#i think i could probably haphazardly figure out ironing based on figuring out how to hang shirts to dry to avoid wrinkles and

[toytulini]

But Also i do think. Expecting Crisp Ironed Clothes of someone in a fucking job interview is Unhinged. I think most professional dress standards are Stupid.

[writefightandflightclub]

I really enjoyed your Nathan fluff 🥺 we love this angry peach fuzz king 👑💖 would you ever write him being comforted after having a nightmare? 💕

First of all, LOL @ “angry peach fuzz king” 🤣🤣🤣

Second of all, here you go! 🧡 I will warn you - I think I forgot the fluff a little bit though. It became more hurt / comfort? More angst than expected? It ends nicely though and comfort is given to Nathan - but only after I’ve subjected him to rattling around in his own head and house for a bit.

Through the looking glass (Nathan Bateman x GN!reader)

Summary: Nathan has nightmares after The Incident. After so long alone, he doesn’t realise how badly he needs a little comfort - and maybe he doesn’t believe that he deserves it.

Author’s note: hopefully this isn’t too similar to All Better. I know they both take place post-stabbing, but I tried to give this a different focus. I know I could have made the nightmares based off of anything given the ask, but this timeline / focus seemed most sensible to explore the character.

Warnings: nightmares following traumatic incident (a stabbing); mentions of blood and injury - not graphic. Self-harm (punching the bag until injury); Body horror if you squint (some gruesome descriptions occurring in-dream, but fairly abstract); swearing; implied alcoholism recovery if you squint; mentions of therapy; Nathan mildly injured in fic; reader offering comfort.

Rating: MATURE for themes mentioned above.

GIF: by @santiagogarcia (this whole gifset is magic- check it out + reblog!)

Nathan wakes up breathless, plastered to the covers by a sheen of sweat - and not in a good way. On instinct, or out of habit by now, or maybe somewhere between the two, his palm slides over his body to the site of the wound.

He is so slick that he half-believes he is soaked with dank, deep blood again, until his fingers trace over nothing more than a half-concave, half-ridged scar. The lack of searing pain is the next point of evidence leading him towards an alternative conclusion. He’s not dying (again).

It’s just another gruesome nightmare.

Although… there is nothing “just” about it.

The nightmares are pretty brutal. Brutal enough for him to wake with ragged breaths and a hammering heart, his sheets dampened and coiled up around him. Enough that it takes effort to sift through the layers of terror and distinguish reality.

With what can only be described as a whimper, Nathan swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bringing himself into a seated position and bracing his head in his hands until his racing heart levels.

In his mind, he’s telling himself to be logical about this. That Ava hasn’t truly arrived to finish the job she started; but logic is not the safe haven it used to be.

She could come back.

She’s still out there, somewhere, and Nathan distinctly got the impression, last time, that she was vehemently not a fan of him.

His hand trembling, Nathan reaches for the glass of water by his bedside, glugging it down so eagerly it spills into his bushy beard.

Since the… accident? Malfunction? Functioning just fine, actually? Failed experiment? Greatest achievement known to man? Attempted murder? (Truth be told, Nathan isn’t quite sure what to call it, so he simply calls it The Incident.)

Since The Incident, Ava has begun to regularly visit him in his sleep.

The visitations are not waning with time. In fact, they are happening more often, not less. They are happening more since you moved into the house.

It’s a bad fucking time to have quit drinking.

You’d been sent by the board. Something about Nathan taking “tortured genius” a slice too literally. Something about him being in isolation too long and needing another human around in the compound.

Well, that’s not technically true, is it? The shit all started when he opted to get social, after all.

Fucking Caleb.

Before that, he was doing just fine.

Nathan doesn’t like it at all - having you here. Being watched. Observed. Having someone monitoring his actions. Waiting for him to either fuck up or prove himself.

Ironic really, considering where he kept Ava. The experiments he ran on her.

She’d probably find it poetic, if she could truly understand such a concept.

At the thought of her, Nathan physically shudders, and reaches for an old vest to haphazardly mop the excess sweat from his skin. Then, he balls up a change of clothes and tracks nude to his wet room, feeling relief as the luke warm water sluices over his skin.

He watches himself in the mirror as he stands there naked. It’s not a vanity thing - at least not any longer. These days, he examines the way his form has changed since it happened. He lost some of his muscle and bulk during recovery, whilst unable to exercise, his arms slightly smaller and his abs softer. His stomach a little more rounded.

There’s also the puckered scar, of course - that permanent reminder of where he was skewered through the chest like a piece of kebab meat.

His gaze travels up over his body, until his eyes settle on his still haunted face. He doesn’t have his glasses on, and somewhere between the blurred vision, misted mirror, clouding steam and sluicing water, his reflected face distorts. It transforms - for the briefest of moments - into her.

Still amped with adrenalin from his harsh awakening, this briefest flash sends a surge of panic zipping through Nathan’s chest, his heartbeat racing so hard he can feel the pounding of blood in his ears.

Fuck, he curses, reaching his arms out to brace himself against the shower wall above him, his body trembling and his head dipping down between the cradle of his broad shoulders as his legs threaten to buckle.

He turns the water cold, until it is practically glacial and thundering on to the back of his neck, subduing this spiking heat.

She really did a fucking number on me, didn’t she?

It’s true though.

Ava is haunting him. When he sleeps - and at other times too.

Nathan didn’t know robots could do that. Didn’t know they could spawn ghosts.

Nathan doesn’t believe in ghosts, of course… but he does believe in trauma and its effect on the brain. He at least concedes that it is natural to continue to feel afraid; but this?

Being dogged by the spectre of her taps into Nathan’s deepest insecurities.

After all, there is nothing a genius fears more than doubting his own mind.

Nothing a God fears more than his own mortality.

And the man? Turns out, there is nothing he fears more now, than dying alone.

With a ragged breath, Nathan towels off and pulls on his grey sweatpants, tugging on his black zip-up hoody over his bare chest. And then, keen not to return to his damp, tangled sheets, he tracks towards the kitchen - mainly for want of any more favourable option.

Of course, he had returned to the compound after The Incident. Something about that many fibre optic cables being a bitch to lay down. Sunk cost fallacy and all that - too much already invested.

But it possibly wasn’t the best choice for his recovery.

Nathan has certainly gotten more used to walking down that hallway since he returned from the hospital, and yet he still finds himself holding his breath until he is free of it. Still finds his pace is just a little faster as he passes through. His gaze deliberately averted from that spot.

Once, you’d found him lying in it.

Lying in that exact spot, his body arranged like a crime scene photo, his eyes closed.

Hey, it’s hardly his least healthy coping mechanism, is it?

What in the fuck are you doing, Nathan?

Re-enacting my death, obviously.

Uh-Kay…. A beat. A devious smile. Shall I get some popcorn?

Absurd as it was, he had laughed. Laughed for the first time since it happened, and, with an extended hand, you had helped him up off the floor.

Still, now that he’s alone, he does not dwell in the corridor, colder and darker as it is without your light in it, and he tries not to think about your face or hers as he pads to the kitchen.

When he arrives though, he bypasses it entirely - heading out on to the decking, the crisp night air soothing his hot skin.

He wants to be outside.

There are too many ghosts in his house now.

He has tried to shake it. Tried to desensitise himself to Ava’s face. Spent longer than strictly necessary poring over footage of her.

He built her. Shouldn’t that take the fear out of things? Not to mention the fact Ava’s face was simply a composite of some manipulable nerd’s wank bank browsing history.

Fucking Caleb.

Still, once Nathan had looked her in the eyes and seen a rage that was all too human, things seemed a hell of a lot different.

Nathan crosses to the punchbag on the deck -lit by creeping dawn- on instinct, or out of habit, or maybe some combination of the two, his unease riling him enough to sock some punches at its midsection. Right at the equivalent site of his corporeal puncture.

He punches so hard that the skin on his knuckle splits, but Nathan doesn’t stop. He throws punch after punch until his hands are scathed and bloodied, and a trail of spit hanging from the corner of his mouth. Until he hugs the bag - the closest thing he has to a warm body to hold - and slides down it, coming limply to his knees, wiping his face on his sleeve.

He stays there, dead eyed and still for some time, the pain in his hands raw and singing. Unpleasant, but better. Better than what he was feeling, and worse all at once.

He considers his tired, cumbersome body, and contemplates remaking the world one more time. Uploading his mind into a machine or some shit, so that he doesn’t have to contend with the fragility and failings of his own existence.

He stays there, until some motion in the interior of the compound causes the light and shadows to dance differently over him, and he looks up to see your figure there, cast in a soft halo of yellowed light.

He tips his head up slightly, opening his mouth as though he might cry out to you for help, but no sound comes out - only a thin, dry croak.

So, instead, Nathan watches you for a moment, moving seamlessly around his kitchen as though it is your own. Maybe it is - more yours than his now.

Observing you like this, through the tall, cinematic windows, it is as though he peers in on another world entirely. Something less resembling a nightmare.

Lighter than that. Something more like a good dream, albeit a good dream that Nathan cannot be part of. One he can only ever watch, from the outside looking in, always fated as he is to be on the other side of the glass.

Truth be told, you haunt him too. You represent everything he could have and yet doesn’t deserve.

You appear in his nightmares and his dreams, in various terrifying and beautiful incarnations. Many variations of which his therapist would have a field day with, he’s sure - or, she would, if he’d ever fucking call her.

When you first arrived here, he was plagued by grotesque visions of you. Grotesque visions of the skin being peeled back from your body. Sometimes, circuitry beneath, and other times, muscle and bone. Sometimes, Ava’s face was buried beneath the chilling slip of your fleshy mask.

Sometimes it is a better dream. Sometimes you save him. Sometimes he saves you.

Sometimes it is a good dream. Ava isn’t there at all. But the good dreams never seem to last for long. 

Sometimes you kill him, and sometimes...

The glass door slides open.

“Reenacting your own death again, are you?” you tease, though not unkindly, interrupting the spiral of Nathan’s incessant thoughts.

A lump forming instantly in his throat, Nathan swallows thickly, and looks up at you helplessly with a thin, joyless smile. He snorts as though it’s funny, but it really isn’t. “Over and fucking over.” 

You nod once, and, without hesitation, you extend your hand towards him. Your gaze cuts through him as you search his face and he feels suddenly see-through, as if he’s about to be hit with some Shyamalan-esque twist. Was he the ghost all along? Did he die here after all?

If so, is this purgatory because Ava is here too, or heaven, because you are?

Christ. So fucking schmaltzy, Bateman.

After hesitating, Nathan takes your hand and you yank him to his feet, drawing him inside, through the looking glass.

The room seems warm on the other side. It feels… safe.

“What happened?” you ask, as you look down at your joined hands, your thumb painting a smear of red across his split knuckles. 

You mean now. What happened now, but Nathan’s mind harks back further than that. In his mind, everything is connected. Every thing threaded to another. This one smear of blood to that weeping flower of red.

The thought -the thoughts, all of them- halt him in place, his feet firmly planting on the ground. Nathan’s hand clenches tightly around yours as though it is a lifeline, as he is cast adrift on this familiar crimson tide, his face growing increasingly angular and stern.

“She...” He swallows, unable to complete that precise thought, his eyes dropping down to his feet.

You turn your body towards Nathan as he croaks, still not letting go.

Your eyes flitting around his face, attempting to search his eyes, you tentatively step closer, sliding your palms slowly over his tense shoulders, feeling them rise with an uneven, stuttered breath as you do so.

He’s so tired. He’s so very, very tired.

And it happens all at once on the exhale.

Suddenly, your arms are tugging him closer, and his face is contorting as a violent smattering of tears beads in his long lashes. You are encasing his body in your embrace and rubbing circles into his back as his buzzed head sags all too willingly toward the junction of your shoulder, your fingers splaying along the smooth flesh at the nape of his neck and pads dancing over the gentle prickle of his hair. You are shushing and soothing and reassuring and squeezing and smoothing and cradling and Nathan can feel it. Can feel his heart race in his chest and…

Finally.

Finally, his heart is not pounding because he is reliving his death.

It is pounding because he feels alive again.

When was the last time he cried, even? The last time someone really hugged him? He doesn’t remember the last time. The serendipitous combination of Nathan willing to be vulnerable, and another being willing to hold space for his pain is an all too rare thing.

There’s a reason -or several - he’s so emotionally constipated, after all.

Fuck. I’m taking a huge emotional shit right now.

Nathan remains in the welcome circumference of your arms longer than is strictly necessary - until the tear trails over the bridge of his nose begin to feel cloying. Until his breaths steady, and until his thoughts and ego creep back in. Until he notices the way his hands are clasped at your waist like claws, fingers sinking into your softness, and he thinks to release you.

Then, he leans away, a weight on his brow making his expression stern.

He waits for you to judge him, another swallow trailing thickly down his throat.

However, your eyes are kind and level, dancing with soft concern. Not with judgement or satisfaction or pity, or with anything he fears.

It is refreshing not to feel so afraid.

Finally.

“She…” Nathan begins again, finally finding courage. All at once his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “She fucking stabbed me.”

You take his words in. You listen.

His “reveal” is simple. Plain and factual. A little indignant. Kinda salty. It’s not overly emotional, or articulate.

But it is enough.

Your eyes narrow, and you nod slowly, trying to understand the true meaning beneath his words.

You even reach up to cup Nathan’s face, his springy beard a cushion beneath your gentle palm as you hold him. “Yeah, genius,” you tease, with a tentative, lopsided smile, dropping your arm all too suddenly, perhaps as you catch yourself. “I got that from context.”

In response, Nathan chucks air from between his teeth, bringing his hand up to comb through his beard - perhaps to obscure his involuntary smile, or perhaps chasing your tender touch, the impression of it left warm on his cheek.

As he brings his hand up, your brows draw together, and you hook his bloodied paw delicately in yours, examining the wound, and leading him gingerly across to the couch as though his whole being might be hurting along with it.

It is.

You order him to stay put while you fetch the first aid kit, and then, in stages, Nathan watches you with fascination as you painstakingly clean and tend to his wounds, without ever being asked to.

He watches you carefully swipe the angry red away from his skin, and, to his overactive mind, it’s all connected. This red is one and the same with the flower of blooming red from The Incident.

Ava hurt him then, and she is hurting him now too.

And you…

“Going to tell the board about this?” Nathan asks, his voice weak and scuffed.

You search his eyes, holding your words back for a moment before answering. Then, you launch them on a big breath. “Fuck the board, Nathan. I told those assholes to stick it.”

Nathan blinks in confusion, shaking his head, his hand flourishing emphatically through the air. “Then… what the fuck are you still doing in my house?”

“Well. I’m… here for you,” you admit, sucking in air through your teeth, your voice shrinking. “If you want that.”

Well, that’s news to him.

Welcome news, perhaps?

You’re not watching him at all, are you? Not observing. Not asking him to evidence his humanity. Not waiting to see whether he fucks up or proves himself.

Instead, you’re seeing him. You’re seeing him and you’re not running.

Nathan had begun to think that maybe he was the nightmare. He’d begun to think he might always be haunted.

Always alone. That he might die that way; again.

And now, here you are.

Nathan thinks about that. He could so easily revert to his old ways, in this moment. Of pride and ego and stubborn independence.

But, perhaps those assholes from the board got a few things right - he’ll admit.

Maybe he had been in isolation too long. Maybe he didn’t need to take “tortured genius” quite so literally.

And so, Nathan almost protests. Almost rejects your presence and your comfort and pushes you away. But the truth is, he’s just so… tired. He’s had so many nightmares, and this time, he’d like to be on the other side of the glass. He’d like to step into that dream.

Nathan takes a deep breath, and releases on the exhale. Releases more than air.

He slowly, ever so slowly, shifts towards you on the couch, angling his body until he can safely dip his head towards your lap, his nose pointed in towards your abdomen and his knees curling around you.

“Th.. this okay?” he asks weakly.

You throw your splayed hands up into the air in surprise as the weight of Nathan settles there, but as he curls his arms around your middle and shuffles closer, you ease into it. You snake your fingers in intricate caresses over his head and neck and shoulders.

“Yeah, Nathan. This is okay,” you soothe gently, voice taut with emotion.

You comfort him.

And finally, Nathan does not need to peel your skin back to know what’s underneath.

He knows you’re not a robot, and that, as your kind touch finds him corporeal, that he is not a ghost.

He closes his eyes. And this time, when he next wakes, he knows that whether the dream is bad or better or good, it doesn’t matter. Because you will be there with him.

He wants you with him.

It’s not at all natural to him, to have you around. For the longest time, he didn’t like it. It didn’t come instinctually, and he has formed no familiar habits.

It isn’t easy - he doesn’t make it easy.

But he wants it to be.

And, in your arms, he can finally dream that it will all work out. What’s more; he can dream he deserves it, too.

[andilovetowrite]

Webs and Awkwardness P.P

Peter Parker x Bestfriend! Reader

Summary: Walking into your best friend’s room to find out he is Spiderman is terrible as it is, but what comes after is even worse, when Peter rips your t-shirt in the process…

Based on this prompt

Warnings: A couple of bad words (Mostly from May) and a little suggestiveness. Supportive Aunt May, and flustered Peter ;)

Word Count: 1.9k words

Posted May 2, 2021

Here is my Masterlist, in case you wanted to check it out :)

“Hey Aunt May!” you greeted, walking into the apartment. She smiled, hugging you.

“Good evening Y/N!” She gestured over to the pile of books in your arms. “Studying for a test?”

Nodding tiredly, you answered. “Physics...and Peter is probably the only one in the class who is passing. So I desperately need his help.”

Aunt May laughed, pointing to his room. “Thank god he is still doing his work, with being cooped up in his room all the time. Not to mention being so distant after getting that internship from that Stark guy.” She shook her head, primarily to herself. “I don’t like him too much.”

You smiled, thanking her before making your way to Peter’s room, knocking softly. There was no response. You did it again but figured Peter might be too engrossed in making something. So you went in.

And you will never forget the shock that went through your body. In the middle of the room, standing half-naked with only his boxers, was your best friend, Peter Parker. But that wasn’t what shocked you. What made you gasp was the clothing that pooled at his feet. Red and blue. Black lines crisscrossed over it. But even then, you wouldn’t overthink about red and blue clothes. The mask in his palm,, though said everything.

“It’s not-uh not what it looks like!” Peter shouted, haphazardly throwing the mask to the side. It didn’t help his case because the second he threw it, a light red light illuminated the ceiling, showing the iconic logo we all knew. “I’m uh, not- I promise it is not- this it just a- Oh god”,, Peter rambles on, kicking the suit back so harshly that it hits the wall hard, making a small dent before it crumples to the floor.

You could feel your eyes widen, looking at Peter in amazement and then the mask. Almost comically, you come closer, observing his face and then shamelessly looking up and down his body, eyes zeroing on his abs.

“You’re Spiderman. Peter Parker is Spiderman. My best friend is Spiderman.” You say slowly, trying to get it into your head. Peter nodded, trying to judge what you were going to say or do.

“I-”

“It all makes sense now!” you exclaimed, sitting down on the bed, knowing if you kept standing, you were going to pass out or something.

“What?” Peter asked eyebrows scrunched up. Out of all the possible things you could’ve said, that was the least expected one. The most expected one was a hit to the face,, and maybe then you would run out of the apartment.

“It’s- uh- now I understand. How you magically got rid of your glasses,”

“I got contacts”, Peter interjected, biting his lip.

“-no,, you didn’t. I asked May where you got your contacts from,, and she told me you didn’t have any.” Peter looked down, knowing that story went for a toss.

“Then how you also got abs overnight, as well as your overall muscles”, you said, gesturing to his body. Peter became bright red but made no move to put anything on.

“After that, you would never answer my calls in the night. For a bit, I thought you were ignoring me or at some girl’s house-”

“I wasn’t!” Peter shouted, then looked back at the door to see if his aunt heard him.

You nodded, thinking of other things. “Plus, you never speak about the internship, even though it was what you did most of the time.”

Peter hung his head down, now feeling bad about not telling you. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I just couldn’t let people know who I am and then if they saw Spiderman coming into your house-the-they might start targeting you-an-and you might get hurt. I-I couldn’t live with myself if that happened to you be-because of me.”

You nodded, the seriousness of the situation hitting you suddenly. But in real life, it hit Peter. Well, you hit Peter.

“HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME? BAD GUYS TARGETTING ME IS BAD AS IT IS, BUT THEM TRYING TO KILL YOU?! YOU COULD HAVE ASKED ME FOR HELP! I SWEAR TO GOD PETER PARKER, YOU WOULD WISH THAT THE BAD GUYS HURT YOU AFTER WHAT I DO TO YOU!” you walked closer threateningly. Peter’s eyes widened. No matter who he went against, even if it was Captain America, no one would be more frightening than you when you were mad.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, Peter mumbled, moving back further. He didn’t even realize that he was halfway up the wall at this point, his face touching the ceiling.

“Get down here Parker!”

“Okay”, Peter squeaked, jumping down with impressive skills. “I’m s-” He went to apologize again but was cut off by you.

“Come here”, you said softly, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug, feeling his warm skin touch yours.

“Oh, this is nice”, he mumbled, hugging you back.

“You know how I would feel if someone came and told me my best friend died because of saving a city? Do you know how much I would stress out each night about you being Spiderman and fighting people twice or thrice your age?”

“Yeah”, Peter whispered against your skin, lips tickling your neck. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

You sighed softly. “But do you know how much it would hurt to know that you got hurt when I couldn’t help you? Just because I didn’t know that you were Spiderman?”

Peter stayed quiet, but his grip on you tensed up, clutching you tightened.

You pulled back, looking him in his chocolate eyes. “Please don’t keep things to yourself. Not with pressure like this. I know the Hulk or Iron Man might be there to help you, but tell me you’re alright. Just every now and then?” By this time, you could feel your throat closing, as you can feel tears prickling the sides of your eyes. Peter nodded, pulling you back in his embrace.

“I will. Plus, who will you come to to get Physics answers if I die?”

“Shut up!”, you laughed, leaving the hug but keeping your arm around his shoulder.

“So Mr Spiderman, how do you stick to buildings? And shoot webs? Do you make webs? Oh my god, are you part spider? Do you grow legs when you are outside fighting crime?”

Peter looked confused, listening to you babble on and on, but then chuckled. “With my suit that Mr Stark made. I make my webs. No I’m not part spider and of course not!”

“Wait, can I see the webs?”, you asked, curiosity blooming in your chest.

Peter shrugged. “Sure” Going over to his desk drawer, he opened it, pulling out a couple fancy technology gadgets. “Here, just press on this button.”

Gingerly taking it from him, you touched the button, not expecting such a light, featherlike touch to make it go on. Suddenly, a white stringy web hit Peter’s hand, jerking him towards you.

“Woah!”, he exclaimed as he banged into you.

“I’m sorry!”

“No probl-” he began, as he pushed himself off you, but one part stuck. His right hand was situated right on your chest, stuck with his web.

“Peter! Get your hand off!”

His mouth opened and closed, looking like a fish. “Uh-I’m sorry, you just- I grabbed onto the first thing, I mean, I didn’t try and grab your boob, oh god- I just-here let me-damn it, two hours.”

“What are you talking about? What’s two hours?” You asked, trying to concentrate on anything but Peter’s calloused hand on your thin shirt.

“Uh, I don’t know how to tell you this but uh-”, Peter looked incredulously at, his hand, quickly glancing at the ceiling. “The web takes two hours to dissolve. And I just ran out of web dissolver…The only one left is on the roof”

“Seriusly? Pete! You can’t...- your hand is on my boob!”

“I’m sorry, I promise, I can’t feel anything. Well, no, I can feel something, but that’s not what I meant! Um-”

You sighed, looking up to see Peter’s face close to your’s. “You’re Spiderman! Just pull your hand off or something?”

“Uh-ye-yeah sure”, he said hesitantly. Giving a couple small tugs, nothing came off, but then he got annoyed, and yanked his hand back.

Not the best decision.

Instead of his hand coming off the shirt, the shirt came with him, tearing off your body. Gasping, you threw your hand to your chest, covering yourself up. “Peter!”

“Oh god, oh my god!” Peter blushed hard, the pink going all the way across his body as he looked at the cut up cloth in his palm. As you tried to find something to cover yourself up with, Peter’s ears twitched.

“Shit!”, he whispered, running over to me. “May is coming here!”

“How the heck can you hear that?”

“Super-hearing…”

“Of course”

“Y/N! May can’t know I’m spiderman! She won’t allow me to do these things otherwise…”

You stuttered, looking around the room. “Quick! Hide the suit.”

Running over to his mask, you grabbed it, throwing it under the bed, while he jumped up and hid his suit in the small slot on the roof. Hearing her footsteps now, you ran over to Peter’s hoodie, but it was too late.

May opened the door. “Hey guys, you want some Indian for dinne- What are you doing!?”

You couldn’t blame her. It looked bad. Peter without any clothes but his boxers on, and your shirt torn open, revealing your red, lacy bra underneath.

“We-we aren’t doing- any-anything May!”, you half yelled, embarrassment flooding your body.

“Yeah, no, we are not- she doesn’t-uh”, Peter said, looking at my torn shirt as he quickly pushed me behind him, not wanting to show his aunt what I wa wearing.

“Um, okay. Kids, I don’t know what’s happening, but just, uh, use protection and don’t be too loud-”

“MAY!” Peter said, hands covering his face. “We aren’t doing anything!”

“Uh huh. Sure….”, she said. “With how much you talk about how beautiful Y/N is, I can’t believe it took this long for you to tell her. But maybe don’t sleep on the first date? I mean, I know you are 19, and it’s your decision.. ”

“NO MAY!” Peter said, glancing back at me, cheeks flooded with pink.

“Also, perhaps lend Y/N your shirt or something. Considering you ruined hers? And wear some clothes when you get out.”

With that, she left the room, winking at me and mouthing to Peter, “It’s under the bathroom sink…”

Peter groaned, falling on his bead, head still in his arms. “I’m so sorry for May! I don’t know what- I didn’t mean to- your shirt-”

You laughed, pulling Peter’s midtown hoodie over your ripped shirt. “It’s honestly fine Pete. Let’s go eat some food. And maybe after that, you can ask me out on that date you’ve been meaning to do?”

Smirking slightly, you walked out of the room, kissing Peter on the cheek and taking pride in leaving him behind in his room, stuttering a nervous “Yes”.

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I hope this is good, and I did the story justice anon! Thanks so much for requesting this, and I would love to have a couple more to write since you all have such good ideas :) Until next time!

[katsukikitten]

WARNINGS : N!SFW 18+ AGED UP AU! SOME SCENES MAY CONTAIN GRAPHIC CONTENT, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YANDERE THEMES GIF MADE BY ME

It started out with a package.  

Roses really, neatly tucked away in plastic and a glass vase that nestled into loud styrofoam.

Or at least that's when you started to notice it.

Actually it started with a phone call didn't it?

Just a few days ago the old rotary phone,  the one you bought for nostalgia, rang. This in itself was not odd, you picked up the aged yellow receiver and pressed the cool plastic to your ear.

But you did not speak, waiting patiently for the other line to come to life. After a few moments of silence you figure it to be a telemarketer, the automated type that doesn't start its spiel until it hears a tone, a voice. So you hang up.

The random call lost to both time and thought.

But you cannot forget this package that acted as a catalyst, to what you were not sure.

You just knew it was something.

The white box with the flower company's name on the side of the cardboard sat on your concrete steps, just past the waist high fence. You were returning from a run, huffing as you bent over, you figured it was most likely for your neighbor but it had your address. The recipient's name had been worn off from the poor handling of the package, you had figured the contents to be broken. Despite the state of the box the roses were perfectly intact. Crystal vase sparkling even through the opaque wrapping, a note on top that read.

I'll love you always.

Ah so this was not for you. You scoff, this was meant for your neighbor as you first originally thought. It made more sense that way. What with his boyfriend being long distance, it was obvious. He most likely remembered his address wrong and put yours in error. As you're haphazardly closing the box, keeping the note in hand, your neighbor waltz from his door.

"Ah, um Denki-kun" You call,  a bright smile beams on his face as he makes his way to meet you at your shared fence.

"Love!" He greets, strong hand giving your bicep a soft squeeze, "Ah flowers? Spill!"

"Well they aren't mine. I...I think they're yours. Here." You shove the box and note into his hands, stupid tears trying to prick your eyes.

Why? You were unsure.

Maybe you were a bit jealous. Thinking back you couldn't remember the last time you had even had a flirtatious comment or cat call sent your way. You lived a normal quiet life with your "abnormality". Quirkless. You worked from home, spoke to a select few and hardly left your house. It contributed to your wait gain thus adding to your small list of places to go.

The grocery store.

And the gym Denki invited you to or around the block for a run.

After a gurgling amount of time you finally achieved your dream body. Now all that was left was to maintain it.

"Wait!" Denki calls, "This isn't my boyfriend's handwriting."

Furrowing your brows, hand on the handle the answer comes to you.

"Probably just one of those fonts meant to look like handwriting."

"No, come look. It was made with a ballpoint pen." Nothing escapes his pro hero trained eye, his finger slides beneath the words, "He seems passionate! Lucky duck look at how deep love is."

He passes the card to you, giving you a wink as he passes the white box. Sure enough there are divots in the card stock, love is the deepest. Deep enough it almost ripped through the thick paper. You swallow thickly racking your brain, your job requires you to have answers to every question. Logical answers. So it's no surprise your mind wanders until it comes up with something. Your eyes shift to the right, you were lucky enough for your little house to be on the corner of the block.

The delicate roses must have been intended for your neighbor diagonal from you. You wait until Denki is halfway down the block before you rush across the quiet street to set the flowers up neatly on the porch. Throwing the box and wrapping into the trash before you speed walk into the safety of your sanctuary.

Your cats prance to the door to greet you and then sprint to the kitchen to be fed. As if you hadn't just fed them before your run a little less than an hour ago.

The rest of your night is uneventful. You curl on the couch, nestled deep within an old cardigan and the comfort of your leggings with a pile of work to be analyzed. To find the devil in the details and solve what seemed unsolvable.

The answers were always there, under your nose. Found easily by your trained eye but how could you not see the obvious answers when you had the luxury of a bird's eye view. The luxury of knowing the whole story from the shakey beginning to the bitter end.

A luxury you would not have for your own story.

The shrill ring cuts through the comfortable silence causing you to jump from your skin, the cats perk their heads up lazily to see what disturbed them before tucking their head back down.

You tell yourself it's a wrong number, a telemarketer but curiosity is beginning to get the better of you.

And curiosity is a deadly, loud thing. Louder than reason. Reason you had learned from the safety of your home, from other people's mistakes. The same very mistakes that sit on your lap with harsh red ink labeling them C L A S S I F I E D.

It rings a fourth time as you stand, the bell calling out for your attention, demanding you speak. You lift the receiver, again there is silence on the other end.

You wait patiently, is this another automated telemarketer? Had you entered your real number by mistake for one of those stupid store discounts?

You must have, still you resist the urge to tap the speaker of the phone to see if it would trigger the recording.

Instead you drop the receiver onto the base, rattling the hidden bell.

And that was that, you return to your work. Pouring over the details to find the pattern, to build a psychological profile to avoid a tragedy in the future.

Ironic how you cannot prevent your own.

It isn't until a few weeks later does the first letter find its way into your mailbox.

It seemed harmless enough you thought it to be an accident, just neatly looped words proclaiming their love. But it was never fully addressed to you and when you tried to pass it off to Denki, again he denied that the letter belonged to him.

Still, those looping letters twist into your memory, coming to the forefront of your mind every now and again. As if the paper that lies on your dining room table reads itself aloud, from beginning to end at the top of every hour.

As if the ink doesn't want you to forget.

"I am not sure when it started, but it did. I had fallen for you despite my efforts not to. A half of a year I've told myself to forget it, to forget you. And yet I cannot bring myself to stop, the more I try the more you come to mind. And the more I find myself near you. It's as if you're a bad drug I can't quit. I've been watching you. Everything you do is done in such cautious beauty. Please answer next time my dear."

Silence for weeks after that, at least as far as the rotary phone and the mailbox were concerned. You would occasionally get a text from an unknown number.

A transposed number, an error on the sender's end. Or so you assured yourself, especially when they would seem a bit too coincidental. When you were out for a jog or out at the gym at a different time than usual a text would come through.

For a second your mouth would go dry, your blood ice cold as you read the black letters atop the white screen. Huffing as your lack of breath came from a psychological response as opposed to your physical running.

Why aren't you home?

See you soon?

But these couldn't be intended for you. How could they? You could list the people you knew outside of your family and work place on one hand.

Denki.

And only because he spoke to you first!

So these texts, these little messages laced with concern could have been for an estranged spouse, a forgetful spouse or some partner who lacked the ability to properly communicate.

You just knew they weren't for you.

Or so your new mantra goes.

Paranoia didn't begin to sink it's sharp teeth into you until you noticed your cats' odd behavior.

In an immeasurable amount of time they went from lazy, happy go lucky animals to hostile even aggressive creatures. As if they were suddenly feral.

Oddly enough they only acted this way during certain times, mainly at night. Their moon eyes saw things you could not, their enhanced hearing heard things you could not, things you labeled, rat or mouse.

Would a mouse or rat cause a cat to hiss at shrouded corners? To claw at the wall with a howl that sounded more like a scream? Would it make them avoid the closet door in your room?

Maybe it was bigger? The floorboards above did groan more often than not lately. Maybe it was a raccoon even.

Yes, that had to be the cause of their behavior.

And yet there was still that one time, that one instance you sometimes dream about waking in a cold sweet.

The thing you cannot explain away, nor label as mouse, rat, not even a raccoon.

A cocktail of a tired mind and a trick of the eye but simply not vermin.

It was overcast, a sickly grey as the day wept deep into the night. The weather, naturally, caused you to melt into the plush material of your couch as you consumed comfort movie after comfort movie. You were given a reprieve from your worry as your cats seemed normal, sleepy just as you were that day. Even Nyx chose to laze on your chest as a temporary throne. Your couch is flush against the arch way that leads into the dining room and kitchen, giving it's back to part of the hallway towards the main bathroom and your bedroom at the back.

This angle always caused you great anxiety but there was no other way your luxury couch could fit in the small living room and so you always sunk low into the cushions.

Suddenly Nyx's ears twitch and her eyes snap open, waking only a cat knows how. On high alert to a sound totally lost to your draft ear. Her eyes widen, pupils dilating to adjust better to the shadowed room. The glow of the TV casts such a glow on the objects around you, flicker in soft and harsh lights. Slowly Nyx cranes her neck to see what exactly disturbed her sleep, just as her eyes lock on whatever is behind you, you see it for just a fraction of a second.

In the reflection of those moon eyes you see it. Distorted only from the curvature of her lens and the grain of the TV but there is no denying its shape.

A crude outline of a man, broad shouldered and faceless in the dark.

You freeze, mirroring your cat. Breath held as you watch the figure in the pitch black pupil. Wishing, hoping and praying that what you see is not really there.

After an eon of a moment, Nyx begins to shrink in on herself before silently slinking from the couch to find shelter beneath it.

You are not brave enough to move, to crane your head just as your cat did before you to confirm if what you saw was real. And in the milliseconds that the TV goes black you avoid the corner the figure should be standing in. Goose flesh breaks out over your skin, making you feel vulnerable and cold. While your feet burn begging you to get up.  

To run.

After a lot of mental reassurance and silence you begin to settle down. Easing yourself back into the rational world. Even becoming brave enough to stare into the TV, into the corner where the figure should be reflected in.

Each passing second as you wait for that small moment of blackness sends your heart into an irrational pace. Finally it happens and when you see nothing you sigh with relief.

Mentally giving yourself an "I told you it was nothing." talk.

That is until you hear a sound, a thump and a click from the back bedroom.

Your bedroom.

But the sound seems as if it came from within, as if it were your closet door.

Your heart explodes into frantic erratic beating.

The shrill ring of the old rotary phone rips through the dialogue of the movie but it can be barely heard over the hum of your blood.

RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

BRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIING

Tonight you are frozen in place, whether that be from petrifying fear or sheer stubborn denial you cannot say. You just know one thing.  You do not want to deal with the automated telemarketer who never seems to speak.

It rings four more times before it stops.

You chalk it up to coincidence. To nothing.

Late evening turns into late night and sooner rather than later you find yourself in the mouth of the hallway. Staring down your bedroom door as your mind plays on repeat the sound of a door closing from earlier that night.

You cannot let the boogie man keep you from sleep. Slowly you enter, flicking on all the lights.

Everything seems to be in place, the small pile of laundry still lies abandoned by your hamper, your bed neatly made, pillows haphazardly lying about the comforter. Hell even your inherited diamond drop necklace still sits snugly in the jewelry dish on your night stand.

The townhouse makes an odd sound, you jump out of your skin. Clutching your phone so hard the lock and volume buttons imprint into your palms.

No longer can you ignore the elephant in the room as the silence from this particular space screams at deafening volumes until you dare to look. Your eyes flicker to your left and there it is.

Your closet door, seeming to yawn and stretch even in the harsh hue of the overhead light. A closet is always an ominous, odd place and the sounds it may or may not have made cause a great twisting in your stomach. The shine of the knob calls to you with deadly wonder. Begging you to turn the gleaming metal to reveal the darkness behind the bland white door.

It should be inspected shouldn't it? If you ever wanted to sleep soundly you would need to reveal what may lurk in the dark.

Creeping towards the door with baited breath until finally your hand hovers over the knob.

"Open me." It seems to whisper in delighted glee, elated to see your stressed, scared features distort in its polished brass. You retract your fingers as if burned, biting onto your lip as you scrape your large armchair against the wood. Shoving it into place against the closet door.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door until your eyes burn. You turn off the overhead light but keep the soft light of your nightstand lamp on.

You dream fever dreams of flashing lights as a storm passes overhead. Dream of the closet door laughing in the night, of cool fingers pressed into your skin.  

Jolting awake you reach for your phone as your senses slowly come to you. Your eyes fly to the armchair in the mid morning light. It rests in the same spot you left it ominously staring at your bed.

Something seems off about it or maybe you just imagine that there is a deep divot in the cushion, as if someone or something sat in the armchair most of the night.

You close your eyes and go over rational explanations. Always bringing back to yourself the same question.

Who in the world would want you?

Bringing you back full circle, that you were getting ahead of yourself. The cart before the horse in a sense and letting your mind race without restraint.

Letting the season of Fall try to creep into your bones and cause an artificial fear.

Still it's not too long after that do the cats avoid your room altogether.

While you choose to do what you've always done, push the problem aside and explain it away.

The phone rings as you're lacing up your running shoes. You pick up the receiver without bringing it to your ear and place it down gently.

It's just a wrong number anyway.

Tonight air bites at your nose, leaves crunching underfoot as wind whips around buildings and trash, carrying with it the promise of a harsh winter to come.

Your feet carry you slowly back to the direction of home as they beat down your normal, safe route.

A right from your little townhome, straight for two blocks before you would find the winding black pavement. It would snake past the backs of homes through some small trees but never a path that was fully hidden.

Always out in the open but giving you the ability to peer into people's lives as you passed. Witnessing dinners, arguments and heated moments of passion. Silently you thanked Kami you were not positioned on this route.

You keep your eyes focused ahead, the music in your ears low to listen for possible passers such as a bike or a better runner than yourself.

You pass a tree that seems thicker than normal, your phone buzzes on your arm band.

An email, it has to be an email.

Yet your mind wanders to those worried texts, lingers on the thoughts of if that tree had always been that wide, if the quickly setting sun had always cast the path in blood red. The maroon leaves flutter overhead, falling to the ground.

More crunching than what you think your feet should produce has you running faster. Forcing yourself not to glance over your shoulder. Your breathing becomes rasped as you borderline sprint home, still the crunching comes closer.

It isn't until someone brushes your shoulder as they pass do you let out a blood curdling scream. Huffing to catch your breath as you take a step back.  The jogger, your neighbor from across the street that you occasionally run into, removes his earbud.

"You okay?" He addresses you by your name and suddenly you're embarrassed that you do not know his. He takes your silence as an answer, his brow furrowing.

"I thought you'd be less skittish since your new boyfriend's been coming around." Your mouth goes dry.

"Wh...what?"

"Yea he seems so sweet. He always checks the windows to make sure they are locked at night." He takes in your response and shrugs, "It's getting late. Since I didn't see your boyfriend there yet, I'll jog you home."

The jog home is agonizing,your mind racing far faster than your feet can go.

What did he mean he saw him checking the windows? What boyfriend?

Maybe, maybe he mixed up your house with Denki's again. It's happened once before when he was returning mail. So there was a good chance he was mistaken again.

Still the closer the two of you get to home the worse you feel. A brick sits in your stomach as he jogs in place before your fence. He gives you a knowing smile and a wink as you wave him goodbye.

It isn't until you turn to face your home do you notice it, the white rectangle stark against your black door.

There is an envelope taped to the thick oak, addressed to no one but "My beloved".

You rip it from the wood with ragged breath as you bring it inside. Already you can feel the contents squirming, fidgeting as it waits to be read.

Polaroid photos fall to the hardwood floors, pictures of you running down your favorite path. Blurred images of you walking down the aisles of the grocery store, and even a photo of you taken between the cracks of the fence in your front yard.  

There are no more photos after that, at least not this time. Just that fucking letter written in long looping ink  You feel the words tighten around your throat as horror wraps its spindly fingers around your guts and yanks them towards the floor.

Your knees threaten to buckle as your eyes rapidly move along the page.

"In these moments you are the most beautiful. Blissfully unaware of prying eyes. In my time I've come to care for you I've noticed I'm not the only one watching. People gaze at you with whispered murmurs, with pitying eyes as they spin tales of your life. Speculating gossip as you prance about the neighborhood. Flaunting in those tight running shorts that hold every godly curve of your thighs and ass. Of the light jacket you leave unzipped so they can get a better view of your bouncing breasts tucked in your black sports bra. I wonder, would they bounce like that when you ride on my cock? Would your hair stick to your forehead like that as I rail you from behind. Would that angelic voice squeak out for more? For me? Ah I'm salivating thinking of it, harder than I've ever been. Please do not wear those out while running. In fact you don't have to run anymore Doll. You just need to let me take care of you God damn it. You little fucking whore. You seductive vixen with your God damned doe eyes. Just...just fucking answer please."

Rage and fear fight for control as you reread the letter for the fourth, fifth time before you finally move. Rage, for once, wins. You slam the door behind you locking the deadbolt before running to the back bedroom. Throwing the heavy chair from the closet door and ripping it open.  

Nothing lies within it, just clothes that begin to smell of neglect. Of old running shoes you didn't have the heart to throw away.

Of relief that whoever was sending these letters, these ones that weren't meant for you. Wasn't currently in the house.

The floorboards overhead groan and for a moment you have half a mind to tuck your cats away into their carrier, buy a one way train ticket to bumfuck nowhere and set your house ablaze.

Instead you move the chair back in front of the closet, grabbing things from your back bedroom to start your new life on your couch.

Time passes as the trees become more bare, their spindly fingers reaching out to tap the roof at odd hours of the night.

Tomorrow you promised yourself you would run.

And yet you find yourself dressed, lacing up your shoes before slowly opening the door. Your jacket is zipped all the way up, your hair neatly tied back and just as you step foot out the front door a heavy wind rips through the yard causing Denki's unlatched gate to slam. You jump back startled as your fear clings to you like a second skin. The letter begins to overlap in your head and the polaroid photos you had trashed a few weeks ago burn into your retinas. A faint snap and a whirl comes from close by and suddenly your stomach churns. Bile rushes up your windpipe too quickly, slamming the door shut and running to the bathroom. You barely make it as you dry heave into the porcelain bowl, huffing in the air of fresh toilet water. The smell starts a vicious cycle of nausea until finally your clammy skin begins to cool, pressing yourself to the side of the tub. In your panic your skin becomes sensitive, hyper aware of each stitch in your jacket, your sports bra and your jogging leggings. Your rip at your clothes until you peel them off of you, huffing as you scramble to get into the shower.

It does not matter that the water is not yet hot. Hell it isn't even lukewarm still you find yourself in the stream as it becomes scalding. Scrubbing at your skin with soap over and over and over. Nails pulling away already raw skin until that burning water begins to cool. A floorboard creaks overhead causing your head to snap up. The ceiling holds no secrets and yet no answers until you see it. A small hole, one you aren't sure if it's always been there, gaping from the attic over your shower and bath. It's too dark to tell if there is someone peering down at you from above or not.

Instead of freaking out your head slowly tilts away from the haunting discovery. Turning off the water, opening the curtain and wrapping yourself in a towel. As if it were every day you see something like that, as if it were nothing more than a spider lingering that you'd wish to forget.

It's fine It's always been there

But that would be the last time you would take a shower in that house.

Even though you hardly left your couch, things would still go missing in yourself. Things like the remote or one of your hundreds of phone charger cords. Even documents to cases but you didn't care, couldn't care. Otherwise you would break. Shatter.

Your days consisted of lying on the couch and consuming an ungodly amount of television. Doing so until your eyes burned although you begged them to stay open. Sadly everyone needed sleep and so you did. Giving into exhaustion as your eyes fluttered closed and your body weak, relaxing into the comfort of the couch.

Hours are lost to you so you dream and dream. Of a better time or of yourself in one of your files to dissect. Giving yourself that perfect bird's eye view and wondering how the victim never saw it coming.

In your dream you feel something along your face, smooth fingertips trace down your cheek over and over at a lulling pace.

"So perfect." A whispered serenade melding in with a snap and a whirl. A flash of lightning from a passing storm.

Except there was no storm coming in.

Your eyes snap open as you jerk to a sitting position frantically looking around the room.  When your eyes find nothing you allow your beating heart to settle back into your numbed state, more than ready to melt into the couch.

Until your stomach growls forcing you to focus on a new problem.

When was the last time you ate? Your stomach had long forgotten about food, choosing to conserve energy in case you needed to run from whatever the hell it was in your head.

Forgoing dressing you place your hand on the knob, wallet in hand. Two sets of glowing eyes watch you from beneath the couch. Twisting the metal to yank the door open you are greeted with cold fall air. The wind whips hair into your face as your mind quickly wanders. You half imagined a man to be standing in the middle of the street. Mouth stretched too far over gleaming teeth, lips parting enough as the wind brings with it the sound of your name.

Frantically you move your hair from your face, eyes searching up and down the street to find no one, nothing.

As it should be at 10am on a weekday. Suddenly the weight of going outside sits on your shoulders, despite the convenience store being a ten minute walk both ways, the thought of you going alone scared you.  Slowly you shut the door, falling to your knees before lying face down on your floor openly sobbing.

A creaking board sends you back to high alert, you remove your jacket and decide to order take out instead.

The knocking at your front door jolts you awake, the TV drones in the background with hazed over words as you quickly come to. Heart slamming into your chest before your stomach growls loudly. Right, food.

Your hand hovers over the knob as if suddenly you cannot move, as if the person on the other side of the door is an imposter lying in wait. Another knock comes at the door, he announces who he works for which eases your phobia a bit. You swallow thickly before finally opening the door, hands sweating as the anticipation of the identity of the stranger on your porch.

He seems to check out, his outfit covered in logos for your takeout restaurant of choice, car labeled as such as well. He holds the receipt towards you. His eyes wander over the face of the house, giving you sudden chills.

The question falls from your numb lips.  

"D...do you see anyone in the windows?" The delivery guy visibly jarrs, eyes darting to the windows of your room and the living room. Suddenly his face changes as a knowing smile spreads on his lips.

"This is a prank isn't it? For Halloween right?" He chuckles, but when he sees the pen shaking in your grip his face goes stone cold. Eyes darting to your left, to the bedroom windows. He taps the paper, indicating where you need to sign, you take a moment to do so.

The old rotary phone screams from the living room, making you both jump.

"Guess I better get that." You gesture, grabbing for your food. He nods affirmation before stepping off of your small porch a little too quickly.

You slam the front door, appetite washed away by each shrill of the small bell. Hesitantly you reach for it,  you have to know, need to know who could be on the other side.

The receiver is cold against your ear, the other line is quiet, although you can hear something soft in the background.

Talking, it sounds familiar, like an echo or almost as if there is a delay. It almost sounds like the same commercial that's playing on your TV right now.

Gently you set the phone down, the soft click echoes in the space around you. You sit on the couch before lying, covering yourself in your blanket as your takeout sits by the door, forgotten.

It wouldn't be too long before it begins to rot, almost as quickly as you.

The phone rings

And rings

And rings.

Nightly in fact, for the next few weeks as you cry silently trying to ignore the sound. Turning up the TV as loud as it can go, 24/7 until finally the speakers blow and you are left with nothing but that shrill shriek. The demand of the small plastic item that was meant to bring to a comforting memory from the past comes more often. Every four hours, every three hours, every hour until finally when it comes to an end it breathes again.

Screaming into the night tearing away your hearing, your sanity until finally you get up from your spot on the couch. Clothes falling away from your frame as they had grown in the time you sat. The time that you watched.

Each step is agonizing as sobs rack through your body, shaking hands making it hard to reach for the cool receiver.

You press it to your ear and for a final time your mind attempts logic. It is just an automated telemarketer, a glitch or determined program but the thought crumbles as your ears strain to hear the soft breath on the other line.

"Please…please stop." You sob into the receiver when no one speaks. The silence deafening as your mind can no longer keep with the charade.

That everything is okay and has always been okay. That the red flags you studied for a living were never there, washed away by your feigned ignorance.

"Finally got a response out of you." A velvet voice chimes, agitation lacing his syllables, "Gods, I just cannot wait to have you. It was worth it you know? Living in your walls for months."

"Why are you doing this?" Your voice barely a whisper, a soggy huff more than anything.

"I'm glad you asked." You body goes rigid, a haze blankets your mind and smothers the scream tearing up your throat.  

"Now walk out the door to me. Don't worry I'll bring your cats back to our home later."

You hang up the phone, body moving on it's own as you walk towards the front door. A door you had chosen to avoid and for good reason. But you should have known the danger lied within these four walls. Although your body feels heavy it moves normally despite you trying to fight it. Or as best you can with your worn down mind.and will. It is not as joyous as a moment for you and it is for the man in the street. His lilac hair is illuminated in the moonlight while his amethyst eyes glow iridescent. His smile is as you imagined, twisted and screwed up in such a way it makes your stomach churn. Lips stretched out almost too far over gleaming white teeth. Your face does not reflect your horror as it stays neutral, only your eyes give you way as tears fall from your cheeks.

The answer was there, under your nose, the devil in the details that you normally saw with your bird's eye view. One you didn't have the luxury of for your own story.

"Come now pet. It's time I finally teach you about what it means to be mine."

EPILOGUE

Everything is hazed over and slow, as if watching an old silent movie through the static and snow of the screen. Trying to read their lips to figure out what they are saying only for the text box to come too late.

"Perfect. Now get on your knees kitten. Open wide." You follow his orders numbly body moving on it's own as he smiles down at you. "God, you're so so perfect."

Long fingers tug at his belt before the shrill of a ring tone cuts through the silence. It is the same sound of your rotary phone at home except with an added element. The foreign sound of your whimpers and pleads for the phone to stop can just barely be heard. He looks down at the cell phone and answers.

"Denki, Baby I know I said I would come tonight. I'm just running late okay?" Amethyst eyes rove over to you and it is then that it hits you. The horror of the realization is like ice water dumped over you as you put two and two together.

The first time you saw him, visiting your neighbor over a year ago. It was such a quick exchange, eye contact and nothing more as his lips were pressed to Denki's.

Your mouth goes dry as it hangs open, slowly it becomes uncomfortable.

He changes his voice to sound like someone else's, someone with a gruff deeper tone.

"Oi quit talking to dunce face so we can finish this shit!" He removed the device from his mouth

"I'll be home after this patrol. Love you bye."

He tosses the phone before gripping your chin to spit into your mouth, his hand rests on the hem of his pants.

"Now...where was I?"  

[sweetdreamhellofanight]

Untangle

Fabian Aichner x Reader Warnings: None Word Count: 1,182 Summary: Getting ready for a party is fun but it’s changing at the end of the night that’s the biggest struggle

Finally, you sat down and breathed a sigh of relief. 

Kicking the heels off, that you’d unbuckled in the car ride home, tossing your coat onto the couch as soon as you entered,  and sighing so loud it had made him chuckle. 

Finally, you got to sit down in your room, finished with all social activity for the night. 

And maybe for the year, too. 

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your makeup lay strewn out on the vanity, bottles left uncovered, hairbrush and curling iron, unplugged, but left haphazardly too close to the edge, glitter and foundation stains on the top of it all. You’d have to clean it all eventually, but for now you just wanted to take everything off and fall asleep in the shower. 

But the longer you stared at yourself, the less sure you were about where to start. 

One hand went to your hair, held together with an entire drug store’s supply of pins. It had given you a headache all night, and was probably the best thing to start with. But your arms were too tired to hold up that long, so you didn’t even bother. 

You’d probably go to sleep with it as it was, you thought.  

You decided on the jewelry, first, the smaller rings and bracelets you wore, pulling each one off with great effort, dropping them in the top drawer with all your other jewelry. 

Next, the earrings. The long, heavy earrings that made you think your ears were going to fall off before the end of the night. You leaned your head down so you didn’t have to bring your arms up too high. Pulling out the backs of each earring, dropping it alongside the other pieces, you lifted your head up with ease and a newfound lightness. 

Next was the necklace, but you found yourself in the same dilemma as with your hair. It was too much work to keep your arms up and undo its delicate hook.

“Need help?” 

You watched through the mirror as Fabian walked towards you, now changed out of his suit from this evening into just a pair of sweatpants. 

“You look so comfortable,” you mumbled. 

He came up behind you, hands on your shoulders, kissing the top of your head, 

“Where do you want to start?” he asked, softly, resting his chin on top of the intricate updo that made you want to cut all your hair off at once. 

“The hair,” you mumbled. He smiled, and pulled your chair closer so he could sit on the edge of the bed. 

One by one, he pulled out the bobby pins in your hair, taking great care to unfurl each curl before moving onto the next one. You both sat in silence, and as you watched him work, brows furrowed in concentration, you could feel your eyes grow heavier with sleep, 

“I could sleep right here,” you mumbled, leaning back into his touch. 

Another kiss to your cheek, 

“Not yet,” he said. 

“Then talk to me, or else I’m gonna pass out like this,” you said, yawning. 

“You looked beautiful tonight,” he said, raking his fingers through your hair. You sighed, contentedly, 

“So did you,” you said, dropping your head back and looking up at him. He winked at you, but continued,

“And I’m proud of you for behaving yourself, too,” he said. “Even if your cousin didn’t.” 

You rolled your eyes, 

“I was one comment away from making a scene,” you grumbled. 

“I know,” he said, smiling. He looked at you through the mirror. “And I was getting worried at the end.” 

“Wouldn’t have been the first time she and I got into a fight at a family party,” you mumbled. 

“Everyone looked like they were waiting for it to happen,” he said. 

“Welcome to the family,” you said, sarcastically. 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” he said. 

“Yeah, I know,” you said. 

“And it was still a good party,” he offered. You smiled, closing your eyes as he dragged his nails over your scalp and through your hair,

“At least you were there this time,” you said. “It’s nice having someone in my corner, now.” 

“You have me, always,” he whispered, making you smile wide as he pushed your hair to the side, now.  “Better?” he asked. 

He had pulled out every last pin from your hair, made sure to undo any knots, brush it back, all without you even knowing, without so much as a tug at your head. You weren’t sure how he’d managed it, honestly. 

“Mhmm,” you nodded, leaning into him. 

“The necklace?” he asked, brushing his fingertips over the base of your neck, over the jeweled choker. 

“Please,” you said, quietly. Still, you kept your eyes closed as he carefully unhooked it, pulling it off you as gently as possible. 

And you finally felt like you could breathe a little easier, the weight of your hair and jewelry now undone, you felt as light as a feather. 

You heard the bed creak as he stood up, carefully placing the necklace on the vanity, careful not to hit anything else as he moved back. 

You had to stand up, needed to change and take your makeup off and get ready for bed, but you still needed a minute. 

You felt his lips on your neck, soft and barely pressing down as he wrapped his arms around you. 

“Come on,” he whispered into you. You groaned. “I’ll help with this,” he added, one hand unzipping the back of your dress, his thumb trailing down your back with each inch the zipper revealed. 

You smiled, finally opening your eyes up to look at him, 

“I can take care of that myself,” you whispered, tilting your head back to kiss him, straining your neck for the upside down kiss that made both of you smile into it. 

“Just in case?” he insisted, smiling against your lips. 

You smiled back, and pulled away from him. Fabian kept his hand laced with yours as you stood up, pulling you into his arms, the AC sending a shiver down your spine now that half of your dress was undone, 

“Well you already did half the work,” you said, leaning up and pressing a soft kiss to his lips, wrapping your arms around his waist, “might as well finish it up.” 

He smiled wide, pulling the rest of the zipper down, helping you out of the dress. And even though you were freezing now, you let him kiss you again, slower this time, as he pulled you flush against him. 

You still needed to take your makeup off, clean the discarded clothes off the bed, and put your things away before you could go to sleep. 

But as Fabian pulled you down onto the bed with him, holding you tight, you figured everything else could wait. 

You were tired and the day had been long enough. 

All you really needed was to be in his arms, laying on top of the mess on the bed, dangerously close to falling asleep, just as you both were.

[shipskicksandgiggles]

How about 15 and 17 for the prompt list asks🥺🥺

ooo I like your style 

prompt(s): “You’re hurting me” and “Help” (from this list)

Read Broken and still Whole here on AO3

~

“Excuse me, Mr. Parker, but do you have a moment?”

“I’ve only been working on this English essay for the past four hours, JARVIS. I suppose I could use a break. What’s going on?” Peter leaned back from his desk and stretched his arms above his head. 

“I would recommend opening your window within the next 30 seconds.”

“Um. Why?” He got up and shoved his curtains to the side before opening up the window and poking his head out. 

“You’ll see.”

He went and sat back down, determined to finish at least the next couple of paragraphs of the paper that was due next week before he heard yelling.

“Help!”

The sound was coming from outside. He jumped out of his seat and ran to the window JARVIS suggested he open. From there, he saw the figure of Iron Lad speeding haphazardly away from… was Captain America flying?

“In here!” He honestly had no idea if he could hear him, but this had to be the reason why JARVIS had had his suggestion. 

Based on the way his head jerked towards him though, he heard. In seconds, the superhero flew into the room and sprawled out of his suit, falling onto the floor. 

“Shut the window, shut the window-” he gasped, and Peter was only too happy to listen. The windows could probably keep Captain America out. Well, he hoped so at least. It wasn’t like they tested that theory before.

“What’s going on? Why is Cap chasing you?”

Harley was breathing heavier than he probably should be. “I don’t know. It looked routine, just some HYDRA bullshit near Brooklyn.”

“And?” he prompted. 

“And nothing! We got separated for five minutes and the next time I saw him he was pissed and flying right towards me!”

“Well that’s not normal. Hey JARVIS, can you-”

“Mr. Stark is already in the process of deploying the Iron Man suit, and Falcon is on stand-by in case the situation goes further sideways than it already has.”

Just then there was a bang from the other side of the window. 

“Shit!” Harley flinched backwards. 

“Did he hurt you?” Peter asked. “I swear to god, Harley-”

“Before I knew he was compromised, he managed to slam the shield into my left side.”

“But your suit-”

“-Was standing guard while I coaxed a crying kid out of an overturned car. I got her to her parents, and then Cap came at me. It didn’t register him as a threat and I didn’t make it back into the suit before-” he stopped. 

Peter sighed. “What’s broken?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. “A non-zero number of ribs and I think my leg. And few other things might be damaged too,” he confessed. 

“So you shouldn’t be walking?” 

“Probably not.”

“Next time you have Evil Captain America chasing you, don’t land in my room.” He bent down to try and pick Harley up, but before he could, he hissed in pain. 

“Stop stop stop stop you’re hurting me!”

“How the hell else am I supposed to pick you up?” Peter demanded. “Can you use your arms?”

Harley nodded. 

“Good. I’m going to kneel down next to you, and you need to put your arms around my neck. Then you can pull yourself up with me while I stand, okay?” 

He nodded again and did as Peter asked. Together, they worked out how to walk Harley to the elevator where he leaned on Peter heavily on the way down. The doors opened and one of the medstaff led them to an empty bed that he could be set down on. 

Once they wheeled him off to get X-rayed, Peter flopped into a chair and looked up at the ceiling. “JARVIS, could you please tell Tony to get down here once he finishes reigning Cap in?”

“Of course, Mr. Parker,” came his reply. “He has been made aware of your location and should be there as soon as possible.”

“Thanks JARVIS.”

Peter tried to relax while he waited, but he eventually gave up and started pacing, hoping that everything would work out okay. 

~~~

“Peter?”

“Dr. Banner, hi.”

Bruce walked out into the waiting area. “I heard about what happened. Harley’s asking to see you.”

“How is he?”

“He’s pretty beat up. They have him on some pretty strong painkillers, so he’ll be a little out of it for the next few days, but he’s gonna be just fine once he heals.”

Peter nodded. “And he’s-”

“Right in there.”

He nodded once again before ducking past him and into Harley’s room. 

“Peter!”

“Hey baby,” he said softly. “Tell me the damage.”

“Doc says lots ‘s broken.” He rolled his head to one side. “Why’re you standing over there?”

“Where do you want me to stand?”

“Sit with me!”

Peter pointed to the chair in the corner of the room. “I can drag that over to sit next to you.”

“No,” Harley whined and scrunched up his face. It was hard not to laugh at him. “Sit here.” He patted the side of his bed. 

“Honey, half your body is broken.”

“But half of it isn’t broken,” he pointed out. “Please?”

Peter has never once been able to say no to him in his life. “Fine.” He was careful not to jostle him too much as he settled in next to him. “Better?”

Harley hummed and rested his head against Peter’s chest. “Mhmm.”

He chuckled as he ran one hand through his hair and kissed his forehead. “You can rest, love.”

Just then, there was a soft knock at the door. Peter glanced over and tried not to tense up when he saw Steve standing in the doorway. 

At least he had the sense to look ashamed. 

“Oh god, I did that?” He looked at Harley with horror in his face. “Son, I’m so sorry.”

Harley seemed to consider him very seriously for a moment. “Get a softer shield.”

“Sure, kid.” He made eye contact with Peter. “That bad?”

“HYDRA bullshit?” he returned. 

“Bruce got a swab of whatever chemical it was off of Cap’s uniform.” Tony must have walked up while they were distracted. “Not that I don’t love you in the air, Stars and Stripes, but that’s kind of my thing.” He moved past Steve to sit in the chair Peter had moved before Harley corrected him. “Don’t be too hard on Steve. Harley’ll get better.”

“I know,” Peter told him as he watched him bury into his side as best he could. “Just hurts to see him like this.”

“Speaking of,” Tony tapped Harley’s foot. “No missions until your bones are put back together, okay kiddo? Maybe no missions again ever, actually.”

This seemed to get Harley’s attention. “Tha’s not fair,” he slurred. “I can do it.”

“After you have full mobility again, sweetheart,” Peter reasoned. “You’re lucky your spine is still in one piece. Let us fuss over you.”

“Mmm. Love you,” he said as he started to doze back off. 

“Love you too.” Peter kissed his forehead one more time before turning back to the other men in the room. “Are you okay?” he asked Steve. 

“I’m fine now. Don’t remember much, but I’m glad it’s over.”

“How did you get rid of it?”

“Full cognitive recalibration,” Tony answered. “If you want proof, there’s probably still a bruise where I hit him.”

Steve rubbed the back of his head. “You hit me really hard, Tony.”

“Yeah, and I’d have hit you harder had I known what you did to Harley.”

“You know what, that’s completely fair.”

Peter let the sound of their banter wash over him as he let Harley’s warmth lull him to sleep. He could always finish his essay in the morning.

[bentforkent]

to the moon and to saturn - chapter one

spencer reid x fem!reader

navigation and summary 

word count: 2753

no content warnings 

next chapter

seven

“you’re boring.”

“no, i’m not, y/n!”

“you never want to play pirates with me!”

spencer’s hair is long and his glasses are sliding down his nose. the light seeping into y/n’s room from her large bay window is muted by the white sheet covering it. the sheet rests precariously over a chair, forming a blanket fort carefully engineered by spencer, and haphazardly constructed by y/n. there are throw pillows tossed throughout the fort, and spencer makes an attempt to straighten them whenever he gets the chance.  whenever he comes to y/n’s house, ringing her doorbell with a backpack full of books, they work together to add on to their secret hideaway. the white sheet is the newest addition, especially designed to let more natural light into the blanket burg. this follows a poor mishap where a lamp y/n had left on too long burnt a hole through her carpet.

previously, the pair had constructed a stuffed animal room, a reading corner, a designated snack area. y/n’s starting to run out of linens. the fort has been standing for weeks now, y/n’s parents very rarely involved enough to enter her room, giving her and spencer free reign to create their own imaginary worlds to play in undisturbed.

except spencer, with all his practicality, isn’t particularly adept at the “playing in imaginary worlds” part. y/n can’t comprehend that. it’s simple for her to slip into a different universe, enjoyable, even. she’s begged spencer to play mermaids, bank robbers, fbi agents, firefighters, princesses---you name it. spencer indulges her for the most part, but y/n can always tell that he’s not that into it. he’s much fonder of tucking into some obscure poetry book, reading aloud when y/n requests. she never comprehends much of what he’s saying, but he reads so confidently that it fills her with glee anyways.  

for seven year olds, it’s clear to outsiders that they both don’t quite act their age. y/n, with her big doe eyes, dreams too much, her escapism both her greatest asset and most fatal flaw. spencer’s a stickler to the realistic, his pragmatic nature an unconscious choice that gives him a beautiful worldview but will make him grow up too fast. for now, though, the children don’t worry about that. they worry solely about balancing each other out and the purity that comes with being in youth.

y/n is splayed on her back on the floor of the fort, where her scratchy carpet is covered with a fluffy pink blanket. her hair fans out around her head in a halo. spencer’s physics book is closed and set gently in the corner, and he’s attempting to braid a small chunk of y/n’s hair. “pirates is my least favorite game,” he says.

“what about knights?” y/n angles herself to look back at him. she’s far too young to execute a soul searching gaze, but the way her eyes strain to scan his face comes close. she takes note of his facial expression giving away his inner thoughts. the way his lip quirks up indicates that he definitely does not want to play knights with the girl in front of him, but the softness in his eyes tells y/n that she’s won.

without another word, they crawl out from their blanket fort and jump onto the bed. “my armor is blue,” y/n says, unsheathing an imaginary sword and holding it up in joust. “knight armor was typically made of iron or steel, and there was no way to make it blue in the late 15th century,” spencer piped up, mirroring her actions. he likes playing at y/n’s house. his parents would never let him jump on the bed. y/n’s parents let the two of them do a lot of things, spencer thinks, and he’s never heard them fight like his parents do either.

“cool, spencer!” y/n says enthusiastically. she’s always enthusiastic when he tells her a fact, even though she rarely really understands him. she knows people are terrible to spencer because of his intellect, and had made a pact with herself when they first became friends that she would never ever ever be mean to spencer for being smart. “we can pretend, though. yours can be blue too!”

“okay,” he replies, and y/n begins to coach him through the game, attempting to loosen him up a bit. they play, bouncing around on the bed and wielding fake medieval weapons until the sun begins to go down and spencer remarks that he needs to go home before dark or his mom will be upset.

y/n reluctantly lets him leave, knowing that he has a lot less fun at his house, but finding comfort in the fact that he’ll come back the next day.

spencer and y/n spend every day together, without fail. they’re young, and they don’t know much about life, but they know that they’re the only people for each other. they’ve been inseparable since y/n had toddled into spencer’s first grade class and heard him reciting a john lyngate poem. her favorite book at that time was a brightly colored picture book, so she was both fascinated and confused by the boy in glasses in front of her. that day, they’d sat together on the bus and chatted the whole way home. the pure elation that occurred when the children realized they shared the same bus stop was unmatched. y/n, who’d just moved to las vegas, was relieved she’d met a friend in her new hometown.

she didn’t really meet any other friends after associating herself with spencer. he’d warned her that being his best friend was basically social suicide, but y/n was already attached to him like superglue. once, a girl in their class had tried to invite y/n to sit with her at lunch. the girl not-so-subtly made it clear that spencer was not invited to the table, and y/n had shut that down quickly with a swift spoonful of red jell-o down her shirt. spencer decided then that red jell-o was his favorite.

to sum it all up, in super simple terms, y/n and spencer were close. and everyone in their town knew it, including their parents, although both sets of adults were generally nonplussed about what their children were involved in as long as they were alive and surviving.

y/n’s parents aren’t neglectful, per se. she’d just had to learn how to fend for herself very early on. y/n’s existence had been an accident, and although she didn’t know that in explicit terms, it wasn’t hard to figure out based on the lack of maternal instincts from her mother. y/n’s mother sat on the back porch of their house a lot, looking out at their tiny, barren backyard with a cigarette in hand. her father went away on many business trips, coming back to greet the family only with a pat on y/n’s head before he padded up to the bedroom to slip into bed. one day, y/n would realize the intensity of the mental health problems both of her parents were suffering from, but as a child, the adults in her life just felt far away.

spencer’s parents were similar in a sense that they weren’t the best. rather than the silence that settled over y/n’s house, his home filled with argument. it’s why he found solace with y/n, with their blanket fort. y/n’d offered to let him live with them constantly, but spencer couldn’t leave his mother. his father? he couldn’t care less. but his mother...as much as spencer longs to spend his days curled up in y/n’s bed, reading, he knows above anything else, he’s got to protect his mother.

after closing the door behind spencer, y/n skips to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. her and spencer had made fresh lemonade the day before, squeezing lemons y/n had stolen from her neighbor’s tree. spencer had been in charge of the sugar, and he’d added way too much. the pair tried it, though, and liked the super sweet taste.

y/n fills her glass with ice, having to stand on her tippy toes to reach it in the freezer. after the cup is filled with the sugary beverage, she takes a second to peer out of the window and check on her mom outside. y/n expected to find her in her usual plastic chair, cloud of smoke encircling her. but she wasn’t there. this was odd. she sets her sweating glass down on the table, and wanders upstairs to get a location on her mother.

loud moans float down from the top of the stairs, and y/n, ever naive, follows the sound to its source. the stairs creak under her feet, her house old and probably close to crumbling. y/n pushes the door to her parents’ room open with both hands, and is immediately sick at the sight. at seven years old, she doesn’t fully understand what’s happening, but she knows that whatever she is seeing is wrong.

william reid, spencer’s father, is laid naked next to her mother, also fully exposed. they’re startled by the door opening, shocked to see young y/n standing there, witnessing their adultery. the three of them are in a trance, suspended in surprise. y/n’s brain is moving a mile a minute, she knows, but she can’t seem to form any cohesive thoughts except “this is not right.”  it feels like forever that y/n is holding eye contact with william before her mother speaks. “y/n,” she starts, but y/n doesn’t stick around to hear the end of the sentence. she’s out of the bedroom and out of the house in 30 seconds flat.

as she runs down the suburban street, she’s barely aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks or the pain in her feet. she’d forgotten shoes. she runs, runs, runs, hair flowing behind her. she runs until her thoughts catch up to her. where can she go? she realizes that her body had been taking her straight to spencer’s house, but she couldn’t. how could she look him in the eye? how could she tell him that her own mother is responsible for his family falling apart? how could she ever even be near him again? stopping in the middle of the road, y/n lets out an anguished scream. a ferocious scream. a scream that claws its way out of her chest. and then, sufficiently exhausted by both her physical activity and her emotional despair, she turns back the way she came and begins to trek back towards her house.

- - - - - -

“penny, i have no clue how you do your job,” y/n says, handing the blonde woman before her a hot macchiato in a to-go cup.

her hair is longer now, her eyes more weary. the wonder she felt as a child is long gone, sucked out of her on that fateful night. y/n hardly thinks about it anymore, but that night after she had gone home, her mother made her pack her bags and took her as far away from vegas as possible. as far away from spencer as possible. she never saw him again. it’s been almost twenty years since she’d last seen the geeky boy. the loss of her childhood best friend was a dull wound now, one tucked safely in the back of her subconscious. sometimes she wonders how he turned out, but their time together feels more like a dream than a memory.

y/n moved away from her parents as soon as she turned 18, straight to washington d.c.. with no money, no degree, no friends or family, y/n turned to her work. she got a job in a tiny coffee shop, and the elderly lady who owned it took her under her wing. her name was janice, and she was an old, childless widow. y/n’s kind disposition filled a void janice had given up on trying to fill, and the two became a fierce pair. janice provided y/n with the apartment above the shop, higher-than-minimum wage, and when janice passed five years later, y/n inherited the coffee shop itself. she’d been owning and running it ever since.

it was at this shop that she met penelope garcia. penelope frequented the kitschy coffee place before work, and had gained quite the soft spot for the raven-haired owner. the two of them chatted every morning as y/n flitted around behind the counter, making whatever caffeine-filled concoction penelope had ordered. eventually, their friendship progressed past casual small talk at y/n’s work into wine-filled sleepover nights at their apartments.

“my job is hard, my friend,” penelope replies, shuddering. “some of the stuff i see gives me the heebie jeebies.”

“yeah, like dead bodies.” y/n turns and begins making her own personal coffee to start the day, penelope leaning on the counter in front of her. “heebie jeebies is an understatement!” y/n faces penelope again and grins, pouring copious amounts of sugar into a mug that janice had used while running the café.

“you know, y/n, i only know one other person in the world that takes that much sugar in their coffee,” penelope remarks while she watches the barista stir her obscenely sweet coffee with a wooden stirrer.

“hmm, they must be my soulmate, then,” y/n says. penelope’s ears perk up at that. she makes her way to the door, and y/n raises her mug in lieu of a wave. “have fun at work, pen! see you at your place tonight! i’ll bring wine!” penelope responds with a witty goodbye and heads to work, just the jingle of the bells on the door to signify she was ever there.

-----

penelope saunters into the behavioral analysis unit office 30 minutes later, cup of coffee long empty. “good morning, babygirl,” derek says.

“i’ll show you a good morning, hot stuff,” penelope deadpans, walking through the bullpen to greet all of her coworkers. penelope’s so bright that she immediately lights up the dreary BAU.

“spencer!” she calls, prompting the shaggy haired doctor to look up from his desk.

“good morning, garcia,” he says with a small wave.

“this morning, i got coffee at my favorite place,” penelope begins to gush, “and the barista puts just as much sugar in her coffee as you do!”

spencer doesn't understand why garcia is telling him this until she continues.

“this particular barista happens to be super cute and also one of my closest friends.”

spencer shakes his head with a laugh. “no, garcia, i’m not letting you set me up again.”

“okay, the first one was not good, i’ll admit.” she perches on the edge of his desk.

“but i actually know this girl! and i love her!”

spencer shakes his head again, giving penelope a light, joking push off of her seat. “no,” he emphasizes, and garcia gives him a dramatic sigh.

“okay,” she says, dragging out the word. “i’m going to go to my lair now to give you time to

think about it.” she presses a kiss to the top of his head, and with a ruffle of his hair, she floats to her office.

i’ll convince him, she thinks. i mean, how could i not? coffee aside, the kids are perfect for each other. she doesn’t know how she missed the blatant similarities between them. penelope’s usually very perceptive, and that makes her really good at setting people up. i might as well be cupid, she thinks, except for that one date i’d sent spencer on. she chooses to ignore that one. a minor lapse in judgement.

penelope pulls out her phone to text y/n.

penelope (7:56): y/n, my love, my light, i have found the most perfect guy for you

y/n (7:57): no penny, not again

y/n (7:57): remember the last date you set me up on?

oh yeah, penelope remembers. she’d sent both of her friends on two completely separate, shitty dates. maybe cupid wasn’t the best nickname for her.

penelope (7:59): you’re right. ugh. ix-nay on that idea then

she attaches a lot of sad emojis, then tucks her phone away. there goes that. penelope tucks that idea away, into the depths of her brain, and forgets about it.

[wizardofrozz]

Prompt 5: Hell

Sam Winchester, Crowley, implied Dean Winchester x Castiel

Word Count: 2,082

Warnings: swearing, violence, grief, blood

Dean threw the church doors open, and his only thought was to find Sam. He did a double-take when his eyes caught Crowley in the fetal position on the floor, but he shook it away. He sprinted across the room, searching like a mad man through the discarded pews and destroyed confessionals for any sign of his baby brother.

           “Sam!” Dean screamed, throwing chunks of wood haphazardly. “No, no, no….” Blinding panic roared in his veins, his hands shaking so bad he couldn’t properly grab at anything. “Sammy!” Dean paced back and forth, kicking at stray pieces of debris, his hand moving to tug on his hair as tears welled in his eyes. “SAM!”

The decision to slam the gates of Hell had been an easy one for the younger Winchester; he didn’t care what it cost him if it meant millions of people would be safe. Just before finishing the final trial, Sam could feel it; he could feel the trials killing him, but he didn’t care. He found peace in knowing his soul would find happiness in Heaven, and one day his brother would join him. The final words rang out, loud and strong after Crowley’s last injection; Sam dropped to his knees, smiling at the ceiling despite the cell-deep agony tearing through him.

The first thing his brain recognized was the sweltering heat that seeped in the marrow of his bones. The agonizing wails were the next thing to register; the sound resonated in his head, making him coil in on himself, but his arms didn’t move. Sam tugged, but something was holding his wrists and ankles down, and that’s when the fear set in.

           “Well, well, well,” a throaty voice sang. “Someone’s coming around.” Sam’s eyes shot open, snapping around the dim room; his hazel eyes dropped down to the figure across the room. Their dark form shifted and twisted before his eyes, their face coming into focus the longer he stared. If it wasn’t for staring into Lucifer’s true face for hundreds of years, Sam was sure the demon’s face would’ve terrified him. Once the thought crossed his mind, realization slammed into him, forcing his eyes to open wider.

           “No,” Sam whispered.

           “Oh yes,” the demon hissed. “Did you really think you’d go to paradise after slamming the doors? Hm?”

           “Bite me,” Sam barked, lunging as far forward as he could.

           “Oh, darling, I’m going to do much worse than that,” the demon laughed, slithering across the room. The bottomless pits the demon called eyes trailed over Sam’s body, and he could’ve sworn the demon looked in awe. “I don’t know how I managed to get the Boy King on my rack, but I couldn’t be happier.”

           “I’ve been tortured by the devil himself,” Sam laughed bitterly. “What can you do to me?”

           “Whatever I want,” the demon snarled, its rancid breath curling around Sam as it loomed over him. “And nothing is stopping your soul from twisting and warping this time.” The demon’s manic laughter echoed off the wall, mingling with Sam’s screams as it made the first cut.

Cas would disappear for weeks, leaving Dean alone in the eerie silence of the bunker. He knew he couldn’t follow Cas to Heaven, but that didn’t stop the aching loneliness from settling around him like a thick fog.

           “Ah! Squirrel.” Dean jumped at Crowley’s voice, shuffling up to sit properly in his seat; he scrubbed at his face before looking in the direction of the ex-demon’s voice.

           “Crowley,” Dean grunted.

           “Feathers still off on his mission above?” Crowley dropped into the chair on Dean’s left; it was still unsettling to see Crowley in anything other than a three-piece suit, looking more human than ever.

           “Yeah,” Dean hummed, crossing his arms on the library table. “This is the last trip. If he can’t find Sam’s soul, it’s not in Heaven.” Dean tried not to dwell on the thought, but it was getting harder and harder to look at the bright side.

           “Are you ready to accept if he’s not there?” Crowley whispered, dropping his gaze. The hunter’s head snapped up, ready to tear into the other man, but he deflated when he caught the unfamiliar pained expression on Crowley’s face.

           “I don’t know,” Dean whispered honestly. If Sam’s soul wasn’t in Heaven, that left only one place it could be, and it made him want to blow chunks. The library fell silent, and every pop and groan of the bunker sounded like bombs going off; Dean’s ringtone pierced through the room, almost sending Dean tumbling out of his chair. “Heya Cas.”

           “Hello Dean,” Cas sighed. Dean could hear the rumble of Cas’ truck in the background and his heart sank to his feet.

           “He’s not there,” Dean mumbled absently.

In a desperate attempt to save the world from Abaddon, in between scouring the Earth for a way to find Sam, Dean shouldered Cain’s burden. The Mark of Cain was like an itch Dean couldn’t scratch; a constant ache under his skin that screamed for murder. Dean’s fingers spun the beer bottle on the table, the ring of condensation making it glide easily against the wood. The only indication that he didn’t hear Cas’ approach was a twitch in his finger; Cas’ warm hand cupped the back of his neck, nimble fingers massaging away the tension at the base of his skull.

           “I think I’ve found a way into Hell,” Cas whispered, his grip on Dean’s neck tightening.

Cas peaked around the corner, waving Dean on when he found the hall empty; the pair crept down the hall, their heads on a swivel.

           “Dean Winchester.” Dean jolted upright, turning slowly towards the voice, swallowing the sigh to match Cas’. He could see the outline of at least another 15 demons in the shadows at the end of the hall, and the Mark screamed, nearly pulling him down the hall.

           “Where’s my brother?”

           “Ballsy to demand answers when your outnumbered,” the demon snorted, crossing its arms.

           “Have you met us?” Dean huffed, spinning the angel blade in his hand. He didn’t waste another second, and Cas followed close behind; they bobbed and weaved, dodging punches and slamming their blades home. Dean ducked as Cas jammed his blade through the chin of a demon sneaking up behind him.

           “Enough!” The hallway fell silent, aside from Dean and Cas’ labored breathing, as the fighting came to an abrupt halt. Dean squinted at the figure moving through the shadow at the end of the hall; he glanced over at Cas, who only shrugged and turned back to the approaching figure.

           “And who the hell are you,” Dean snapped, straightening his shoulders. The figure stopped at the edge of the shadow, its head tilting slightly.

           “I’m hurt, Dean,” the demon chuckled. “I thought you’d recognize me.” Dean took a closer look, but their features were too dark to make out anything. The man looked relaxed; the lapels of his coat flared out where his hands were stuffed in his pockets; Dean’s eyes moved higher over the stupidly tall figure, stopping at his head. He could make out the swoops of hair around the man’s shoulders, but the most striking thing was the outline of a crown perched on the top of his head.

           “Alright, I’ll bite,” Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. “Who are you.” The man chuckled, lifting one left dramatically before stepping into the light of the hallway; his head dropped down to his left with a cocky grin twisting across his face. All the blood drained from Dean’s face, his body suddenly feeling too hot and too cold; Cas gasped from behind him, taking a step back.

           “Surprise,” Sam chuckled, lifting his head, black eyes staring back at them.

           “S-Sam,” Cas croaked, sniffling softly.

           “Ah, Cas,” Sam hummed, smirking at the angel, blinking his hazel eyes back.

           “Get out of my brother,” Dean growled, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

           “Dean,” Cas whispered. “That is Sam.”

           “No, no, that’s bullshit,” Dean stuttered, shaking his head violently.

           “Is it?” Sam snorted, tilting his head again. “I mean, I was destined to be the Boy King of Hell.” Sam’s smile looked more like a snarl, and it made Dean’s skin crawl; that wasn’t the boyish smile of his little brother anymore. “Since you’re here, I should probably thank you.”

           “What,” Dean stuttered, glancing at Cas again.

           “Well, you opened the gates of Hell for me,” Sam laughed, slowly wandering closer. “I didn’t even have to do anything.” Sam continued forward, his hazel eyes shifting back and forth between Dean and Cas; the demons still hovering nearby moved away. “On top of that, you even made my reign easier!” Sam smiled again, and it was so painfully familiar, Dean felt the ache of grief in his chest.

           “What do you want from us?” Cas snarled next to Dean’s ear.

           “You,” Sam replied, licking his lips. Dean spun on his heels when Cas groaned; two demons stood over the angel, holding him on his knees. The older Winchester turned on his brother again, his dull green eyes pleading, yearning for a tiny bit of the old Sam to still be in there.

           “Sam, please,” Dean cried softly, fight the tears threatening to roll down his face.

           “Oh, brother,” Sam cooed, stepping into Dean’s personal space. He flinched when Sam’s giant hand rested on his cheek, but his touch was gentle. “Do you really think I don’t know about the Mark?”

           “No!” “What about it?” Cas and Dean talked over each other; Cas struggled, but the demons held strong.

           “I originally thought you were going to be useless to me but now? Now I have something the kings before me didn’t,” Sam whispered, his thumb brushing against Dean’s stubble.

           “Please!” Cas cried, grunting and struggling against the iron grip on his arms.

           “I’m gonna have an angel under my thumb,” Sam started, glancing over Dean’s shoulder.

           “Cas will never work for you,” Dean cut in, glaring at Sam.

           “How cute,” Sam chuckled, patting his brother’s cheek. “You think he has a choice.” Sam nodded at someone over Dean’s head, and when he tried to look, Sam’s hand closed around his chin, yanking his head back to face him. “And on top of my angel, I’ll have my own personal Knight.”

           “Knight?” Dean managed through his puckered lips.

           “I wish I was surprised at how stupid you can be,” Sam sighed, rolling his eyes. “When you die, the Mark will bring you back as one of the most powerful demons: A Knight of Hell. Sooo, aside from bringing me an angel I can twist and shape, you gave me a Knight! Thank you, brother.”

           “Don’t do this,” Dean whispered, blinking hard at the burning in his eyes. Sam looked over his head again, and his face darkened, a twisted smile spreading across his face.

           “Sh, watch the show,” Sam whispered, turning Dean to face Cas. The angel was bucking and screaming, trying to whip his head back and forth away from the bleeding wrist of the demon looming over him. Despair flared up in Dean’s heart, tears steadily rolling down his face as he watched the demon jerk Cas’ head back by a fist full of hair; blood smeared across Cas’ lips as he choked on it, letting out a low distressed sound. The demon clapped a hand over his mouth when he removed his wrist, hissing something in the angel’s ear. Cas slumped back on his knees, his head hanging and his shoulders pitching up with each inhale when the demon released him.

Cas finally lifted his head, bearing his blood-stained teeth, and locking eyes with Sam over Dean’s shoulder. “Fuck you, Sam Winchester.”

           “I’ll pass,” Sam chuckled. “Wouldn’t want to make my brother jealous; you are his angel.” Dean slumped back against his brother, his expression broken and empty. Cas retched forward, crying out and panting, his body convulsing. “Don’t worry, Dean. I’ll still let you have your fun with the angel as long as you behave.” Sam’s breath puffed against his ear, and he felt his heart shatter in his chest; he didn’t even realize Sam had shifted behind him. “See you soon.”

Dean gasped when the blade pierced his back; he looked down at the angel blade protruding from his chest before shifting his gaze back to Cas. Steadily dulling blue eyes were the last thing he saw before everything went black and his body hit the floor.

Masterlist

Taglist: 

@marvelfansworld​ 

[shadedrose01]

hi! can u pls do number 14 (in the angst section thing) on ur latest prompt post? maybe hurt/comfort or just whump if possible? thank u :D

If The World Was Ending (You'd Come Over, Right?)

A/N: you ask for whump and hurt/comfort, I give you whump and hurt/comfort hehe. Thanks for the prompt, anon, I hope you enjoy it!! :D ❤💖

Read it on ao3 here!

Based off of the prompt:

14. "Just get home as soon as possible, okay?!?"

~~

"Hey Pete." A sigh, low, quiet, sad. "I know I'm the- the last person you probably want to hear from right now and definitely the last one you want to talk to, but..." A pause, some shuffling in the background. "We're all worried about you, Peter. You left, and didn't tell anyone where you were going and-" Another sigh, similar to the first. "Just- call someone, please? It doesnt-" quiet, more subdued, "Doesn't have to be me, just- call Tony, or May, or somebody, let them know you're okay. That's all I ask." Another pause, longer and quieter than before, full of tension, empty words, broken promises. A puff of breath. "Come home as soon as possible, okay? I-... I love you."

A beep signaling the end of the message echoes in the larger, almost empty room, and Peter throws his arm over to press the end button before the robot lady can ask if he wants to listen to it again, or delete it, or whatever. He rubs away the stray, angry tears from his eyes, feeling his stomach clench with the swirl of intense emotions, feeling as it shrivels from the heat of his frustration, rocks from the waves of his sorrow, and bitterness and- and- god he doesnt even know.

Hes just... tired. Bone aching, soul crushingly tired. With everything. With his work load at school growing and growing everyday, spiraling out of his control. With Tony yelling at him in the lab, because he always messes something up. With Harley, who finds something to argue with him about every single day, the screaming matches getting louder and louder every night. With May, moving on with Happy and forgetting about him more and more, time and time again. With his friends, who always seem to be hanging out, but never with him, never inviting him anywhere anymore. With Spider-Man, and the way people seem to keep dying on his patrols, on his watch, because god, he cant even do that right. The one thing he thought he could do with his eyes closed, and he keeps fucking that up too.

And now, now he did the worst thing possible. Worse than fighting every night with someone he thought was the love of his life. Worse than getting scolded at his dream job everyday, by his mentor and father figure. Worse than being forgotten by the only mother he really remembers, by his friends that he grew up with.

He ran away. He broke down, freaked out, and ran. Stuffed as much clothes as he could find into a suitcase, called the first hotel away from the city he could think of, booked a suite for the night and took off without telling a soul. Not his boyfriend, not his mentor, not his aunt, not his friends. Nobody. Because he just couldnt take it anymore. He couldn't handle the constant fighting, the barrage of stress and anxiety a mountain high that he knew he couldn't climb, the loneliness, bitter and cold and empty that surrounded him, suffocated him even as he laid beside a warm body every night, and talked with people everyday. The piercing, heartwrenching thought that everyone he loved was going to leave, to break up with him, to get tired of him, to forget him, and he was going to be all alone.

So, instead of facing it and communicating about his fears like a normal, mature adult, he ran. Like a fucking coward. And, instead of relaxing him and giving him a chance to get away like he thought it would, it just made everything so much worse.

Now, he was stressing out even more, thinking about all the classwork he was missing, all the assignments piling up. Thinking about Tony, waiting for him to show up, trying not to panic when he doesn't, probably checking the monitor on his watch and his suit activity, to see where he had went. Thinking about his aunt, waiting for him to come bake with her like he had promised, and worrying when he doesnt show, because he always shows. Thinking about... Harley. Harley, coming home after a long day of schooling. Harley, noticing that Peter wasnt home, like he usually was. Harley, noticing that most of Peter's clothes were gone, his side of the room left in chaos. Harley, probably thinking the absolute worst.

Peter remembers the calls. The way his phone vibrating again and again as Harley called him over and over, leaving voicemails, telling him he was worried, telling him to call him back, that they could work it out, whatever it was, voice frantic, and then Tony, joining the mix an half an hour or so later, probably when Harley had fully begun to panic. But then, the silence. After about an hour of constant ringing (and Peter trying his hardest to ignore it), the calls suddenly stopped. Harley called one last time, ten minutes later, leaving one last voicemail, but after that... nothing. Pure, unfiltered, crushing silence.

After Peter had gotten to his hotel and broken down once more in the tiny, too clean room, he had listened to that voicemail on repeat, just to drown out his screaming thoughts that plagued his mind, just to listen to the ending again and again and again.

"I...I love you."

When was the last time they had said that to each other? Through text, maybe a few days or weeks ago, but in person? Peter couldn't remember. A while. Too long.

His escape was turning into a nightmare the longer he sat in this room, getting smaller and smaller, almost suffocating as the minutes turned to hours, as the day turned to night, and he couldn't take it anymore, he had to get out of here. Had to do something, go for a walk, clear his head, something, anything.

He basically jumps out of the hard, creaky bed, grabbing the card key had haphazardly thrown onto a table when he first walked in, and exiting the room, the building as soon as he physically could. He takes in a long, deep breath, feels the mid October air chill his lungs, giving a nice tingling sensation before he exhales, already feeling his muscles beginning to relax, his heart beginning to slow.

He looks left and right, before beginning his trek, feet crunching against frost with each step against the frozen concrete, the wind whistling against his red tipped ears, quiet, a whisper, definitely not enough to drown out his racing mind, his screaming thoughts, his growing anxiety creeping and wrapping around his neck like a noose, pulling tighter and tighter the more he thinks, the more he steps, the more he moves and breathes and functions. He takes another deep breath, trying to ward off another attack, another episode, but it doesnt work, the feeling getting worse and worse.

He feels a tingle at the back of his neck, sharp and harsh, but ignores it in favor of his breathing, trying to keep his lungs working as they should, trying to get oxygen to his overworking brain, to his stampedeing heart.

Rookie mistake.

He feels a prick on the side of his neck, and his instincts kick in before he does, his body flinching violently and whipping around, throwing a punch that sends the perpetrator flying back, hitting multiple bystanders before landing on his ass. Peter would've found it funny if there wasnt three others, surrounding him on all sides, grabbing at his arms, legs, torso, anywhere they could reach. And if he wasnt feeling so damn dizzy all of a sudden, the world spinning off its axis, vision doubling. He tries to fight back, tries to struggling, but his limbs feel like lead, his head feels fuzzy, and darkness envelops his vision before he can even blink.

--

Conciousness hits him like a ton of bricks, jerking him awake. As soon as his eyes are open, he's alert, on edge, wary, glancing around the unfamiliar room and trying to pinpoint where he is. It's a dark room, the walls, floor and ceiling all seemingly made of concrete, the only light shining through a sliver of a window near the roof on one of the walls. He must be underground, then, in what looks like some sort of basement, the room too small, and too familiar to be a warehouse or a base for an evil team somewhere. He notices a new more details, like a frayed rope on the ground, a table with some tools on it, and a few darker stains on the ground that Peter tries his best not to think too much about, and comes to some conclusions.

It's a one man job, definitely, not a group of people, and definitely not some well known group like Hydra. 'But there was more of them', he remembers, fuzzily, three men who had grabbed him once the sedative was given. What part do they have to play? Aside from that mystery, he also knows that they've done this before (from the stains that looks conspicuously like blood), and, the most terrifying fact of them all, that they know he's Spider-Man, the strong metallic cuffs that have to be vibranium holding him back, even as he tries with all his might to break through. He doesnt know how they found out, he's kept his identity pretty lock and key, but apparently they know somehow. So that's great, just perfect.

He doesn't know what he's going to do. His first thought is that he'll wait for Harley in his Iron Lad suit, or for the Avengers, or both to come save him, get him out of this mess, but then he remembers they can't. They don't know where he is, he never told them, so they wouldn't know where to look, where to start. They wouldn't even know he was kidnapped, much less know how to save him.

He feels his heart start to race, his chest start to squeeze, this throat start to close, before he forces himself to take a long, deep breath, shutting his eyes and calming himself down. Having a panic attack wont solve anything. He's alone in this, he needs to think clearly.

Okay, where to start, where to start? He needs an escape plan. He opens his eyes, and glances to the slim window, leaning forward and looking closer, seeing faint bars blocking the outside. Okay, so that's a no go for an exit, but what about the door? He looks to the old wooden door, the brown turning gray in its age, with a metal handle and a simple key lock. He could probably pick the lock, or break down the door if he couldnt. Good, now, he just needs to figure out how to get out of these cuffs-

Way too soon for Peter's liking, a loud click echoes in the room, and the door creaks open, a shorter, bigger man walks in, dressed head to toe in black and wearing a white anonymous looking mask. Cause that's not cliche at all. He feels a spike of anxiety either way, and swallows, wishing he had his mask on so he could hide a bit of the fear he knows he's expressing on his face (Harley always said he wore his heart on his sleeve, said it was one of the things he loves about him. Used to love about him anyways.)

"Good evening, Mr. Parker." The man says, voice low and rumbly, sounding pretty much exactly as Peter expected him to sound, surprisingly enough. Stereotypical villain smokes-three-packs-a-day kinda voice.

It's the greeting that causes Peter to snicker, grinning. "Ooo, so formal! You're like a James Bond kinda villain, I dig it! Yo, how do you like your drinks, shaken or-"

He's in the middle of doing his godawful impression when the man shoots forward and punches him across the face, and ow that hurt waaaay more than a punch should. He feels the burns of cuts on his face, the tingling of liquid running down his cheek, sees the brass knuckles reflect off of the sunlight through the window, and thinks 'huh, that makes sense.'

"Shut it, Spidey." He sneers, and Peter winces, his face scrunching up instinctually before he forces it to go blank. Sure, he knew that the man knew he was Spider-Man, but actually hearing him say it, hearing him confirm it sends a chill down his spine, cooling him from the inside out. He must've seen the flinch on Peter's face, because the man continues menacingly, starting a slow walk around Peter's chair. "Yeah, I know who you really are, Peter Parker. I've been watching you for a while now. Know about your wall climbing, your webs..." The man yanks at his handcuffs, making Peter's body crash back against the chair. Peter struggles to keep his face neutral as pain seares up his back, his neck, the back of his head. "Your super strength." He breathes into Peter's ear, before letting go, Peter slumping back against the cool metal, trying to look smaller than he really is. "I know it all, Mr. Parker."

Peter glares at him when he comes back into view, hoping his eyes dont give away his true emotions, dont give away how scared he really is. "That's really creepy, dude. Don't you know anything about personal space?" He gets another punch to the face for that, his teeth throbbing as a warm, metallic taste fills his mouth. He spits out the blood, the bright red a stark contrasting against the older stains on the concrete, and mutters "guess not" under his breath.

"Personal space." The man grumbles, before laughing bitterly, no taste of humor in the tone. "As if you know anything about that."

Peter's face scrunches up, and he tilts his head, feeling bitterness rise up this throat. "Sorry, I'm not following, how do I not know about that? I'm not the kidnapping people after stalking them. I dont even know who you are, dude." He braces for another hit, but it doesnt come, the man just chuckling harshly again.

"Oh no, you wouldn't." The man leans forward, mask almost pressing against Peter's face, and theres a line about 'again, personal space, man' on the tip of his tongue, but the words die and his head drops straight to hell as soon as the man finishes his sentence. "But your boyfriend would."

Harley... Harley's involved in this? How? Why? What did he do? His shock, his fear must show on his face because theres a hint of mirth, of amusement in the man's voice as he speaks. "Oh, the great and mighty Iron Lad, the hier to Iron Man, the savior of us all." His tone is bitter, mocking now, and Peter feels cold, colder than he's ever felt, icy cold horror freezing his heart, his lungs. "That's what everyone said. That's what everyone thought. That's what I thought." The man snorts, short and careless, bitter. "And then he killed my family."

"He would never." Peter spits out venomously before he can even think, his heart racing, aching. He wouldn't. Even if they were on bad terms, even if they were on a break, or whatever he could call what they were going through, he knew for a fact Harley would never hurt someone intentionally, especially not someone innocent.

"Oh, but he did." The man leans back, basically growling now, voice strained, crazy, beginning to pace back and forth. "He did, he killed her, he killed them, all of them. Crashed into our building, our house, our home, and he killed them all."

Peter just stares wordlessly, eyes wide, wracking his brain, trying to think of a time Harley crashed into a building. It was during a fight most likely, but Peter always remembers him in the air, on the ground, never getting hit, never-

Suddenly, a memory floods over him, and he swallows roughly, chest squeezing. "August 1st, 2024." He murmurs solemnly, quietly, and the man's head suddenly stops, head jerking to face Peter.

"You know." He wasnt a question, so Peter doesnt treat it as one, lost in the memory of Harley sobbing loudly against his shoulder, wailing that he had the window, that the wall had collapsed, that there was a woman, and a kid, and that he couldn't save them. It was the first time Harley had ever lost anyone, the first time Harley had watched someone die. It was one of the roughest nights they ever had.

"He tried to save them." He whispers instead, his heart aching at the reminder, at Harley's description ringing through his head. Of how he lifted the rubble off of the bodies. Of how he checked the mother first, finding no pulse. Of how the kid, the son, was still alive, but his legs, his body had been crushed. Of how Harley had tried to help, tried to save him. Of how the boy had coughed up blood, had wheezed, had looked Harley in the eye, his own full of fear and agony. Of how he had taken his last breath in Harley's arms, broken and beaten and bruised. It had taken Harley months, years to get over it, and he still couldnt look at the date without rushing to the bathroom to vomit. Peter shakes his head, shaking away the thoughts. "He tried. There wasn't anything he could do."

"He killed them." The man snarls, apparently not in the mood to listen to Peter's truth. "He murdered them, with his own two hands and-" he pauses, straightens, his voice going soft, quiet, eerily calm and collected when he says "And now, he's going to get what he deserves."

Peter can almost hear the maniacal grin on his face as he grabs Peter's chin and tilts it up, until Peter's eyes connect to the eye holes of the white, porcelain mask, covered only by a thin black mesh. "Because now, I'm gonna take away the thing he loves."

It's barely a whisper, what he says, but with his enhanced hearing, Peter hears it crystal clear, and he freezes, paralyzes, terrified. He yanks at the handcuffs again, and again, the cuffs getting tighter and tighter, cutting into him as he does, but not breaking, not freeing him, barely even moving-

The man walks over to the table, and grabs something Peter hadnt even seen earlier, his phone, and turns it on. "What's your password?"

It would be such an innocent question, if they werent in this situation. Someone someone, a friend usually, would ask carelessly, casually, something like "what's the wifi password?". Peter just narrows his eyes, and keeps his lips shut.

The man doesn't like that very much, as there's suddenly a very real pistol pointed at his forehead, coming out of seemingly nowhere, 'he hadnt even seen the gun, where the-' "Tell me, now."

He sounds serious, grave. Peter swallows a whimper threatening to escape, and gives it to him, making sure to keep his tone level, confident, firm, like he knows he'll be fine, like he knows hes going to get out of this, even though he feels the exact opposite. But he can't, won't let this man find that out, so he tries his best to act brave. To act like Spider-Man, even if he feels like cowardly Peter Parker. Man, he wishes he had his mask.

The man puts the code in, humming to himself as if this is normal, a regular routine act, before a loud ringing echoes in the room, and Peter's stomach drops. Of course he's going to call Harley. Of course he's going to make sure Harley knows what's happening to Peter.

Of course he's going to make Harley listen while he dies. Why wouldn't he? He wants revenge, revenge for something Harley didnt even do, and this how he's gonna get it.

Peter looks to the sky, swallowing roughly and blinking the tears out of his eyes, he's gotta be strong, gotta seem unaffected, gotta have hope. But that hope, that little light in his chest is dwindling more and more as the seconds pass, as the phone rings again and again, as horrible scenario after horrible scenario runs through his head, until-

"Hello?? Pete, are you there??" Peter cant help the silent sob that shutters his body, some of the tears in his eyes spilling down his cheeks as Harley's, his boyfriend, the love of his life, the one he thought he was going to get to marry one day's voice rings out in the cold, cold room, sounding almost breathless with relief and hope that it crushes Peter's already shattered heart even more. Theres so many things he wants to say,  so many words he wishes he could take back, so many he wishes he could say again and again, over and over until it was engraved into Harley's head, never moving, never wavering.

But before he can speak, the man speaks up for him, voice filled with a mock amusement. "Hmm, not quite. Mr. Parker's a little-" he chuckles, dark and ominous. "Tied up at the moment."

There's a pause, long and dwindling, full of palpable fear that causes a few more tears to slip from Peter's eyes, knowing, knowing how terrified Harley is, and when he speaks back up, voice low, shaky, angry, Peter knows he's right. "What have you done to him?"

"Oh, nothing." The man singsongs, grabbing underneath Peter's chin and forcing his head upwards, before brushing away his tears with a thumb. With anybody else, itd be a soothing gesture, an act of delicacy, of love, but all Peter can feel is disgust, bile rising in his throat, and he jerks his head of his his grip, glaring heatedly. The man drops his hand, and his body posture stiffens. "At least, not yet." He mutters harshly.

Another pause, and some shuffling, before Harley's voice cuts back in, sounding stronger this time, calmer, but it's an act, Peter can tell, Peter can always tell- "What do you want?"

"You can't give me what I want!" The man yells, suddenly slamming his fist into the table, Peter flinching from the loud bang that results from it. "I had everything I ever wanted, and you took it away from me! You took everything away from me!"

A puff of breath comes through the speaker, trembling. "I dont know what you're talking about-"

"You dont?" The man interrupts, breathing hard, harshly, before laughing manically as Peter starts to tug at the cuffs again, glancing around the room and trying, trying to think of a way out, of an escape route, of something, anything- "You don't remember? The night you killed my wife and son? Crushed them under the rubble of your mistakes?"

Harley makes a heartbroken, aching, painful noise, the sound reverberating as Peter shouts at the man, spits, "He didn't mean to! It was an accident!-"

The man whirls around and smacks Peter with his gun, hard, making his vision tunnel, the room spinning, his head suddenly pounding where it was only a light throb before. He grimaces, closes his eyes, grits his teeth with a wince, feels the hair on the side of his head grow wet and sticky with blood as he tries to settle this dizziness that's overwhelming him. "Shut up!!" The man roars, causing Peter to flinch again because its so loud, it's too much- "He killed my family! And now," Another laugh, the barrel of the gun now pressing against Peter's forehead, the cool of the metal seeping into his skin. Peter opens his eyes to stare at it, wide eyed and unfocused. "Now, he's going to listen as I take his."

Peter struggles even more, even though his limbs now feel like concrete, as the gun clicks, the safety coming off, the bullet lining up with the barrel, ready to shoot, ready to kill him-

"Wait!" Harley cries, his calm exterior deteriorating, leaving his true emotions on full show, the panic, the distress. "Please, your wife and son wouldn't want this-"

"You dont know that! You dont know anything!" The gun presses further into his forehead, finger laying on the trigger and suddenly, Peter is calm.

It's a strange, out of body calmness that washes over him like a wave, gentle, soothing. He stares up at the anonymous like mask, at the man wearing all black, and the faint sight of deranged eyes he can see through the black mesh of the eye holes, at the reflective gray of the pistol, and he feels calm. He's going to die, staring at this mask, this person, knowing that the love of his life, his soulmate is listening, and all he feels is an eerie calm, everything slowing down to a stop. He gives a faint smile, barely a twitch of his lips, before saying, loud enough so the phone can pick it up, "I love you."

He closes his eyes, and waits for the inevitable. He doesn't hear hear the sob like scream that Harley let's out, calling his name. He doesn't hear the door burst open, and three bodies rushing into the room. He doesnt hear the repulors and guns going off, killing the man almost instantly. He doesnt hear anything but his heart beat, pulsating in his ears, and a loud constant ringing, until the gun shifts against his head, until hands grab at his shoulders and shake him violently, until he opens his eyes and sees Harley's face two inches away from his, blue, ocean eyes wide with terror, mouth moving frantically, the one curl of hair always in front of his face flowing as his body jerks with his movements.

Then, suddenly, everything rushes back. The tsunami of emotions, of fear, of grief, of pain and hurt and 'god I'm so sorry' floods back over him. Sounds, Harley blabbering "Come on, Pete, answer me, please," in his ear, while others (he cant even tell who they are, can't even-) talking beside them, over the dead body of his captor, 'they got him, he's dead, I'm not dead, he's dead-'. His vision, blurry with tears he didnt even know he was shedding, spinning with the concussion he knows he has, going back and forth as Harley's actions get more frantic, more worried, his voice getting higher the longer Peter doesn't answer.

"Peter, baby, please say something, please be okay, please be-" Peter just leans forward and presses his lips to Harleys sloppily, almost missing from the dizziness still plaguing his mind, his thoughts, successfully shutting him up. Harley makes a strangled sound, before kissing back passionately, hands on either side of his face, salty tears pooling out of his eyes and into their mouths.

They pull away after a few moments, only for Harley to pull Peter to his chest, breathing out, chanting, "Oh thank God, thank you, thank you-" and Peter presses his face into his neck, feeling himself start to shake, to tremble as he slowly falls apart, wrapping his arms around his back and grasping onto the metal of his suit tightly, sobbing loudly. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

"Shhhhh," Harley soothes shakily, rubbing a strong hand up and down his back. "It's okay, you're okay. Everything's okay."

Peter pushes through anyways, needing to say this, needing to- "I-I didnt- didnt mean to run away, I-I just- I need-needed to get away, and-"

"I know," Harley murmurs, cutting him off gently, "I know, baby, I know, it's okay." He sighs quietly, sounding sullen, guilty. "I'm sorry too. But it's okay. We're okay."

Peter nods shakily, hoping, believing him, squeezing his eyes shut and shuttering, curling more into Harley's chest. "I love you." He whimpers, "I love you, I love you so much."

"I love you too." Harley whispers back, pressing a light kiss to Peter's cheeks, carefully missing the bruises and cuts, pulling the trembling boy even closer. "So so much. Forever and always."

"Forever and always." Peter echoes, sniffling.

Things aren't perfect, Peter knows. He knows that they still have a long, long talk about everything that's happened, and that things arent going to click into place immediately. They may not for a while, but as long as they're here, safe, warm, alive and loved... Peter knows that they'll figure it out, together.

[mrvdocks]

Just Ask ll

Part 1.

“What an asshole,” you mutter, walking right to the bar. “I shouldn’t have come, I’m such an idiot.” 

You don’t know what you’re going to do, you just know you need something to be able to tolerate him if and when you go back. 

After downing multiple shots, you trudged down the hall, trying to walk as best you could back to the roomette. If liquid courage could help you at any time, it had to be this one. You were planning what you’d say to him, making up a conversation in your head and giving yourself the best arguments and points and ending with him begging for forgiveness, and then maybe, just maybe, you could actually get the ball rolling on the friction you’d been feeling. You smile to yourself, eager to battle it out, and make the leap to open the door. Your smile drops. 

He sits there, knees to chest, just staring at the wall. Unconsciously chewing on his lip, just like the good ol’ days. When he notices you, he stops and speaks up. “Hey.” 

You sigh, clearly exhausted. You open your mouth to hurl at least an insult or something to make him know you’re still game to argue. When nothing comes out, you abandon all anger and move to sit next to him. 

Shoulder to shoulder, you still can’t bring yourself to look at him. Not directly at least. 

“What are we doing, Billy?” 

You feel like you’re back in college, in the aftermath of hashing it out and taking a breather over something stupid that doesn’t matter. It seemed so simple then, and here you two were now. Avoiding things and people, and you were adding more wood into the fire you haphazardly helped to start.

“I dunno,” He whispers. “Just….thinking.”

There was something he wasn’t saying. It wasn’t fair that only your secrets came to light tonight. You needed to even the score. “Why’d you send RUN?” 

“Why did you?” He counters.

“I asked first.”

He chuckled to himself.  “To be quite honest, I was….blithering drunk and lonely.” 

Your brows perked up. “So you made me drop everything I care about because you got drunk?” 

You weren’t too mad, the liquor had made sure to placate you. You just felt a tinge of annoyance at him. Nonetheless, his recklessness struck a chord in you. It was a tango, it took two, and it only took two seconds for you to ruin your life for him. 

“Why did you?” He asked, this time turning his head to meet yours. 

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. “I have no idea.”

You do have some idea. You can’t remember a time of normalcy. The domestic life was constraining at times. Not that you didn’t love your son, but you missed certain things before him. How ironic, here you were with an ex and missing your son, yet when you were with Charlie, all you did was miss Billy. You imagined a different path, a dream, maybe Billy could’ve been Charlie’s father and not - you shook your head. 

“What?” Billy’s voice brought you back to reality. 

“Where the hell were you?” Your voice quivered.

His brows furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Why now? Why so late?” 

His face fell, some understanding showing. 

“I needed you, a long time ago,” Your voice began to crack. “I was doing fine without you! I had you out of my system, I was getting over you.”  

Then I saw your face, and now I can’t erase 15 years worth of yearning for you.

Somewhat of a lie, but you didn’t think you should be unloading almost every painful feeling of longing you had for him. He just listened intently, knowing that every word that came from you was a huge hit to your pride.

“I’m sorry. Look, I wish I could give you some sort of explanation that isn’t half-assed but there isn’t. I’m just a screw-up.” And maybe I just missed you, a lot. 

You laughed bitterly, half-assed was right. 

“What do you see when you look at me, Billy? Am I a screw up to you too?” 

“No!” He places his hands on your shoulders, gentle with you. “We all fuck up. It’s been 15 years, something’s bound to change. No one seems to have it all together.”

With a pitiful scoff, you can’t help but feel seen. To feel like he knows how to ‘fake it till you make it’. And boy, does he know. But he won’t tell you this, yet.

Your head lulls down but he places his finger under your chin, forcing you to look at him. You’re emotionally bare in front of him, and he knows it won’t be long till he’s in your position. But it can wait. 

“I like you, still. Maybe even more. You’re sexier, you don’t take my shit or probably anyone’s, you’re probably kicking my ass - career-wise I think.” 

You give him an easy smile, the corners of your eyes wet for a moment before he wipes it away. 

“Shut up.” 

“I’m serious,” He laughs. “I think I might be the worst bastard in history.” 

“Maybe not the worst.” 

He feigns shock but nonetheless sees that you’re feeling better. Unless the front you were putting was more convincing than his ever was.

“Give me one day.” He pleads. 

“One day?”

“One day. We can do whatever you want and if you love it then we keep this train going and see where this leads us, or at the end of the day if you still feel homesick, we can go our separate ways.” 

I’ll let you go. He almost said. He just got you back, and he would be damned if he was going to let you go without a fight or at least a proper vacation. How selfish of him, but sometimes you had to be. 

“I…..okay.” 

He smiled from ear to ear, internally sighing in relief. “Great! I think this calls for a celebratory nap,” He checks his phone, it’s two am. “We’ve got a solid five hours and then the fun begins.”

Stepping out into the cool breeze of Chicago, you feel a little bit more optimistic about your relationship with Billy. Home was on the back burner for now, today was about you and your needs. 

You stared at the train ticket, eyes flying everywhere trying to figure out what time the next train would come. Got to time that goodbye, maybe. 

“Maybe it’s just me and the lack of sleep but I cannot find the next train time.” 

“I can check.” He offers, suddenly distracted by the phone ringing. He seems anxious based on whatever he just received but puts up a calm front. “Be back in a bit.” With that, he walks back into the station.

You watch people walking, cars pass and get lost in the city soundscape. A woman passes you and hands you a brochure. The Cloud Gate at Millennium Park. It seemed interesting enough.

“Twenty-four hours till the next train, everything’s going according to plan.” He smiles warmly. 

“Great.” You feign excitement. “Except, where will we sleep?” 

“That, my dear, can be solved with a hotel room.”

The thought of you two in a hotel room made your mind reel. Not in a bad way of course, but well at least the room would be an upgrade from the tiny roomette. Who knows, the day is still young and maybe your horny prayers would be answered this time.

“Let’s get one now.” You were almost too eager as you took him by the hand and were on your merry way to finding a hotel. He wasn’t complaining. 

“Someone’s excited.” 

“Is it such a crime to want to fuck someone after being blue balled for twenty-four hours?” 

“You know you can’t undo this.”

“Well, I don’t want to unfuck you. Do you?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“That poor girl.” You said in a half horrified and half-embarrassed tone.

“What?” Billy asked as if he didn’t just have his hands all over your ass in the lobby. You were thankful you remembered to wear something underneath the skirt you had, afraid that the lobby cameras and some schmuck would’ve had tickets to a free peep show. 

“I don’t know whether to smack you or berate you.” You whispered. 

“You could fuck me.” The bastard smiled smugly. 

You laughed nervously, ashamed to meet the passing eyes of people outside the hotel who’d heard that. “Very fucking funny.” 

His shoulders shook as he laughed, content with himself. 

“Okay, can we focus on the fact that that room was worth my rent and then some? Where the hell are we going to get all that money?” 

“I’ll take care of that.” He said.

Within minutes, he was able to walk into a bank and you stood outside taking in your surroundings. Your eyes trailed off looking everywhere, trying to find something to pass the time. Your eyes landed on an ice cream cart not too far away and as if on cue, your stomach grumbled. 

You placed a hand on top of your stomach. “Forgive me.” 

You nabbed two cones, immediately devouring one and holding onto the other for Billy. When he came out, you gave him his quickly, afraid that you’d eat more than you’d like to. You raised your brows as if to ask if he’d gotten the money. 

“It’s going to take a couple of hours.” 

You hummed, dejected.

“Up for some sightseeing?” He asked. You nodded through a mouthful of ice cream and passed him the brochure. 

The walk was long but you didn’t mind. It was a clear day, sun shining on the water and the chatter of people made you feel like you were in some cheesy rom-com with the love of your life without a care in the world. If only it were that easy. 

“What do you think it means?” Billy asks, looking up at the reflective silver bean. 

You mess with your reflection, pulling funny faces and taking some snapshots of it. 

“That you definitely need more iron in you.” 

He scrunches his face.

“How pretentious we must be. We’re analyzing a giant space bean.” 

“Oh yes, 19 year old you must be so proud.” You quip, knowing he was the exact opposite of a valedictorian.

“Hmm no, that was more your expertise. Museum dates, staying in the library at ungodly hours, and making me study my arse off.”

“And now look at me. Totally living the life.” You couldn’t help but take a shot at yourself. Yes, you were smart, but what good had it done for you? Still a hopeless romantic.

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“Shit on yourself like that. You turned out way better than I did, I guess you leaving me was the right choice.” 

“I didn’t leave, you did.” 

“And what a screw up it was, hm?” He knows, no he admits, what a gargantuan screw up it was. “I always thought, now I can’t slow you down. She must be out there with an amazing career after all the shit I’ve put her through, and you do.” 

“I lied.” 

“What?”

“I’m not a nurse,” You’re word vomiting now. “Fuck’s sake I can’t even look at blood without fainting. I failed the program. I decided to choose something my mom didn’t lead me towards so I became a teacher and a…..failed writer.”

He nods and swallows.

“And then I met him. And I thought, maybe this is the right one. Maybe this time I could move on. He gave me the attention I thought I wanted. He gave me everything. But then I’d see you everywhere and I just couldn’t do it yet.”

“You still see him?” His voice is strained, and you pretend like you don’t see his jaw clench asking about this other lover.

You shake your head. “Fucker moved to a different state by the time I found out I was pregnant. I didn’t want him to come back but I also didn’t want to be lonely. So I kept Charlie.” 

“I know.” 

You smile thinking of your son. “He absolutely hates it when I sing. He loves to just throw a stuffed animal at me anytime I’m close to even thinking of singing.”

“You’re kidding.” 

“Okay, well it’s a lot funnier than it seems.”

“I mean, you are kind of a bad singer.” 

You punch his arm playfully. He yelps.

“No, I’m not!”

“I remember you trying to sing that god awful pop song in the shower every time and I’d always have to come in to shut you up.”

“You’re just jealous of my voice.”

“I bet the animals are too.” He chuckles. He yelps again as you punch his arm. 

His phone dings in his pocket again, but you don’t notice him go into anxious mode again. Your eyes are admiring the architecture around you. He slips it back in and you turn your attention to him again. 

“We should go shopping.”

You raise a brow. “Since when do you shop for yourself?” 

“Come on, you don’t want to feel the richest you’ve ever been in some fancy new clothes in a hotel room?”

You hum. “I guess I’m overdue for some things.” Your blouse and skirt combo aren’t exactly feeling too fresh anymore and you think of the pretty lace sets you could find for tonight.

“What kinds of things?” He gives you a once over, practically undressing you with his eyes.

“I guess you’ll find out.”

You’ve never set foot in a store this fancy. You don’t see yourself as living this luxury. But a beautiful lavender dress blesses your eyes and you can’t help but take curious strides to it. The material basically melts in your hand, soft and silky. 

“This is nice.” 

“Very nice.” 

You check the tag on the arm sleeve and recoil. “Eh, not that nice.”

“Buy it! It’ll look great on you.”

“That’s like $700, do you know what I can buy with $700?” 

“It’s a special night. We’re traveling, we’re together. Can you honestly not say you’re dreaming of something like this?” 

“If I told you I had used my savings for this trip, would you forgive me?” You winced, traveling was not cheap nor was it forgiving to your bank account. 

“Here, take this.” He says, pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket like nothing. You feel like you’re asking your sugar daddy to fund your next shopping trip.

“How did you - I can’t take this.” 

“Shh. Buy yourself something nice. Ok, that sounded wrong but it’s true.”

“Billy.”

“Think of it as a gift.” 

You nod hesitantly but thank him. 

“Alright, I’ll see you back at the hotel in an hour. Have fun.” 

With that, he runs off and you turn back to your options. This was going to be a long hour.

[cosmicbash]

I have awoken in a feverish daze with one thought on my mind, cat boy em. Like normal Em but with super cute cat ears and a tail, Kells would lose his damn mind

"Pffffft-" Colson was struggling to contain what was bound to be stomach keeling cackle.

"They sent the wrong item okay-" Marshall looked beyond done with the situation, a faint flush of color coloring his cheekbones. 

The younger rapper knew his partner was telling the truth, that there had to have been a mistake in the order. But that wasn't going to stop him from taking delight in the conveniently ironic outcome. "Mhm."

His eyes were locked on the small box sitting on the brunette's lap, the contents inside it what had them in this comical situation in the first place.

It was a special order the older rapper had sent out for weeks earlier. Well, it was supposed to be his order. While it was from the same online store the item inside was far from the new custom silk restraints Marshall had requested. Instead a soft and almost uncannily realistic looking pair of cat ears and a tail sat curled up amongst the colorful paper stuffing.

Dark brown ones to be exact, almost the same exact shade as the older rapper's hair color from what Colson could gleam from where he was standing. 

"What a pain in the ass," Marshall was sighing, a hand coming up to stressfully rub at his temple while he tossed the box aside. "I'm gonna have to get on the phone with them and figure out how to return this shit and where our actual package ended up."

Colson couldn't help but be drawn to the box, his fingers reaching out to run over the soft faux fur. "Thought they have a strict no return policy, I mean, I wouldn't want to be accepting back any freaky sex toys-"

"Yeah but this has to be an exception, it's not even our order. Probably some weird kinky couple out there wondering where the hell their new fluffy butt plug is-"

Colson's eye's moved down to the tail, immediately locking on the small plug that did indeed rest at the base. "Whoa it's a plug? I thought it was like- like one you hook on- whoa." Examining it closer he realized it was actually detachable and could be converted into either. 

The quality was almost breathtaking.

"Of course it's a plug, the weirdos who are into that kinda stuff al-- put it the fuck down!" Marshall's hands slapped at his own and knocked him from his revere. "Don't go playing with it, they won't accept it back if it looks used at all-"

"They probably won't let us return it in the first place." Colson felt a bit miffed, their hands getting into a minor swat fight until he finally just snatched the whole box up off the bed. "Stop smacking me! I'm just- ow- I'm just saying- how would they know if we weren't just lieing about not using them? What, are they gonna test this crap? No. They'd be better off just not accepting it back-"

"Then it'll get tossed in the trash, I don't care! But until they say that, don't fucking touch it!"

The blonde almost felt like a child being reprimanded, or a sibling stuck in a game of tug of war with how Marshall and him were both pulling at the cardboard box.

The suggestion they just toss the albeit strange toys out had Colson feeling a bit defensive of them. It felt wasteful to just throw out something so artfully crafted, even if the subject matter was a bit cringey. Besides how often did people get an opportunity to explore some random fetish like this with high quality goods?

"You're being ridiculous! We should at least try them out, what's wearing a pair of fluffy ears going to hurt?"

His outburst finally seemed to shock the brunette into silence. A confused look crossing the mans face before he finally stuttered out a "W-what?"

Mind made up Colson hugged the box closer and took off towards the bathroom. Leaving his partner sat on the bed while he situated himself in front of the mirror.

There was no way the company would accept them back, not after the packaging itself had already been opened. 

Ignoring the tail altogether Colson focused on the soft fluffy ears, plucking them up out of the box to examine the mechanics. He expected a head band of some sort but instead they seemed to clip onto ones hair. 

Snapping them into place wasn't an easy feat however, Colson needed to squeeze really hard for the clip to click and when he was finished the ears were horribly lopsided. Not to mention how strange the dark fur looked in comparison to his own platinum hair.

Still he couldn't help but laugh a little and pop his head out into the doorway. "Fuck, aha, I don't think I did this right but- How do I look?"

Marshall's expression was one of downright discomfort. His mouth opening and closing a few times before he just shook his head and dropped his face down into his hands. And somehow that reaction was funnier than the look of the ears themselves. 

His earlier cackle came bubbling back up to the surface until he was stumbling back across the room. Tossing the box haphazardly onto the pillows so he could flop back and safely continue his laughing. "What? Don't I look cute? Ahahah, don't you just want to- to snuggle me?"

"You look out of your fucking mind, that's how you look-"

"Oh, cmon Marsh- is that any way to- to talk to your precious little kitten?" Colson could barely get the words out between laughs, his legs kicking in the air at his own poor jokes.

A slap to his chest only had him laughing harder. "Animal abuse! Animal abuse! Hit me again and I'll call Peta!"

"You're insufferable." Marshall was groaning and burying his face in his hands again. Despite his huffing Colson could still make out the faint shake in his shoulders. It only spurred him on. 

"Oh cmon, why don't you try being sweet to me and see if I'll purr-" that paired with his fingers sleazily trailing up the older mans arm finally had the rapper cracking. A snort escaping his mouth before the floodgates released and his shoulders began to properly shake from laughter. 

"If you start purring I'm gonna kick you outta this room, I mean it-"

Colson's chest felt light and warm when he realized Marshall was wiping wet tears from his eyes. The smile plastered on his face already hurt with how wide it was, but he couldn't help himself and purred loudly. 

The mock cat noise was cut off by Marshall dropping back onto his chest. An audible "oof" leaving his mouth while all the air was forced from his lungs. The man didn't even bother hiding his smirk, just sighed and reached up to tug at one of the cat ears.

"Ow-"

"They're on their pretty good huh?" Marshall's eyes finally twinkled with interest. Head tilting until his ear was pressed against the blonde's chest. It was a comforting sight to Colson, even if he was pretty sure the man was looking at him at his most unflattering angle with how his chin was pressed to his chest.

"Yeah- ow- fuck, stop- stop pulling on them." Swatting away the older males hand Colson decided it was time to pull them off. Before the guy ended up yanking his hair out by the roots. "One second-"

Another few painful moments of fiddling and he finally got them to unclamp, each ear plopping down onto the older's rappers tee as they were removed.

The brunette immediately plucked them up and began examining them more closely, blue eyes downcast and his expression mellowing. "They're softer than I thought they'd be-"

"Yeah, it's a really good quality faux fur-" Planting his hands on the mattress Colson moved to sit himself up.

To his surprise Marshall just lifted his back up long enough for the blonde to move before promptly settling back down against his thigh again. Fingers clicking the barrett part of one ear curiously.

With them now so close to the older rapper's beard and hair really could see the similarity in shade. It was uncanny. They almost looked made for Marshall specifically.

The suggestion left his mouth before he could stop himself. "Try them on-" Blue eyes finally darted up to meet his own yet again, and the confidence in his voice faltered. "I-I mean, I did, and- they- well, they match your hair better and-"

Suddenly his face felt like it was on fire, just the idea of Marshall actually wearing something like that enough to have his stomach feeling hot. 

The smaller rapper looked at him for another long moment, eyes boring into his own until he couldn't help but rub his hands over his face and backtrack. "O-Or don't! That works too-"

"Put them on for me-" A furry ear pressed against his knuckles. Peeking out from behind his hands Colson felt his tongue tie itself in a knot. His partner was looking at him expectantly  and shaking the offered ear. "I don't feel like getting up to use the mirror."

"Yo-Wait, are you serious? Okay!" The excitement in the younger rapper's voice was palpable and he could tell it amused Marshall by the way his mouth quirked up briefly. 

His fingers immediately ran through the short cropped dark hair atop his partner's head. Heart skipping from how much he loved the new longer length. "Do you think it's even long enough to clip?" He honestly didn't but that wasn't going to stop him from trying.

Colson plucked up one of the ears and curled himself over the brunette's head. Marshall gave a few yelps of complaint while he tugged and poked at his head but after a few minutes of trial and error he actually got the ear to snap into place. 

The second one went on a lot quicker and after another couple minutes of listening to Marshall yowl and curse he had the second one in place. Back finally able to straighten so he could admire his handiwork.

Colson immediately regretted his suggestion upon doing so. 

The soft blue gaze glaring up at him partnered with how perfectly the fur blended in with Marshall's hair felt like it lit his face on fire.

If he thought his tongue felt tangled before it most definitely was now.

"What?" Marshall's eyebrows furrowed closer together. "Why're you looking at me like that?"

"I-" 

"You?" Marshall motioned for him to continue and the action was so cute Colson's teeth hurt. 

"I think I've got a new kink-"

The palm to his face was expected, so was Marshall jerking his body up off of him. "Alright, they're going in the trash."

"What? No!" Colson couldn't let this new discovery about himself be crushed so quickly. "Don't take them off yet-"

Shooting back up the blonde looped his arms around the smaller rapper's back and dragged him back down onto the bed. Wrestling with him for a moment until he finally managed to pin the older man down. Hupd wiggled between his spread legs and fingers wrapped around his biceps. 

"Colson-"

"Please?" Colson knew he was being pathetic, shooting the other man such big puppy dog eyes over something as creepy this. But he couldn't help himself. "Just for a few more minutes?"

Marshall's eyes avoided his for a moment, face contorted up in a scowl before the man finally sagged back against the bed in acceptance. "Fine. But if you get fucking weird I'm gonna be the one calling PETA."

Snorting Colson swooped his head down to steal a quick kiss. Hands releasing their death grip to instead slide, palm down along his partners arms until he reached his wrists. "When aren't I fucking weird?"

"You-" Marshall gasped sharply when his palms moved down to push up his shirt. Colson's mouth nipping along the edge of the older man's fuzzy jaw. "You know what I mean brat-"

The scratch of beard against his face burned but it just reminded Colson of a cats tongue, rough and still somehow soft. 

Pulling back his eyes traveled back up to the fuzzy points sticking out of his partners head. Cock already swelling in his jeans while he reached one hand up to lightly tug at them.

The resistance from the clip and Marshall's hiss just made it seem all the more real. "God, they're so cute on you-" He wanted to bite them even though he knew realistically the other man wouldn't feel a thing.

Colson ended up nuzzling his face into one instead, the hand on Marshall's chest climbing until it could palm over a nipple. 

The responding jerk of hips and fingers tracing over his own ribs had Colson laughing. Mouth trailing back down to bite around the shell of Marshall's actual ear. The hand he had up fiddling with the cat dropping down to curl around the back of one thigh, hike their bodies closer together.

A satisfied groan rumbled between them, one that had Colson stealing the brunette's lips again. Hips rolling until another noise hummed between their mouths.

"Fuck-" he dropped his head down just as Marshall bared his throat. Lips sealing over the other man's pulse point to suck a mark. "God you even purr like a cat-"

The sharp tug on his hair signified Marshall's irritation but Colson just laughed and moved on to make another mark. Foot digging into the sheets so he could rock their bodies together in a soft steady rhythm.

The action only earned him more pleased noises, some that sounded like Marshall really was teasing him. Until he had both palms clutching the older rappers ass through his briefs, ever thankful of the man's inability to wear his pants properly.

A particularly satisfying roll of hips had him cursing. Their teeth clacking when he frantically connected their mouth's let again. The sight of Marshall with those cat ears had him so riled up he might actually come before they could actually fuck.

------

And Imma cut it here because the full answer is so damn long it doesnt actually fit! I did post the full smutty ficlet to ao3 however

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23379910/chapters/56023525

[cle1024]

abstracted | lmh

member: lee minho 

genre: angst 

summary: art was his passion, his vivid daydreams, yet it was also the thing that caused him the most pain. when he saw art personified, so rare and exquisite, it only hurt more.  painter!au 

warnings: mentions of anxiety 

a/n: i intended for this to have a different ending but it became way too long for me to write the full ending, so it’s kind of rushed towards the end. i also apologise if the formatting is really bad, i’m still figuring out how to post on a functioning blog lmao

His life was a paradox. Paint splattered his skin, the secondary hues mixing in with his moles and scars. The canvas suffered more so, fat strokes painted in shapes he couldn’t quite identify. By the time he had completed the work the syndrome had already gone too far, clouding his vision with dizziness and a thick smog that only seemed to disappear when he ripped his eyes from the canvas he spent hours hunched over. It was a punishing gift, and a hugely ironic tragedy. 

A painter, Lee Minho, who couldn’t look his own art in the face. Waves would crash on his body, pinning him to sharp rocks until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. Only then would he drag himself away, wheezing out of his studio as he clutched the doorframe. It had many names, though most commonly Stendhal syndrome. He never truly understood what it entailed, but from what he had experienced it was nothing good. There were parts of the diagnosis he had cut out, his eleven year old mind figuring his older self could fill in the gaps - he was wrong. The doctor had mentioned it was psychosomatic, would cause him physical and emotional anxiety, dizziness, fainting, maybe hallucinations if it was particularly bad. They were selective symptoms, in the fact they would only occur when he viewed art. No one was quite sure how it happened or what it meant, just that it had originated in the 19th-century with French author Marie-Henri Beyle. Some thought it was poetic, some thought it was bizarre, Minho tried not to think about it. 

 A deep sigh left his defined lips as his hand came up to wipe his forehead. It was only transitioning to spring, yet the heat had already picked up dramatically. Sweat tickled at his hairline, threatening to spill down his forehead in river streams. All he wanted was some water, a fan, anything to cool him down. Instead he stood in front of an incomplete canvas, the light breeze from the window doing nothing to calm his rising body temperature. He could distinctly make out half of a face, oddly familiar in its features and dimensions, but still no masterpiece. At first, he resented all forms of art. How dare such beauty bring him such immense pain, so much panic and suffering. It wasn’t until he tried picking up his own paintbrush that he realised how freeing it was. His hatred soon transformed into appreciation, which then upgraded to motivation. In Minho’s warped reality, a hard time breathing and remaining conscience while viewing his art was rewarding, as it proved to him he’d made a masterpiece. If that didn’t happen, then he’d hang the painting up in his house and try again. Three out of forty works remained in his house, the rest being shipped off to independent collectors, friends or family. Not once did the thought of his art being in a gallery strike him. Nothing about his style was traditional, nor was he. The top layer of strokes shook with overwhelming emotion, some having large lines out of place from where he’d collapsed in the final moments of painting. Yet in his eyes, there was something perfect about them. The way they shook so meticulously - such a beautiful contradiction. His hand reached for the damp cloth hanging from the waist of his shorts, touching it to his forehead as he closed his eyes in momentary bliss. When he was looking for the best room for his studio, the one with the most sunlight seemed like a good idea. Perfect lighting for almost all hours of the day, never a need to adjust his easel to reflect such light. He hadn’t considered the lack of fans and air conditioning in the room that would surely make him suffer during the warm weeks spring and summer. But it was okay, he was used to suffering. 

 Your eyes drifted absentmindedly, taking in the full lecture hall. A 10:00am lecture, yet you could barely keep your eyes open. The eyelids would weigh heavily on you momentarily in the hopes of making you crumble under the pressure of exhaustion. Everything had been building up lately - you had design tasks due left and right, and you still had to haul ass to the Art Theory lectures you were expected to do, despite not having art as your main course. A sigh forced its way up your throat at the thought. Every night it became harder to sleep. You could practically feel the bags under your eyes sinking as each hour passed under the moonlight, but nothing changed. Of course you’d tried sleeping pills, three different kinds in all honesty, yet nothing could defeat the heavy weight of anxiety that kept you up at night. There were too many questions inside your head: what will my design be? How many materials will I need? Who should be my model? Why do I still drink coffee when it just makes me crash in the middle of class? It was exhausting, tiring enough to make you rest your head on the table for a second. Your laptop was open in front of you, a fresh word document open and waiting for you to type some notes about the lecture you begrudgingly attended. But your hands never met the keyboard. They remained in your lap as you kept your head down throughout the lecture, fading in and out of sleep as your professor droned on about the theoretical concepts of art. Line, shape, colour, what good were they to you? Art wasn’t your major, you shouldn’t have cared. Key word: shouldn’t. You still cared, far too much evidently, as you woke up and came to the realisation that you missed an entire lecture. You cursed yourself repetitiously, how could you fall asleep like that? You probably missed important information for the exam! You bunched your hair in your fist. You were truly and utterly screwed. 

On the opposite side of the hall, Minho had sat with his back against the wall, half-focusing on the lecture and half-searching for a new art inspiration. He tended to get bored of subjects easily, so painting the same people he saw everyday was utterly dissatisfying. Perhaps the curve of the professors bald head, or the glow of the rectangular laptop, or the sunlit person sleeping through the lecture. Minho’s eyes darted back to their figure to confirm what he had thought so absentmindedly. There, in plain sight, someone had the audacity to sleep through Professor Kang’s numbing lecture. He smiled slightly to himself, what a reckless maniac; I love it. The sun filtered through the window gently to form an angelic glow around their head. He had a clear view of their face, forme with delicate and peaceful eyes, yet sharp cheekbones and distinct lips. Something about them was so perfect, as if they had been hand sculpted by the gods, hours spent meticulously crafting every last feature. They were truly a masterpiece - Minho’s smile dropped. Oh no, his vision began to cloud, the pressure around his neck tightened and he found himself struggling to breathe. Get out, get out, get out, get out. He packed his things in a daze, based purely off of muscle memory. His sight was stripped from him and if he wasn’t quick enough then his breath would be too. Clumsily, he stumbled out of the lecture theatre, muttering profuse apologies until he had left the suffocating area. Go home, go to your studio, get the fuck out of here. Something wasn’t right, but it simultaneously felt as if everything had fallen into place. All of his painting life, Minho had searched for the muse that would bring him to his knees in agony, reflect the very distress his paintings caused him. Now, as he speed-walked back to his home, he was convinced he had found that in the mysterious person at the back of the lecture hall. Inspiration was a vital part of his work, his hobby, his future career, but at what cost did he owe? Part of him was conflicted. Shall he fall to his knees, burn under your gaze without a second thought? Or shall he hide in the shadows, paint around the panic and become breathless from his imitation of life? No matter which choice he went with, Minho would still suffer. Life truly liked to do that to him. 

 Minho panted slightly, his movements getting more erratic as the colours melted together. Yellows trickled into browns trickled into whites, yet in all the chaos he still managed to highlight beauty. His vision was getting spotty, rarely moving his eyes from the canvas even if it meant dipping his paintbrush in the wrong colour - he could find ways around that, but letting himself lose the momentum he built up was something he simply could not compromise. Line after line, shape by shape, the detail slowly filled in as he recreated the image in the lecture theatre. The one that had him wheezing all the way home, clutching at his dry chest as he ran and silently prayed his legs wouldn’t collapse under him. His sharp eyebrow furrowed in concentration, the light tickling of his bangs going unnoticed. Stay awake, just a little longer. He urged himself, pleading with life to be on his side for once. Frantic, maniacal movements spurred him on at this point, his eyes darting to different sections of the page where he could add something new. More detail on the shirt, more lighting on the hair, quickly, just a little more. With a finally stroke of his smallest paintbrush, he allowed himself to step back heavily. He haphazardly threw his palette on the stool beside him, hoping his paintbrush landed in the cup of water before his vision went out completely and he collapsed. It was truly a scene, one that would baffle yet inspire anyone who walked in on it. A palette placed perfectly on a stool, right next to a paint-tainted cup of water with numerous brushes poking from it, all diagonal to the man laying on the floor unconscious. His eyebrows were furrowed, hair blowing slightly as the breeze trickled in, light blue shirt unstained despite his vigorous work. His work, almost photograph like, good enough to bring anyone to the same state as he. A simple scene, yet a devastating impact. Someone sleeping on a table, opened laptop and sunlight threading through their hair. It was an accurate representation of the life of the student, yet it was captured so surreal. Not a stroke was out of place, no shaky final layers or misplaced colours in moments of intense emotion. Everything was perfect, just as Minho had always hoped. Something had changed in that one painting - it had proved to him that he could work through shaky hands and spotty visions, still producing paintings that could be mistaken as photographs. When Minho’s eyes eventually fluttered open, only to be met with the image of you sleeping across from him, he truly thought he’d lost his mind. He recalled the painting, but this wasn’t about the painting. You weren’t in the painting anymore; instead, you were lying beneath the canvas in front of him. Minho’s dark orbs rolled back into his head as he fell backwards once more, I suppose I’ve truly lost my mind. 

 “It’s been awhile since you came in for a checkup,” the crinkled man smiled from behind his glasses, gesturing for the patient to sit in the plastic chair across from him, “so, what seems to be the problem?” Minho rubbed his hands together slightly, eyes darting to the side as he went over his pre-planned explanation. 

“Uh, I was painting the other day, and I passed out. But, when I woke up the painting was-like-alive,” Minho blinked rapidly before continuing, “the… thing, I painted was in front of me when I woke up. It-it wasn’t in the painting anymore, it was mimicking the painting in front of me.” 

The panic began to rise in his chest as he awaited a response from the doctor. The older man had sat there, nodding every few seconds to indicate his understanding of what Minho was saying, but just because he understood didn’t mean he had an answer. He adjusted his glasses before unclasping his hands, “it seems that you had a particularly vicious episode, this time including hallucinations. Minho, I really wish I could do more, but we just don’t know enough about it. The best advice I could give is to find an anchor of some sorts,” he gestured with his hands, “you know, something that can just ground you in that moment.” Minho nodded softly despite his dissatisfaction. They don’t know enough about it, even after two centuries have passed. 

 The paintbrush lingered over the canvas, tickling the material with saturated hues of blue to mirror the Spring sky. Flowers had quickly bloomed, cold weather had been temporarily eradicated, tranquility whistled through the trees and along the crystal clear water of ponds. Though Minho could not be at peace, even if he tried. As his colours blended together in a dance of dark and light, he allowed his mind to be captivated by the sight - directly ignoring the doctor’s advice to “find an anchor”. This artwork wasn’t for the purpose of bettering himself, it was rather to experiment on how far he could push it. How much of his mind had he truly lost? White paint arched into the blue background as Minho delicately stroked the canvas, watching his work form intently. Something about it was soothing to watch, but caused him such stress and anguish. What an awful paradox. The black dots started to stipple their way into the clouds, darkening the sky into a thunderstorm. Minho panicked - he wasn’t done yet. Frantic hands reached for the purple-stained paintbrush, swiftly striking the canvas with dark slaps of the colour. Petal after petal, stroke after stroke, Minho created a new landscape through blurred vision and shaking hands. His lungs begged for air, releasing wheezes and gasps from Minho’s throat. He couldn’t breathe, not yet, not until he was complete. The painting was a simple still-image, mirroring the purple Bellflower that sat in a crystal vase by his window. Light twinkled in the fragile possession, framing the flower in an angelic glow. It was a simple image that caused much harm to Minho, making him stumble over his feet and straight to his knees, paintbrush and palette still in hand. Unconsciousness beat him stiffly, but at least the painting was complete. Thirty minutes later, his eyes fluttered open as a hefty weight fell on his head. The painting stood across from him, no change in its contents. Nothing out of the painting, nothing replicating its contents. There was no hallucination, everything stayed the same. Minho pushed himself into a sitting position, mouth open slightly as the wind blew outside. Now he understood why doctors didn’t understand how to help people with the illness, he couldn’t even make sense of his own symptoms. 

 Your head rested on your palm, pushing your cheek upwards as you attempted to keep yourself awake. In your head you whispered thank you’s to whatever higher power made sure your teacher did a theoretical lecture today, you didn’t think you could stay attentive enough to avoid sewing something wrong or stabbing yourself with the needle. Although you certainly enjoyed sewing, the possibility of spilling your own blood on your work wasn’t appealing - sure, the symbolism of ‘blood, sweat and tears’ becoming a reality sounded artistic, but blood stains were harder to remove than you had expected. Your eyes focused on the digital clock stationary behind the professor, only ten minutes left. In your mind, you pleaded for no assigned work - no extra reading or online theoretical tests. At the moment, you had a major work for your practical due. An entire fashion collection, birthed out of your colourful imagination in dark shades of soft fabrics, velvet that would hug the skin of your model. If you even had a model. With a heavy sigh, you packed away your belongings into the leather shoulder bag beside you. 

Minho checked the time on his phone as he strolled through the campus, absentmindedly calculating whether he should bother catching the bus or running home. Majority of the time, the bus was late enough for Minho to walk home before it even arrived, though he was never sure why. The route it traveled wasn’t typically congested on a Wednesday afternoon. Lowering his phone to the pocket of his jeans, he allowed his eyes to raise across the campus. An exploration of the blue sky, old brown brick buildings and cobblestone path began in his mind. He drifted, allowing himself to imagine painting such a scenery, wondering whether the shades of brown would blend as easily as he would like. Though his fantasy was cut short, sliced through with a sharp and unexpected knife. His footsteps halted as he watched. Again, the sleeping person from the lecture, fell into his line of sight. With open eyes he could clearly distinguish pigmented skin from deep-sunken eye bags, it was no wonder they slept through that lecture. In the two times Minho had observed them, the light had managed to cascade down on them to provide a heavenly glow. Perhaps it was a message from the beyond, singling this person out as the muse he’d always searched for, longingly. Then, it started. Blurry, the buildings shifted, and Minho felt himself moving without thinking. There was no time to catch the bus. 

 He lay still, head tilted slightly to the left as an arm rested on his upper abdomen. The painting was once again replicatory, vividly so. To the point where any passerby would question how you could print a photo onto a canvas, only to then become aware of the unconscious artist who lay across from his work. His work. It was a large portrait of you - that nameless, sleepy person - as you moved through the campus. Surroundings blurred, colours melted together to convey your speed, but there was a distinct fixation on you. Every feature mirrored to perfect, even the attention to your eye bags. Minho had only glanced for twenty seconds, yet he had managed to perfectly replicate the glance hours later. With heavy eyelids and a bruise forming on the back of his head, Minho lifted himself into a seating position, rubbing his eyes. As he focused on his surroundings, his eyes widened and he jumped back in shock at the sight ahead of him. The painting, a blurred background of brown buildings and greenery. That was all. In front of him, you stood. Side-on, the exact direction of the paintings, mimicking his work as he woke. If he reached out and touched you, surely you’d disappear, evaporate as a figment of his imagination. But, you seemed so real. Just as you did in his painting, only this time you weren’t a two-dimensional subject on a canvas. You were a physical, life-sized artwork come to life - almost like a sculpture, but less obvious. Minho allowed unconsciousness to tug his hair backwards and into the realm of darkness. He had no answers to his questions, nor did he have an understanding of what was happening, but he had already made the decision that avoiding you - a random student at the same university as him - was the best option. 

 It was successful to say the least. Not that you noticed, but Minho stopped looking at you for inspiration. In fact, he didn’t paint much at all anymore. There was a period after his discovery where he tried, even without seeing your face prior. Yet his pink sky ended up having your face blended into the hues, the city scape had you looking out a window, and the bowl of fruit had a hand reaching in with an identical dainty ring on. Subconsciously, you became the focus of all of his work, and it scared him to no end. Certainly more than the first time he passed out or panicked while seeing art. So he had temporarily retired his paintbrush and freshly woven canvases, opting instead for the limitless control of the sculpting medium. Clay gave him more control than painting. With painting, it was an out of body experience. There are no thoughts, only movement and creation. But he has a conscious thought process while shaping clay, making note of which areas to push which way. His temporary retirement from painting extended to longer than anyone could have expected. One week turned into month, turned into three months, then into six, then to where he was now. Eight months without stepping into his studio or analysing his environment as if it were an incomplete painting. Eight months closer to his practical assessment.  

The concern about Minho’s artwork had grown, only in his professor, though. His art wasn’t something he indulged in with friends or family, it was more an off-handed gift under the guise of “spring cleaning”, even in the middle of autumn. Though his professor had somehow figured out his work. He could sense the passion in every painting, and the rate at which Minho produced them impressed him to no end. So when Minho seemingly gave up on the medium, he obviously found it concerning, “Minho, a word?” Minho shoved his hands in his hoodie as he approached the professor, raising his eyebrows confusedly, “you’re not in any trouble if that’s your concern,” it wasn’t, “I just wondered why you’d given up on painting so suddenly.” Minho grew tense - that question was his concern. 

“Oh-uh, I-I’m just not feeling it anymore, I guess.” 

“You guess, or you know?” The professor raised his eyebrows as Minho silently cursed himself for his revealing slip up, “Minho, you’re an incredibly talented painter. Whatever has put you off painting needs to leave your mind, just let yourself be guided by the paintbrush. I expect to see it for your major work,” the younger male nodded softly before leaving the room. With a sigh, he began the walk to the bus stop. Although he hated late buses, he didn’t want to go back home. Something in him didn’t want to be confronted with the closed door to his studio. He didn’t want to unleash his talents again, as strange as it was. Though when he made it home, yellow coated paintbrush hovering over the canvas with the intention of letting the paint guide him, nothing happened. No emotion overwhelmed him, there was no exiting of his soul as passion took over. He just stood there, blank faced as he stared at the blank canvas. Then the questions came to him: I wonder how sleepy student is doing. Is their hair any different? Do they still sleep through Art Theory lectures? Are they still the inspiration I need? He couldn’t paint without inspiration, and you’d unknowingly become his muse. Neither of you knew it, you’d never even made eye contact before, let alone spoke. Minho let out a huff as he slammed the paintbrush on the stool beside him, golden toxicities spilling onto the wooden material, certain to stain if he didn’t clean it up fast enough. He didn’t. Instead, he turned his back on his paintings, the bare canvas and fresh paint. All he did was turn around and walk through the door. 

 Minho tried his best to approach you, running over ways to start conversation in his head, but as soon as you even glanced in his direction - not necessarily at him - it became far too hard to breathe. Pitiful, slightly. Pathetic, certainly. In his utopia, you would be the anchor to ground him, the sense of tranquility to calm his flurry of emotions brought on by messy paint and beautified canvases. Clearly, you were not. You were a paradox. You brought so much inspiration to Minho, so many bursts of inspiration in the midst of lectures, enough for him to start frantically sketching you over his notes - which was certainly a mess, but so was he. Simultaneously, you made life so much more difficult for him. You gave him a muse for his major work, but you made it hard to get reference glances. All you did was make him dizzy, high on a perfect mix of elation and panic, before sending him crashing down as you disappeared from eyesight. You would never know about it - mainly because Minho would never be able to tell you, but also because he’d be too embarrassed to let anyone catch a glimpse. It was almost stalkerish of him. Only almost. The most he knew about you was your face, the way your hair framed it, the way the light brought out the colours that tinted you, the way you slept through lectures or typed notes one letter every half-a-second. No name, no major, nothing. That didn’t stop the concern growing in him as every time he saw you your eye bags were darker than the last. He would never have the strength to ask about it. 

 You still appeared in front of him when he woke up, sometimes he could even poke you gently and feel smooth skin. There was never a heartbeat, there never would be. But, Minho was okay with that. Perhaps you wouldn’t be the anchor he wanted, perhaps there was no anchor. As long as he had the muse and passion to paint, that would be enough for him. 

[yangholic]

Peephole | Two

word count: 2,016

warnings: emetophobia

You woke up with a pounding headache, feeling extremely disoriented. Your forehead was haphazardly rested on the porcelain rim of the toilet. Your throat and lips were dry, and an acrid taste lingered in your mouth. Despite the temporary pain your body was in, your mind still remembered. It remembered your next-door neighbor brutally slicing a man’s throat with a box cutter. All the blood. The callous smile. His eyes. Another wave of nausea rushed over you, but the only thing left for your stomach to upheave was bile. After spitting the sour contents into the toilet, you came to the sobering realization that you were living next to a murderer.

You scoured the cramped bathroom for any signs of your phone, before spotting the device on the floor where you usually sat by the peephole. Crawling over to your cell phone, you clicked the slumber button and noted the time: 9:01. Only a little bit over an hour had passed, so your neighbor was most likely still trying to clean up his mess which meant that you could make a run for it. Grabbing your cell phone and some shoes, you threw the door to your apartment open. If you sprinted to the nearby police station quick enough, maybe they could catch your neighbor in the act and no one else would have to die.

As you stumbled out of the doorway, legs still dizzyingly weak from losing the contents of your stomach, you collided with a wall of flesh. “Whoa, careful there,” the gentle voice chuckled as a hand clasped on your shoulder. “You don’t look so good, are you alright?” You found your footing and prepared to apologize for bumping into the stranger until you looked up.

It was him, the Boy Next Door. His chocolate eyes swelled with concern, while his lips were pursed in a slight pout. His blonde hair and honeyed skin, which you expected to be stained pink, looked the same as it always did. If you hadn’t been witness to his ice-cold demeanor earlier, you would have sworn your neighbor looked concerned. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine,” you mumbled, eyes quickly averting to the floor. It hurt to look at him— it hurt to recall the sense of comfort he brought you on your loneliest of days. “You look like you could use a good meal,” he paused momentarily to study your slightly emaciated frame before adding, “Or maybe two.” Laughter rolled off his tongue so easily, and God was it the cutest thing you’d ever heard. His giggle was like a stone bouncing across a glassy lake, creating ripples of mirth where there had been none. Before you could put some distance between the two of you, your neighbor nudged you towards the apartment labeled ‘Lee 301’.

“C’mon, let me get you something to eat.” Your feet remained planted on the spot, refusing to follow him into his murder den. Despite the loud rumbling of your stomach, you meekly rejected his offer, “I said I’m fine.” Your neighbor let out another chuckle, albeit this one more awkward and understanding. “I know it probably sounds sketchy for the neighbor you’ve never met to offer you dinner,” he playfully raised his hands in a defensive manner, “but I swear I’m a gentleman. No funny business here.” You almost cracked a smiled at his ironic comment— the words that would once have made your heart do a backflip now seemed so empty. Your neighbor would probably hack you to bits the second you walked through the doorway, thus negating his gentlemanly spiel. “I uh,” you began, trying to formulate an excuse as to why you didn’t want to go over. “Lee Jimin,” your Angel— no, Jimin— said with his hand outstretched. Your eyes darted between his delicate hand, the one you’ve seen cook, masturbate and even kill, and the abyss in his eyes. At that moment, two thoughts crossed your mind.

One: you could run away screaming towards the police station, but based on Jimin’s size, as well as your weakened state, he would easily capture you. Two: you could participate in his charade by acting polite, but sneak away at the first opportunity. You chose the latter, for once putting some value into your meaningless life. If you were to die, you wouldn’t want it to be in the hands of some killer.

“L/N F/N,” you replied just a beat later, your hand settling in his. Jimin’s smooth, uncalloused skin was just as soft as you had imagined. His fingers tightened around the flesh of your palm as he tugged you towards his apartment. “Now that we’re acquainted, I don’t think it’ll be weird to have you over for dinner!” Jimin sounded so chipper, so god damn normal. But you knew what he was, you had seen what he was, and there was no way in hell he could fool you.

As Jimin unlocked his door, you steeled yourself for the impending smell of iron, the sight of a mutilated corpse in his room. Would you be his second victim of the evening? Instead, you were greeted by a pristine apartment, no trace of a body or blood anywhere. “Here, you can wear my slippers,” Jimin said as he handed you a pair of blue house shoes. You shucked your ratty sneakers off and put his slippers on, still in awe at the current condition of his apartment. Roughly an hour and a half had passed when you blacked out so it would be almost impossible for someone to clean up a mess of that size. Plus, Jimin lived in a small one bed one bath, there was no way he could hide a body without it being noticed.

You settled in at his coffee table, knees tucked in under yourself as you patiently waited for Jimin. He was shuffling about in the kitchen, taking out various Tupperware containers. “I hope you don’t mind tteokbokki,” he said as he began to boil the broth. “I love to cook, but I only do so for myself, but it feels nice to do this for someone else.” You made a noncommittal grunt that was barely audible. Jimin began to quietly sing to himself as he brought the broth to a boil. His voice was angelic— in all honesty, Jimin could probably be an idol with his looks and talent. You glanced around his room and noticed a bookcase full of novels and collectible figures. Nestled between the bookcase and the small closet was a crack in the wall. Thankfully, it looked more like a blemish instead of a hole, which must have been the reason why he never noticed your spying.

“You know, I’ve been living here for 4 months and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around,” Jimin leaned on the kitchen counter, his elbow resting in the marble surface while his chin was cushioned in his palm. There was a flicker of interest in his eyes as he bore into you, “Tell me about yourself, Y/N.” You smiled nervously, although it looked like much more like a grimace. “Uhh… I don’t um, really,” words fumbled out of your mouth, partially due to the fear of him stabbing you if you didn’t respond, “I don’t really leave my place that often.” At that admission, Jimin’s eyebrow quirked curiously. “So you’re a shut-in?” You nodded at his brutally honest comment, feeling a bit embarrassed under his scrutiny. Jimin must have noticed your discomfort and did his best to rectify the situation, “I didn’t mean that in a bad way in the slightest. In fact, I’m proud that you came over today, that proves you’re slowly becoming more social.” Jimin smiled proudly, his pearly white teeth peeking out from behind his lips.

The dazzling grin contradicted the sadistic one you saw just a few hours earlier through the hole in the wall. There was no way Jimin was a killer. His apartment was clean, he wasn’t acting obvious, and when he smiled, it was as it his whole soul smiled. You had read somewhere that psychopaths were unable to imitate true smiles because their eyes never displayed the same happiness their mouths did. But when Lee Jimin smiled, he smiled.

The kitchen timer went off, and Jimin plated up your meal and set it on the table before settling down in front of you. You stared at the stir-fried rice cakes, the reddish hue reminding you of freshly spilled blood. After a painful moment of awkward silence, Jimin gasped slightly and scrambled back to the kitchen to procure a pair of chopsticks. “Sorry about that, I forgot I only had one set!” He handed you the eating utensils and watched you carefully, almost as if he were judging your reaction. Not wanting to blow your cover, you thanked him quietly, which garnered a wide grin on his behalf.

After one bite of the tteokbokki and you instantly felt yourself melt. The rice cake was tender, but not mushy, and the spices created a tangy flavor that wasn’t unbearably spicy. Since your meals consisted of nothing but cup ramen and convenience store food, you knew nothing was better than a home-cooked meal. Well, except for Lee Jimin’s home cooked meals. “Wow! This is so good!” The blonde man perked up, “Really?” After unashamedly shoveling two more bites into your mouth, you continued to praise his culinary skills. “I haven’t had home cooked meal in a long time, but seriously, it’s really tasty!” Jimin’s brilliant smile returned, his eyes cresting into little half-moons. “It makes me happy to hear you say that. I really do love making people happy, even if it’s with simple things like cooking,” he began, a nostalgic look sweeping across his fine features. “Living alone… Cooking for one… It’s always so lonely, you know?”

You related with Jimin’s loneliness, but the fact of the matter is that watching him made you feel less alone. He was the anchor in your life, the one thing that kept you from stepping into another hangman’s noose. But despite how kind and friendly Lee Jimin was, you shouldn’t shake the undeniable fact that he was a cold-blooded killer. You were almost convinced that what you had seen earlier was just a hallucination, but there was only space left that had not been explored: the bathroom. You looked at the blonde man across from you, “Jimin, can I use your restroom?”

Jimin’s facade never faltered, “Sure, our apartment layouts are the same so you should know where it is! While you’re in there, I’ll box up the leftovers for you to take home.” You nodded and made your way to the door on the right, expecting to see blood from floor to ceiling. But much to your surprise, it was just a regular bathroom. Appearances could be deceiving, though.

You cautiously approached the bathtub, unaware of the mutilated corpse that lay obscured by the shower curtain. Both fear and anticipation had you stunned— what if you did find a body? Then what? Was it possible for you act like you hadn’t seen anything? After standing in front of the porcelain tub for what felt like years, your hand dropped from the shower curtain and returned to your side. A light knock on the door startled you, and Jimin’s sugary voice wafted through the wooden barrier.

“Y/N? Are you okay in there?” Although he had no reason to preemptively attack you, Jimin’s right hand clutched a box cutter hidden in the waistband of his jeans. The young man knew you were probably too polite to snoop around, but still, he could never risk a liability. “Y-Yeah,” you responded, and he instantly relaxed his grip on the weapon. “Almost done!”

You convinced yourself what you had seen was just a hallucination induced by improper sleep and lack of nutrition. Or maybe the delusion was caused by low blood sugar or an undiagnosed mental illness. Yes, it was definitely those things. Lee Jimin was innocent. He was kind, considerate, and the only ray of Hope in your life.

This was Love.

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[foolscapper]

5. Poisoned

Note: Takes place loosely after current MCU timelines, after Infinity war. And everyone is super not dead and working at Avengers HQ.

Summary: In this house we love and respect Dr. Bruce Banner.

Or: how Dr. Banner saves Peter Parker from a poisoning.

Short fic 5 of 31 for Whumptober.

Peter's first few missions went off without a hitch.  It's the big jungle hideout mission thingy that really screws the pooch, as Mr. Stark would like to say. The job was straightforward — flushing out secret terrorist bases affiliated with HYDRA scattered through the Amazon (he thinks? they never tell him anything about where they're going, but to be fair, he was sleeping after an all-nighter for a big test). And okay, 'terrorist' and 'big test' are not really things to lump together, and even though May's accepted his life's occupation she's probably going gray at this very moment, but he is sure to face-time her on a fancy Stark phone; Thor even joins him in the call with a charming god-dude smile.  (He does not have a fanboy crush on Thor, shut up.) Anyway, point is, this is the mission where things go really bad. Power dampeners come into play, and it completely takes out half the team. Like, no joke. They're launching into their positions when the blast happens, and then Bruce shrinks back down into a confused doctor, and Peter feels his muscles doing something unpleasant just before he falls off a wall. Unstickified. He repeats that same non-word to Bruce with wide eyes, and Iron Man tells them all not to panic, he'll reverse the effects, just give him time. Um. Time. He's a normal, skinny teenager and Dr. Banner is just an awesome brain in a relatively killable body. Not good. And not much time. Also not good: being poisoned and normal. What was his exact phrasing over the comms, again? Something along the lines of, "Mr. Stark, a scientist stabbed me with a needle. I don't think it's the flu shot, but maybe it could be?" Which was met with a lot of yelling and panic and Mr. Rogers telling Iron Man to calm down and reverse the dampeners (Peter is not in the same area as Mr. Rogers, but he's pretty sure Natasha's guarding a really asthmatic Brooklyn guy that could easily be picked up with one arm). Oh man, is Thor de-powered, too? They're so screwed. He rushes with Bruce toward an extraction point that Mr. Hawkeye can pick them up from, because the two of them are about as useful for combat right now as a noodle stuck to a wall. Um. He's not sure why that was the first thing that came to mind? His mind is really foggy. From the needle injection. Which was probably poison and he's gonna die and — This sucks. "Don't panic," Bruce tells him, and maybe he feels really zen knowing he won't turn into a big green rage monster from the stress. "I'm not, I'm not," Peter says. Then his eyes roll back and he collapses, very gracefully.

The next time he's regained consciousness, Bruce is knocking a swinging lab door open with his hip and pulling Peter by the arms through them. The boy winces, cold and clammy and feeling like he's gonna — oh, Mr. Banner's flipping him on his side so he can barf. It's probably the worst barf of his life, 0/10, thanks for asking. "Sorry, kid, hang on— No, Tony, I'm not going to the extraction point!" Peter peels his eyes open, looking through shaking vision as Bruce slides a metal rod through the handles of the door; then he pushes a metal push-tray in front of it. "Because if I try to drag him there, he's gonna die before we make it. I think I know what they hit him with. Tonytonytony... focus on what... got it under control..."

Bruce is kneeling down and picking him back up. "You're all arms and legs, kid, geez. Did you even eat before the spider?" "Misser Banner, I don' feel so greaaat—" He's not sure if his voice did that, or if time is stretching. "No problemo, I got this. I know exactly the components to reverse engineer a cure, just don't die for, like, five minutes." "Fiiiive minuuutes...?" "Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive miiiiiiiiiiiinuuuuutessssss-" Okay no, that's definitely his head making Mr. Banner's voice do that. Otherwise he's mocking a dying poisoned person, and he's pretty sure Mr. Banner wouldn't do that. He's pulled haphazardly onto one of the experiment beds in the room, and Peter's not of a mind to think about who could have been here before him. His heart is pounding sofast, toofast, and he can hear the ramblings of a doctor at the cabinet as he starts pushing over some glass vials and taking others. Peter lifts his hand and touches his head, and there's nothing but sweat. He's turning all water. Or maybe he's just sweating profusely?  "Am Iiiiiuh turnnnninguh to waaaaahder, or sweauhting profussssly?" "Ooooh yeaaah you're sweaaaatiiiing aaaaa suuuubstantial amooooount." "Fuuuuuck." He thinks he hears a nervous laugh. Bruce's palm presses the side of Peter's hair, carding through the curls, and he realizes distantly that it's just to make him feel better. Then he's gone again, working some kind of mad scientist vibe that seems to go faster and faster until he's a blur of lights and arms and — and he's talking so much, and the lights are so loud, and then there aren't any lights at all — Peter opens his eyes at last, pupils sharpening into pinpricks in the overhead light. He feels sick, sweaty and shivering in the warm lab, and Bruce is holding a syringe, looking kind of scared. "Are you okay, Pete?" On a nearby table, Peter's ear comm is blowing up with voices. Bruce touches his finger to his own ear, sighing in relief. "He's stable. I think it's working. Okay, okay, I know it's working. Yes, his nails are a healthy color again. Yes, he's breathing. Tony, you're seriously stressing me out here-" He looks at Peter. "He says you're grounded." "I'm whuh?" There's a knock at the door, which seems even more barricaded than before; a head of blond hair appears in the teeny rectangular observation window. "Banner! It's Thor! I'm still painfully mortal and pathetic, like you lot; please let me in?"  Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. Peter smiles, and some of the fog lifts from his mind. An hour later, free of poison and power dampening, Peter lays in a cot set up on the helicarrier they're riding back in, feeling the nausea slowly draining away from him. Other than Natasha and Mr. Stark manning the front, it's gone quiet, post-battle energy drained from them. Even the non-mortals are sleeping, seems like, and Peter is left awake with his thoughts as Dr. Banner checks his pulse. "... Hey, Dr. Banner?" "Yeah, Peter?" "We should... take some notes on the power dampeners...? When we're done. So when you get stressed, you can manage the green guy?" Banner looks fondly at him; he probably already had that idea, but Pete figured it wouldn't hurt to bring it up.  "... We should probably worry about testing that out later. But thanks." "No problem. Um. Dr. Banner?" "... Yeah, Peter?" "Thanks for saving me."

Bruce ducks his head, grinning. "... Any time."

[d0gdaze]

1.

Also on AO3

Chapters: 1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5 . 6 . 7 . 8 . 9 . (ongoing)

Reddie / Stenbrough

Word Count: 2599

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is set up on a date with a friend of a friend, and this Tozier guy is a hot mess. || Stan has feelings. Bill is confused.  Long and angsty and may or may not contain a roadtrip. AU - no IT. Characters are 17/18. Set in early nineties. More film based but contains elements from the miniseries and the book.

Content Warnings: strong language | underage drinking / drug use | smoking | mildly sexual implications (no smut) | internalised homophobia | era-typical homophobia | implied child abuse / neglect 

-Chapter 1-

Eddie Kaspbrak stood in front of his bathroom mirror, studying his reflection with a nervous and rather intense look plastered on his face. His hair was carefully parted and styled, not a single hair out of place.

He was wearing a light grey button-up shirt that had been pristinely ironed, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows and the end tucked into black dress-pants, with a leather belt tying it all together. His shoes were polished to the point where you could see your reflection in them. You would think they were brand new if you saw them, he only ever wore them during special occasions, such as weddings or the sparse few times a year he went to church. There was an undone bow-tie hanging over the edge of the sink, and he had been debating with himself whether or not to wear it. He didn't want to look like he was trying too hard, and seeing as the rest of his attire had probably crossed that line already, he finally decided against it.

His watch beeped, snapping him out of a trance that he wasn't aware he was in. He looked down at his wrist and realised he had been standing in the bathroom, distracted by his own reflection, for over an hour. Lucky for him, he had decided to get ready two hours before he had to leave the house, and he still had about half an hour left to prepare.

He swung the mirror open revealing a meticulously organised cabinet, shelves stocked with an entire pharmacy's worth of pill bottles, tubes, and boxes, all labelled with complicated medical jargon. Even Eddie wasn't entirely sure what some of them did, but he knew that he needed them, or at least would need them at some point. He grabbed a rectangular blue container from the lowest shelf. It had seven small compartments, each printed with a letter corresponding with a day of the week. S M T W T F S. Through the plastic you could see each compartment was filled with six or seven pills of varying shaped and colours. He flipped open the lid labelled with an 'F', for Friday, and threw them, two at a time, into his mouth. He dry-swallowed them all with ease.

He put the container back in it's rightful place on the shelf and shut the cabinet. He took a deep breath in, looking at his reflection with his chest puffed out and shoulders tall. He almost admired how he looked in this position, trying to re-imagining himself as taller, buffer, like some of the guys he saw in the locker rooms at school. But that admiration disappeared, as quickly as it arrived, as he exhaled and his shoulders dropped, back into a slight slouch. He huffed and shook his head a little, deciding that envying other men's body types wouldn't do him much good, and turned to the door, making sure to grab his inhaler from the side of the sink before he left the bathroom and shuffled down the hallway to his bedroom.

4.59 pm.

Eddie stood at his front door, his hand hovering over the doorknob, staring at his watch, counting the seconds down until it would read 5.00 pm, when he would leave his house and walk to Bill Denbrough's house, and he would get there by 5.10 pm, which gave him plenty of time to talk to Bill before 5.30 pm, when Bill's 'friend', who was a complete stranger to Eddie, would supposedly come and pick him up and take him on this 'date', that had been set up, much to Eddie's dismay.

Apparently, at some point during the last couple of months, the members of his friend group had decided that Eddie needed to loosen up and meet new people. They had attempted to get him a date several times before, but Eddie had absolutely refused, freaked out, or cancelled, each time without fail. It took a hell of a lot of persuasion but they finally got him to agree to something, a movie date with one of Bill's old friends that he had never met before – as long as 1. someone else came with them and 2. this person wasn't too rowdy. Bill assured him that he had nothing to worry about.

So the plan was made that they would go to the Aladdin, and Eddie and this stranger would sit together, and Bill, Stan, and Beverly would sit two rows behind them. Eddie figured that he wouldn't have to talk to this person too much if they were in a cinema, as long as they had decent manners, and that he could lean back on the other's for support if he got too nervous. He also figured he could easily say he was going to the bathroom and leave if he needed too.

When he saw his watch flash 5.00pm, he opened to door and stepped out, shouting out a cheerful 'Goodbye!' to his mother, who he assumed had probably fallen asleep in front of the tv. Shutting the door behind him he set off, turning left on the footpath and heading towards Bill's house. He had known Bill since they were 7, and Eddie reckoned he could have navigate his way to Bill's house with his eyes closed (although he would never actually try).

He arrived exactly when he planned that he would, 5.10pm. His heart started racing faster as he walked up the driveway. He put his hand in his pocket and gripped his inhaler, not taking it out, but just reassuring himself that it was there. He knocked on the front door 3 times. It swung open within a few seconds, and Beverly beamed when she saw him.

“You look so good!” she exclaimed, and Eddie frowned, and dropped his gaze.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, pushing past her as she giggled. He made his way to the living room, where Bill and Stan were on the couch, Bill laying with his feet over Stan's lap. Their heads shot up as he entered the room with his arms crossed over his chest, Beverly in tow. Stan smiled almost as wide as Beverly did, and Bill wolf-whistled, receiving a very annoyed look from Eddie.

“You clean up real nice,” Stan said, pushing Bill's legs off of his lap and walking over. “He's gonna be blown away for sure!”

“Yeah, for sh-sure,” Bill perked up, nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Whatever, I just want to get it over with.” Eddie's face started to turn red, already regretting that he agreed to do this. He wasn't made for this kind of thing! He was too paranoid, too awkward. He always had been. There was a reason he had never been on an actual date before his friends started setting him up. He hadn't even kissed anyone, for gods sake. He just didn't have the charm that people who go on dates and have relationships seemed to have. All his friends had had boyfriends and girlfriends and made out with people at parties and been flirted with by kids at school, but he never had. Everyone just, overlooked him. And if he was honest with himself, he didn't really mind it. Being alone. It meant that he could focus on things that were more important.

They heard a vehicle with a very loud and assumably very old engine pull up at the front of the house. When the engine stopped, it was replaced by hard rock music, playing just as loud. Eddie's stomach dropped, and he prayed to god that it didn't belong to his date, that he would not have to get in whatever car sounded like that.

“No way, is R-richie actually early f-for once?” Bill jumped up and ran to the front door, and Stan followed.

Beverly looked over at Eddie, her smile quickly fading as she saw his face. He had gone white as a ghost, and she could see his hands visibly shaking.

“I'm gonna be sick,” Eddie whispered, and sprinted around the corner to the bathroom. Beverly went after him, seeing him slam the bathroom door and lock it. She waited a moment, then gently knocked on the door.

“Hey, you okay?” she asked, genuinely worried. She knew he would be nervous, but not like this. He didn't reply, instead she heard the telltale hiss of his inhaler. “Just, stay there Eddie, I'll go talk to the boys.” She heard a very faint “okay”, and headed back out to the front of the house where the others were having a cheerful reunion.

“Beverly Marsh, you fucking beautiful creature.”

Leaning up against a rusted, beaten, maroon coloured pick-up truck, and much taller and rougher than she remembered, was Richie Tozier, wearing ripped jeans, combat boots, white t-shirt, and a black denim jacket littered with patches that had been haphazardly sewn on. His hair was almost down to his shoulders, sticking out wildly in all directions. She might not have even recognised him if it weren't for the thick frame glasses, being held together by several pieces of tape, the lenses magnifying his eyes just as they always did.

“Richie,” she laughed, and ran towards him, enveloping him in a hug. He picked her up and swung her around with ease. “It's been far too long.” He really towered over her, she had to actually crane her neck to look at his face. Probably a whole head taller than Stan and Bill.

“Sure has gorgeous,” Richie replied, looking at her face with absolute awe. “so anyway, where's my future husband?” He winked at Bill, who looked back towards the house.

“Where'd he go, Bev?” he asked.

“He's, uh, having a panic attack in the bathroom.” Bev said, suddenly sounding quite serious. Richie looked concerned.

“Don't worry, he's just nervous, He'll calm down soon.” Stan reassured.

SHIT SHIT SHIT FUCK SHIT SHIT

Eddie was pacing back and forth in the bathroom, gripping his inhaler tightly in his hand, sure he would either break it or it would leave a bruise. His shirt had become untucked and his hair was messed up from him running his hands through it several times. He really didn't want to do this. He wanted to go home, have a shower, go to bed, forget about this whole thing. Surely they would let him go home. They would have to, if they saw him like this.

He heard knocking on the door again.

“Hey Eddie, can you let me in?”

Beverly.

There was a moment of silence as he debated whether or not to answer.

“It's just me, the others are still out front.”

Eddie hesitated at the door, running his fingers over the lock. After about a minute he unlocked it, and opened the door to face Beverly, who looked relieved when she saw him, but still worried.

She stepped in and closed the door behind her, and then wrapped her arms around him. She leant her face into his hair. “Sorry,” his voice was muffled against her shoulder.

“Don't be, it's alright. He'll understand if you don't want to go.”

Eddie's breathing settled down, as well as his heartbeat. He stepped away from Beverly, starting to feel a lot better.

“No, I-” he kicked himself for what he was saying. “I'll go. I promised I would.”

Beverly's face lit up. “Let's fix you up a bit first, though.” He nodded, and flashed her a small smile.

Beverly helped him get his hair looking neat again, and he fidgeted with his clothes in front of the mirror until he thought he looked presentable enough.

“All good?” she asked him before she opened the door. He took a deep breath and then nodded at her, and she turned and walked out into the hallway.

Eddie allowed himself one last glance in the mirror before he followed her out.

Bill, Stan, and Richie were standing in the kitchen when Beverly emerged from the hallway.

“Just be nice,” she said quietly as she leaned against the bench next to Richie.

“No worries,” he replied with a smirk.

Eddie slowly stepped out of the hallway and into view, and stood with his arms folded, his eyes immediately locking onto Beverly, who nodded slightly at him, assuring him it was okay. He looked at Bill and Stan, both of whom still looked quite worried. He put off looking at the fourth person there for as long as he could. He could see through peripheral vision that they were wearing mostly black and that they probably hadn't had a haircut in years. When he did look up at Richie's face, he saw him staring, bewildered, with a crooked, goofy smile on his face. He was also 6 foot fucking tall. Eddie felt queasy in his stomach. Half of him wanted to run straight back into the bathroom and lock the door and never come out. The other half wanted to do that as well but was trying not to want that. Trying to be brave.

“Hi,” Richie finally perked up after a few long moments of silence. “Richie Tozier.” He took a step forward and reached his hand towards Eddie, who noticed that his fingernails had been coloured black, but not like his mother's nail polish. More like he had done it with a permanent marker.

Now that he was closer, the height difference between the two was much more amusing. Eddie was only five foot four. He barely came up to Richie's shoulders.

Eddie shook Richie's hand, feeling pretty intimidated by this person looming over him like a grungy skyscraper.

“Eddie,” he said, although it came out in more of a whisper. Richie smirked at this.

“Eddie,” he repeated, to himself mostly, “it's cute.”

Eddie felt his face go hot, flustered, still staring at Richie with a kind of awe-struck horror.

The three in the kitchen noticed this and Bill decided to interrupt.

“W-we should leave or w-we'll miss the m-m-movie.”

Richie swung around. “Right you are, my man! Off we go!” He turned his head to Eddie and offered his arm. “M'lord?”

Eddie looked at his arm, up to his face, and then back at his arm, looking alarmed and confused. He hesitantly linked his arm through, and Richie beamed. They walked out the front to his truck, Bill, Stan, and Beverly in tow, and Richie opened the passenger side door, bowing exaggeratively, motioning for Eddie to get in.

Eddie looked at the vehicle, disgusted. No way he was getting in that thing.

Richie stood up, obviously a little confused. “You okay?” he asked. “Don't worry, I cleaned the inside of it, Bill said you don't like much mess so,”

“It's fine.” Eddie said, coming out more harshly than he intended. He took a deep breath, and got in. Richie carefully closed the door, smiling through the window. Eddie flashed him a smile back.

The other three piled into the back, basically having to sit on top of each other, and Richie walked around to the drivers side and got in.

Beverly leaned forward and put her hand on Eddie's shoulder, and he reached up and squeezed her hand for a second, the they both dropped their hands in their laps. “Ready to go guys?” Richie asked enthusiastically. The three in the back replied with an excited 'yes!'. Richie turned to Eddie, who nodded at him, smiling properly for the first time. Richie's heart melted a little, then turned the keys in the ignition, the engine roaring to life, music blasting out the radio, and off they went down the road.

[strangewriterforhire]

Pearls Before Swine

"You fall as your stresses crack you, shattering into component parts. It is not how or why they fell, but how they recombine that determines your place in the unfolding of events. And your worth in deciding how they unfold." 4th Treaty of the Trans Enlightenment, Second Permutation, Fifth Revelation. +++ It had once been a church, he mused quietly from the cool of the cloak's hood. He sat upon an overly comfortable chair laden with cushions fattened with stuffing. So much was its designed comfort that it had reached the point of losing its status as a chair altogether, and becoming more a cloud of foam and feathers. To the man's tastes and peculiarities the chair was too much of one thing, and not enough of another. It was too comfortable, designed to lull a sensuous mind into lax thinking and ill judgement.It was not the chair for a sharp mind. To his right sat the house's proprietor and matriarch. The covering of those cushions and rolling pads matched her loose fitting and embarrassingly sheer clothing perfectly, for that was exactly what they were. She was a being of immense size and girth, her face a round moon like visage lacking only craters of long ago collisions with less sturdier astronomical phenomena. Her balding head shone in the oil lamp haze of the repurposed church's nave, a mix of sweat from the perpetual heat of the world and oil and greases from a body bloated beyond sense. "You...wish to see another?" the woman spoke, her voice arising from between lip that barely moved. Her bleached white skin, stretched taut across her skull, complemented eyes as dark as onyx marbles that examined her guest and, hopefully, most wealthy of patron.After all a visitor from the stars, those long ago realms of vast riches...well all legends had at their heart a kernel of truth. The man next to her, who sought no sensual fulfilment from a house that sold little else, did not speak. He instead rolled a gauntleted hand, a gesture of near universal understanding with the rolling progression of time and events. The woman did not nod or give assent, she merely sighed loudly like dying billows. At that a young malnourished boy clapped once and loudly beside her. Upon the bema the tenth offering of day was removed, guided by careful hands to some off stage place. The auctioned being moved in a drug addled waltz, its base line reality no doubt in improved given what little of the world the man had seen. The next offering was put in her place, and posed by handlers ‘thusly’ so that the houses Madame and wealthy guest might judge worth and ability. On the surface the eleventh offering, as pale skinned and hairless as her 'employer', was as beautiful as current standard permitted. She wore the standard sheer white fabric as the house banner and mark, revealing a supple and pleasurable shape to the perspective eye of the man in the cloak. He did not see her as such, as eyes lighted by clever trickery flickered beneath the hood. They peered into her very being, past her snow white skin to the very heart of the matter. Pulsing viscera, corded muscles, and yellowing bones... And again, disappointment. Tumours grew mercilessly within, some of them brought on by the radiation that fell from the high jet streams of the atmosphere, some of them triggered by the ouroboros effect of inbreeding that such a diminished gene pool prompted. No doubt amongst her kin she was a rare and precious beauty, the one amid many who had apparently been spared the blight of outward disfigurement. She was a wealth of perfection given to the descendants of past sins who called the rock of Purgatory their home. It would explain why she had sold to a whore house. His hand rolled again. "Perhaps...oh noble and honoured guest...I could best serve you an offering that was to your liking...if only I knew your tastes. Your wants, and needs...oh honoured star bon." The woman beside crooned in a voice that rose and fell with her laboured breaths. The head within the hood turned slightly, his chin pointing at her gently as though appraising her. His hand rolled again. "Another!" She gasped, and the little boy beside her clapped his hand again. The handlers in their thick veils and bracelet shrouded wrists came out to guide the unwanted false beauty back from when she came. "And bring us libations! Sweet sweets to view the sweet offerings I bring before our honoured guest." The cloaked figures nose wrinkled at the idea of partaking of the local fares. There was no doubt in his mind that he would survive a passing tryst with a glass of their passable imitation of liquor. What was not in question in his mind, was that he would not be able to live with himself should such a fetid and rancid fluid pass his lips. He was not, after all, without standards. The next offering was the same as all before. All of it hidden beneath sweet pale skin dappled in the colour shifting light that shone through broken and ill repaired glass windows. The saints of those windows, great iconic giants of peace and prosperity that compensated for the little and petty things that prayed to them, were given ringside seats to the depravities of humanity's lower natures. Between the two seats, a silver tray of ancient providence was placed down. Atop it were a number of decanters, carrying liquids of dubious quality to a small jar of grey spheres. He watched as another little boy, one of a collection he assumed, plucked the bottle of rounded solids from the tray and poured a single mercury coloured sphere into his hand. He then lift it between thumb and forefinger over the Madames head, her large open mouth wide revealing a row of flat porcelain teeth. The boy’s hand moved carefully, and grounded the solid between his fingers. It powered easily, raining down into the black void to the eager lappings of a serpentine tongue. A narcotic, how...quaint these hominids are, the cloaked figure thought privately to himself. He focused his attention on the scene as the woman's eyes roll in reaction to the drugs highjacking her neural functions. With a thought he could see into her skull, and watch as the neurons of her grey pudding of a mind fired haphazardly. The resulting aura of blues and ruby reds appeared fleetingly above her head as her energy bleed through the ting sheet of bone.

The glowing embers of a dying a fire, he thought. He watched as the bottle the drug had come in was put back upon the tray. But not by the boy’s, for it was the hand of the servant who had brought the tray out. The one that he had written off as without exception. It was a hand covered in a shifting web work of tattoos. They ringed around knuckles, and crept up slender fingers like the vines that gripped and strangled mansions of forgetting nobility. The hands base colouring was a deep matt black, as unnatural a pigmentation upon this world as it would have been had the hand been a tentacle or some carapace coated mandible.  The tattoo's, ever shifting and moving as though partially alive, were a glossy black upon this still canvas. The play of stained light upon them made their appearance hallucinatory, as though some of the rosy powder fed to the obese officiator of bondage had been fed to him as well. He turned fully to apprise the owner of arm, his hopes that the arm was a part of a complete set, and not the grafted trophy of some tumour infested local soon answered. He was not disappointed. Whilst she was not dressed to be shown off to the hungry crowds or the wealthy patrons courted for this establishment, she was not without her womanly charm. Her dark black skin was lightly covered in a opaque fabric that probably denoted her status as an undesirable, or unattainable commodity the house did not sell. It was white, the same shade as the ghostly sheer of the Madame's clothing, and jarred painfully with her skin like bitter static. The tattoos rose along her arms, spreading across shoulders and under the cut of the simple shift like dress, the lines and knots of the oily decoration squirming as though in pain from the garments lack of taste. It extended up her neck, flowing along a strong jaw and narrow chin that framed a face fierce in its put upon submissiveness. She, unlike the majority of the pale skins in the room, had hair atop her head and fuzzy narrow eye brows that hid well upon her obsidian brow. She had pulled, or had had pulled her hair back into a simple functional ponytail that was pulled taut against the skin of her forehead. It gave her a look of sleek predatory design, as though at any moment she would move faster than the eye could see. It would explain the heavy chain about her neck, its wrought iron collar speckled with rust that ground against her throat in bloody flecks. A chained animal was chained for a reason, and the seal of her lips might well hide sharp teeth.. The woman beside him squeal a disgusting sound, and he turned and saw that she was looking both at him, and the predatory serving girl. "She sickens me!" the woman growled, rivulets of spit flying from fleshy lips "The taste of bile, rich upon my lips at the mere sight of her dark, sinister form! Good only to serve, to kneel and do the bidding of her betters, or rot in the open pits of sewage and decay!" "Then why keep her?" The man asked, his voice melodic and perfectly intoned, speaking the language of the obese woman as though born to it many decades before where as he was but a new arrival hours ago. "She is a...curiosity. A spoil of a debt repaid by another Star Born. There are many who enjoy curiosity, either by viewing it from afar, or sampling it from a more intimate vantage point," the obese woman purred, sensing advantage like the cold blooded reptile that she was. "Does she speak?" "She speaks a twittering misbegotten tongue to be sure, the devils very words in fact, but she understands the words of her betters. No fear, no worry, she will...understand what you ask of her," she crooned, licking her lips as she tried to study the cloaked figure to understand his wants and needs. "I will take her then," he said, standing slowly as his cloak billowed around him, opening to reveal gleaming metal lining its interior and the darker form of himself within. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a simple pouch of metallic cloth. He opened it and jostled out a few rough pinkish rocks as big as his eye. He weighed them in his hand, and then slipped those into the pocket of his cloak. The bag, still filled with diamonds that had never seen the surface of a world, were placed into the hands of meat trader. "A pleasure doing business with you, oh great Star Born." she said with a smile, her overly fleshed out paw jiggling as the boy beside her clapped again.