#i never had the protocol ghost before either and i totally fucked that up

[ettadunham]

gale almost wiped out my first honor run with his corpse's necrotic damage, that man is truly a danger to himself and everyone around him

[mykneeshurt]

Haunted pt 2

I promise I’ll make a master list this week. I’m so tired lmao … I recommend reading part one! <- here! Part three

Aiming to do 10 chapters in total ✨

Warnings - slow burn, gore, COD related violence, mutual pining, fluff, violence

The next morning everyone was gathered in the living room while Price and Laswell delivered their findings. Soap was sat in the armchair slowly massaging his shoulder in a trance. You walked into the room past the chair and clipped the back of his head, a satisfying slap sound rang out. ‘Leave that fuckin’ shoulder alone. If you break the stitches and make it bleed you can clean it up.’

Muffled giggles rang out around the room, you sat on the arm of the sofa next to Ghost. The fresh smell from your clothes made its way into his mask, he took in a deep breath savouring it to himself. ‘Right’ Price began ‘with Soap being injured we’ve decided that Doc, you’ll be stepping in for the mission. Only until he can get some movement back.’ Your eyes widened, suddenly aware everyone was looking at you. ‘M … me?’ You stuttered placing your hand on your chest.

‘Sorry kid, not protocol I know but we can’t get anyone else here in time. You’re a sharp shooter and I hear the boys have been helping you improve your close combat skills. Time to put em to use.’ Price had to be joking surely, you looked at Laswell for some support. ‘We discussed it up top. Generals have given the go ahead. You’ve got this.’ Her eyes were kind, she truly believed in you. ‘Fuck, um, yeah ok. Let me grab my stuff’ you muttered.

You, Ghost, Price and Gaz piled into the jeep. You and Ghost sat in the back as you were being dropped off at the location first, before Gaz and Price took up their sniping positions at the other end of town. Ghost would never admit it, but he was worried. He knew you could handle yourself, you toured in Afghanistan twice before coming to the Task Force. ‘Hey’ you whispered, ‘I’ll be fine. We can do it.’ Your kind eyes helped him to relax into the seat before replying ‘yeah … I know.’

The jeep pulled on the outskirts of the dilapidated town, work of the cartel no doubt. ‘Right you two. Get in and get out, intel said the device is in the warehouse at the end of town. Gaz and I will be your eyes in the sky. Get going.’ Nodding in unison you and Ghost left the jeep and ran to the closest building.

‘Ready?’ He asked. Offering him a quick nod and a smile ‘Aye, let’s go.’ He looked over his shoulder mischievously ‘you don’t speak English either then?’ It was a running joke between him and Soap due to his Scottish slang. ‘Fuck off Simon’ you snorted ‘concentrate!’

You weaved in and out of the streets, silently dodging buildings and rubble left from months of conflict. The morning sun was beginning to get hotter, sweat trickled down the back of your neck. Wiping it away you let out a soft sigh. You rounded the end of the street with the warehouse in sight. Ghost stopped and turned to face you, ‘probably gonna get messy in there, stay close to me.’ He didn’t need to tell you twice, he looked beyond intimidating in his tactical gear. Intimidating … or grossly attractive?

The main aim of the mission was to get in and get out as quickly and silently as possible. Bonus points for not being spotted. ‘Device is in the office upstairs. Stay on my 6. Let’s go.’

You entered the damp and run down warehouse, timber boxes stacked as high as the ceiling. Stuffed full of drugs no doubt. The device you were after stored all the buyers and locations required to run the cartel. No pressure. A few mercenaries huddled around a radio at the far end of the warehouse, listening to a football game it seemed. You tapped Ghost and nodded towards the metal stairs, he nodded back and started scurrying towards them. For someone so large he sure was quiet, guess he really is a Ghost.

You made your way up the stairs and towards the room at the end of the walk way. Gripping onto your UCIW you could feel another set of eyes on you. ‘Ghost. There’s someone else here.’ You whispered, careful not to use his real name in the field. ‘Yeah. I don’t like this …’ before he could finish his sentence a bullet whizzed past your head and into the wall.

‘GET DOWN’ he yelled at you as he yanked your tactical vest. You landed in a heap on the floor losing your balance. A rain of bullets descended on you from all angles. As they reloaded you both shot up and unloaded onto the mercenaries. You managed to take out 3, hitting them in their chests. Blood spurting out. Ghost was deadly with a weapon, his precision aim was feared amongst many.

‘We need to get that device!’ You yelled over the noise. ‘Keep them under pressure I’m gonna make a run for it.’ Before he could grab you, you darted along the walk way and into the office. ‘Aw FUCKIN HELL’ you heard him yell. You searched the drawers and desk in the office frantically trying to find what you needed. The gunfight raged outside, it was deafening. Ripping one of the draws out you found what you were looking for, before you could even register there was someone else in the room an arm wrapped it’s self around your neck.

Shocked and surprised you gasped to try and fill your lungs with air they gripped their wrist to restrict your breathing. Adrenaline slapped you in the face, with a sudden rush of energy you managed to run the assailant into the wall. You yanked on his arm and bent your neck to preserve your airway. Gasping for anything that could fill your lungs you dropped your body weight and managed to shift out of their grasp. Reaching for your gun you lifted it ready to shoot, but the fucker was fast. He tackled you to the floor with a huge crash, hitting your head on the desk on the way down. Your vision blurred you desperately scrambled to get to your gun that was mere inches away. Feeling a grip on your ankle you kicked out managing to make contact with their face, blood spattering over the wall.

You tried to frantically crawl to your weapon but he was on you again ‘fuckin bitch!’ He spat in your face before landing a blow to your face. He straddled you, his wide hands encasing your throat, squeezing every drop of oxygen out of you. Your legs thrashed beneath you, you clawed at the man’s face trying desperately to gauge an eye. Anything to get some power back.

Suddenly remembering your knife you pulled it out of your vest and plunged it into the man’s neck. Ghosts words ringing in your head ‘always carry more than one knife. Never know when you’ll need it.’ Blood poured out of the wound on his neck, clutching it he lost he balance. You used this to your advantage and rolled your hips throwing him off you. Choking and spluttering you took in a desperate breath, pure unfiltered rage ran through you. Propelling your boot into his face you managed to hear the crack of his nose over the noise outside. Kneeling down next to him you struck his ribs with the knife, then his chest, his neck, over and over and over.

The sounds outside the room lessened, a ringing started. A grenade had gone off close to the room you were in. Ghost came tumbling through the door gripping your vest and pulling you to your feet. Squinting at him you could vaguely see he was saying something. His mask moved furiously but no sound made it to your ear. He squatted down before slamming you over his shoulder, his firm arm wrapped securely round your hips. This wasn’t what he had in mind when he wanted to touch you.

Your vision started to go blurry again, and Ghost felt you starting to go limp. He shoved his shoulder into your gut to try and wake you, to keep you from passing out. Blood tricked down your face, which was the last thing you saw before the void took you.

A pounding thump in your head brought you round, feeling groggy you slowly opened your eyes. A figure sat by the bed, you couldn’t quite make it out. Letting out a moan as you moved the figure turned, a white skull suddenly coming into view. ‘Simon?’ You whimpered.

‘Yes love, stay still you got a nasty concussion. Steady now.’ His deep voice soothed your nerves as you slowly came around. Sitting up slowly you let out a sigh of pain, ‘fuck, this hurts.’ He let out a small grunt, ‘not surprised, quite a cut you got on your head. Had to haul your ass outta there.’

He was sat close to the sofa but not close enough to touch you. But god did he want to, all he wanted to do was to stroke your hair, cup your cheek and feel the smoothness of your skin under him. Seeing you unconscious in the jeep scared him beyond what he thought himself capable of. ‘I’ll get you some water’ he muttered before leaving the room.

Being the defiant person that you are, you slowly got out of bed and made your way to the clinic. You examined your face in the mirror, a black eye coming and a gash across your forehead. Fuck sake. Sighing to yourself you got your kit together and began patching yourself up. Hissing through your teeth you flushed the open wound on your head before applying steri-strips to close it.

‘This ain your bed love. You need to lie down.’ Ghosts low voice made you jump and you spun around. ‘Fuck SIMON! Stop doing that!’ You glared at him holding your hand on your heat, hoping it would calm you down. He let out a very small, very quiet chuckle, you would have missed it if you hadn’t known how to read his body language.

‘You’re such a nob Simon, I swear to god.’ You held onto the cabinet and leant your head forward trying to process what the fuck had happened. The sound of his boots made their way across the room until you noticed them behind you. ‘You ok?’ He asked. Sighing you turned around to look at him ‘don’t probe Simon’ you said with a small grin tapping your temple, ‘you won’t like what’s in there.’ Throwing his words back at him. He towered above you but you didn’t feel intimidated, you felt … safe.

He slowly reached up towards your face, and with a gloved hand he tucked the stray piece of hair behind your ear. Feeling his hand brush so close to your face made your breath hitch. His hand lingered behind your ear before dropping back to his side. Staring down at you he felt himself go tense, unsure of how to proceed. He wasn’t very good at this and he knew it. You brushed your hand along his forearm ‘thank you, Simon.’ Your damn smile made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years. A feeling he couldn’t quite name.

He took a step towards you, his breath gently brushing over your face through his mask. Your thighs clenched together, looking up at him through your lashes his eyes were hooded. Glazed over. You could feel his pulse under the bare skin on his wrist, steady, slow, strong. You parted your lips, breath becoming more laboured, ragged. Just like he imagined. You felt a pull between you, electricity flew between you both. Your chest was heavy and tight, butterflies swarmed in your stomach. Was he going to make a move? You knew you wanted it and you saw how he looked at you.

You dropped your eyes to where his lips were hiding behind his mask. Giving his permission, begging silently. You slowly licked your bottom lip as his eyes flew to the sudden movement. As you were about to lean in a knock on the clinic door startled you. Letting out a breathy smile you let go of his wrist and moved away from him ‘I should get that.’

𝐹𝑈𝑈𝑈𝑈𝑈𝑈𝐶𝐾

[jakowskis]

Day 7 - Do you have any all-time favorite scenes? You can bring up multiple - an objectively good scene, a silly scene that makes you smile, a sad scene that makes you cry, maybe a scene that just sort of stuck with you… your choice!

i have a bunch ok i tried to put em in categories. under the cut bc i think torchwood's entered spin territory by now and i still cant seem to shut up about it. pls help

scenes that rot my brain

when they mutiny against jack in the s1 finale. that whole bit, from gwen with rhys’ body in the autopsy bay to owen shooting jack to when they trigger the emergency protocol and open the rift. ill never get over how it first felt to watch that whole scene for the first time, it drove me insane. it still drives me insane. ive watched it 300 times it's sooo 😩 MY scene. g-d.

well, that’s my scene, and so are all the owen & ianto scenes in s1ep12. those two make me feral. ive gushed about theose scenes before, so ill spare u this time. my otp 4eva. and also owen having a villainous breakdown wahahaha. my fucked up little guy of all time

the scene where owen’s patching gwen up in countrycide drives me nuts. it’s such a clever seduction scene + it’s so intimate. i love it. (i also enjoy the two separate scenes where she chokes him fdhskjfdsf. countrycide tree scene makes me BLUSH and nothing makes me blush fsdkjfdshfkjdshfjkd. i am very very bi <3)

owen begging diane to stay in out of time... don’t touch me. every time i think of that whole scene i wanna cry. i have never seen such sad eyes in my life. (see my tags here for more of my thoughts on this topic fkjsdfhs.) burn pay my fucking hospital bills

that moment between jack and owen at the end of combat... “for a few seconds i felt totally at peace... and then you blunder in. do you always know best, jack? is that what you believe?” “i want you back at work tomorrow.” that scene has always driven me crazy. there’s a few scenes in the show where jack’s monstrous and the others yell at him over it, but that one hits the hardest. owen just seems to actually cut through him in that moment, and it kills me.

the scene at the conference table in s2ep5. i’m not the biggest fan of that ep, i talked abt it more the other day, but that scene drives me bonkers, for a number of reasons… the insight into the characters (owens mommy issues!!! tosh n ianto’s need for purpose!!! gwen loves rhys AND jack!!!), for sure, but especially the way jack’s relationship with all of them is presented. ill talk about it a lot more when i discuss his character, but jack… reminds me of a cult leader, in a lot of ways, and it’s most prominent in that scene especially. the show doesn’t realize it’s framing him like that, and the fandom doesn’t seem to pick up on it either. but i do, and i think it’s fascinating. 

gwen drugging rhys in combat. it just kind of blew my mind when i first saw it - there's a moment with every character where i went “oh wtf theyre fucked up. ok im obsessed now” (owen's was ghost machine, ianto's was actually ‘pray they survive’ in meat, jack & tosh never had one for me which is probs why they dont rot my brain quite as much fhdskjf) - that was gwen's. also important to note burn gorman agrees w me bc on the commentary of this ep during this scene he was clapping n laughing n probably kickin his feet HFDKSJFHDSJKFDSK he gets me

all of fragments tbh esp owens portion but specifically ianto crying when he walks away from jack at the end of his segment, and owen crying when he's talking to the doctor + him n jack walking thru the cemetery. aaaa.

(yes those were almost all owen scenes. im the deranged owen guy rmr.)

scenes that make me smile

the very first scene in the hub in the pilot :) it just feels a little bit magical in an industrial, bleak, kitchen-sink sort of way, which is what i love sm abt tw, the way it occasionally strikes that balance. the way stepping into a big base in a sewer manages to still feel magical… that’s special.

in episode 2 when theyre having lunch + in episode 4 when theyre at the bar, when they’re all gathered around and laughing. ohh i wish we got more of that

every time gwen n owen are dumbass giggling besties, or teasing each other… twice in s2ep10, and in ep 7, and then when theyre fooling around at the beginning of s2ep2. i love themmmm those two are my idiots they make me smile

jack & john’s fight in kkbb heheh

owen n martha gorillaz scene in reset. wahoo! shicka shicka shicka shicka feel good

bernies apt in ghost machine ep :) i just like the way they go through his shit, steal a bunch of it, n then leave, it always makes me giggle. “so call the cops” JACK. 

scenes that stuck with me / made an impact

john and his son in out of time. that was rlly rlly emotional.

also jack helping him off himself. g-d that episode was heart wrenching.

“captain my captain” in tkks, suzie on the ground covered in blood… things i think about. “it’s all your fault, jack." ahhhh

in ghost machine, when gwen holds the device and sees herself crying and covered in blood, and afterwards she’s all dazed and she looks at owen and he stares back and he looks dangerous. i loveee that scene. will never get over s1 owen. he’s a ticking time bomb and when he explodes he nearly destroys the world. character of all time to me. i love that he redeems himself in the end but ohhhhh sometimes i think of a world where he becomes a proper antagonist. he rlly walks the precipice 

g-d and the scene where he had the knife held to ed morgan, when i first watched it i didn’t know what he was gonna do and it was so tense. 

when lisa was first revealed in cyberwoman and mogwai played…. transcendent. the outfit was silly right off the bat but the vibe + reveal was cool enough i was rlly excited. i love the concepts in that episode i wish they took it more seriously. no metal bikini + no pteradacyl fight and we could’ve had it all. but also. would it be torchwood without metal bikini + pteradacyl fight.

“it made me happy” scene in countrycide. a lot of people seem to find that ep upsetting, i wasn’t really affected by the subject matter, but That got me. chilling. you go into torchwood expecting evil aliens, so the episodes about evil humans really hit.

the resurrection scene in s2ep7. i’m getting tired so im not gonna babble as much but agh. i wanna eventually do an analysis on owen & jack’s dynamic - i’ll talk about it there.

also, it’s a little moment but in the same episode, when gwen calls rhys crying… it reminds me of that bit in succession, during connor’s wedding, when tom calls greg, which is one of my favorite moments in that episode too. taking the time in the middle of a tragedy to step aside and privately call a loved one for support, bc u need a minute to break down when uve been doing ur best to stay strong. i think torchwood is bad at handling grief and letting their characters experience it, so it’s a nice little moment that actually lets her grieve. that, and the glove clearly triggers her, so she got double whammied with the death of a friend + the reminder of the time she nearly died. again, in a show that doesn’t typically frame moments of weakness and pain very sympathetically, it’s refreshing. 

idk why, but in ep7, when it goes back and forth between owen figuring out the murders + tosh crying to mary while she looks unsympathetically down at her… it’s just a well-filmed, cool scene, and i enjoy it. thrills me, heh. also owen adhd icon

aditd... maggie’s wedding… we’d been married less than an hour. scenes that got me. i think of maggie a lot. i think of that scene a lot. i think ‘the woman on the roof’ is my most listened to torchwood ost track, fff. it’s very special to me. that song reminds me of a thomas newman score.

tosh n owen’s deaths. of course. both of owens deaths actually, the second one is more impactful but the way nobody held him when he first died bc they were all in shock haunts me ;-;

[impala-dreamer]

Two Weeks Notice - Day Eight

~With the world practicing self-isolation, Y/N and Dean break all the rules of social distancing and common decency as they explore an empty bunker and use the time alone to their playful advantage…~

Dean x Reader

3,575 Words

Warnings: NSFW. Toy Play. Edging. Remote Control Vibe. Dom!Dean. Sir!Kink. Sex in an uncomfortable place (not the back of a volkswagen).

Two Weeks Notice Masterlist ~ My Masterlist ~ Become A Patreon ~ My Original Works on Amazon

Y/N stood at the side of the bed and checked the time on her phone again, deciding enough was enough.

Very slowly, she slid into bed beside Dean and curled up next to him, tucking her knees and hands against her chest. She was careful not to touch him, not wanting him to wake just yet. She stared for a while, like she loved to do, attempting for the thousandth time to count every freckle on his sleeping face. She never made it past thirty before he either woke to disrupt her or she got so distracted by his beauty that she lay into kissing him instead.

She interrupted herself this time, too excited not to rouse him. With the tip of her index finger, Y/N softly traced the line of his nose from bridge to tip and then again as she whispered his name.

“Dean…”

He wriggled his nose and huffed. “I’m asleep.”

She laughed under her breath and ran her finger over his nose again. “Time to get up.”

He groaned and jerked his head to the side, trying to swat her away. “You promised me a nap.”

“And nap you did. It’s nearly three. Get up.” She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose. She meant to hop out of bed immediately after, but Dean’s reflexes were quick, and he grabbed her arm, yanking her down for a proper kiss.

His arm locked her to him, clamping down and around the small of her back like a gate closing. He moaned into her mouth, leisurely licking at her gasping lips, and Y/N felt the stir of desire ready to distract her fully.

“Nope!” She pushed him back and sat up, quickly shaking off the shiver of need.

Dean popped up as well. “Excuse me?” His forehead creased adorably as he questioned her departure.

Y/N crossed her arms. “I have plans for today.”

Dean groaned and fell back against his pillow. “You always have plans.”

Offended, Y/N pushed at his nearest shoulder and damn near rolled him out of bed. “We can stop anytime you want. Just sit here and stare at the walls for another week.”

Dean sighed. “Fine.”

“Don’t fucking sigh at fucking. What’s wrong with you, old man?”

He half turned, glaring over his shoulder at her.

“Stop being grumpy and go get the blue box from under my bed.”

“You get it.”

Y/N swiftly removed her shirt and tossed it in his face. “You get it.”

Dean rubbed a tired hand down his face and sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “Why do you need your photos now?”  

“Photos are in the green box,” she corrected. “I want the blue box. It’s towards the headboard next to the hatchet.”

He paused, hand on the doorknob. “Why do you have a hatchet under your bed?”

Y/N shrugged and settled into the pillows. “Grimes Protocol.”

Dean laughed and shook his head as he stepped into the hallway. “The Walking Dead isn’t real, Y/N!”

Grinning, she shimmied out of her panties. “You don’t know what this Corona-thing is gonna do! I’d rather be safe than dead!”

Her room wasn’t very far and even if it was, with the empty hallway, it was easy enough to talk through the space between. His voice was a little muffled by the distance, but Y/N could just picture his face.

“Holy crap!”

“Pick one!”

“What do you mean pick one?”

Y/N sat up and pushed her voice towards the open door. “I mean, pick one and get back here with it!”

“Can I pick two?”

She chewed her lip for a moment. She knew what was in the box and would not be opposed to him using more than one at a time. Not at all.

Before she could reply, Dean yelled, “Hey, what’s this pink squiggly thing?”

Her eyes lit up and her nipples hardened with excitement. “Bring it!”

The ‘pink squiggly thing’ was an internal, remote controlled vibrator, and one of Y/N’s favorite toys. Dean was a little annoyed that she had never shared the contents of her toy box with him, and thus decided to use the remote control app to his advantage, in a little game that he was making up as he was going along.

For the rest of the day, Y/N was to wear the toy, and only the toy, as she went about her usual routine. There were plenty of chores to be done around the Bunker, and Y/N was going to do them all while Dean did whatever he wanted. The catch was simple: whenever she got buzzed, she would fall to her knees and crawl to wherever Dean was and service him in any way he chose. It was only fair.

After all, she had disturbed his nap.

There was something intensely erotic about walking around the Bunker naked. Dean had been nice enough to let her wear socks, as the floors were always cold, but the rest of her was completely bare, on display for the ghosts that haunted the tiles.

Of course, there weren’t really any ghosts, but as she walked down the halls, she imagined the Men of Letters of old gasping and clutching their hearts as they saw her defiling their sacred underground lair. Oh, how they’d lose their minds.

With a proud smile, she shook her hips a little more as she carried the laundry basket to the machine. Even under quarantine, socks must be washed.

As she set the basket down in front of the washer, she felt a wave of vibration deep inside her cunt. Her body stiffened and her muscles squeezed against it, momentarily blocking any brain function as the pleasure took her by surprise. When she could think, she immediately dropped to her knees on the cold tile and turned, ready to crawl to her newly appointed master.

Dean wasn’t far, leaning in the doorway with a smirk on his lips and his phone in hand. He swiped his finger across the app and the vibration intensified, making Y/N shiver as she crossed the room to sit at his feet.

“Very good!” he praised, resisting the urge to reach down and pat her head like a dog. He knew she liked to be degraded, but that would probably have earned him a hard flick in the nuts.

Y/N licked her lips and sat back on her heels, clenching her thighs as the buzzer kept doing its job. She looked up and smiled, waiting. “How may I service you, Dean?”

He hummed and dropped the intensity. “Dean,” he echoed. “Sounds so... informal.”

She bit back a smirk. “I’m sorry.” Clearing her throat and squeezing her tits together, she tried again. How may I service you, Mr. Winchester?”

“Better,” he said with a shrug, tapping his screen to make the buzzing pulse at a steady pace. “But...let’s try… Sir. I think I’d like to hear that.”

Y/N closed her eyes as a wave of pleasure overtook her momentarily. She’d been wanting to call him that forever, that and more, but it was an awkward conversation. However, if they were already playing, and he was offering…

“Yes, Sir,” she cooed, looking up at him and batting her eyes. “How may I service you?”

A smile broke out across his face. “Oh, I like the sound of that.” He cocked his head and looked her over, deciding where to start. “Why don’t you rub those pretty tits for me? I want to see how hard your nipples can get.”

Y/N bit her lip and nodded. “Yes, Sir.” Both hands cupped her breasts and she bounced them for him, watching as his eyes widened with delight. A few twists and tugs on her nipples had them standing tall and each tweak made her shoulders twitch.

When her breath began to get heavy and her eyes refused to open, Dean turned off the app and her vibrator and shoved his phone in his back pocket. “That’s all for now. Get back to work.”

Y/N’s eyes were huge as he spun on his heel and walked away, shocked that he was actually leaving her like that. “Fuck,” she whispered to herself as she climbed to her feet. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

Dean was in the Library when Y/N walked in with her duster. She and Sam had a routine worked out where she knocked the dust onto the floor and he mopped it up. Seemed sort of silly for her to be reaching up so high when he was so tall already, but she figured the boys liked watching her climb and stretch and bend.

Dean was certainly appreciating it now. He pretended to read a book, something he had grabbed from the shelf without looking at the spine as he jumped into the armchair to beat her into the room, but his eyes were glued to Y/N’s bare ass as she fluttered around the room, cleaning.

As she dusted, she hummed to herself. It was a sweet familiar melody, something that Dean felt had a Disney ring to it. He smiled and gave up the ruse, closing the book in his lap and resting his chin in his hand, elbow on the arm of the chair.

Her nakedness stood out starkly against the stacks of books; she looked like a faerie floating about, whipping away dust with her feathery wings.

“So this is love...do do do do... so this is love…” Y/N made her way through the Library, flicking away every drop of dust and totally ignoring Dean. She could feel his eyes on her body, following wherever she went, but she kept her mind on her task. When she felt that she’d done enough, she looked around, hands on her naked hips, and nodded. “Very nice.”

Another swoosh of feathers against the nearest shelf and she took off, heading into the next room. As her foot hit the bottom stop, her vibrating bat signal went off.

Taken so by surprise, the feather duster fell from her hand like an angel falling from heaven. “Oh my…” She moaned at the violent pulsing against her g-spot and sank to her knees, slowly turning towards Dean.

His eyes were dark and mischievous as he controlled the toy, thumb sliding back and forth across the screen, mucking with the intensity and speed of the vibrations. With his free hand, he crooked a finger at her and puckered his lips, calling to her with two quick air kisses. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

Y/N crawled to him, hands and knees flat on the polished floor, bare ass high and open for any eyes that would have a week ago been passing by. She shivered at the thought and bit her lip, holding in a tiny moan of weakness as Dean drove the toy to its highest setting.

As she grew closer, he let her stimulation ebb, slowly subsiding to a light and steady wave. She sank down further, laying on her forearms, panting slightly as she looked up at him.

Dean set the book down on the end table next to him and leaned forward, clasping his hands, elbows on his knees. “Hey there,” he grinned, body tingling with the power he held over her. “How ya feelin’?”

Almost out of breath, Y/N looked up, stretching her neck awkwardly to meet his gaze. “I’m pretty fucking horny, actually.”

Dean laughed and licked his lips. He scooted to the edge of the chair so he was even closer to her and whispered, “Is your pussy nice and wet?”

His voice ran down her spine like fire, and she nodded. “Very wet, Sir.”

He tapped his upper lip with one finger and then sat back, getting comfortable. “So play with it,” he ordered casually, resting one hand on his right thigh, watching.

Y/N swallowed hard and sat up, spreading her knees wide as she rested on her heels. One hand fell behind her, palm flat on the cold floor as the other slid down her belly and tapped gently on her clit. She bit her lip as the pleasure rolled through her; the vibe inside, her hand on her clit, it was all breathtaking and delicious.

Dean watched on as she rubbed, fiddling now and then with the controls. He loved the tremble in the soft flesh of her thighs; the way she began to bounce as if on his cock as she got closer to cumming. He kept a closer eye on that edge, making sure she rode it as long as possible without tipping over. When her stomach tightened too much, he eased up on the vibrations. When her panting ceased, he turned it up. When her eyes began to roll and her jaw hung slack, letting out heated moans, he cut the power, turning the toy off completely.

“Wha-hey!” Y/N’s eyes popped open and she pouted, near to tears as she was denied once more.

“Hands off, Princess,” he told her, clearing his throat and picking up his book. Dean crossed one leg and turned to a random page, tearing his eyes from Y/N’s shivering body. “Get back to work.”  

She grumbled to herself as she struggled to her feet, using a nearby chair for help. “You suck.”

Dean lifted a brow, but not his head. “What’s that?”

“Nothing…”

Dinner came and went with Y/N still naked, sitting at the table on a dishcloth. Dean let her be for a while, keeping his phone and the app safely tucked in his pocket. She had even gotten used to being naked in the open. It felt sexy, freeing, if not a little chilly now and then.

Somehow, Dean managed to keep his hands off of her the entire day, not even accidentally brushing against her or playing footsie under the table. Nothing stopped him from looking, however, and he spent his quiet time memorizing the curves and movements that he never got to see in the dark. She was perfectly imperfect, just like him.

After dinner, Dean disappeared, leaving Y/N alone to do the dishes and clean up. She’d just about finished putting the utensils away when her page went off, sending jolts of pleasure through her body.

“Fuck.” She turned around, but Dean wasn’t in the room with her. “Dean?”

There was no answer, but the buzzing increased. Y/N dropped to her knees and crawled quickly from the kitchen, wondering where he’d gotten to and hoping the remote didn’t have too long of a range.

“Dean?” she called again to no response, growing more aroused and annoyed as the stunt went on. She’d have to crawl the entire Bunker looking for him if he didn’t answer. Her knees were starting to protest as she toddled up the steps into the War Room, but the pulsing in her cunt took some of the edge off.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Tisk. Tisk.” His voice boomed through the giant room, her toy speeding up as he scolded her. “Mind your manners, missy.”

Still on her hands and knees, Y/N looked around the War Room, unable to find him anywhere. He was a disembodied voice teasing her from another world.

“Dean, come on…”

“You need to crawl to me,” he said loudly, “that was the deal.”

She gasped as he pushed the toy to its limit. “Yeah but...where- fuck- are you?”

Y/N teetered on her knees as Dean laughed at her predicament. She crawled on, moving towards the table.

“Warmer.”

Biting her lip, she listened to his echoing directions, crawling closer to the table. When she reached it, the buzzing subsided enough to catch her breath, and she turned towards the Library archway.

“Colder!”

Y/N spun back and continued through the room. As she neared the stairs, the vibrations increased and Dean guided her home.

“Hot.”

Slowly, she sat back on her feet and looked up the long metal staircase.

Dean waved and grinned smugly from his seat at the chess set on the balcony. “Boiling.”

Y/N’s hands instinctively flew to her hips. “Are you kidding me?”

With a swipe of his finger, Dean upped the pleasure and Y/N fell back down into crawling position.

“Imma kill you.”

Dean laughed. “I don’t think that’s likely.”  

One step at a time, Y/N climbed, fingers curling into the ornate grates, knees pushing into the smooth metal. It was cold and hard but she managed, keeping her mind in the gutter, comforted and fueled by the intimate pleasure of her favorite toy, controlled by her favorite asshat.

Dean hid his surprise well when she reached him, figuring Y/N would have given up halfway up the winding staircase. “Welcome,” he teased, lowering the speed. “Nice of you to join me.”

She was panting already, out of breath from her climb. “Nice of you to pick such an easily accessible location.”

Her sass was vibrant and Dean bit his lip, grinning.

“How’s your sweet little cunt doing?” he asked, tip of his tongue pressing between his teeth.

Y/N shivered. “It’s...good.”

“Just good?” His thumb waved over the controls, brushing the toggle back and forth.

“V-very good.”

Dean let her linger in that moment of fluctuating pleasure and sat back, opening his jeans while he watched her twitch. He set the control to a setting called “fireworks” and lay his phone down, taking his cock in his hands instead. He stroked it slowly while the explosions went off inside her pussy.

“What does it feel like?” he asked, lips puckering as he jerked his cock.

Eyes closed and lips shaking, Y/N shook her head, unable to find an answer. “Like...like you’re drumming inside me. Like lightning… like… fuck- I don’t know.” Her eyes popped open and locked on his erection, mouth flooding at the sight.

Dean smirked. “Do you want it?”

She nodded.

“Tell me where.”

She chewed her lip hard, brows furrowing tight, chest heaving. “I…”

Dean fisted his cock, squeezing at the base. “Tell me where you want it.”

“In my pussy,” she begged, chin quivering, near to tears. “Please, Dean. I need you to fuck me so bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Please!”

“Get up here.”

Moaning with relief, Y/N jumped up into his lap, kissing him wildly as his hands locked around her back. She licked into his mouth, bit at his ear, sucked his lip between her teeth. She’d been too crazed all day, too desperate to hold back any longer. She felt his cock against her belly and bounced, rubbing her throbbing clit against his veiny underside.

Dean grunted. His blunt nails dug into her ass.

“Fuck me, Dean.”

Her whisper floated through him and he grabbed her tight, standing up and spinning, dropping her onto the empty chess set. She gasped but settled quickly, wiggling into place on the oversized antique gameboard. He dropped his jeans, letting them collect around the tops of his boots and then reached down to yank the still vibrating toy from her cunt.

Y/N cried out as the toy dislodged, a flood of hot built-up slick running down her ass as it went. “Fuck!”

“I’m getting to it!” Dean huffed back, tossing the toy over his shoulder. It hit the railing and disappeared down below, to be remembered only by a faint buzzing as it danced across the glowing table.

Y/N grabbed hold of the back of his neck and scooted down to the edge of the board, wrapping her legs tight around him. He sank inside without hesitation or restriction, covering himself in her wet flesh, hiding deep inside.

It was fast and hard, the way she came on his cock; her pussy clamping down on him as he thrust in and out. Hours of torture, being played with and edged had left her a sloppy mess, and Dean savored every second. He kissed her breathless, keeping his eyes open so he could watch hers roll. He nipped at her collarbone and rubbed at her clit.

She had been waiting all day, but so had he.

The pawns and bishops rolled inside the table, safe in their velvet cubbies. The pink toy died a slow death, battery draining somewhere around South America.

Above the empty Bunker, not far from the big steel door,  Dean made her cum again, rolling her first orgasm into another, his thumb winding around her clit until she screamed at the soreness, slapping him away.

He set his hands beside her head, fingers curling around the edges of the old wood, pulling it close as his hips pushed forward. The thick muscles of his arms strained against his shortsleeves and Y/N pressed her nails deep into his biceps, clawing at him, her teeth grit, eyes dark and exhausted.

“Come on, Dean,” she urged, voice deep and cracking. “Give it to me, please.”

His jaw clenched, sweat beading on his upper lip and brow.

“Cum inside me, Dean. Please.”

Another rough jerk of his hips sent him over. Dean trembled over her, phantom thrusts pushing him even deeper as he emptied into her.

When the best had passed, he looked down with a goofy smile. Green eyes glazed, freckled cheeks bright, lips swollen and red as he laughed, “Checkmate.”

2020 Forever Tags:

@akshi8278​ @alwayskeepfightingsweetheart​ @amanda-teaches​ @because-imma-lady-assface​ @broiderie​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @cheritzie​ @cosicas-cuquis​ @covered-byroses​ @crashdevlin​ @deansotherotherblog​ @deansgirl215​ @deanwanddamons​ @defenderrosetyler​ @dontshootmespence​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @focusonspn​ @hannahindie​ @herbologystudent252​ @ilsawasanacrobat​ @justcallmeasmodeus​ @ladyjenny19​ @laxe-from-outer-space @mariekoukie6661​ @missjenniferb​ @msjava1972​ @mylovelydame21​ @mysticmaxie​ @pilaxia​ @sandlee44​ @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester​ @squirrelnotsam​ @tatted-trina6​ @typicalweirdbookworm​ 

TWN: 

@rebelemilu​ @pastathighs​ @deans-baby-momma​ @bobbie3939​ @peachyafshawn​ @spencer-reids-babygirl @akrasiaev @shadowkat-83​ @deangirl7695​ @foxyjwls007 @bxbyizzy​ @chenshemesh1 @pandaxo79 

[peterparkerisababy]

Get You/Starker Secret Santa

@cammerel happy holidays, here ya go bb! hope you like it! 

@starkersecretsanta

WARNINGS: Mpreg, brief mention of abortion 

(Ignore the shitty title)

Peter woke up, with a soreness all over his body, in a strange bed.

He was confused for a couple of seconds, but he recovered as he felt the warm body spooning him.

He blushed all over, remembering how his previous night had gone. He went out to celebrate the end of the semester, and gone home with a really hot guy.

The person holding him started to stir, and Peter sat up and yawned wiping his eyes as he mumbled a bashful 'good morning'.

"Good morning, beautiful," a sleepy, familiar voice slurred, and-fucking shit.

Peter jumped to confirm his suspisions and Tony, the same man that he spent almost all of his time with and had a huge crush on, was cuddling him aftet a one night stand. Was it a one night stand? Peter hoped not.

"Oh, fuck," Peter gasped, and Tony-he'd dropped Mr. Stark after he'd practically moved in with him-chuckled.

"Nice to see you, too."

Peter blushed again, slowly relaxing.

"I'm-I'm uh, I'm sorry, I'm still a bit sleepy. Um...want me to make, like, breakfast or something?" He asked, not really understanding one-night stand protocol.

"That sounds great. I make an amazing black coffee, if you'd like," Tony joked, making Peter giggle as he slid on a shirt that stopped mid thigh.

He walked to the door and stopped short, staring at how huge Tony's house was. He'd explored every floor of the house except for Tony's personal floor.

"The upstairs kitchen is to your right," Tony called from behind him. And then, in a quiet, shameful voice, "Fri, cancel One Night Stand protocol."

Peter heard him and blushed (but to be fair, his senses were constantly at 11, did Tony honestly expect him not to hear him?) as he shuffled to the kitchen.

He went to the refrigerator and started to make breakfast, pushing the gradually-increasing insecure thoughts out of his mind.

"Hey, Pete, I'm real sorry, but I gotta go-are those eggs?" Tony asked, coming into the room in a suit and looking into the pan of food Peter had.

Peter nodded. "Just like you like them."

Tony stood there for a moment before he sat down. "I can be a bit late."

Peter brought him a plate of eggs, bacon, and slightly burnt toast.

"Petey, this is incredible," Tony praised, making Peter blush for what seemed like the millionth time that day.

They ate in silence, Peter wracking his mind for something to say.

Sorry about the toast.

This is a nice kitchen.

I love that suit.

Last night was the greatest time of my life and I've been dreaming about it all my life.

"Pete, I gotta go-um, meeting," Tony interrupted the silence, shoving his chair back. "Happy'll be back in about 30 minutes and he'll give you a ride. You can take a shower and steal some clothes, okay?"

Before Peter could really say anything, Tony was walking out, entering an elevator and disappearing.

Peter sat there, mouth dropped open, before he finally pulled himself together, slowly cleaning the mess he'd made cooking as tears started rolling down his cheeks. Tony had really slept with him and abandoned him.

As he cleaned, questions swirled through his mind. Was Tony coming back? Did he think Peter wasn't good enough?

Was this his plan all along?

Peter finished cleaning and laughed bitterly to himself. Tony had left him and Peter just cleaned his kitchen.

"Pete, you here?" Happy called from the elevator.

Peter's eyes widened. He ran to the bedroom and grabbed his backpack and some sweatpants, before he put on his web slingers and left through the window, too upset to care who saw him.

***

"Hey, Pete," May called, not looking up from her phone, having memorized Peter's footsteps. "What's wrong? I-"

May stopped mid sentence when she saw his face.

"Baby, what's wrong?" She asked, standing up. Peter walked a few steps forward and dropped into her open arms.

"Is it okay if... I don't talk about it?" He mumbled, voice cracking in the middle of his sentence. May frowned, gently leading them to the couch. She kissed his forehead and played in his curls, soothing him as best as she could.

She didn't even mention the hickeys.

***

Peter was studying for chemistry a week later when he felt it.

Something in his stomach stirred. It wasn't hunger, it wasn't sadness, it wasn't anger, it wasn't arousal, and it wasn't fear.

It was just...different.

***

Five weeks after that, he was sick.

It wasn't like any sickness he'd had before. He was glued to toilet and had thrown up everything he'd eaten, and even when he'd completely emptied his stomach, he was still there, dry heaving.

May entered the room with a cool washcloth.

"Sweetheart, you've been throwing up for a week," she told him, feeling his forehead. "You're clammy."

May's expression suddenly changed into a fearful one.

"Peter," she began, forcing her voice to be steady. "I need you to completely honest, and I'm not asking this as your aunt, but as a friend. When was the last time you had sex?"

Peter groaned, trying to remember. "Six weeks ago."

May's eyes widened even more, but she still tried to stay calm as she met Peter's eyes.

"Peter," she said, "you might be pregnant."

Peter threw up again.

***

We need to talk.

Peter sent Tony the message later that day, curled up in a blanket with a bucket in front of him.

He waited all day for Tony to respond, throwing up to keep himself busy, but he never did. So he sent a second message.

Can we meet up?

No response.

Tony?

Nothing.

Are you seriously ghosting me?

He wondered if he had been blocked.

He cried himself to sleep.

***

"Peter!"

Dr. Cho smiled as Peter entered her office a week later in a hoodie, followed by Aunt May.

"What's thi-"

"Can you be sworn to secrecy? Please?"

She laughed.

"Peter, I've known you were Spiderman for years, I think I can-"

"You can't tell Tony," May interrupted. Peter felt a stab of guilt, knowing that May thought that Peter was just scared of losing Tony's mentorship.

She frowned. "I'm sorry, but anything that happens with Peter has to be reported to him. It's the-"

"Fuck the Baby-Monitor protocol, Helen, you can't tell Tony," Peter pleaded. "Please."

Frowning, she nodded. "What's wrong?"

"I think I'm pregnant," he told her.

She drew a shaky breath, before she composed herself. "Peter, I really should-"

May gave her a look. Dr. Cho nodded again and turned to Peter, grabbing a cup and handing it to him.

"Pee in this and we'll go from there."

***

Peter was lying in his bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

They had driven back in silence, and the second they got home, Peter had gone into his room and shut the door.

Dr. Cho had determined that he was about a month and a half. She printed out an ultrasound for him that had a really small gray blob in the middle. The baby. His baby.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed right then.

Hey, Pete. We do have a lot to talk about.

Peter froze, thinking Dr. Cho had snitched on him, until his phone buzzed again.

Me leaving the other day was totally not cool and I was a huge jerk for doing it, and I apologize. I also shouldn't have ignored your texts, but I was really busy, thought I had responded, and forgot about it. I'm sorry about that, too. Could we meet up soon and work things out in person? :*

Was Tony sincere, he wondered, or was he just trying to get into his pants again?

He turned off his phone and cupped his stomach. There was a bit of a bump there, already, that could be played off as him not patrolling as much and getting a bit chunky.

Then again, Tony was a genius. He knew what pregnant people looked like. What if he'd, somehow, seen Peter and already knew he was pregnant?

What if he wanted him to get an abortion?

Peter's heart dropped at the thought. Did Tony want kids? He might not want to be bogged down by a 22 year-old and a baby. He'd probably make Peter abort it or set it up for adoption.

He pulled out his laptop and spent hours googling stories of abortion and adoption. By the time he was done, he had cried even more and sworn to not do either.

"I'm sorry,"  he whispered to the air, trying to steady his breathing. He inhaled shakily, then exhaled, slowly calming down.

He could hear familiar footsteps coming to his door, and then there was a knock.

"Come in," he called. May entered the room, holding her keys.

"I'm, um, going to get us some dinner. Anything specific you want?"

"Um-" If he was honest, he was even hungrier than he'd even been as Spiderman.

"Pizza okay?" She asked. "I know you've been talking about it."

He actually did want some pizza, really badly, to be honest. So he sat up, sighing.

"Actually, I do," he told her. He walked to her, leaning into her side. She pecked his forehead.

"We'll get through this, Peter."

***

"Guess those cravings have kicked in, huh?" May laughed, grabbing Peter's 7th empty pizza box. "Pineapple, anchovies, and syrup with on a pizza with no sauce." "Ugh, if I taste any marinara sauce I think I'll die," Peter groaned, before he pouted. "I'm gonna run to the store, want anything?" "No, not really," she replied nonchalantly. He grabbed his wallet and left.

At the store, he practically bought the whole snack aisle. As he walked out, he saw a bogo sale on photo albums.

He bought four, just to be safe.

***

"Peter, why did you call us down here on 'urgent notice' if you're just gonna mope?" MJ asked.

"We're worried," Ned added in a softer tone of voice, taking a bite of his pizza.

Peter sighed, sitting up in his seat. "I'm pregnant."

Ned choked on his pizza, MJ harshly hitting his back. He drank his soda and she let him go, turning to Peter.

"Pregnant?!" She yelled, catching the attention of everyone around them. "How?!"

"You know how," Peter attempted to joke, even though his face and tone were serious.

"Congrats, man!" Ned cheered, but MJ didn't let up.

"Who's the father? What are you gonna do with it? Is this a prank?"

"I'm keeping it, it's not a prank, and the father is...Mr. Stark."

Ned covered his mouth and MJ's eyes widened.

"Don't tell anyone," he begged. "Please."

He put his head in his arms, and MJ and Ned put their hands on his back reassuringly.

"We'll support you, Peter," Ned promised.

"As long as you name it after us," MJ teased.

Peter laughed weakly.

***

By month three, his morning sickness had barely decreased, he was always tired, and you could really tell he was pregnant. He went to Dr. Cho monthly, since she wanted to make sure the spider bite didn't affect the baby, and chose to keep the gender a secret.

He had transferred to MIT, changed most of his classes to online, and gotten an apartment where Tony would never think to find him.

MJ and Ned FaceTimed and texted him everyday, and they visited as often as they could afford, bringing him Spiderman themed baby clothes and toys.

May was still staying in New York, visiting as often as possible and sending him half of her paycheck each month. She would often talk about Tony, telling him how he would show up looking for Peter.

"He misses you, Peter," she told Peter as she cooked him some soup.  "You should talk with him. I'm certain he wouldn't fire you because you're pregnant-as a matter of fact, he could be a great figure in the baby's life."

Peter stiffened and his eyes opened. He sat up on the couch he had been resting on and decided it was now or never.

"Um, May?" He whispered.

"Hmm?" She hummed, stirring her food.

"That's the thing...Tonyismybaby'sfather."

May stilled at the stove, making Peter bite his lip nervously.

She turned to him slowly, an unreadable expression on her face before she sighed, moving the pot off the burner and grabbing two bowls and two spoons.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" She asked, spooning soup into the bowls. "I'm not mad, just disappointed."

"I thought you'd be super mad with me," Peter frowned.

"Peter...I know. I knew after you came home from his house with hickeys everywhere. I was just waiting for you to tell me."

He practically deflated, stress seeping from his bones and turning to relief. This pregnancy would be so, so much easier if he knew May wasn't disappointed or disgusted with him.

"So you're not mad?"

May handed him a bowl and a ginger-ale-the only drink, other than water, he could stomach-before sitting down herself. "Not mad, just hurt you didn't tell me. And I don't care for the power imbalance or the age difference-"

"I made the first move," he spilled, quick to remedy any of May's concerns. "And I'm able to get a good job without him. And if he ever tried anything bad, I'd stop him, you know that. But he wouldn't, Tony's an amazing guy-"

"But do you love him?" May interruped, staring into his soul.

Peter inhaled shakily, shocked, before he answered.

"I really do."

May smiled. "As long as you two love each other and you're happy...then I'm okay with it."

Peter grinned so wide he thought his face would crack, one of the many burdens on his shoulders lifting.

"There's a new Stranger Things, wanna watch?" She offered.

He nodded, glad to change the subject, and the two of them put their feet on the table and ate, relaxed, as the show played.

***

When he was four months, he was sitting in Dr. Cho's office, holding his stomach as he waited for another visit.

"I'm way too big for four months," he whined as Dr. Cho walked in.

"My favorite patient," she smiled. "This will be a short appointment, is that okay? Just an ultrasound."

"Okay," he smiled, getting on the bed.

Dr. Cho poured the familiar cold gel over his stomach, Peter barely flinching, before rubbing the wand and spreading it.

Peter beamed happily as the familiar blob showed on-screen. Dr. Cho was scanning the screen when her eyes suddenly furrowed and she added more gel. Peter's spidey senses shot to 100 as she peered at the screen.

"What is it?" He demanded. She ignored him, still watching the screen until her face broke into a smile.

"Peter, it looks like you'll be having twins."

"You're joking." Dr. Cho shook her head. "Twins? Really?"

He grinned so wide his face hurt, before he teared up.

"I'm happy, it's just these..."

"Hormones?" Cho finished. "I understand."

She handed him paper towels and cleaned up a bit as Peter composed himself. At the end of the visit, she had a conflicted expression on her face as she held an envelope. She finally thrust it into Peter's hands.

"He really misses you, Peter," she told him. "I've never seem him this upset before."

"I just-" he stopped, sighing. "I don't know if he wants us."

"Peter," Cho said, "I know Tony, and I know he'll be elated about you and your babies."

Peter tossed the envelope in his bag, nodding grimly to Cho.

***

By month six he felt ugly, lonely, and worried.

Because he'd been seeing news articles of Tony, and in each one, he was drunk and looked miserable.

The straw that broke the camel's back was when he was staying with May and Tony came over at 2 in the morning. From his room, he could hear Tony begging  May for information on him. 

"Please, May," he pleaded, "I haven't seen him in months. Nobody will tell me anything and I'm going fucking crazy. I just want to know if he's okay and what I did wrong."

Peter took a deep breath.

"May...let him in," he called out, after covering his midsection with two huge blankets.

Tony practically broke down Peter's door, freezing when he saw him. Peter's heart raced as he slowly bent down.

"Pete," he mumbled, trying to say something else, but stopping.

He suddenly pulled Peter into a tight hug, and Peter could tell he was crying by the way his body shook, and Peter slowly started to cry with him.

May came to the doorway, prepared to intervene, but Peter gently waved her away. She nodded, walking away.

A few minutes later, Tony sniffled and pulled away, looking at Peter with hurt, red rimmed eyes.

"What did I do?" He whispered when he was somewhat composed, and that made Peter start sobbing harder.

"Tony, it wasn't you," he cried, "it was me, I'm-"

He slowly, nervously pulled the blankets away and watched as Tony's eyes widened.

"You-you're-?"

Peter nodded, sniffling. "They're yours."

Tony froze, a fresh wave of tears pouring down his face.

"I'm so sorry," Peter mumbled, "I was scared you'd have me abort them, or adopt them, but I couldn't, Tony. I love them."

"Them?"

Peter nodded. "They're twins."

Tony's eyes widened and he cleared his throat, shocked and teary eyed.

"Peter, I hate that you thought I wouldn't want them," Tony told him when his voice had somewhat steadied, "and I hate even more that you hid it. I understand that you were scared, but, fuck-"

He looked away. "I thought you hated me."

"I thought you would've hated me," Peter admitted.

"I could never hate you, Pete," Tony assured him. Peter smiled before yawning loudly.

"I'm gonna go," Tony told him, "and I'll be back tomorrow morning. We can talk and I'll bring breakfast."

Peter almost burst into tears again. "Please don't go," he begged. 

Tony smiled softly, happily, as he took off his socks, shoes, and pants, leaving him in his AC/DC shirt and boxers, crawling behind Peter and spooning him.

"Good night, Pete," he whispered, and Peter was out like a light.

The next day, when he woke up, Tony was still there. He smiled to himself, feeling a rough thumping against his side begin. He groaned, accidentally waking Tony up.

"Mornin', babe," Tony mumbled sleepily, "why're you squirmin'?"

Peter blushed at the rasp of Tony's voice and the nickname. "They're kicking me again, and it's always hardest when-"

"Kicking?" Tony interrupted, suddenly wide awake. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think about it," Peter admitted, which was true. May, MJ, and Ned all felt his bump anytime they saw him, so much so that he didn't think to offer.

Peter led Tony's hands to the small feet, who kicked faster.

"They really like you," Peter told him, astonished. "They've never kicked this hard."

"I have that effect on people," Tony joked. Then his face turned serious.

"Peter, I want to be a part of their lives," he said, "and if you would rather us co-parent, I am perfectly okay with that, but I would love for us to...get together."

"Get together? Like date?" Peter exclaimed excitedly, before he blushed, making Tony chuckle. "Yes, Tony."

Tony smiled, leaning forward and kissing him until May came in.

"I bought some lunch, you two slept late-"

She stopped.

"Am I interrupting something?" She smirked, hands on her hips.

"No," Peter grinned, leaning his head on Tony's shoulder. "What'd you get for lunch?"

***

Two and a half months later, Peter was in the hospital, cursing Tony for ever getting near him, and telling him to "go ahead and schedule a vasectomy, old man, because I am not doing this again-"

Until the babies came out. The moment he laid eyes on them, he teared up.

"I want more," he told Tony, who laughed in slight fear, remembering how he had been cussed out 30 minutes ago, until he saw them and yeah, he completely understood why Peter's tune had changed. They were perfect.

May, MJ, and Ned came right afterwards, bringing balloons and gifts and rushing to hold the twins.

"Oh, what are their names?" May cooed when it was her turn.

Peter and Tony exchanged a look.

"The boy is Anthony Edward, or AJ," Tony beamed proudly.

"And the girl is named Morgan May."

May teared up, looking at Peter.

"You mean it?" She whispered. Peter nodded, also tearing up (Cho had warned them of postpartum hormones, but it was a beautiful moment-everyone in the room got a bit choked up).

***

Tony and Peter got married when the twins were two.

When they were three, Peter announced he was pregnant again.

This time, Tony was the first to know.

[momtemplative]

A COVID mammogram.

I hadn’t stood among people in so long that the idea seemed ludicrous. And terrifying. I hadn’t been out in a public place in over six weeks. (Jesse does the weekly grocery shopping.) When Jesse asked if I was nervous about my mammogram appointment, I said, no. But I was nervous about going to a hospital—germ kingdom—and being in such close proximity with people who are in such continuous close proximity with sick people. I’m most certainly not alone with those concerns; I had just been reading about how it is becoming more common for people to avoid medical care due to fears of COVID, and how dangerous this can be. So, reluctantly, I kept my appointment. 

When it was suddenly the day before, it occurred to me that I needed a little practice run. I needed to see that people in small, spread-out groups were not so scary, just people and not vicious germ-spreaders. (Hopefully.) So I geared up with hand goop, sani-wipes and my cloth mask and headed to Home Depot for some flowers. My nerves rattled steadily from the moment I left my driveway to the moment I pulled into the parking lot. 

There were a ton of cars. Why did I think it would be empty? My shoulders hiked into my ears as I pulled into a parking spot. I video-chatted to a friend as I sat there, as if I were making a recording for myself: “You can do this. All these people just want plants like you. And mulch. You are all here for the same reason. Get on with it!” (A teacher of mine from long ago used to make herself motivational self-talk videos. I recently watched quite a few, so that concept was fresh on my mind.)

The sky was doing a heavy, melancholy thing—purple-grey clouds swirling like low-hanging thoughts. The wind hit me with an obnoxious gust as I exited the car, like when Ruth sneaks up on me and guerrilla-attacks my hair, leaving me looking disheveled and dumb. I returned to my car twice before I finally committed to a cart.

There was a young kid, probably college-aged, sitting alone in his car, with his windows up, as I walked through the parking lot. My first instinct was annoyance that he didn’t have a mask on, then logic slowly caught up to remind me that he was indeed, in his rolled-up car. I instantly changed gears to take pleasure in seeing his chin, his full-face, rather. I had the instinct to yell through his window, “Nice to see your face!” with a thumbs up, while wearing my mask, but I thought better of it. It isn’t until now that I write this that I step back to look at myself, thinking, dear god, what has become of this woman?

I’m pleased to report that everyone had masks on. Good thing, because this was one of those particular outings that I guarantee I would’ve straight-up judged someone’s character based on whether or not they were wearing a mask.

There was not much inventory in the outdoor section and that was just as well. I  only wanted a few pretty things to plant. And to be out in the world again. I grabbed a few small pots of blue-purple plants with tiny petals, a few magenta snapdragons for Ruth, and for Opal, the most insanely violet peony I have ever seen. (It reminded me of the African Violets my grandmother, Lenna, used to always have in little pink plastic pots in her sunroom. Same eye-straining shade of purple.) Then I broke my back on two bags of soil.

My Home Depot experience was lack-luster and underwhelming, as I suppose, is optimal. The outside cashier had a tag on that said, “I CARE about you, please stand 6-feet away.” This was impossible to pull off while paying. Two humans, (at least one with very conflicting feelings), two masks, two feet away. For the record, the cashier was wearing shorts and had a tattoo of a giant spider that covered the back of his entire right calf muscle. I had the thought, “He had the tattoo before COVID and he’ll still have that sucker after it’s all over.” 

On paper: a success. Like taking a newborn baby to Target for the first time, or coming out of a long illness to get back to work. But I could feel a headache creeping up from the base of my skull. I wanted to just curl up in my car and recover.

The next day.

Signs that read HEROS WORK HERE lined the entrance of Avista Hospital like political signs during a campaign.

The main entrance was closed, a printed sign pointed me to the ER entrance. What did I envision behind the closed doors?  A bustling scene of gun-shot wounds and blood-sodden bandages, dozens of people bent over coughing like they swallowed gravel? The mind is an amazing thing. And more than ever, I am seeing the power (and danger) of speculation.

What was behind the sliding door to the ER was, in fact, a quiet scene of two ladies behind a counter, staring at oversized computer monitors, wearing masks. There was also an RN named Justin (as said his name badge), in a face-mask, standing close to the entrance. I took a moment to absorb it all, and as I turned his way, he was already pointing a purple thermometer at my forehead. “Oh, hey—” I said, muffled behind the mask. I must’ve passed because he handed me a green circle sticker that said something in Spanish. I liked these people. 

Next stop was the lady who had me sign all the papers—also named Heather. I remembered her from my last mammogram because of her name. And her hair, which was sprayed solid into a perfect 80′s feather, on the top and sides. The back, however, was long and straight and hung free of chemicals. This time, her facemask cut perfectly between the calcified feather-layers, which I took in as a delightful detail.

Side doors led me to the main entrance of the hospital, where it is usually bustling like Union Station. But it was empty, quiet like the streets of a ghost town, save for a janitor in an orange vest and surgical mask.  

Typically, the mammography office is stocked with magazines of the sort I would never purchase on my own accord—People, Us, Vanity Fair, Oprah—so I purposefully neglected to bring anything to read. But today, the magazine rack was empty, except for one laminated sign saying “No Magazines Due to COVID.” I also forgot a bottle of water (I’m out of practice for packing for the outside world) but breathed a sigh of relief when I remembered the basket of bottled water the mammography office keeps by the door. However today, no water. The Keurig machine was covered in a white sheet as if it had died. I was instructed by Jesse to touch my phone only when absolutely necessary, so I sat quietly and looked at the wall.

The sum total of ladies in the waiting room was only me, unless you count the woman ahead of me who barely sat down before they called her name: “Hi-roo?” Then as they walked down the hall, they said, “Oh, sorry, it says here you go by Lucy.”

I sat by myself in the waiting room for near a half-hour. I’m not sure what Lucy had going on but it took a while. NO complaints, I was happy as a clam to just sit on my ass and think about filling the four corners of my torso with breath. There were four chairs in a row on each side of the room, but the two middle chairs of each were caution-taped off with scotch tape, so people could only sit on either end. 

After the mammogram—which is uncomfortable to begin with, but throw in wearing Jesse’s N-95 mask and it was downright obnoxious—I sat for another 20 minutes in the examination room and waited for the results. No magazines, no phone, only the hum of the radiology machine and the shwoosh of the waves that played in a relaxing nature video on the wall behind my head. 

I turned my chair around to have a better view of the waves and considered the strange and unexpected calm I had felt in my body since the moment I entered the hospital—in spite of the boob-smooshing mammo, uncomfortable mask, and being in very close proximity to other (highly exposed) nurses. 

My assessment: this was the affect of clear-enforced protocols. 

It made me think of how we, as a culture, have been children without a parent (or with one highly dysfunctional one) in this pandemic. We are given unclear rules that some of us follow, some of us rebel against, and that leaves everyone in a state of high-alert exhaustion and confusion.

The radiology tech returned and said, “It all looks great!” before promptly excusing herself so I could get dressed. What a fucking relief.

I slid my mask off and put in on the counter in order to put my shirt back on. Then, I realized what I had done, and lurched for it with a slow-motion grab—Nooooooo—and the peace and perspective I’d just been cultivating shattered in an instant. I was mortified.

But then, I wasn’t. 

I laughed, quiet but out loud. Softening with myself, at the utter inconceivability of getting it all right. The troubling impact of the hyper-germ-awareness boot camp we’ve all undergone over the last 6-weeks-plus was apparent. 

Then I thought of an image I saw in the Washington Post, of people on the beaches of Florida that reopened this week. One beach in particular was teeming with scantily clad people, holding beers and standing too close, and not a single mask in sight. It glared with the phrase FUCK IT ALL, WE’LL DO AS WE DAMN WELL PLEASE.

It makes me think of the kids at the park, back when we went to parks, who run amuck and fend for themselves while their parents are absorbed in their phones. Poor dears, scrambling for guidance.

[rael-rider]

Guardians of the Galaxy #6

Wow this was so lackluster and it started really OK but just fizzled out and had no point. Also me ranting so if this isn’t your cup of tea then steer clear. I do say one or two nice things about this though.

Why does Rich even need a fricking energy rifle to fight the Black Order? Who by the way he totally wrecked in their own mini (Oh and he suddenly forgot who Proxima was, Marvel editors where you at?). Yes I know about New Warriors vol 1 #17 but Rich was so much weaker back then and he couldn’t do energy blasts back then (unless he was absorbing energy) and they were fighting Terrax IIRC so it made sense at least at that time for him to have an energy rifle.

What the hell was the point of this story? Also all that attention given to Cosmic Ghost Rider that had little to nothing to do with the main story, most of the actual Guardians not doing anything until the very end. Just give Cates a Cosmic Ghost Rider ongoing with Knull, Wraith, and symbiote OCs.

Everyone saw the Thanos implanting himself on Eros thing and dismissed it as being too obvious. Now Cates tries to do it for laughs when he has Eros proclaim “Oooh it was too obvious” like what? That doesn’t excuse that shitty decision.

Hela did nothing and she jobbed in the end, Knowhere is gone (what will Cosmo do now), but for what reason? Why? Way to fricking use that stupid black hole gun as a quick way to end the story. I also love how everyone really forgot or didn’t give a shit about the heroes that were in the black hole “Oh yeah they died” and they never mattered.

Whatever was being set up between Gamora and Nebula didn’t mattered.

Phyla acting weird “Oh you silly boys” what? Also her and Moondragon need to have their own personalities again and be more defined since they’re just there in the book. How does Alt Heather’s powers work anyway? She had a pet dragon tattoo and now she makes random cool Dragons appear? Cosmic Ghost Rider said she was crazy powerful so at least build on that. How does Alt Phyla’s powers work? What happened to her sword? Why is she flying around like she’s Carol Danvers? Why is she using her Cosmic Awareness all the time? Or better yet bring back 616 Moondragon and Phyla-Vell and actually care about them.

Also that “I love you” from Peter towards Gamora is obviously meant to be  romantic and honestly it didn’t upset me because it was inevitable since comic writers do anything the movies do nowadays and I was expecting it. It’s so weird to me that Cates set Rich as the one Gamora has romantic feelings for when Nebula goes after him but then totally forgets about him. He really does because Rich doesn’t do much in this arc and wasn’t even allowed to have close moments with Peter and Gamora or even talk to them in any significant way. He doesn’t react even when Peter gets “killed” and he gives some buts when Peter is determined to save Gamora which is something very OOCs for him to do. If I was a new reader I would be asking myself why do Gamora and Star-Lord even care about him? They felt like casual acquaintances. But I guess the Rich and Gamora thing is now dropped, which I’m fine with it (wasn’t big into it when Bendis tried to bring it back out of the blue especially since Rich was in love with Namorita in Thanos Imperative) but I just hope this doesn’t lead to love triangle drama because it would be the perfect way to fuck up some good relationships for cheap drama and oh boy it’s going to happen huh?

In the beginning of this comic Peter has PTSD about Gamora killing him, he’s legit upset at her to the point he has anxiety attacks when he relieved the moment that she killed him. That some serious stuff and he’s justified in feeling that way since she drove a sword through him with the excuse of “I can just bring him back with the Infinity stones”. Now suddenly Peter is just like “I was just mad because after everything you did I still loved you” OK fine I can see that but at least build to that confession. Or at least have him say something along the lines of “I want you to know that I love you but I am also angry with you for murdering me” or something along those lines, don’t dismiss the fact that Peter was panicking about relieving that moment and being a wreck of a human being. I know Gamora wanted to talk to him in issue #4 but he wasn’t open to it and he’s honestly justified in feeling that way, again she killed him. It would be good if they dealt with that properly before they take their relationship even further but whatever, I don’t much care under this writer now.

Like I said if they’re going to have Peter and Gamora be a romantic couple just build to it but no writer ever really seems to care much about it.  Bendis who pulled the BFFs thing really didn’t care to build on why they were BFFs they just became besties behind the scenes (and why would he care to build on it because he already admitted he didn’t read anything that came before his own run). I did like Peter telling Gamora to take her time when she told him she was unsure of how she felt, which makes a lot of sense since she just killed him and wasn’t particularly remorseful about it and

Oh and Peter telling Gamora “No don’t kill Eros and stop Thanos from coming back because that makes you no better than he is” like what the fuck? The guy who was ready to die in the Cancerverse to make sure Thanos was perma dead and to keep him from coming back just said that? Get out. Peter would be OK with Gamora killing Eros especially since Eros tried to kill her for that same reason.

Peter’s speech about everyone being a Guardian while they were drinking in the bar was good.

Rich dodges being a Guardian once again. It’s obvious the real reason for the first time was because he had his own ongoing and this time it’s because of editorial and writer reasons. But I’m fine with it since it ads to my headcanon that he prefers to work solo. He never really followed Nova corps protocols either and got in trouble for that. Steve even had him as a reserve for his Secret Avengers because being Nova was his priority and kept him busy and he really couldn’t commit to that either. Doesn’t mean he can’t work as a team especially since he was the General of the United Front but remember that after Annihilation a bunch of races and planet figureheads wanted him to join up with them and he didn’t. He was also very cautious and hesitant in re-doing the Nova corps (but I think that involved so many other reasons). New Warriors being a special case which made a lot of sense considering who he was and at the point he was in his life.

But really Rich might as well not have been in this comic and honestly after reading this I am glad he isn’t permanently in it. Cates doesn’t get the character at all nor does he care about him. He’s obviously setting up something with Knull and using the cosmic characters for that end. Not to mention Ewing is supposedly planning something with Rich and Wendell and I’m glad he’s going to be written by someone who cares about him. Shame I can’t even have one good post-Cancerverse Peter and Rich talk or a good emotional moment between those two considering how much of a wreck Peter can be when depressed and all those times Rich just pushes him to safety only to go and do something dangerous himself (plus the importance for Peter to be there with Rich when Rich is facing his own end). But at least Duggan did show that Peter was upset about Rich popping back to the world of the living and not telling him although I expected him to be more emotional considering the state of things.

Oh and Rich is back to comic limbo I guess, at least until whatever Ewing is planning with him and Wendell happens. At least I’ll look forward to those two, I love their relationship and it seems Ewing set an interesting dynamic between them in the Annual.

[superparadise-ghost]

The Ghosts Can Sing, and They Ache to be Heard

hi!

this is available on ao3 if you’d like to read it there, I’d probably recommend that. you can bookmark it there!

this might be for you if you: like Drew Tanaka, wish Drew Tanaka got a redemption arc, like Halloween stories, like a hypothetical friendship between Drew Tanaka and Will Solace, uhhh like Drew Tanaka

this is probably not for you if: you do not like Drew Tanaka, in which case I respect your decision but also why

Description: "Ghosts can't sing."

But Drew is beginning to doubt that sentence. And she's beginning to doubt her memories of Silena Beauregard.

Or, Drew Tanaka keeps coming back to the same Halloween costume, despite how much she thinks she hates it, and she keeps hearing somebody sing Silena's old, favourite song, without anybody actually being there to sing such a melody...

Chapter: 1/6

Ghosts Can’t Sing

“Ghosts can’t sing. They don’t have any breath left, so they don’t have a voice.”

Drew doesn’t look up from her laptop at Lacy Liou’s argument. She’s too busy browsing mindlessly through Halloween costumes. She isn’t going to be buying one (she stitches fabric by hand every October), but she’s searching for inspiration.

One image shows a bad replica of Veronica Sawyer. Drew frowns thoughtfully, and jots Veronica, or Heather D? on her notepad. It sits beneath black swan.

“It’s a story, Lacy.” Piper Mclean’s voice sounds exasperated, tired. The distinct sound of a coin hitting wood rings in Drew’s ears. Piper curses. “Fuck. Now I can’t find it! That was a whole two dollars!”

“Maybe next time, don’t launch it at the ceiling,” Mitchell Plums suggests.

Drew’s cursor hovers over a picture of a doll costume. She purses her lips. She went as a doll two years ago, but… maybe she can pull it off again?

She scribbles the idea down.

“Anyway, Lacy, it’s a made-up story. Leo told me it. Haven’t you ever heard of ghost stories?” Drew finally looks up, feeling her neck creak with pain, to see Piper crawling around the floor, hands running over the wooden panels to feel for a coin.

“It’s a dumb story,” Lacy mumbles. She’s sitting on her bunk, legs dangling seven feet off the ground, kicking her feet back and forth slowly. Drew thinks her outfit is a little too Mean Girls for the year 2018—a pink-and-white chequered skirt, a pink turtleneck, a pink cap and white, appropriately-lacy socks.

“All ghost stories are dumb, Lace,” Drew says, closing her laptop. Her notepad is full enough that Drew can now make a comparison. “Especially any Leo Valdez tells.”

“Hey!” Piper pokes her head out from beneath her bed. “He may be an idiot, but he’s my idiot best friend. And the story wasn’t that dumb. Right, Mitch?”

Mitchell stays quiet, and Drew can see him pretending he can’t hear the girls bickering.

“So, I wasn’t listening.” Drew tucks her laptop beneath her bed and ignores Piper’s comment of ‘to nobody’s surprise’. “What was the story?”

“I can’t be bothered to repeat it now,” Piper sighs. “The main idea is that there’s this boy, and his brother, who always sang some song, dies in a car crash. And the boy lives his life in mourning and one day, while he’s in the shower, he hears a muffled singing. He gets out of the shower to look, nobody’s there. It happens a few more times until this guy just fucking rips open the shower curtains to see who it is, and it’s the ghost of his brother.”

“Spooky,” Drew drawls, and smirks. Piper rolls her eyes.

“Well, if you want to yell at someone for the story, go talk to Leo,” she says, sitting up on her knees, a dusty coin in her hand. “Ha! I found it after all. Suck on that, Fates.”

“Yeah, actually, I might go do that,” Drew says. She swings her legs off the bed and stands up, stretching. Her red Chuck Taylors thud on the floor. Piper blanches.

“Wait, what? Hold on, Drew, wait, I was kidding, I—”

“Bye, love!” Drew makes sure her red skirt swishes when she turns around—it’s a habit. “If Leo isn’t at dinner, you know why!”

She exits the cabin as Piper yells, Lacy snorts with laughter and Mitchell gasps.

The day is… fine, Drew supposes. There’s little cloud cover, and the sun is just sitting over the horizon, ready to set, dying the sky a golden shade of orange. There’s a breeze, but it’s only just cold enough to separate the weather from a Spring day. Birds are chirping somewhere in the woods, and if Drew strains to hear over kids squealing and Sherman Yang bellowing for a fight, she can hear the water nymphs gossiping.

But Drew’s never been a fan of Autumn. She much prefers Summer, when she can jump into the lake with her clothes on and nobody will whisper that’s not a very preppy thing to do behind her back. When she doesn’t have to bother with wearing a sweater, and wondering what time she’ll have to shed it, and when she’ll have to pull it back on.

Oh, well. She’s not Zeus.

Drew looks around camp. She’s not going to go make fun of Leo—she never was. She just wanted to go outside before it got too cold to do so in a skirt. But now, she’s not too sure where to go. Perhaps she can just go for a walk around camp, listening for some rumours she can either debunk or pull to the surface. Or she can head to the archery range, watch Bella Swarchovski practise her shooting (the girl had some biceps, Drew wasn’t ashamed to admit she thought she was cute). Maybe she could even pick up a spear and train for a bit, run the stick through some dummies.

Her eyes drift to the big house, where somebody’s blaring The 1975 so loudly it hurts to even try and think over it.

She knows who’s in there, making such a ruckus. She might as well go convince him to turn it down.

Drew feels dry leaves skate on her calves as she wipes her feet on the doormat of the big house. They feel like the breath of a vampire—dry and coarse. She shudders, and walks inside.

The music is ten times louder now, and she can see the culprit. Honestly, to not see him would require absolutely no vision; nobody can miss a mop of curly blond hair, or a six-foot figure that dances like he can’t even walk, or a bright orange set of scrubs. Drew almost wishes she wasn’t even friends with this boy.

“WILL!” She screams to be heard over the music. Will Solace doesn’t seem to hear. He continues to jump around while cutting bandages, which, Drew presumes, is totally not proper safety protocol. “WILL SOLACE!”

Finally, Will freezes, and turns around. In one hand, he holds a pair of scissors, open and very sharp. In the other, a roll of bandages. A paper sticker with his name in messy handwriting, spelled with three Ls, is stuck to the pocket of his scrubs. He grins, and waves at Drew.

“Hey Drew!” He shouts. “What’s up?”

“Your music volume? Turn it down, dude!”

Will’s eyebrows scrunch together in a way Drew may have once found endearing and attractive. He dials the volume knob on his old radio to the left and bites his lip sheepishly.

“Better?” He asks. Drew chuckles.

“So much better. Now I can hear myself think.”

Will’s blue eyes convey too many emotions for Drew to keep up with. They’re always like that—they swirl and flicker like stars, matching the constellations of freckles all over his skin. He sets down the bandages and scissors and beckons Drew over.

“So what brings you to the infirmary? Other than the music, I mean.” Will prods a cupboard door shut with his foot. Drew wanders forward, picking up a framed polaroid photo on her way.

It’s a photo from last year’s Halloween party, hosted by the Aphrodite cabin, as usual. Drew’s wearing an elaborate fae costume she’d designed from scratch, all detailed and shimmery gold. She’s rather proud of that costume.

On the left of past-Drew, Will has one arm around Nico di Angelo, and one around Lou Ellen Blackstone. He grins with horribly fake vampire teeth, a set to go with his costume. To Drew’s right, Cecil Markowitz is wearing a crown made of glowsticks and sticking out his tongue.

“We need a better photo this year,” Drew says, setting the phot back down and turning back to Will, who nods cheerfully.

“Oh, yeah. I have a much better costume this year, and I’ve even convinced Nico to dress up. I hope your cabin can make the party as good as ever.”

“We’ll go above and beyond, Solace,” Drew promises, falling into a spinning chair and using her toes to push herself around. “As long as you guys can get a good playlist. Can I know your costume?”

“You cannot!” Will snips one last bandage and collapses on a cot, sprawled out like some long-ass octopus. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

“Shame.” Drew twirls her hair between her fingers, watches as the sun sends glowing, faint rays through the window and Will subconsciously absorbs it into his skin. His eyes seem to glow a little brighter. “I was going to ask for help on what I should go as.”

“I can still help!” Will exclaims. Drew tries not to laugh at the excitement in his voice. “Look, do you have a list? Because I already came up with some ideas, like, what about the girl from The Ring?”

“Samara?”

“Yeah, her! Or Edna, from The Incredibles.”

“I’m not going as her!” Drew bursts, watching Will cackle. “I’m way too tall!”

“I know, I know, I was kidding.” Will gulps down some water from a glass next to the cot. “In all seriousness, though, do you have any ideas?”

“Um…” Drew screws up her nose and tries to think back to her notepad. It’s only been a few minutes ago that she’d looked at it, but her ADHD makes her memory about as good as a goldfish’s. “Well, I know Veronica Sawyer was on it. Or Heather Duke. And, um… Wednesday Addams?”

Will nods sensibly, like he’s in the middle of a meeting, and drums his fingers on his knees to the tune of whatever song is playing now. Drew knows for sure that a black swan ballet dancer was on there, but for some reason, she feels hesitant to s it. Perhaps it’s because that had always been something Silena had suggested she’d go as when she grew older.

The comment has always bothered Drew—the black swan was the villain of Swan Lake’s story, the one who pushed Odette to her death. It wasn’t fair that Silena always saw Drew as the villain, the ‘bad girl’ who’s only motive was lust.

It especially wasn’t fair that Silena turned out to be the traitor, the sister who got so many killed. The sister who always dressed as the white swan.

And yet… the pull of the black swan costume is strong. Drew hates how appealing the idea of going in such a costume is.

“I think Veronica’s a good idea,” Will finally says, snapping Drew from her bitter memories. “I mean, her side of the story is much creepier and more disturbing than Duke’s.”

“Mhm.” Drew is only half listening. And Duke is the villain. “And, like, there’s a whole list. We’ll give it a look-over tomorrow?”

It’s a question. Lately, Will’s been pretty busy looking after his little sister, Tess, who has influenza. And, of course, he’s always on dates with Nico.

“Yeah, come and meet me at archery range at about noon!” Will glances outside, and Drew follows his gaze. The sun has finally set—time for dinner. Time to go help Piper wrangle their siblings.

“Will do.” Drew stands up and blows a kiss to Will, who pretends to catch it and grins. “See you tomorrow, love. Tell Tess I hope she gets better soon.”

When Drew arrives back at the Aphrodite cabin, her siblings are lined up, chatting about Halloween and the pumpkins they’ll carve and the costumes they’ll wear. Drew tells Piper she’ll catch up to them at the dining pavilion, if she wants to take them all now. Piper nods and herds everybody outside, leaving Drew alone with her notebook in hand.

She hesitates, but once she starts to scratch out black swan, she can’t stop. She scribbles furiously, feeling her heart clench and not stopping until she rips the paper with a harsh hiss.

[fuck-bowers]

Opposites Attract (Henry Bowers x Reader)

request: the reader is really shy (like me) and she has a huge crush on Henry. Henry finds out one day that she has a crush on him, and he teases and flirts with her and does sexual things to her until he gets her to crack and admit her feelings for him. then Henry asks her to be his girlfriend.

a/n: thank you for the request @kaitlinp0rrini, and I hope you enjoy it! this is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever written

It all started when Clark Freeman, number 52 on the Derry High football team, got tripped by Henry Bowers in the first floor hallway in between class periods five and six. You’d been standing by your locker, organizing your papers for science class, when you saw it go down.

Clark was a complete asshole, not only to you, but to everybody around him, one of those popular jocks who thrived on thinking the world revolved around him. No one had ever challenged that idea before. Henry seemed to take it into his own hands to fulfill such a task single-handedly, while walking towards the cocky quarterback one fateful Monday afternoon.

You’d heard a rumor that the whole football team had a secret fear of the Bowers gang, a club of four delinquents that made games out of terrorizing their peers. You’d never thought much of them, until you turned around and saw a flash of a letterman jacket fly to the floor before you.

Clark gasped as he turned around to see the perpetrator of the crime - Henry Bowers in the flesh, turning around to look at his victim with a sneer.

You froze, anticipating to be in the VIP section of the fight of the century, but saw nothing of the sort transpire.

Clark scrambled to his feet, keeping his eyes on Henry, giving a death glare that was undermined by his body language.

“You wanna fuckin’ go, Bowers?” He asked, though it seemed he didn’t want to know the answer, as he scurried away without another look behind him.

You couldn’t help but start to laugh. It wasn’t something you did often - you were extremely shy, and hated drawing too much attention to yourself. However, it was just too funny. You fucking hated a majority of the football team, it was chock-full of assholes like Clark. Finally, you saw one of them get a taste of their own medicine.

The other witnesses around you looked just as shocked, just as amused, but you were the only one to outright laugh, granting you the momentarily undivided attention of Henry himself.

His eyes locked with yours, and before you could nervously look away, he spoke.

“Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?” Henry questioned with the ghost of a smile. Your eyes widened as his scanned over you, making eye contact once again before stalking off.

That’s all it took for you to develop a crush on the most dangerous boy in school.

Patrick Hockstetter loved people watching.

People watching at Derry High was like studying an ant farm. Students and teachers scattered mindlessly wherever they needed to go, and interacted with each other for arbitrary reasons, and all looked so normal until you picked just one to study and tried to figure out its motives.

Of course, it was never very hard to do, but it was a way to pass the time far better than paying attention to the teacher.

One day in science class, Patrick picked you as a specimen.

Quiet people were usually the most interesting to watch, and were always the best fucks - you were even one of the more attractive girls in that class - but the potential of developing even remote interest in you hinged on whether or not you were entertaining to observe.

You were very entertaining, much more than he anticipated, but not because of your unconscious mannerisms - you’d kept your eyes on Henry for a majority of the class period.

Henry attracted many girls, but Patrick noticed that they were a particular type of girl. The loud, raucous ones, or the dangerous, wild ones made up his fan club. Very rarely would the quiet librarian type develop feelings for him, or at least make it as obvious as you made it, without using words.

Only at the end of class did you turn and notice Patrick staring at you one row over. Face reddening, you looked down as the bell rang, folding your textbook into your arms and walking out of the classroom in a rush.

Henry approached Patrick, hands in his pockets.

“We goin’ downtown today?” He asked, apparently completely oblivious of how you’d stared at him all period. Patrick smiled slyly.

“Sure thing, Henry.”

Patrick intended on telling about you later that night, but that evening he’d completely forgot by the time the Bowers gang was huddled around a table at Barry’s Burgers, and it had completely slipped his mind.

“You guys should’ve fucking seen it.” Henry laughed, taking a bite of his burger. “He fell like a ton of fucking bricks, and ran the fuck away like the pussy he is. It was hilarious.”

The guys laughed with him.

“I would’ve fucking paid to see that. Did any teachers catch you? They basically worship the football team.” Vic sarcastically questioned.

Henry shook his head. “Not this time. Thank fuck. I’ve had enough bad shit with teachers.”

“You had an audience though, right?”

A nod. “Yeah, everyone looked fucking thankful I did it. This girl from my chem class burst out laughing when I did it, like, loud, and she’s one of those quiet girls. He must’ve fucked her over or something.”

Patrick immediately perked up.

“What?”

Henry blinked, taking another bite before his reply and talking as he chewed. “Everyone was happy I tripped that little bitch. You guys should’ve been there. It was like, two months ago.”

“You said a girl was there?”

Henry smiled when he thought of you. He swallowed.

“Yeah, I think her name is Y/N? She’s in our science class. She was there when I tripped him, and she laughed out loud about it. He must’ve fucked her over or something. Or she just hates him like everyone else. Surprised more people didn’t laugh. He’s such a dick.”

Patrick smiled.

“That’s interesting.”

Henry scoffed. “What, have you met Clark? Cuz-”

“Do you like that girl?”

Henry had thought you were hot since the beginning of the year, but had a feeling you were one of those out-of-reach girls, either with a boyfriend, or with standards too high for the head of the Bowers gang, much less any of the other members. Henry rarely attracted shy girls, and he was positive that he’d never heard a single peep out of you before the day he tripped Clark.

“She’s a babe.” Henry said, furrowing his brow at Patrick. “Why?”

Patrick had gained the attention of Vic and Belch, and the whole table stared at him.

“That girl’s totally in love with you. She spent the whole fucking period today staring at you.”

Henry blinked, perplexed, trying to imagine you doing such a thing without him noticing.

“How the fuck would you know?” He asked, nearly insulted.

“I had nothing to fuckin’ do, and I looked around the room and I saw she was fucking staring at you, like, the whole period. Like a freak.”

“Don’t fucking insult her man, you’re a freak.”

“Fuck you.“

Henry had already known about Patrick’s tendency to people-watch. Maybe he was telling the truth. There was no reason for him to lie anyway, and Henry had caught you looking at him a few times.

As Vic and Belch picked up a conversation, the gears in Henry’s head began to turn, and he smiled, turning to his best friend.

“Well, thanks, Pat. I think I’ll put it to the test.”

Patrick rolled his eyes. “You really don’t fuckin’ trust me?”

“I do. I just wanna see how right you are.”

It was perfect, it really was - on most days, you’d sit with desks about two feet apart. On testing days, they’d be even farther apart, sometimes positioned in random opposing directions - but due to an upcoming project, Mrs. Baxter was sure to separate people into partners for the week ahead. Fifteen minutes before the end of class that Friday, Mrs. Baxter began her weekly process.

The two of you had never been paired before. Henry knew full well it was time to strike.

“I think I’ll pair you with Roger this week, Calvin… and Y/N…” the teacher glanced around the room, until she spotted Henry with raised eyebrows, as well as a raised hand.

“Yes, Henry?”

“I’ll be her partner.” He volunteered.

Your heart nearly did a backflip. What was he doing?

Though it caught you off guard, you weren’t about to turn down such an offer.

You swallowed and nodded at a crossed-brow Mrs. Baxter.

“Yeah. We’ve never been partnered up before.” You added. Henry shot a smug glance at you from the back of the room.

“Alright.” She said, moving onto the next student.

It was the protocol to go to your partner and talk about the study guide, start going over the first page if you had the time. As you turned to look at the boy you’d been partnered with, it seemed that he wasn’t going anywhere. You’d have to go to him.

You stood up, your textbook and your notebook wrapped in your arms, nervously walking towards his seat in the last row. You passed Patrick Hockstetter, who wore quite an ominous smirk, staring at you intently. Shifting your gaze to the floor, you continued, looking up only once more to see Henry.

His stare sent waves of butterflies through your stomach, blue eyes bearing the same sly grin that his lips did. He probably loved how nervous you were.

The end of class was near. You could do this.

For a minute, neither of you spoke. Mrs. Baxter reminded everyone of the test date, the material being tested on, and asked everyone to become familiar with their partner and inquire about study sessions outside of class, if possible. No one ever met up for science studies.

Finally, it was silent, and she momentarily left the room, everyone breaking into conversation.

Another moment passed, your mind racing for something to say, wondering if you should say anything at all. That’s when he spoke.

“My friend Patrick said you stare at me a lot in class.”

It felt like your ribs caught fire. You stared down at your paper, embarrassment washing over you. Thanks for that, Patrick.

You swallowed before speaking, organizing your messy thoughts, flipping open your notebook to distract yourself.

You could feel him staring at you merely inches away.

“W-Well, I don’t. He must’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else.”

Henry leaned back in his seat. “You can admit it, babe, a lot of girls are obsessed with me.”

Immediately, you scoffed, underlining sentences of your notes randomly. You refused to look at him.

“I’m not obsessed with you.” You quietly remarked.

“Then why do you stare at me in class?”

You shrugged. “Patrick lied to you.”

“Why would he lie about that?”

You finally turned to him, and your anger was offset by his jovial, entertained expression.

“Patrick is crazy.” You said, as-a-matter-of-factly.

Henry cocked an eyebrow, looking at his nails. 

“I dunno, Y/N. Crazy people stare at other people in class. I’ve never caught Patrick staring at me.”

You let out a sarcastic laugh. “He was staring at me the other day!”

Henry smirked. “Sounds like a match made in heaven. Two crazy people.”

The boy looked at your lips, making you nervous all over again. You turned back to your notes and flipped open the study guide.

“You don’t talk too much, do you?” He teased in a low voice. His voice turned you on.

You hesitated a moment before replying. “You never talk in this class, either.”

“Well, I fucking hate science. Is that your excuse, too?”

The fact that the guy you’d developed a crush on months ago was finally flirting with you now was a high you’d ride out until it died.

“Yeah, science sucks. But… I mean, my friends all say I’m shy. So I guess I really am just shy.”

After a moment of hesitation, you suddenly felt his hand on your knee.

Goosebumps spread over your skin, from your legs up to your back. Henry smiled at you, tracing his nails over your kneecap.

“You’re not being too shy with me, today.” He said.

Your cheeks must’ve been bright red, your heart beating a million miles per hour.

“Neither are you.” You nervously joked.

Mrs. Baxter had left the room. None of the kids facing forward remotely seemed to notice Henry’s advances. At least you didn’t have an audience.

His fingertips gently trailed up your thigh, going further up and further inside. He tightly grasped your leg, making you gasp.

You put your elbow on the table and rested your face against your hand, covering your face from his view.

“I can’t help myself. You’re so fucking hot.”

The compliment made your heart flutter, but also put a bad taste in your mouth. He was probably one of the boys you’d been warned about by your parents and the TV shows - saying anything to butter you up and get in your pants.

Please let the bell ring, you mentally pleaded with the clock on the wall, edging closer to the end of class, his fingers edging the hem of your skirt.

Though part of you absolutely loved the attention, the pursuit from the guy you’d wanted it from most, you were so nervous, so unsure of what to do. Mrs. Baxter reentered the room, and seemed completely oblivious, sitting down at her desk. She was probably used to ignoring Henry.

“Why are you doing this?” You asked, in a nervous yet enthused, moving your arm back down to rest on the table. You didn’t have to look at him to know that he was smiling.

“Cuz I know you like me.”

You rolled your eyes, still turned away from him. “I told you Patrick was lying.”

“Even if he was, I know you still like me.”

You finally turned to look at him.

“How?” You sarcastically questioned. He answered you very simply.

“Because opposites attract, sweetheart.”

Your nerves were at an all time high as he gently moved his hand in between your thighs, ever so slowly, the eye contact single-handedly killing you - right as the bell rang.

“The study guide is due Monday!” Mrs. Baxter said, almost pleading, as the room broke into loud conversation and laughter. In the midst of it all, you quickly stood up, grabbing your books and walking away with them in a rush. Your only goal was to get out of the school as fast as possible, leaving Henry in the dust.

You felt scared, so exhilarated, and you knew there was no real reason for it - but he was too bold, too terrifying, to have anything to do with you.

You threw your books into your backpack and speed-walked out the door, melting into the throng of students moving through the hallway. Within minutes of urgently flowing through the crowd, you made it out the front doors, and finally you felt the first waves of calm. That was, until someone gripped your shoulder.

“Y/N!” Henry Bowers groaned, in an exasperated tone. You nearly jumped, turning around with wide eyes to see him. He was breathing heavily.

“I’m sorry.” He said.

You didn’t expect him to follow you. For a moment, you just stared at him.

“For what?” You asked.

“I think I scared you off.”

You took in a slow breath, unsure of how to phrase your concern.

“I like you, Henry. I just think we’re too different.”

Other students passed by, but the two of you barely noticed, completely focused on the other.

“Sure, we’re pretty different, but it’d be boring if we were the same.”

You looked up at him, blinking in the sunlight. He stepped closer.

“I like you. A lot. And if Patrick wasn’t lying about you starin’ at me, I wanna take a chance on that.”

He smiled, putting his hands into his pockets. You were surprised how he seemed so… Nervous.

“Do you…” He picked up his gaze from the ground and looked at you. “Do you wanna go out?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, hiding all signs of mental explosion that you experienced.

“You mean, hang out after school to study for our test?” You coyly questioned, cocking an eyebrow, unable to hide your growing grin.

“Do you wanna be my girlfriend?” He finally asked, smiling back at you.

He was bold, he was terrifying, but you couldn’t say you didn’t like those things about him. It was true - you had no idea how well you'd do on the test - but you knew for sure in that moment, he’d proven to you that opposites attract.

Holding eye contact, the two of you beamed at each other.

“Of course.” You quietly replied.

[elletromil]

It triggers itself in my thoughts - Part 2 of 3

So at one point I figure I’ll finish some of those wips that are floating around on my blog. Probably. Lets see if I can finish at least 3 by the end of the summer. I have a total of 0 so far.

This is a fix-it of K2, but of course there must be angst first. When I first started thinking about this last year, I thought only the first part would be very angsty, but apparently, Percy wanted his share of the pain. So yeah. Angst ahead peeps, you’ve been warned.

As always for my wonderful @insanereddragon​ because she was the one I first talk about this story with many months ago

It triggers itself in my thoughts

Part 1

Part 2

It takes nearly a full month before they get back to London.

Merlin would have preferred to leave Kentucky as soon as they averted Poppygeddon, but even if Ginger had made quick work of his first pair of prosthetic legs, she had refused to let him go before he was given the all clear by the medical team.

And even with it, he knows she isn’t too happy with how much of a hurry they ended leaving.

If it wasn’t for the promise she has extracted from Harry and Eggsy to no let him out of their sight until she and Tequila can join them in London, Merlin’s pretty sure he’d still be stuck at Statesman infirmary.

It’s… frustrating, but he knows better than to get angry at her.

In fact, he’ll probably thank her for it in a year or two.

And he won’t ever admit it out loud, but he’s grateful for Harry and Eggsy’s presence when he steps in his house for the first time since Poppy targeted Kingsman.

After that first day, it had been easy to simply not think about everything that he had lost. Now that he’s back in his empty and unusually dusty home, there’s no denying the truth anymore.

His family is dead and he’s the one who failed to protect them.

He starts thinking that he shouldn’t have insisted of coming here instead of going to a hotel like Harry had wanted to. At least there, no ghosts would be standing at every corner to shame him.

Before he can have a panic attack however, Harry presses a warm hand against his lower back, grounding him into the present and reminding him that he’s not alone.

When he turns though, neither of his friends are looking at him, respecting his need to face his grief and guilt on his own. If he hadn’t already been on the verge of crying, that would have been enough to bring him to tears.

“You should take the first shower guv’, Harry can show me around.”

He nods in agreement even if Eggsy cannot see the gesture and then somehow he’s in the bathroom.

Just how exactly he came to stand there, naked back against the door as he stares blindly at the running shower he’ll never remember it. Why did he even turn it on and why he didn’t step in, he’ll never know either. Much like he’ll never know why exactly he didn’t lock the door.

What he remembers vividly however is the door being flung open, which in turn sends him sprawling onto the floor and a near frantic Eggsy bursting into the room.

“Merlin, Merlin! We need to go, now!”

Already he’s helping him off of the floor and tugging him out of the bathroom, not bothered by the fact that Merlin is as naked as the day he was born in the slightest. And usually, Merlin would protest, but his heart is already hammering away as his imagination runs wild with the possibilities of what could be currently happening.

Thankfully, they’re stopped in the middle of the corridor by a somewhat calmer Harry, though Merlin knows him well enough to see the giddiness he’s trying to conceal.

“Here, get dressed, Eggsy and I will procure a car.” Merlin takes the clothes Harry is offering him and before he can ask what the fuck is going on, he’s dragged into a bone-crushing hug. “They’re alive Merlin. Richard and Roxy- they- they’re alive.”

*

Merlin, it’s me.

I made it out alright. I’m not sure if the regular channels have been compromised or not.

I’ll be heading to the manor.

~

Merlin, it’s me again.

I guess the regular channels can’t be compromised if they don’t exist anymore.

I’ll try and see if anyone made it to the bunkers.

~

Merlin, it’s me.

Roxy-

Roxy is fine mostly, but she’s not waking up.

We’re in the usual hospital. Guess I should have started with that.

I’ll stay there if you need to reach me.

~

Merlin, it’s still me.

Roxy hasn’t woken up yet. The hospital sent me home and I went to James’ old safe house. So that’s now two places for you to check if you’re looking for me.

I thought of going- of going home but it’s farther from the hospital than this place is… And that way, I can still believe that if the answering machine is still working, the house is still standing too…

I noticed something strange on my way here, but maybe it’s just the exhaustion. There’s no such thing as a blue rash, right?

Anyway… You know where to find me.

~

Merlin, it’s me.

I guess there really is such a thing as a blue rash… And now I know you’re too busy stopping that maniac and that’s why you’re not calling me back.

You’re probably in Germany with Amelia and all the other Knights that survived, working hard to save the world.

I- I’d come if I could, you know that right?

But Roxy… Roxy’s still sleeping.

I can’t leave her.

~

Merlin, it’s me.

Amelia came by today.

Our quarters in Germany got compromised, but they’ve relocated somewhere new. Somewhere safe. She’s making the rounds now, to find any surviving Kingsman.

She… She hasn’t heard from you.

But she said someone followed Doomsday Protocol and so, she’s not worried. I didn’t even know it existed, so I guess I’ll trust her.

They’re working on helping Poppy’s victims, but I don’t think it’s going well…

I’m sure that wherever you are, you’re faring better. You’ll raise so much hell darling, that monster won’t know what’s coming.

Call me soon.

~

Merlin, it’s me.

It’s been a week since Poppy got stopped. We just aren’t sure by whom.

You still haven’t contacted anyone.

I’m… I’m worried darling.

Amelia is going back to Germany soon. She’ll make the arrangements so that we can move Roxy closer to the new headquarters.

She’s… She’s still sleeping.

I’ll be leaving with Roxy when they’re ready for her.

Call me back.

Please.

~

Merlin, it’s me.

Amelia called and we should be leaving next Friday for Germany.

Maybe the change of scenery will be good for Roxy and she’ll wake up. Your daughter is one lazy girl, you know. She’s still sleeping and letting me and Amelia do all the work.

I think-

I think it’s the last time I’ll call.

I miss you darling.

I love you.

We’ll meet again in the next life, yeah?

[illumynare]

Red vs Blue Fic: Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

Summary: Wash knows all about second chances, and how easy they are to lose. After Sidewinder, he knows only one thing for sure: he can't be crazy.

And that means he can't sleep.

Parings: None. Warnings: Canon-typical language, mentions of self-harm, excruciatingly self-indulgent hurt/comfort.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

This was inspired by a conversation with @zalia and @whimsical-writer, and some of their lovely ideas. Also, Aki suggested the photos. Thanks, guys. ♥

Wash knows all about second chances.

That moment when the world opens up, turns over, and everything changes. That dizzying gasp of hope, like fingers loosing from your throat, ecstasy mixed with the sickening knowledge that you can't fuck this up, because you're a soldier now, you're a Freelancer now, you're—

Blue Team leader now.

Wash has never escaped anything except by the skin of his teeth. He was three weeks at boot camp when his homeworld got glassed. He was a breath away from a firing squad when Freelancer recruited him.

He was one suit of armor and a chorus of bad lies away from going back to prison.

Those first two fresh starts were so easily lost. Wash knows his place on Blue Team is just as fragile.

I'm done, he told Sarge, and let himself collapse into the snow of Sidewinder. And he'd really thought he was done. That he was ready to lie down and stop. But then Tucker and Caboose hauled him up, put him in the armor of their friend he'd done his best to destroy, and as soon as Wash took his first breaths through the new helmet, he was shaking with desperation to keep ahold of his final second chance.

But he still doesn't know how.

He knew what it meant to be a good soldier. He knew (too well) what it meant to be a good Freelancer. He's used to rules and structure, harsh expectations and demerits. To being told exactly how close he is to fucking up beyond repair.

He doesn't have the faintest idea how to be a good Blue Team leader.

The first few days, Wash feels like he's in free-fall. He gets them a jeep, he leads them away from Sidewinder, he gets them to the nearest Simulation Trooper base. (The Reds, no surprise, are next door immediately.) And he knows that's right, it has to be—

But then he's sitting at the kitchen table while Tucker works the coffee machine and Caboose eats peanut butter with a spoon.

"So, fearless leader, you got any more orders?" Tucker asks, sounding faintly resentful, and Wash's mouth goes dry, because he just. Doesn't. Know.

"What's standard mission protocol?" he asks.

"The fuck?"

"You have a mission." Wash's head is aching—he's hardly slept since Sidewinder—he hardly slept before Sidewinder—but he can sleep later. Once he knows what to do. Determinedly, he goes on, "Capture the Red Flag. That's your mission. You have a standard protocol, right?"

"Wellll . . . " Caboose draws out the word. "We used to have a protocol, but then it got wet, so we don't use it very much anymore."

Tucker shrugs. "Mostly, we just stand around and bitch. Or bang Sister, but she's not around anymore."

"Wait, what?" Wash stares at him. He can think of five different ways to interpret that sentence, and he's still trying to think of literally anything else it could mean.

"Oh yeah!" says Tucker, and grins. "Also, Blue Team leader has to change Caboose's underwear every day. It's a rule."

"I don't like that rule," Caboose mutters.

"Yeah, when Caboose and I went on that quest to fulfill the prophecy together, I had to take over for Church, and let me tell you, that was worse than getting knocked up and going into labor."

Wash lays his head down on the table.

He ends up leading them on a raid of Red Base, and it goes okay, they capture the flag, he knows that's the goal for Sim Troopers, it has to be okay.

"Man, Church was never this much of a hardass," Tucker complains as they march back into Blue Base.

"We just won, Private Tucker," Wash reminds him, and then his heart pounds for the next ten minutes because it doesn't matter that he's the leader, if Tucker decides he's had enough—

Wash breathes slowly, in and out, and slowly rolls his fingers into fists, one-two-three-four-five, before releasing them.

There's one thing Wash knows for sure: he can't be crazy.

There's no Article 12 on Blue Team. They don't have any hospitals where they can stash a broken soldier until he screams out his nightmares and learns how to stop clawing open his own skin. If they don't want him anymore, they'll call the UNSC. (Maybe they're calling them now.)

Wash has to get this right the first time.

He thinks he can do it. He's been convincing people he was sane for years. Even when he was in prison, and it felt like the walls were continually crawling towards him, he still held it together.

But something seems to have broken in him with they fought the Meta. When he said, I'm done, and threw away everything to help this stupid, senseless team. Wash goes to sleep that first night in Blue Base, and he dreams that his blood is turning into cold wires and circuits beneath his skin, and he's locked up somewhere small and dark as the memories rattle around in his head, you killed them you killed them, faster and faster, it's your fault your fault, and his teeth buzz and he can't breathe AllisonAllisonAllison—

make(){ it.STOP(); }

Wash wakes up, and barely manages to stumble into the bathroom before he vomits.

When he's done, he leans his elbows on the toilet seat and shakes. He wants to peel open the skin of his arms and check for wires. The bile burns in his throat and his nose like ones and zeroes.

But he can't go crazy again. He can't.

The day after, he twitches at every noise. Caboose appears silently behind him, and Wash has a knife to his throat before he can even think. A moment after, he's stumbling back, putting his knife away, thinking, how could you how could you how could you = alert() { error; error; error; }

The next night, he tries to sleep. He dreams that he's made of numbers and wires, and he wakes up screaming and trying to claw at his arms through his kevlar undersuit.

He decides: he can't sleep again.

He can't.

It makes perfect sense.

There are stim pills stored in his suit, but for now, coffee is enough. Coffee and knowing what will happen if he fucks up again. Wash can't go back to prison, he can't let me out let me out let me out—

Caboose gets ahold of the coffee maker and jams coffee grounds into every crevice. Tucker whines for twenty minutes, but Wash finds himself secretly grateful. It's kind of soothing, taking the machine apart and cleaning each piece.

If only he could be taken apart, cleaned, reformed—

He thinks again about peeling up his skin to check for wires again, and swallows. That's crazy. He's not allowed to do that. Normal people don't need to do that.

When he finishes cleaning the coffeemaker, he takes it apart and washes it two more times, just to be sure. Just to enjoy that feeling of gritty, ruined pieces becoming whole again.

Tucker doesn't like Wash.

Like, at all.

They drag the fucker back from Sidewinder because Caboose wants him, and Tucker… well, he's feeling guilty that he didn't stop either version of Church from destroying himself up on a pointless crusade. Letting Caboose adopt a Freelancer seems like the least he can do.

It also seems like a terrible idea.

Agent Washington is pale and twitchy and only gets worse on further acquaintance. He has an empty, mindless stare, and absolutely no sense of humor, and a way of saying. "I'm fine, Private Tucker," that makes Tucker want to punch him in the face.

He also doesn't sleep.

It takes Tucker a while to work that out, once they find a new base and settle down. Tucker has other things to think about, like sending a properly encoded message to Junior. He isn't ever letting a C.O. and his baggage get between him and his son again.

But at a certain point, Tucker notices: Wash doesn't sleep.

Like, ever.

It's kind of creepy, and also kind of dumb. Church didn't sleep, but that's because he was a ghost. AI. Whatever.

Wash doesn't sleep because he's a . . . crazy Freelancer?

"Dude, if you don't sleep, you'll go crazy," he says, and Wash fixes him with a hollow stare.

"I'm totally, completely sane," he says, like it's something he's said a hundred times before. Maybe it is. If Tucker went around acting that weird, he'd probably have to tell people he was sane all the time as well.

Wash helps them capture the Red Team flag four days in a row, and that's nice, but it doesn't change the fact that this fucker killed Donut and Church, and Tucker isn't ready to forgive that ever, ever.

But he also isn't ready when Wash falls asleep on him.

It happens near the end of the first week. Wash has been . . . honestly, the craziest Tucker has ever seen him, starting at nothing and staring at the corners of the room and scratching at his arms in a way that sets Tucker's teeth on edge.

When Tucker's sitting on the rec room couch and Wash asks him, "What are you looking at?" Tucker rolls his eyes and says, "Stolen ONI secrets beamed to me by the Insurrection, duh."

And Wash flinches, the way he does when something reminds him of Project Freelancer. (Tucker hates that he's already nearly fluent in Agent Washington flinches. He hates it just as much as he hated being fluent in the different ways Church would screech or sigh or mutter I'm going to kill myself, I'm going to kill myself, and FUCK YOU, CHURCH—)

"I'm looking at pictures of Junior, geez." Tucker tilts up the tablet so Wash can catch a glimpse. "You can come check it out if you want."

To his surprise, Wash does. He sits down beside Tucker and leans over his shoulder and says, in a baffled voice, "He looks like a normal Elite."

"Hey, Junior's better than normal," Tucker says indignantly. "Top of his class, and he made the basketball team." He swipes the screen to another picture. "Aw, yeah, here he is at his third grade graduation."

It's not that Tucker wants to share anything with Wash, it's just that he understands what it means for Junior to attend a private academy for the kids of UNSC officers (unlike Caboose) and he doesn't mutter kill it with fire (unlike Church). So Tucker shows him the pictures from Junior's school play—his son got cast as Romeo, fuck yeah of course he did—and then, since Wash isn't trying to escape, he starts showing him the pictures from when they were on Sanghelios together.

And he's aware that Wash has started leaning on him kind of heavily, and it's weird, but honestly Tucker doesn't care, because he hasn't gotten a chance to talk about Junior in so long. Until suddenly he realizes—

Wash is sleeping.

Mouth open, face slack. The crazy ex-Freelancer is leaning against him and sleeping, and making little snuffling noises like a normal person who hasn't killed two of Tucker's friends.

Tucker thinks, What the fuck.

And then doesn't move for twenty minutes, until Wash snorts suddenly, stands up, and stumbles away without a word.

Fucking lunatic.

If he isn't good enough, they'll send him back.

Wash knows that, he's always known that, it's been the rule of every family he ever had. And he's always failed and he thinks he's going to fail again. Tucker is always impatient with him, and Caboose always calls him Church, and they don't want him. They can't want him.

He can't sleep. He's tried a few more times, but every time the nightmares send him screaming awake.

There was a time when Wash could take the nightmares. When he was Recovery One, he didn't make a sound. He woke up with a shudder, and he swallowed—you are not a computer you are not Epsilon you are not dead—and flexed his human-not-human fingers, and went back to work.

But now there's no revenge burning in his gut. Not even a desperate, fuck-you-all desire for freedom. There's just a base and a flag and two idiot soldiers who saved him but don't really seem to want him, and without anything to fight for, Wash is falling apart.

He's going back to prison.

He's going, but he's not there yet, and he can't help clinging to every ritual that seems like it might keep him out.

2 A.M. and Wash decides that it's time to take the coffeemaker apart again. He can't quite remember why it's important, but it feels good to rinse the pieces and arrange them in a line as he finishes with each one.

He's not crazy.

(He can't do this.)

Wash's heartbeat pounds against his ribs, throbs behind his eyes and in his fingertips. He can't do this, can't be normal, doesn't even remember how—but he can't go back to prison, he can't he can't—

"Hey, Wash."

He startles and drops the coffee filter basket. Turns. See Tucker slouched in the kitchen doorway.

"What is it, Private Tucker?"

His tongue feels fuzzy and numb. He's not even sure why he's trying, except he has to, he can't go back, he has to—

"You need to sleep," says Tucker. "You're fucking crazy, man."

"I'm totally, completely—"

"OH MY GOD A SLEEPOVER." Caboose appears in the doorway behind Tucker. "Dibs on big spoon."

"What?" Wash's voice cracks, and he doesn't even care. He doesn't understand this.

"I had a lot of sleepovers with my sisters. I am very good at them."

"Okay, I never believed I'd say this, but listen to Caboose."

Wash feels trapped, defenseless before their eyes, and without meaning to, he says, "I can't sleep—I'll just—"

"Yeah, we've all heard you screaming, dude. Fucking Red Team has heard you screaming. I'm just glad Donut isn't here to ask if we—" Tucker cuts himself off. "Anyway. We're having a sleepover."

It still doesn't make sense, but Wash doesn't have it in him to protest. He stumbles after Caboose into the rec room, where there is already a pile of pillows and blankets. He lets Caboose strip the last pieces of his armor off. When Tucker arrives with three mugs, Wash accepts the one he's handed.

He wraps his fingers around the warm ceramic. Heat against his palms. The scent of milky hot chocolate. Those aren't things computers can feel. He takes a sip, and—

"It's good," he says, surprised.

Tucker looks absurdly proud. "Old family recipe. My mom made the best hot chocolate."

Wash takes another sip. His heartbeat is slowing down. He feels . . . warmer. More real.

"I can tell you a bedtime story," Tucker adds, "but I gotta warn you, it's gonna be totally NSFW, bow-chicka-bow-wow."

And Wash smiles reluctantly into his mug. "No thanks," he mutters.

He finishes the hot chocolate. He looks at the pillows and his heart thuds in fear again, because if he dreams he isn't human one more time, he doesn't think he can come back from it.

But Caboose has got an arm hooked around his shoulders and he just rolls over with Wash, down onto the pillows, and his body is tucked along the length of Wash's spine, and it's like warmth and safety being downloaded straight into his skull, and Wash is, he is—

Wanted.

Tucker settles down beside them, and Wash stares at the back of his neck, feels Caboose breathing on the back of his neck, and he can't understand why Tucker trusts him enough to turn his back on him, can't understand why Caboose cares enough to cradle him, but he's warm and he's safe and his heart beats slower, slower.

He sleeps.

He wakes up, and there are phantom circuits shivering over his skin, but he's squashed between Tucker and Caboose and he can feel them both breathing, both their hearts beating, and he breathes in time to them and thinks, Maybe I'm human.

He sleeps again, and doesn't dream.

Wash wakes slowly. He's alone now, beneath a pile of pillows and blankets, but he can hear people moving nearby, and hushed voices.

"Excuse you, moron, obviously pancakes are the best."

"But I do not think Agent Washington likes pancakes."

"You just say that because you don't like pancakes."

Wash thinks about that, his eyes still shut. Pancakes. His mother used to make them sometimes, from a mix. They were mealy and a little dry, but still a treat because of the syrup.

Tucker's voice rises. "Fuck you, I am not cleaning out the waffle iron again!"

York always claimed he had a family recipe for "famous home-cooked waffles," but he never got around to making them. Wash had once dreamed that someday, when the war was over and the Freelancers were all decorated veterans, they would eat waffles together—

He sits up abruptly. "I'll clean it."

"What?" Tucker stares at him. "Oh hey, you're awake. Please don't be crazy anymore."

"I'll clean the waffle iron." Wash's head is swimming a little, and he has to squint against the morning light, but he still manages to look Tucker in the eye. "If you make waffles."

He wants this. He wants it more than anything, to sit with his team and eat waffles—not when the war is over, not when he has his revenge, but now, while they still can. While they are all still here.

"Okay," Tucker says after a moment. "New job for Blue Team leader: always clean the waffle iron."

"I will add it to the handbook," says Caboose.

Wash nods, and doesn't even try to say, I don't believe you have a handbook. He feels like he could believe anything right now. He's still half-asleep and piercingly awake at the same time--his whole body feels lighter than air--and there's a blue border painted around the edge of the ceiling, how did he never notice it before? Such a bright and perfect blue.

"Uh, dude?" says Tucker. "You okay?"

"The colors," says Wash, and doesn't care if he sounds crazy. "They're so bright."

"I have often noticed that," says Caboose, as if they are sharing a fascinating discovery. "And I know all their names, so I can remind you if you forget, Church."

Tucker rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. And Wash thinks, suddenly, that perhaps they're going to keep him.

"I don't know . . . why I'm so . . ." He struggles for words. It's like the first time he stripped off power armor after a long training session, and his body was suddenly the correct size and weight again.

"Yeah, it's called getting enough sleep, dumbass." Tucker gets up from the couch. "C'mon into the kitchen. I'll teach you how to make waffles."