at the moment. 

Roman put a hand on his arm, a soft smile on his lips. “We get it, teach. None of us are going anywhere any time soon.” He met Virgil’s gaze and Logan could sense some sort of silent exchange between them. 

Patton’s shoulders loosened, and a genuine smile of gratitude graced his face. He took a breath. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve had these dreams. I… see things that haven’t happened yet. Sometimes I’m in them, sometimes I see things happening to other people, like Roman. I saw you being chased by that horrible monster, and—and I didn’t believe it at first, but then I heard you and Logan talking about some sort of compromise downstairs.”

Roman ran a hand down his face. “And here I was thinking I was subtle.”

“You were rather excited about your agreement with the serpent,” Logan said. 

“So, you’re a sibyl, then?” Virgil said. 

“What?” Patton breathed.

Roman threw his hands up. “Is no one in this house normal aside from Logan?”

Logan held up a hand, “The concept of normality is quite subjective, I’ll have you know—”

“What’s a sibyl?” Patton asked desperately, grabbing Virgil’s sleeve. He looked on the verge of either relief or horror. 

Logan interjected, unable to constrain himself. “It’s actually quite fascinating. In ancient Greece, women who were believed to receive prophecies and messages from the gods were called sibyls or oracles.”

Roman perked up, “Oh! So, Patton’s like the Oracle of Daphne!”

“It’s the Oracle of Delphi,” Virgil corrected—Logan couldn’t help the flutter of pride that skipped through his chest— “and Patton’s similar, but not exactly the same. He’s probably just descended from an oracle, or something. Did either of your parents have these abilities?”

They all looked at Patton, who suddenly appeared far less intrigued by the conversation. 

“I’m not sure.”

Roman scoffed, “That would explain how your mom always knew when I tried to get you to skip class.”

“We should consult with your mother Patton, she may have some answers or at least a way to help Roman with finding Ursu—”

“She isn’t like me,” Patton said.

“Are you sure? I mean, you were able to hide this ability from us for years. I don’t doubt your relationship, Patton, but I’m merely trying to explore every avenue, here,” Logan said gently. 

Patton shook his head. “No, I mean, I  know  that she isn’t because—well, she isn’t my biological mother.”

The room went silent for a beat. 

Roman’s eyebrows came together in confusion. “Wait, you’re adopted? How did I not know that? Did you guys know that?”

Patton’s smile stretched as he nodded. “Yep, so now that that’s out of the way, we can move on. Right? Besides, I had a pretty spooky dream last night about all of us, except Roman was dead and we were in the forest, and—”

Virgil shot to his feet. “Roman was dead?!”

“Chill, Hot Topic, I think I know what he means,” Roman said. 

Virgil sat slowly, muttering, “What’s Hot Topic?” to himself as he did. 

Roman held up the amulet still held in his fist. 

“We’ve got a little something to take care of tonight.”