#i’m in agony like you don’t understand

[matcha-milkies]

LIKE AN OLEANDER

Summary: Bill Cipher needs a footstool and a thoroughly Stockholmed Ford is happy to oblige.

Relationships: Bill Cipher & Ford Pines, Pyronica is there too

Content Warnings: Abuse, Master/Pet, Psychological Torture/Horror/Trauma, Stockholm Syndrome, Victim Blaming, Sensory Deprivation

Tags: Triangle Bill, Canon Divergence - Weirdmageddon, Bill Cipher Wins, Collars, Chains, Whump, Hurt No Comfort, Bill Cipher is a Jerk

Word Count: 1,306

Link to AO3: Here

A/N: Based on @jellyskink’s immaculate Domesticated Ford AU, in which Bill mentally breaks Ford in the 1980s and brainwashes him into an obedient and fawning pet. Weirdmageddon started early, and over time the weirdness bubble surrounding Gravity Falls naturally expanded to contain both California and Oregon. If you want to learn more, there’s a lot more tidbits on their blog, though fair warning it’s a pretty dark and sad AU.

Thank you, jellyskink, for giving me the green light to write a fic for this!

I saw someone say this au is “all pain, no sex” which is really at the heart of what I look for in fics, but is so painstakingly absent in most fandoms, so this is a godsend •⩊•

If you haven’t listened to “Oleander” by Mother Mother what are you even doing with your life /lh

Bill Cipher is in a particularly good mood today. He and Pyronica probably broke a record for largest bonfire in California, even counting all their previous antics over the years. Not the dream demon’s most creative endeavor by a long shot, but hey, sometimes you just gotta start a blazing inferno to let off some steam. Nothing wrong with a bit of simple, straightforward arson now and then.

It’s only when he returns to the Fearamid, practically glowing, buzzing and high off the screams of the innocent, that he remembers the state he left Sixer in.

The man is in a kneeling position, collared by the neck. His hair, fluffy and disheveled, feathers down to around his shoulders, brushing against the cruel blue metal. His twelve fingers twitch and grasp at nothing, futilely, as though groping for purchase on a rugged cliffside. His purple sweater is rumpled in places, like he had pulled and grabbed at that too, to no evident avail. He’s whimpering to himself, words that are at first indiscernible as Bill enters the massive chamber.

The scientist is tethered to a ring near the base of the Throne of Frozen Human Agony, staring vacantly into the middle space, unseeing. It’s not his fault. Bill severed all input from his optic nerves, so he literally can’t see. Or hear. Or feel. Yeah, he cut off those nerves too. It was supposed to be a punishment that lasted a few hours. And then Bill had left and gotten carried away with his fun, and well, it had been an entire day.

Whoops.

Make no mistake, he doesn’t feel bad about it. If anything, it’s kind of funny, like forgetting to feed your dog! Wait. Humans don’t find that funny. Well, who can expect them to understand the emotions of an all-powerful chaos god? He draws closer, and the previously indiscernible words sharpen into clarity.

“I love you, my muse. I love you.”

Repeated ad nauseam to the uncaring void.

“Aww,” Bill clasps his hands together and brings them closer to his eye. “He’s so pathetic!” Pyronica, who came in with him, nods her agreement and laughs along. This must be what it’s like to catch your puppy mid-dream, its little tongue lolling and leg kicking at nothing.

He can’t remember whether he instructed his pet to repeat those words or not. Honestly, it’s anyone’s guess. Bill’s will and Ford’s are so inextricable at this point that Ford often does things without needing to be told. Of course, they’re not entirely on the same wavelength, or else punishment wouldn’t be required in the first place.

“Eh, remind me to snap him out of it in another half an hour,” Bill says, settling himself on the throne. With a wave of an arm he summons a martini glass. “I’m gonna have myself a drink.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He summons a glass for her too, and hipshot, she accepts. “Hey, you think we should’ve put the fire out before we left?”

They both share a hearty chuckle over that. “Would be a shame if it all burned down!” Bill sighs as the laughter dies down. “Nah, but seriously. California will still be there for us to play with tomorrow. And if it isn’t, we can always just rebuild it! In my image! Ha!”

“Yeah. Technically the fires are my image though.”

“Touché!”

They talk for a while, maybe 20 minutes or so in this fashion, casually sipping time punch and discussing unnatural disasters like they’re music festivals. Ford goes completely untouched and unnoticed, until suddenly Bill returns his attention to the human, and a light bulb goes off next to his hat.

“Wait. Do you wanna see something hysterical? I have the best idea.”

Every sensation returns to Ford at once in a flood of color, touch and sound. Sometimes, when Bill is feeling merciful, he eases him back into it, but his merciful moods are few and far between. More commonly, he likes to toss the scientist in the deep end and watch him flounder, tears quickly beading at the corners of Ford’s eyes and spilling fatly over his cheeks. His body convulses in a singular, broken sob, and before he can finish another apologetic, “I love you,” Bill hits him with a hard command.

“Stanford! I need a footstool!” The demon extends his legs and wiggles his feet a little. He whistles as though beckoning a dog. “Come ‘ere!”

Despite his disorientation, Ford rushes to obey, lurching in the direction of Bill’s voice and falling flat on his face. Shakenly, he picks himself off the ground, letting loose a singular groan.

“I’m still waiting!” Bill sings, swinging his legs a little for effect. Pyronica snickers. Ford tries again, following the sound of his muse’s voice, although he is quickly dismayed to find that he’s already reached the end of his chain. He falls just short of Bill’s feet, and no matter how he chokes himself, no matter how hard he tugs at the collar or the chain attached, he can’t go any further than this. His distress is evident in the way he keens.

“What are you doing?” Bill demands, rolling his eye. “All I asked for was a simple footstool and you can’t even do that? Bad! Bad dog!” Ford sobs.

“I-I’m sorry, my muse!” he rasps, the cold metal of the collar pressing in on his windpipe as he strains to obey. “I’m so sorry!”

Pyronica is practically in stitches at this point, and Bill is a showman, a class clown ever chasing the next laugh. “Are you really though?” His eye wanes to an amused crescent. “Do you even love me, if you can’t even follow a command as simple as this?”

“Yes!” Ford insists with a cry. “Yes, my muse, I love you! I’m sorry that I’m so useless… Please, please forgive me…”

“Why should I? Do you think you deserve forgiveness?”

“N- No,” Ford sniffs, “but—”

“Alright, alright. Since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll give you a hand.” Bill waves his hand in a circle and the chain elongates, allowing just enough slack for Ford to crawl under his waiting feet. Bill settles them heavily on top of Ford’s back and sighs. “Ahh, that’s better.” The man shakes under the weight.

“Thank you, my muse,” he says. Normally, he would be a lot happier about serving Bill like this, but he’s clearly still torn up over his recent punishment and failures. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it, kid!” Bill rests his hands behind his ‘head,’ or rather, the tip of his topmost vertex. “Maybe after this, if you’re good, you can have a treat.”

“R- Really? Oh, thank you so much, my muse. I promise I’ll be good.” His voice is still wavery from the earlier-shed tears, but his cheer seems to be returning. It’s not difficult to keep the man happy when he’s so thoroughly and hopelessly smitten with his muse. Bill could have Pyronica drop-kick Ford off the top of the Fearamid right now and when he reached the bottom he would find a way to smile and thank Bill, no matter how many broken pieces he was in.

“Yeah. Now shut up while I get some reading in. Hasn’t anyone ever told you footstools don’t talk? Sheesh.” With a sigh, Bill summons an extradimensional magazine and floats it in front of his eye, every so often flipping through the pages. Pyronica says she’s off to see what Teeth and Keyhole are up to, and Bill acknowledges her departure with a little grunt and wave. Ford stifles a whimper. His back has already been giving him issues lately, and this definitely isn’t helping matters, but he soldiers through it for his muse. He’s determined not to mess up again. He’s determined to be a good footstool.

A/N: This is my first time writing from Bill’s perspective! I don’t usually write him this cruel, so it was a fun change of pace to lean full force into that side of him. Thanks again, jellyskink, I hope you liked this little installment!

[razorblade180]

Built to Break

Trigger warning: Torture and dark themes

Continuation of this<-

In life, it’s said all actions cause a reaction; consequences that could be seen while others remained elusive until the final moment. Mona never found herself to be an elusive figure, yet as she stared into the widened, cold gaze of her mother, Mona knew immediately that she had been as poised as her hidden dagger.

“Talk?” Her mother said with a dry venom. “The hell do we have to talk about? Untie me!”

“Wow. Not even gonna ask about dad? Then again, why would you? He couldn’t even bother to sober up

enough to see you choking on smoke. Or maybe he simply didn’t care?” Mona picked up her knife, causally spinning it. “Anyways, he’s dead now.”

“Did I ask?”

“No, but I doubt you understand how. You were never that fucking bright.”

“You killed him.” Her eyes narrowed. She did her best to move her arms but the ropes wouldn’t allow it. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You’ve always been an opportunistic rat.”

“Says the woman who whored out her own daughters. You’re only half right by the way. An opportunistic rat would’ve used the blaze to commit a crime like murder or abduction.”

“And what the hell would you call all of this?”

“Simple, it was planned. After all, I am the one who started the fire.”

Mona’s mother went stiff, her blood running cold as the girl flashed a horrific grin that found this situation marvelous. Mona finally stood up and began circling around the chair.

“That’s right. It was all me. Took awhile to get that much Dust but hey, it was worth the sight. Although I should’ve guessed dad would simply remain drunk off his own ass in that chair of his. It honestly looked like he wanted to go. I mean being with you is practically being de-”

Tuh!

A lob of spit hit Mona right in the face. Her eyes darted towards her mother who was now seething. Mona ran her left hand across where the spit landed then flicked it back at the sender.

“Rude. I’m talking.” She stopped right in front of the chair and squatted real low, her gaze fixated on the anger directed towards her. “You’re forgetting your own rule. I thought we were supposed to be accommodating to those holding the power?”

Without warning, Mona’s knife found a new home in the woman’s right thigh. Before she could even yell, Mona gripped her jaw like a vice and yanked her close enough to bite.

“Yell and I will drag the knife down and pop out your knee.” She pushed her mother away and stood back up. A strained chuckle left her throat as she shook herself off. “Wooo! Hehe, got a little real there for a second. Damn, still know how to get under my skin I guess.”

“Th-The hell do you want? The fuck is this all about!?” Her voice trembled as she held back the pain.

“Finally getting emotional are we? The stone cold bitch attitude was never for you anyway. Don’t get me wrong; you’re definitely cold and a bitch. The last thing you’ll ever be is stone though. No, you’ve always been brittle. Not to mention stupid. You can’t guess why I’m here? Are you serious? If we’re playing that game then fine, I can play. So then, mother, aren’t you going to ask me if my dear little sister survived the fire?”

“Oh you can not be serious?” Rage returned. “All this for Amber? Last time I checked, you didn’t give a rat's ass about her when you ran away! Now you wanna care?! FUCK Y-”

Another knife flew through the air and found a home in the woman’s left shoulder.

“Gah! Aaagh!”

Mona put her right leg on the chair and leaned forward, looking down on her mother’s writhing face. “You really have to learn to mind your tone.” She pushed it in deeper, letting her mother’s screams echo through the metal pillars until she was sure her knife hit bone. Mona yanked the blade in her mom’s leg out and took a few steps back again to watch.

Blood now stained burnt clothes covered in ash. The pathetic excuse for a person was coughing on her own spit as she gasped in the brief agony inflicted on her body, which only prolonged the pain.

Mona rolled her eyes. “Look at you, practically drooling. What, forget how to swallow? You sure as hell made certain I didn’t. How many personal lessons did you give Amber and I? They were always so much more brutal than the real deal. How you managed that, I’ll never know.”

“So it’s all about revenge?” Her lungs wheeze as she took a sharp breath before coughing again. “Gonna do everything I ever taught you eh?”

“Fuck no. If anybody wanted your body then maybe your hands wouldn’t have been busy on us and taking lien from your old clients in exchange for fresh blood. Must’ve been a dream come true. Vacuo’s most known whore was finally free, or maybe it pissed you off that after getting pregnant from a nobody, you became one too? One child robbed you off all your worth, and apparently your looks. Guess I was born a thief.”

“You are lucky to be born at all!”

“Am I though? Should I be grateful that I have your hair? Eyes that people can’t get enough of? You’d sell those too if it was worth the cost.”

“Oh cry me river.” She growled. “You’ve been away from me for years now and all you get up to is stealing and choosing when to choke on a dick for your own profit! Don’t act like you’re torn up about it.”

Mona spun the tip of her knife on her finger. “True enough I guess. Not like there were many options I could think of at…how old was I? Eh, as if it matters. I’d probably remember if you ever sent me to school, or taught me anything that didn’t involve submitting. All that money you made off of me and nothing to show for it. What was I saying again? Oh right, I was gutter trash who only knew two ways to make money well. No fucking shit I used it.”

“Then you understand exactly where I’m-”

“Ah, ah, ah. I’m still talking, and that sentence sounded dangerously close to hurting your good leg.”

Mona threw the knife right between both legs. She walked over and startled her mother, pulling the knife out in the process. “You know…if kids really caused you so much trouble in your life, I can help make sure you never have them again.”

The blade tore away a sliver of the burnt shirt around her abdomen. Panic fought its way into her brain as Mona’s cold eyes told her that wasn’t a joke.

“I’m waiting for an answer.” Mona said calmly.

“N-No.”

“No, what?”

Tears welled up. “No ma’am.”

“Heh, good girl. I guess you do remember how to act.” Mona brought the knife up to catch her mother’s tears. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. It’s pretty ugly. Maybe that’s why those idiots didn’t care much when Amber wept.”

“Wh-What have you heard?”

“Nothing really. Just that you were strapped for money again so you did what you always do. As long as the price is high enough, anyone is an option. How much?”

“…I-”

“How much?”

“10,000 lien! They paid 10,000 lien!”

“That’s all it took for you to hand Amber to two huntsmen so inept they couldn’t even handle a starving teenager fending them off without killing her. I didn’t even bother asking them what set her off, or if she cried. Let’s be real, we both know she did.”

“You found them?”

“Did you think foreign huntsman could kill a girl and Ruby Rose wouldn’t be all over it. Now that’s a mother. Had those two in a cell immediately and the knees made the rounds, which I’m guessing is how you heard that 10,000 lien had cost you everything. You ask why I care? Amber was nothing like me and you knew that.

Mona got up and kicked the chair, shattering it with ease and causing her mother to fall down onto the cold, sandy and metal flooring. The chains restringing her to the chair were now useless, bot the set personally bounding her legs. Mona attached her wrists together and put the link on a hook while her mother groaned. Mona took back her second knife to inflict more pain before walking over to a metal beam with a button she pressed. The hook rose, dragging a body up with it until her toes grazed the ground.

“Agh! Please, enough! I get it! You’re pissed! I fucked up!”

“Your entire life is a fuck up, and I don’t remember saying I was pissed off. You’ve done so much to me that I think I’m full circle on it. After all, you did teach me one thing about myself you never intended.”

“I…I did?” She huffed, twitching as Mona got close again.

“Put people under enough stress, and you see what they’re made of; you can see how they break. I learned long ago I was made to be broken. To be put back together as needed and torn down if need be. That’s why I don’t mind how my life has shaped out to be. It’s why I cared to come after you. I don’t give up a fuck about you! Amber however, you broke her even before I even ran away and you knew it. She stopped speaking, thinking, being anything. Amber was basically a doll. How was I supposed to take her away with me? I had no shelter. Everyone knew who we belonged to! Mother fucker, I’VE ALWAYS CARED!” Mona hissed, her eyes stinging. “You made it impossible to leave with her! Like you said, I kept doing what you taught me cause I had nowhere to go, and Amber was never built to take that life! You took my sister and left behind the pieces. Now those don’t even exist anymore and I’m left falling apart again because maybe I should’ve ran off with her anyways?! Hehe haha! It’s so STUPID! You do everything wrong and yet I’m the one feeling like a fuck up? I can barely keep down my dinner.”

Mona’s head buzzed, causing her to hold it in discomfort. She really felt like she might vomit. Was it rage, or guilt? She didn’t know or care. She just knew what she always did. “This is such bullshit.”

Her mother had given up hope of trying to escape. All her cuts had been to cause pain and bleed, but even she could tell none of them were fatal. “O-Okay. Okay, I- I’m sorry. You made your point. Just turn me in already and I’ll confess to everything.” She pleaded.

Mona’s eyes looked at the woman with a burning indifference. “Even now, you barely pay attention. Do you think you’re getting out of this before breaking? I should at least give it my all. Just like you did for us.” She spun her knives. “Every place they left a mark, I’m going to put on you. Hold out until then.”

Panic came back with a single step forward. Tears mixed with ash, sweat, grime as her heart pounded. She practically jumped out of her skin as Mona held her face still.

“I’ll keep them shallow. Those hurt the worst.” Mona slid the blade across her right cheek, drawing blood. “I thought I told you crying made you ugly. For once, you are going to follow my instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”

“Y-Yes!” She sniffed, terrified of her own creation. “I’ll do whatever you say. Then-then I go, right?”

“Haha, as long as you listen then yes, I will let you go.” Mona took a step back and smiled, watching her mother smile back faintly. “Although…I don’t think I heard a ma’am after that, yes. Someone isn’t a good rule follower.”

And just like that, light faded from the woman’s eyes, matching her daughter’s. “N..No.” tears ran down in full force. “I-I’m sorry! I’M SORRY!” Mona got closer…

“And now you’re yelling and crying again. That’s three strikes already. Pfft, oh well. It’s like you told me once, some people only learn after the punishment. Try not to see dad too soon for me. Speaking of seeing…” Mona held her mother’s eyes open. “Might as well start here.”

“St-STOP! STAAAAAHHHHP!”

[esouliie]

i’ve never violently sobbed as hard in my life as i did reading this fic , and with that, i am never reading it again.

[seravphs]

knight gojo has me FOAMING at the mouth!!!!!!!!!

Lmao me too

[the-void-has-questions]

Hozier is currently responsible for my intense need to be compressed into a ZIP file and shot into space

[luveline]

could you please write something with bombshell reader and spencer where there is a misunderstanding and she thinks he is cheating on her?? or anything angsty? love your work and just want to tell you how you are the best author in this fandom! besos <333

thanks so much, hope this is okay! fem, 1.2k

You bend forward and breathe. 

Rough breathing. Audibly disjointed, and panicked, and drawing attention. You clasp at the side of the counter in the office kitchen and everyone standing around you goes silent. 

Someone must tell someone who tells someone, because Anderson makes his way to your side soon after. “Y/N, do you need me to get someone?” he asks. 

“Hotch?” you ask. 

“Sure. Do you want to sit down?” 

Your mouth isn’t calibrated to your mind. Your answer takes time. “I’m okay.” 

You blink hard. Your lashes are sticky, mascara wet in the corners and pulling on each other as you force yourself to keep them open. When Hotch collects you, it is with an immense tenderness, and a poorly concealed confusion. “Hey, come on,” he says, guiding you toward the office doors, “let’s find somewhere quieter.” 

You’re three steps down the hallway when you stop. You cover your face with both hands. 

Your entire world just got rocked… you don’t even know how to say it. You can’t stop seeing it, his hand on her shoulder, his head tilted to one side like he always does with you, like he’s going to kiss her cheek. And she’d just let him do it. 

“What happened?” 

“They were kissing.” 

Hotch looks down at you patiently. “Who?” 

“Spencer and JJ.” You swallow down bile. Your voice sounds far away, “They were so close…” 

“Are you sure?” 

“No… Just, it looked like they were. She had her arms around him, he…” 

You blink hard again, but the panic, the agony remains. You could see it, Spencer kissing her, and it just tore you to pieces right then and there. How could he do that to you? The stereotypical you’d always expected to be above races through your head. Weren’t you too much to lose? 

“They were too close,” you say more firmly. 

“Alright,” Hotch says softly. Then, because he’s your friend, even if you’ve thrust him into an awkward position. “I can work this out for you, if you want. I can kill him for you if necessary.” 

“That’s not funny,” you say, because even if it were, it’s way too soon. 

“I’m not joking. If Spencer ever did that to you, I’d… well, I wouldn’t hurt him, but he would lose my respect, and he would lose yours. Do you believe Spencer would put that at risk?” 

“You think I’m overreacting.” 

Hotch gives you a look. Full Hotchner. Understanding, patient, a little humorous. “I honestly can’t imagine a world where Spencer does something that would hurt you, that’s all. I’m not trying to mock you. I’m not saying you can’t be upset.” 

You realise after a few deep breaths that he was trying to drive you from a panic attack, and he did it successfully. You swallow a nervous lump.

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.”

“I think I can kill him.”

“I don’t doubt it. Do you want to?” 

“Depends on what I saw,” you mutter, turning away from the glass office doors as they open. 

“Well… perhaps you can–”

“Hey, what are you guys doing out here?” Spencer interrupts, breathless as he slides around Hotch and takes your arm in his hand. “Angel, I need your help, urgently. JJ’s earring got caught in my hair, I’m pretty sure I’m bald.” 

You squint at him, still a little breathless yourself. 

“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, looking between you and Hotch with regret. “What’s wrong? You look sick.”

“What did JJ do?” you ask. 

“Angel?” 

He squints. When you fail to offer a reason, he tips his head down to show you the top of his head. “Am I bald? She dropped her pencil case and I tried to grab it, and she yanked back. I tried to stop her from ripping it out, but she said I had to stop being a big baby.” 

He laughs. Hotch lets out an audible breath. 

“I’m hideous,” Spencer surmises from your silence. 

“I didn’t really look.” 

Spencer looks at Hotch. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Please?” 

You send Hotch a look that says please, don’t.  

“I just felt a bit panicked,” you confess, a half truth to spare your dignity.

“I brought her out here for some quiet,” Hotch says. 

Spencer frowns and holds your arm again with more softness. “You did? Are you feeling better now? You know, the sudden onset of panic is often caused by a process called overbreathing, have you felt that happen to you recently? It’s accidental hyperventilation. Low carbon dioxide in the blood.” His frown deepens. “Unless it’s not that. Are you worried about something?” 

You watch as his hand glides further up, his thumb rubbing into the soft fat of your upper arm. 

“Worried about your hairline,” you mumble. 

Look, you’ll tell Spencer eventually, maybe. But for now your head hurts and you really had almost spun yourself into an anxiety attack, and you need the rest, and meeting his eyes isn’t easy. 

If he were lying about the earring, you’d be able to tell. If he’d kissed JJ, the guilt would be pouring off of him. 

“I can trust you to look after her?” Hotch asks. 

“When can’t you?” Spencer asks sincerely. 

Footsteps. A door opening. 

You and Spencer alone, his voice warm with concern. “Are you okay? Really okay?” 

“Can you hug me?” 

“Sure I can.” He slips his arms through yours and pulls you in. “Do you need something? Listening to music can help, I have my headphones on my desk. Or we can just– walk.” His hand spread wide over your shoulder. “You’re shaking.” 

“I am?” 

“Just a little…” 

You try your best to stand completely still. 

“Oh,” he says softly, pulling you with more force toward his chest, “I’m sorry, I had no idea you weren’t feeling okay today. But it’ll be okay, I promise. I got you.” 

It’s not often you feel like the smaller person in your relationship, and he doesn’t make you feel small, but the depth of his promise gives him this bigness that dulls the panic. Spencer… he really wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. You aren’t at fault for thinking they were too close, but there’s an explanation, and for now that’s enough to make you feel better. 

“How much hair did she rip out, sweetheart?” you murmur, leaning back just far to see his face, not wanting to disturb the stable quiet. “Does it hurt?” 

“No, I’m fine. Honestly I’m more worried about you than my hair.” 

“Can I explain it to you later?” 

“You’ll sleep over?” he asks, lips thinning into a smile. 

“Yeah.” 

“We’ll talk about it later,” he says. 

You close your eyes as he cups your face with both hands. Later, when you tell him, he isn’t offended, just sorry. Necessary or not, he apologises and holds you with so much tenderness you’re assured again that Spencer hurting you would only ever be an accident.

[moonstruckme]

It is I, person who asked about the bad car crash one. I have read the one you said! And while yes I think the car crash you described is bad I was wondering if you could do one that's... Worse-? Idk 😅 if not I totally understand lmao.

No I think I get you, thanks for requesting and hope you like it!

cw: car accident, concussion, mention of blood, I already know this is not very accurate, but I did not have it in me to do all the research when I wrote this. Sorry and hope it doesn’t hinder your reading experience </3

emt!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

Your own breaths are the loudest sound, which can’t be right. Surely there should be alarms, or screaming, or something. Up until a second ago, the screeching of tires and metal was loud enough to deafen you. 

Your car door squeaks brokenly, a sad echo of the racket from before. The air around you shifts as it comes open, and a moment later there are cold fingers pressing into your jaw. 

You make a low whining sound. “Hey,” you complain. Your lips move oddly, murmuring where you mean to speak. 

“Hi,” a voice behind you replies smoothly. “I’m Sirius, I’m with NHS. Is your neck or back hurting at all, gorgeous?” 

“No. You’re cold.” 

“Lovely. This is my friend Remus, he’s going to push on your hands.” 

A head appears in front of you, upside down and shooting an exasperated look towards the disembodied voice. You don’t understand how these people are moving around so quickly, without you noticing them coming. 

“Hello.” The other man’s—Remus’—gaze softens as he meets your eyes. “Can you tell me if you feel this?” He prods at your hand. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. Your heart is starting to move in your chest, thudding against your ribs like it wants to hurt you. 

“Alright. Can you try pushing up on my hands, please?”

You do. He nods approvingly, giving you a little smile. 

“Good girl. We’re good, Sirius.” 

The cold hands release your face, and you breathe a sigh of relief. It makes your chest ache dully. 

“Beautiful. We ready to move?” 

“Yup.” That’s a third voice, distinct from the others and somewhere you can’t see it. “We’re all set.” 

“Let me just—” Remus’ hands come up around your waist and back, his grip firm, near to bruising. “Okay, I’ve got her. We’re going to unbuckle you and lift you out, okay? Just stay nice and still for us.” 

You’re confused as to what he means, but apparently your silence is consent enough. You feel the buckle of your seatbelt click, and then you’re falling up, Remus’ hold tightening further as he stops your ascent to lift you sideways. 

It’s not until you’re out of the car that you realize you were upside down. Your head feels better, though not by much, and the sun glares at you like it’s punishing you for a wrong you don’t remember having committed. Your arm, suddenly and to your horrified surprise, is in agony. 

A pitchy scraping sound tears from your throat, what would have been a scream if you had the air for one. 

“Here we go, just—yeah—” the third voice speaks as something comes up under your back. “There we are. It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re alright.”

“We’ll get you on pain meds in just a second, doll,” Sirius promises. Someone adjusts your legs so they’re both on the cot, careful of your searing arm, and then you’re moving, the sky shifting above you until you’re looking up at a gray ceiling instead. Time is an odd, fluid thing, marked only by actions and various pains. 

“When did you get here?” you mutter, to no one in particular. 

The third voice is the one to answer you. It’s accompanied by a thick pair of glasses and a sweet face, eyes flickering between you and some equipment he’s messing with. “Just a few minutes ago.” 

“I don’t…I didn’t hear the sirens.” 

He smiles like you’re funny. “Yeah, I think you might’ve been unconscious for that part.” 

You wrack your brain. You don’t remember falling asleep. Only the screeching on the road and then being in your car. Then again, you feel half as though you could be dreaming right now. 

Something sharp bites into your hand. You whimper, the pain small but only adding to every other hurt that’s already far over your threshold. 

“I know,” Sirius shushes you, sticking something to your hand. “I know, babe, but this is going to help soon. You’ll see.” 

“So far I’ve got a concussion, open fracture of the wrist, several lacerations to the face and chest, and bruising around the knees.” Remus’ voice is an odd combination of soft and businesslike. You have a creeping sensation he’s talking about you. “Am I missing anything?” 

“Possible bruising around the chest,” Sirius says. “She was breathing funny earlier.” 

“Right. Hey, love,” Remus voice gentles as he addresses you, “I’m going to move your shirt down to see if your chest is hurt, alright? I’ll be careful, it won’t take long.” 

“Okay,” you manage weakly. 

“Thank you.” He uses both hands to stretch the collar of your shirt, tutting quietly to himself at whatever he sees. He lifts a stethoscope from around his neck, rubbing the metal on his hand for a moment before setting it to your chest. 

You don’t know what he’s listening for, but you’re distracted when the third paramedic—the one with the glasses—starts running what feels like a wet wipe over your forehead. 

“Just cleaning you up a bit,” he says brightly. “Figure we ought to have you looking your best for whoever ends up stitching you up, yeah?” 

“James.” Sirius’ tone is somewhere between chiding and joking and fond, an entanglement of meanings you quite can’t wrap your pounding head around. “Don’t talk like she’s not already stunning. You can hardly improve upon perfection.” 

“Too true,” the other boy agrees readily. 

“Take a breath in for me, please,” says Remus, seemingly ignoring the other two and seemingly also used to doing so. “Just as deep as you can.” 

You try. You do your best, and as your lungs expand the dull ache worsens and worsens until a sharp pain pierces your middle. The air whooshes out of you in a dry sob. 

The stethoscope leaves your skin, and Remus fixes your shirt collar, putting it back in place. Your chest radiates a terrible, throbbing hurt. 

“It’s okay,” James says. His finger brushes your cheek, swiping at wetness you didn’t realize was there. “Oh, honey, it’s okay.” 

“At least a couple of broken ribs,” you hear Remus mutter to the others. Somehow, impossibly, it makes the pain worsen. 

“What’s happening?” you choke out. 

“You’re in an ambulance,” James tells you kindly. “You were in a car accident, and I know you’re in a lot of pain right now, but we’re here to take care of you. We’re going to make sure you’re okay, and then get you to the hospital so they can finish fixing you up. You’ll be alright.” 

The explanation takes you a while to process, but even then your tears don’t seem to want to slow. Your chest pangs with each hitch in your breathing. Eventually Sirius starts talking you through taking slower breaths, trying to calm you down. 

Someone wipes at your face with a small square. It stings, and it comes away light red with your blood and tears. 

“I know it’s scary,” Remus murmurs, “but you’ve already done so, so well. We only have to splint your arm so it doesn’t move and clean some of your bigger cuts, and then we can go to the hospital. Can you let us do that, please? Will you be okay?” 

You take in a ragged breath. “Yeah,” you reply. 

“There we are.” James takes your head between his hands. Something about his grip reassures you. He touches his lips to your forehead, like it’s natural, like it’s nothing. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. Just need you to be brave for us a little while longer.”

[scientia-rex]

One of my patients used to be a Big Deal Specialist in the city and you can just TELL he’s SEETHING that no one out here is even qualified to understand what he did, much less how important he was. He’s also terrified of death. It’s both annoying and really sad. Like, sir, I hate to break it to you, but no amount of knowledge will protect you from the ravages of time. It’s a special kind of hell to know the stages of various fatal diseases intimately. What is it going to feel like when it’s my turn? How do doctors want to die? Suddenly, quietly. Slip away painlessly in my sleep. But how likely is that? Not very. More likely I’ll get cardiovascular disease or cancer, the greatest killers of our time.

He was so afraid of cancer he had an organ that wasn’t cancerous removed just in case. He talks down to me as if I’m his student, and who knows? Maybe I was. He was in the same city as me, and they were forever dragging Big Name Doctors in to teach us things. Maybe I learned how to elicit Achilles tendon reflexes from him.

But mostly I find myself a little scornful. Who lives without the shadow of death? Who doesn’t think about death all the time? When you die, life is a round thing, finished and whole. What will your life look like when God holds it in the palm of his hand?

Also don’t fucking call me by my first name unless I’ve specifically said you can. I don’t GIVE that permission to patients, except for my mentally ill trans and queer patients. If I wanted to be disrespected by an older man I would have married young.

You do not have time. This important doctor who based his whole life around his importance lived as rich and full a life as anyone. And now he’s clinging to it, leaving fingernail marks on the walls on his way out. No one has time. There will be a moment when you’re dying when you think, I would give anything I have to be back in that moment. Any ordinary moment. Taking the dogs out to go potty. Browsing at the grocery store. When you’re being crucified on a hospital bed, dying and aware of it through the morphine, you would give anything you ever possessed to go back and have one more agony-free afternoon. Sit on a curb or a stoop. Walk through a park. Hug your spouse. These tiny fragmentary moments that we are constantly sliding through, tobogganing past at high speeds, these are what will be our life when our life is over.

I am accountable to that self. To the dying me. What did I do with this gift and curse? I don’t believe in God, but I know that I will die, and I have watched enough dying people by now to know the kinds of things I’ll think about. I want to make that me proud of what I’ve done and how I’ve spent my life. She will be a harder judge than God, and I want her to look at this one little life and think, yes. I did what I meant to.

[capricioussun]

Yes you. dork

I keep thinking about Stretch with blue magic. I have been for weeks. Possibly months. It's so cute and I need to draw it

[ilyrafe]

𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✧ 𝒓. 𝒄.

pairing: rafe cameron x f!reader

warnings: brief sexual innuendo, rafe being a softie!!!!

word count: 2.6k (i *might* have gotten carried away i'm so sorry lol)

a/n: this is a sequel to late night and also based on this, so thanks @keziahcore ! your mind is literally everything!

it’s almost like a sixth sense.

rafe feels your absence from the bed, and immediately becomes agitated. he turns on the lamp next to his bed and looks for any sign that you’re still there, and finds your small handbag on the armchair, which makes him just slightly relieved. 

when he looks at the clock, he sees that it is almost two in the morning. the bathroom door is ajar and the lights are off, which means you’re not there. before he can leave his room looking for you, you return, holding a glass of water, wearing only his shirt to cover yourself up.

“where were you? why did you leave me here?”

he can’t control this agony, this anguish that always catches him off guard when he finds himself alone. he can’t help feeling like a time bomb, ready to explode at any moment. the smallest things you do seem to trigger him massively, and he hates that. he hates that he ends up being rude and harsh to you, because you’re always so understanding and sweet.

even he knows he doesn’t deserve you.

“i was thirsty and went downstairs to drink some water.” your tone is sweet and calm, which makes him feel like shit.

his face changes, as he seems to calm down. you didn’t leave him, you just went to get some water. you’re there, your stuff is there, you’re not going anywhere.

“next time, leave a glass here. i don’t like it when you do that.” he says in a much softer tone, but he’s still upset that his sleep got interrupted.

“do what? get hydrated?” you joke, trying to lighten up his mood.

he rolls his eyes and huffs. don’t make him tell the truth.

“go back to bed. i’m tired, alright? i had a long day.”

“actually, i was going to read a book. i’m not sleepy and i don’t want to lie down right now.”

is it so hard to understand that he wants you to be close to him so that he feels safe enough to get a decent night’s sleep?

“you can read on the bed.”

“you won’t mind the lamp on?”

“no, just get the damn book and come back to bed.”

you laugh and nod, picking up the book from his desk and following him to his bed. rafe gets to his spot and as you sit down, he places one hand on your bare thigh and falls back to sleep almost immediately.

while he dives deep into his necessary rest, you start reading. it’s that book, in cold blood by truman capote. you don’t know if rafe is a reader, he never really talks about books with you.

every once in a while, you look down at your thighs to see his hand, firmly holding you, to make sure you won’t leave. this small gesture makes you feel stupid. stupid to believe he might feel something other than lust for you. rafe makes you question your beliefs and that itself makes you feel overwhelmed.

sometimes you want to leave, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. and you have tried countless times. he’s good for you in the same intensity he’s bad. to say you’re scared to ask him what you are would be an understatement, but you just would like some clarification, because you don’t beg the people you’re casually fucking to stay the night almost every night and throw a tantrum when they leave to get some water.

deep down, you know you’re more scared to hear you’re just an easy fuck. at this point, this would tear you apart.

being with rafe is a challenge. it’s like running a marathon you know you will not get to the finish line, and yet, you keep running.

when it’s almost four in the morning, you close the book and turn the lamp off. finally, sleep comes to you, and you settle into his bed, still holding rafe’s hand, which never left your thigh. with the touch, rafe wakes up, and this time he is no longer agitated.

“sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” you say, as you snuggle into the mattress.

“you- what time is it?” he asks, adorably confused and sleepy.

“it’s almost four.”

“and you’re going to sleep now?”

“yeah. go back to sleep, it’s early.” you say softly, placing a hand on his cheek, and he complies, pulling you close.

(...)

rafe’s alarm clock rings promptly at seven in the morning. he turns it off and goes back to his previous position: hugging you.

your hair smells like coconut and your skin is always soft. he never wants to not be touching you. it’s like your body was made to be next to his. for some reason, just your presence is enough to make him feel calm and at peace.

he places the softest kiss on your shoulder, enjoying the quietness that only early mornings can give him. the sweet sound of birds chirping outside makes him forget about everything else. rafe only has you in his mind (and in his arms).

you wake up and soon turn to face him. rafe has the most adorable sleepy face, and you might never stop melting over him. seeing him up close will never not be amazing. he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. he probably has the most beautiful shade of blue in his eyes.

“go back to sleep.” he whispers.

“‘m not sleepy anymore.” you mumble as you rub your eyes, which rafe finds captivating. “hi.”

“hi,” he smiles. “you only slept for three hours, sleep some more.” he insists, and you feel a tone of concern in his voice, but maybe it’s just your sleep giving you that impression.

“i’m okay, rafey.”

rafey. he hates that stupid nickname, but when it comes out of your mouth, he wants to legally change his name to it.

“you’re gonna be tired.”

“no, i’m not. i don’t normally sleep a lot.”

rafe frowns not because he’s confused - he obviously isn’t. he’s just not liking what you’re saying. he doesn’t like the idea of you struggling with whatever that may be. rafe knows damn well how bad it is to be sleep deprived, he doesn’t want you going through that.

“you have insomnia?”

“i guess i do,” you shrug. “i don’t really know. i just don’t sleep a lot. i wish i did, though. i get so jealous when i see you sleeping for hours on end.” you smile sweetly at him. “you’re so relaxed. must be nice…”

you let go of rafe after leaving a timid kiss on his lips, and stretch before getting up and going to his bathroom to start your morning routine.

after a quiet breakfast, rafe gives you a ride home, and he can’t hide his concern about what you said.

“i’ll see you around, yeah?” you tell him, with the sweetest smile you always have.

“of course. uh, about that sleep thing… if you need help with that… i’m here.”

“rafe, i think you might be a sex addict.” you joke, really not understanding what he meant. he isn’t talking about sex. the one time he isn’t talking about sex, you don’t get it.

“well, i’m just one call away.”

you chuckle and intend to kiss his cheek, but rafe is quick enough to turn his face and make you kiss his lips. you laugh at his antics.

silly rafe is your favorite. if only other people got to see this side of him.

he watches you leave his car and get inside your home. the strange feeling of loneliness comes back almost immediately, but it gets him thinking. it has to be some sort of irony that the person that quite literally helps him sleep isn’t sleeping.

(...)

only two days have passed and rafe already needs you to spend the night at his house again. he is so tired and exhausted. he takes out his phone and quickly types a message.

rafe: are u busy right now? can i pick u up?

you don’t tend to take long to respond to his texts, but this time, an hour goes by and nothing, so rafe starts to feel that unbearable anguish again, and starts to think that you left him and that you found someone better to spend you time with.

impulsively, rafe facetimes you, and you answer. from your face alone, he can see the tiredness in your eyes. or rather, in your dark circles. you’re in your bedroom, which makes him feel calmer.

“hi, rafey. sorry, i just got my phone.”

“what are you doing?”

“i’m studying for my exams.”

“i just wanted to know if i could pick you up.”

“i’d love to,” you smile. “but it’s not a good idea, i need to study and i have a mountain of books to read until tomorrow if i want a good grade, which i do.”

“you’re tired, you should rest.” he advises, visibly worried.

“nothing a can of red bull can’t fix.” you say showing him the can.

“y/n, please go to sleep.”

something about his request makes you angry. maybe it’s the stress, or the fact that this time rafe is right.

“rafe, you’re not my boss. i need to hang up, i got shit to do.”

before he can protest, you hang up the call, and surprisingly, rafe doesn’t get angry. this is what it’s like when he’s sleep deprived.

as always, rafe wants to take control of the situation, so he puts on a hoodie, grabs his car keys and leaves his house to go to yours. it’s late at night, and rafe knows your parents are probably asleep.

the path is short, and soon he arrives in front of your house and the light is on in your bedroom, which tells him that you are still up. carefully, rafe gets out of his car and walks to the back of your residence, and climbs the wall, always making sure he doesn’t get caught by anyone. finally, rafe gets on the small balcony of your room and sees you surrounded by papers, books and notebooks. it’s a mess.

he knocks on the glass door, which startles you, but you soon calm down when you see it’s him. you almost run to open the door, but your face isn’t the happiest.

“what are you doing here, rafe?”

“nice to see you, too.” he ironizes as he steps inside your bedroom. “i have a proposition for you.”

“i’m so not in the mood, rafe…”

“listen to me.” he says. “i’ll… i’ll help you out with this stuff, as long as you let me help you sleep.”

“i don’t wanna have sex.”

“i’m not talking about sex.”

oh.

“you mean… sleep? like, really sleep?”

“yeah. i don’t like that you sleep so little. you’re becoming cranky.”

you chuckle at the last bit. you can’t stay mad at him, can you?

“that’s a nice offer, rafe, but what do you know about biology?”

“i’ll have you know i was a good student.” he pouts and you laugh. “even if i don’t know what you’re studying, i’ll help you out.”

it takes you a few seconds, but it’s decided. your body is about to give out, you really need to rest. you can’t absorb any more information. a good sleep might even help you learn whatever you need.

“okay.”

rafe smiles and it might be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

you begin to organize all your notes and books on your desk and rafe begins to undress down to his underwear, and gets comfortable on your bed. he realizes this is his first time sleeping on your bed, and he already likes the faint smell of rosemary that your bedroom exudes.

you have such a pretty bedroom. the walls are painted in the softest shade of blue, and you have books everywhere. no wonder you’re so smart, you read a lot.

the wooden furniture gives an earthy feel to your room, contrasting with the delicacy of the light blue walls. in the photos of the small mural on the wall, rafe realizes that he wanted to be there, present in the photos, and maybe, in a photo with you. you are always smiling and being hugged by someone, or hugging them. you are like that, you are magnetic.

you finish organizing your things and quickly change into a shirt of rafe’s that you hope he doesn’t recognize. it’s big and comfortable, and it makes you feel close to him when he’s far away.

the lamp next to your bed is on, so you turn off the main light in your room and go to your bed, meeting rafe, and he has the smallest smile on his lips. it’s ironic how having sex and being naked doesn’t feel as intimate as simply sleeping together does.

“are your parents home?” he asks.

“no, why?”

“so i could have come through the door, huh.”

“yeah.” you laugh.

a brief moment of silence sits between you two, as you’re staring at each other’s eyes. rafe is mesmerized and terrified at the same time. this - whatever this is - feels so nice and so foreign. he knows damn well he isn’t one to want to just sleep with someone, let alone climb up a wall to just sleep with someone.

rafe cameron is in love, and he is utterly terrified.

“what are you thinking?” you ask in a whisper.

your blinks are getting slower and slower. rafe begins to run his hand through your hair, combing them back, and touching the skin of your neck and shoulders ever so softly.

thinking about how much i want to be with you and how fucking scared i am.

“nothin’. close your eyes.”

you do, not because he told you to, but because you couldn’t keep them open any longer. 

why do you feel the safest with someone as dangerous as rafe cameron? someone who deals with the shadiest people around, that has anger issues and violent behavior.

that tried to drown his own sister.

why none of that matters when you’re in his arms? are you actually insane?

probably.

(...)

as soon as you wake up, you see your bed empty, and rafe’s clothes are no longer on the floor, where he had left them last night. it was to be expected, but you still feel disappointed. he was so sweet last night.

when you look at the clock, it’s already past nine in the morning, which means you’ve slept, surprisingly, eight hours straight. damn, you really were sleep deprived.

the sound of your stomach begging for food makes you get out of bed.

when you leave your bedroom, you hear the sound of the tv on and get scared. slowly, without making any noise, you go down the stairs, trying to find out if your house has been invaded, but it would be strange, as it is daytime. soon you see rafe walking around your house.

he didn’t leave?

it’s like you’re not even there. you get to watch rafe make himself comfortable in your kitchen, looking for stuff to put on the table. there are two delivery bags on the counter, which means he bought food, but the gesture warms your heart, which was merely shattered.

“the cutlery is in the second drawer next to the sink.” you say, startling him a bit.

“jesus. can you, i don’t know, announce you’re in the room? i almost dropped your coffee.”

you laugh.

“sorry, rafey. what are you doing, i thought you had left.”

“uh, i bought breakfast for y- us.” he says. you look inside the bags and you can tell he ordered possibly everything you have eaten from that place. “c’mon, i ordered that vegan shit you like, your coffee and even a pretzel.”

you follow him to the table and you both begin helping yourselves. this isn’t your first time having breakfast with him, but it does feel like it’s a first.

for the first time, you don’t want to leave him.

i love feedback! let me know your thoughts! <3

[steddiehyperfixation]

don't you forget about me (steddie fic)

saw this post and was inspired to write something angsty <3

The first thing Eddie is aware of when he wakes up, before he even opens his eyes, is the dull, aching pain throbbing through pretty much his entire body. The second thing he’s aware of is that someone is holding his hand. 

“Eddie?” The hand in his tightens its grip as Eddie begins to stir; the voice it presumably belongs to sounds immeasurably relieved, yet only vaguely familiar. 

Eddie groans. His eyelids flutter, blinking awake, and he groggily rolls his head to the side to get a look at whoever had spoken. 

The voice sighs again, “Oh thank god-” 

“Harrington?” Eddie’s eyes fly open wide now as they land on the mystery man sitting beside him on the edge of the bed - a man he most definitely is not close enough with to be holding his hand, and a bed that is most definitely not his own. He snatches his hand away. “What the hell are you doing? Where am I?”

“Ed-” Another man’s voice, this one just as relieved and infinitely more familiar. It fills Eddie with relief too as he looks to his other side to find his uncle Wayne rising from a nearby chair to come up next to him. 

“Wayne, what-?” His surroundings are becoming more clear. “What happened? Why am I in a hospital? And why the fuck is King Steve at my bedside?” Eddie tries to sit up only to gasp and wince in pain as the dull ache in his sides sharpens to near agony at the movement. 

“Take it easy, son.” Wayne’s hand lands on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down onto the pillows. “You were hurt real bad.” 

“Yeah, I got that,” Eddie grumbles out. He sucks in a deep, intentional breath and exhales slowly, the pain beginning to dull again now that he’s settled. His questions are still largely unanswered, though. Blank mind reaching desperately for any logical piece to this bizarre puzzle, he turns an accusing glare to Harrington. “Did you land me in here? Is that why you’re here, some sort of weird guilt thing?” 

Harrington’s looking at him like a kicked puppy. “What? No, I-” he falters, takes a shaky breath and swallows painfully like he’s trying not to cry. “You don’t remember?” 

“I don’t remember what? Will someone just tell me what happened?” Eddie’s confusion is rising more and more into agitation with every second he remains without an explanation. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Harrington asks quietly.

“I was driving home from school, just found out I wasn’t gonna graduate again.” Eddie frowns as he thinks back, still trying to put pieces together. “Did I crash my car? Is that it? I was emotional and not paying attention and got into an accident?” 

Yet again, he receives no answers. 

“Eddie, what month is it?” Wayne asks instead, his tone dangerously measured and serious. “What year?” 

“May…” Eddie says warily, “1985.”

His words hold a weight he doesn’t understand, landing heavy on the others in the room and thickening the air. It sends a chill of dread down his spine, the way his answer etches concern deep into the lines of Wayne’s face, the way Steve Harrington seems to take it like a blow to the chest. 

Harrington exhales sharply as if he’s been punched, standing abruptly and taking a few stumbling steps back. Wayne says, “It’s April of ‘86, Ed.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “No. No, it can’t be.” 

“I’m gonna go tell the nurse you’re awake,” Harrington mumbles, his voice strained and his eyes glassy with barely held-back tears. 

“I’ll go,” Wayne offers, pushing himself away from Eddie’s bed. He gives Harrington a meaningful look, though what that meaning is, Eddie can’t decipher. 

Harrington turns his devastated gaze to the older man. “But, Wayne, he doesn’t-” 

“I know, kid.” Wayne gives a sad smile and places a sympathetic hand on Harrington’s shoulder as he passes by. “Just talk to him.” 

Eddie is thrown off by this familiarity between them. Since when were those two close? He feels like he’s entered some sort of parallel universe where everything is just ever so slightly wrong. It leaves an itch beneath his skin, uncomfortable and out of place, like he no longer quite fits in his own body, in his own life. He’s lost 11 months, apparently, and this world is no longer his; he doesn’t know where he fits into it anymore. 

Wayne leaves the room, and Eddie wants to protest: Don’t leave me here with this guy I don’t know in this time I don’t know, please, you’re the only thing that feels safe and familiar! Anxiety is crawling through him like a thousand tiny bugs in his veins. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to run. Anything to shake this feeling loose. But he’s confined to this bed, trapped both by his pain and by all these machines he’s hooked up to, and he sure as shit isn’t going to have a breakdown in front of Steve goddamn Harrington. 

Instead, Eddie resigns himself to this situation and casts a sideways glance at Harrington who very much looks like he’s also trying not to have a breakdown. “I’m freaking out, man,” Eddie says finally, hating how shaky and pathetic his voice sounds. “I swear to god, Harrington, if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on…” 

Harrington worries his lip between his teeth as he hesitates. “It’s a lot to explain.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” Eddie scoffs out a humorless laugh. “I’m missing nearly an entire year, of course it’s a lot to fill in. Unless I’ve been here this whole time?” 

“No.” Harrington shakes his head. “No, you’ve only been here about a week. I- I don’t know why you’re missing so much time, the whole Vecna thing only started like a week before that-” 

“Vecna?” Eddie interrupts to question. “What does any of this have to do with the D&D campaign I was planning? And, also, how the fuck do you know about that?” 

Harrington closes his eyes for a second and takes a breath, like having this conversation is the most painful thing he’s ever had to do. “I’m not talking about D&D, Ed. Vecna was a real-life monster from a real-life alternate dimension we called the Upside-Down. The kids only called him Vecna because we didn’t know who he was at the time and he, like, cursed people before he killed them, but he was actually Henry Creel, which is a whole other fucked up story.”

“Okay…” Eddie doesn’t know who ‘the kids’ are and he’s skeptical of the way Harrington talks so factually about monsters and dimensions and curses existing in the real world, but he does remember his uncle telling him stories about the demonic tragedy of the Creel family, which is the only thing that makes any of this even halfway believable. It still doesn’t explain how Eddie wound up in the hospital with his entire body feeling like it’d been run through a blender, though, or why the former king of Hawkin’s High was hovering over his sickbed. He gestures for Harrington to continue. 

“I never wanted you to get involved in all this Upside-Down shit,” Harrington’s voice breaks. He steps closer to Eddie’s bed again, and he looks so so sad as he stares down at him that it makes Eddie’s own heart ache, just a little bit. Harrington’s hand twitches at his side as if he means to reach out for Eddie but then thinks better of it, running the hand through his hair instead as he continues, “I tried to keep you from it for so long, I really did, but then Vecna killed Chrissy in your trailer and the whole town blamed you and you were just a part of things then, there was no getting around it. You helped us fight him - Vecna. You kept his army of bats off our ass while we weakened his body and El weakened his mind. If it weren’t for you we never would’ve defeated him and we certainly wouldn’t have all made it out alive.” Harrington’s gaze softens, as does his voice, his next words almost a whisper, “You were a hero, Eddie.” 

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Eddie says, like that’s the least plausible part of Harrington’s story. And, really, it is. He can wrap his mind around a lot of things: a murder in his trailer - sure, Forest Hills always was a shady place; the whole town accusing him of being a killer - yeah, of course, that tracks; even an evil wizard from another dimension with an army of bats - fine, okay, why the hell not. But Eddie Munson is no hero, and he’s definitely not any sort of fighter either.

“No, you never did think so, did you?” Harrington mutters with a sad sort of fondness and the barest trace of a wistful smile. “But it’s true. Dustin was in danger and you didn’t even think twice. You ran right into the fray without a second thought, sacrificed yourself so that the rest of us might survive. Those bats nearly killed you, b-” he breaks, choking on whatever word he was going to say. His eyes swim with yet more unshed tears. “I almost thought they had killed you, you know. I thought you were dead when I carried you out of the Upside-Down,” he admits shakily, choked up and barely managed, “and even when I brought you here and you were stable, I was still so scared you wouldn’t wake up…” 

Eddie doesn’t know how to react to any of that information or to such a display of emotion. His own hands twitch now with the urge to reach out and comfort him, but he too denies that instinct. He tries for humor instead, something lighter, cracking a grin and teasing, “Aw, Stevie, I didn’t know you cared.” 

Harrington makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Oh, Ed, you have no idea.” 

“We were friends then, weren’t we?” Eddie guesses now, carefully. It’s rapidly becoming the only possible explanation for the guy’s behavior around him. “Before all the Vecna stuff?”

“Yeah,” Harrington manages, forcing a small, sad smile as his eyes finally overflow and streak his cheeks with tears. “Yeah, we were good friends.” 

~

Wayne reenters the room then with a nurse in tow, and Steve quickly turns away and rubs his hands over his face. He needs to pull himself together; he can’t break down right now, not yet, not here. 

He listens, distantly, as the nurse asks Eddie a bunch of questions and then tells the rest of them that she needs to take him in for some tests to determine the cause and prognosis of Eddie’s amnesia. He watches, numbly, as she wheels Eddie’s entire bed out of the room. 

Steve can barely hear, barely see, his emotion clouding his eyes and roaring in his ears. He stares blankly through the open doorway and struggles to swallow down the ever-rising lump in his throat. 

Wayne’s voice rumbles from somewhere beside him, but he can’t quite make out the words. “What?” 

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Wayne says, the sound reaching Steve’s ears a little clearer now. “I asked if you were alright.” 

Steve shakes his head. His voice comes out coarse and raw, “‘Course I’m not alright.” 

“Right, ‘course you’re not,” Wayne echoes. He follows Steve’s mournful gaze to the door Eddie had disappeared through. “What did you tell him?” 

“Told him he was a hero,” Steve croaks, “...and that we were good friends.”

“Ah…” Steve’s vision is so blurred behind a thick layer of tears he can’t see the sympathetic frown on the old man’s face, but he knows it’s there. “At least he’s alive, kid,” Wayne tries to be comforting. “You can always start over.” 

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t- I don’t want to start over, I just want-” Steve chokes back a sob. He just wants Eddie.

It’s a horrible thought, but Steve almost thinks that this just might be worse than if Eddie really had died… Because how is Steve supposed to handle the fact that his boyfriend of 9 months no longer knows him? How is he supposed to cope now that the love of his life looks right at him and no longer sees him?

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids, inhaling a shaky breath and exhaling an even shakier sigh. Steve whispers, “It feels like I’m losing him all over again.” 

(part two is here!)

(also on ao3)

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Two

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader 3.4k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ no smut but this fic contains mature themes. Medical inaccuracies, hospitals, medical procedures, medications, blood and injury, nurse!reader, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, feelings of fear, anxiety. Panic attack. Implied past abuse. Implied stalking. Deep breath.

There is blood in Johnny's eyes.

He comes to with a start, Price’s voice barking out an order, pressure and flame and blood all washing over him, pain erupting across every receptor in his brain like he’s being shredded alive. 

“Bloody hell, hold him steady.” 

It’s still Price, roaring over the chop-chop-chop of the helicopter blades, bloodied hands trying to keep pressure on the hole in his stomach, his side. 

It burns. Everything burns, his body feels like it’s on fire, bones turning to ash inside his skin, chest being torn apart by some invisible force. He can’t get enough air. There is something shoved inside his ribs, something heavy that’s weighing his lungs down, keeping him underwater, cinderblocks tied to his feet.

He tries to move, but he can’t. 

Gaz is strapping him down to a stretcher, he thinks, and when he ratchets a strap across his legs, Johnny screams in agony. 

“’m sorry mate, I’m sorry.” 

Where is Simon? There are faces here, but none of them are the one he needs. His LT. “W-where is Si?” He slurs, and Price frowns, leaning back over his face, calling his name. 

“Johnny, Johnny. Hold still. You’re on a medevac. We’re lifting you to base.” 

“Si-“ 

“Simon isn’t here, remember? Johnny, oi. Keep your eyes open, Sergeant.” Remember? Does he remember? He tries. Tries to place his partner’s face amongst the rubble, the blast, the screaming. 

Where is Simon?

Your coffee maker sputters to life in the silence of your apartment, churning out the dark, thick, life-giving liquid, and you can’t beat back the glare that fixes your face upwards towards your neighbors, the ones who are running a marathon in their apartment at three in the afternoon.

Seriously. Is there a herd of elephants up there? 

You can’t be too disappointed in them, you know. It is normal working hours. Normal daytime hours. You don’t expect your neighbors to accommodate or understand your schedule. Still, it would be nice if they were just a bit more considerate. 

It’s not the end of the world, regardless. You're up now, already started your day, crawled out of bed and opened the blackout curtains to stand in the afternoon sunlight that streams through your studio apartment. You flick open your laptop as sip your morning coffee, logging into your banking app with quick efficiency, eyes roving over lists of numbers, figures adding and subtracting in your head. You’re so close to being able to move forward with the plan, the light at the end of the tunnel growing stronger and stronger, glowing bright with hope, something that once felt so impossible, so far away. You're going to make it. 

It’s a hike to the train.

You’re fortunate that you only have to take one, no longer having to change once, or twice, in the middle of your commute like you used to, but now you’re walking at least twelve blocks to get there, each way.

It makes you feel very exposed.

You keep your headphones in, hood of your jacket over your head, and move within throngs of people during the trek, keeping your eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead, posture tilted just enough that you can watch the ground but still see in your peripheral. You don’t relax until you make it onto the platform, and even then, your head is on a swivel as you wait for the train to arrive, and you can melt into the mix of others. Seen, but not noticed. 

Old habits die hard. 

You swipe your card to proceed through the turnstile, cool metal sliding against your hands when you push forward onto the platform, settling against a pylon as you wait, flicking through the news with half interest.

The hair on the back of your neck rises.

Someone is watching you. 

Your skin goes cold, ice beneath your jacket, and your lungs stutter with short breaths. Logically, you know you’re wrong. The faces that wait alongside you are not focused on anything but themselves, too busy staring at their own devices, tablets, readers, phones. A woman fidgets with a stroller, a man wearing headphones spits some corporate nonsense out loud, obnoxiously. You’ve already looked them over, too many times. He’s not here.

You lean against the tile, rocking your back into the grimy wall, fingers clutching against the edge of your phone. He’s not here. You’re safe. The dark of the tunnel mocks you, laughs with his voice, its circular opening growing teeth like his, ready to devour you, drag you back to hell, swallow you whole and keep you there.

He's not here. You’re safe. He doesn’t know where you are. Deep breath. 

You breathe the words deep, counting the time of your inhales and exhales until the brakes of the train are squeaking and squealing to a stop, doors opening with a hiss. Everyone moves in tandem, an amoeba inching towards the same goal, get off, get on, and you go with it, pressing inside and shuffling towards the back, angling your body outwards, molded into a corner so tight your shoulders touch the walls of the train.

Deep breath. 

“Hey, you’re early!” The nurse you’re relieving smiles brightly at you, blonde hair pulled high in a scrunchie, stickers all over her badge and ID.

“Yeah, wanted to get caught up on some admin stuff but I’ve got it, if you want to…” you motion with your head, the universal signal of ‘if you want to leave’ without saying it out loud, lest you jinx it, and the place goes to chaos in the next five minutes. She nods eagerly, launching into a run-down of your beds, who’s stable, who’s sedated, who’s still on a vent. “-and two sixty-eight is about to come down from the PACU.” Your stomach clenches with anxiety, and you check your watch.

“They took him when I left this morning…”

“Yeah, I guess there was a complication. Had to re-open his chest, put in a new tube. Poor guy, he’s battered all to shit. Did you see the scans of his femur? It’s literally in pieces.” She sighs. “His partner is in the surgical waiting room, told him the next shift nurse would come find him when he could come back to the room.” Your anxiety heightens, and an alarm bell goes off in the back of your mind as you think about Simon, pacing back and forth upstairs, and Johnny, alone in the PACU, probably coming out sedation, terrified. What is wrong with you? 

“I hear those guys are like black ops or something.” Nia, the nurse who’s worked the last three rotations with you, comments over your shoulder as she drops her bag in the pit. You raise an eyebrow skeptically. Black ops? You shiver. “They air-lifted him from a military base that’s doesn’t even exist on a map. Cass and I checked.”

“Really?” The dayshifter perks up, interested, and you hold your hands out in caution.

“Okay, okay. Let’s not speculate.” You tap your number into the tablet, reading through charts and noting updates. A little green circle with an arrow through it blinks next to Johnny’s, signifying that he’s about to be moved. “Besides, he’s been through hell. Clearly. Let’s have a little, ya know. Respect?” They all cluck, rolling their eyes and groaning, but they shut up, and Nia gives you a little grin. You might not be the charge nurse, but you were the perma-night shifter on this floor, and the one with the most seniority in this moment. 

“Alright, well. You got this?” Dayshift asks, and you wave her off.

“Goodnight.”

“You’re the best. Bye ladies!”

Simon is easy to find. He’s wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday, black cloth mask still covering half his face, hoodie pulled up over his head. He looks less exhausted, but no less anxious, dark circles still present under his eyes, body language tense. He looks… scared.

He spots you just as easily, shooting to his feet when he sees you coming, hands clenched together in anticipation, and you motion to the chair, placing yourself next to him, turning slightly to ensure you’re giving him your undivided attention.

He shifts in the seat, legs spreading out against the stiff frame, and his knee bumps yours, warmth radiating beneath denim bleeding into your scrubs. If he notices or cares about the contact, he doesn't say anything, only blinks at you in anticipation. His head tilts before you start speaking, and your skin heats when you realize he’s looking you over, eyes tracing you from head to toe before pinning you in place with a focused scrutiny.

“Has anyone come to speak with you?” You ask, silently hoping that the surgeon actually did the last part of his job, and didn’t neglect the family member in waiting room, the one who’s holding their breath as every second ticks by.

Simon nods. “They said there was a complication with his lungs?”

“They had to plate his ribs. It will give the bleed in his chest a better chance at healing, help keep him stable. They also replaced his chest tube.” His brow furrows, and you pause. Maybe visualization will help. “Do you want to see?” You tap on the tablet, bringing up Johnny’s last imaging, scrolling through the pictures to show Simon what it looks like, pointing out the before and after CT of his chest, explaining the white vs grey spaces on the image. Simon studies it, taking the tablet in his hand, fingers tracing over the screen reverently, carefully, like he's touching Johnny himself. An ocean’s worth of emotions reflects in his gaze, despair, sadness, grief- all sitting just on the edge, nearly ready to spill over. Your heart skips a beat.

“Can I see him?”

“He’s coming down from the post-surgery unit now. I’ll have to get him resettled in his room, but I promise as soon as I can, I’ll come get you.” He twitches in the chair, rubbing the back of his neck before he huffs out something that sounds like ‘okay’, and you give him one more small smile with your ‘see you soon’.

Johnny is conscious when he comes up from the PACU, barely. His vitals look good, temperature, blood pressure, heart rate all in target ranges, and he’s due for another round of pain medication.

"Hey, Johnny." You smile down at him, sliding the lock on his bed in place and reattaching his leads carefully, gentle enough so you don't jostle him too much. 

"Hi, pretty girl." He slurs, and you chuckle, instinctively rolling your eyes before patting his good hand. 

“Came out of sedation fine, but he’s been a bit emotional.” The PACU nurse warns you, eyes soft with sympathy when she glances at him in the bed. “He’s asking for his partner, I think. Simon?”

“Yeah. I’ll take care of it.” You scan the post op notes, hitting all the important things, logging his last vitals check so you can administer his meds. The incision in his chest has been reopened, and then closed, and his lower body is completely immobilized in the bed, his hip pinned, femur delicately pieced back together with a plethora of plates and screws, so many you think it’s probably more metal than bone now. “How are you feeling?" You ask, heart tugging a bit at the hopelessness in his eyes. “Ready to get some more sleep?” He groans a response, words jumbled together and cracking into a sob that has tears trickling down his cheeks.

“Si..”

“He’s not back yet.” You try to explain gently, grabbing an extra blanket to put over the scaffolding around his leg. “Once I get you settled, we’ll bring him up, okay?”

“H-hurts.” He cries, vibrant blue eyes finding yours, scared, and desperate. “It h-hurts.” He’s openly crying now, shoulders starting to shake, and the monitor chimes at you, registering an increase in heart rate and blood pressure.

“I know. I know it does.” You clean his port, tracking the uptick in numbers on the screen. “Hey, hey. Shhh, it’s okay.” You try to calm him as you flush the line, pushing the saline from the side of the bed. “You’re alright. We’re almost,” You administer the medication easily, counting in your head, replacing it with another saline before reattaching his fluids line, all of the motions so second nature that it allows you keep your focus on him. “there.”

You expect him to calm down. Most patients do, but his heart rate continues to tick upwards, and his respirations don’t decrease, lungs heaving against the fresh sutures in his chest. His hand, the good one, skates across your elbow and down your forearm to grab a hold of you, fingers gripped onto yours tightly, like he’s afraid you might let go.

“It’s alright, Johnny. You’re okay.” His eyes don’t leave your face, his own jaw slack, pain meds coursing through his system. He's frightened, big blue eyes wide and anxious, and you squeeze his hand, stroking your thumb across his knuckles. “Deep breath.” You see patients upset, in pain, all the time. It’s an everyday part of your job. Even the hand holding is a necessary, frequent part of your profession.

But with Johnny, something feels different.

“It’s okay. You’re okay, just try to relax. Take some long breaths- good. That’s good.” You soothe him, rubbing soft touches into his skin. His head is turned to where you’re standing next to the bed, chest still heaving, and he winces with each exhale. “It’s just the last of the sedation, it can make you a little out of sorts. The pain meds are going to kick in real soon.” You reach over, and press the call button, twice. You can feel the pressure, the burn of his attention, his unwillingness to look away from you, and you hum out the softest words you can find, encouraging him to take calm, deep breaths. 

When Nia appears, she frowns. “Everything alright?”

“Hey, yes. Could you do us a favor and go up to the surgical waiting room? Johnny’s partner Simon, is waiting to be told he can come down.” She looks from you to him, reading the situation just as you would if the roles were reversed.

“Got it.” She makes her exit, fast, and Johnny gulps, still staring up at you with bright, wet, blue eyes.

“See? She’s going to get him. Everything’s alright.” He nods, barely, starting to succumb to the medication, and you exhale, letting out some of the tension from the last few minutes.

Simon comes through the door in a whirlwind, and you immediately raise your free hand, palm out, to slow his hurried panic.

“He’s okay.” You point to where Johnny is still clutching onto you. “He was still in a fair amount of pain when he came down, and coming out of sedation can be disorientating. I think he panicked a little when he realized you weren’t here.” He nods silently, taking his place bedside, towering over both you and Johnny, leaning past you to brush his lips against Johnny's forehead in a sweet, smooth kiss. 

"I'm here, sweet boy." He murmurs, voice so low you barely catch it. You step back, pulling your grasp from Johnny's, but he tightens his fingers, grip stronger than you anticipated, and you stop mid step, glancing to his partner. “I got him.” Simon reaches for where the two of you are connected, sliding his own hand overtop yours, replacing the contact before holding Johnny's hand whole. He’s so careful, lowering himself into the chair, carefully holding onto Johnny until he’s seated, bringing his palm to his mask covered lips. “I’ve got you.”

“Si.”

“I’m here Johnny. Rest.”

“Ye weren’t there.” He croaks, and Simon’s eyes shutter with a long inhale.

“I know.”

“Ah needed-“ He loses the words, dazed in a swirl of semi-consciousness. “was scared.” Simon strokes some of the hair that’s in disarray away from his forehead, smoothing his thumb back and forth above his eyebrow.

“Shhh, everything’s alright now. I’m here.”

The chair in supply closet 2b knows you well. It’s an old thing, something pulled from a patient room once it was deemed too squeaky, and too uncomfortable, shoved in here to be discarded at some point in the future.

That was months ago.

Now, it sits in a dark little corner, plastic packages of disposable PPE and gowns littered on top of it in a heap, excess supply with no place to live. Everyone takes turns in it, shifting whatever it happens to be holding that day onto the ground and settling in for what some could call a break, brief moments that could last seconds or minutes, quick opportunities to get off your feet and most importantly, not have to speak or be spoken to, for an indeterminate amount of time.

This is usually where you hide when you need a second. When there’s a lull, and the pit is full of nurses, techs, students or whoever else may have downtime, talking and laughing together, building relationships, getting to know one another. Making friends. It's a small luxury at work, to have that time, those friendships. 

Luxuries someone who wants to be seen, but not noticed, not known, does not have.

You close your eyes, head tipped back against the chair.

It’s okay to be alone. You can do this. Deep breath. 

Your mind floats to two sixty-eight, to Simon and Johnny. What is it like, to be loved like that? To be so fiercely cared for? Johnny’s teary, blue eyes and Simon’s soft, loving regard for him makes your stomach flip. You didn’t even know love like that was real. The only taste of love you’ve ever had left ash in your mouth, poison in your veins, and deep, deep scars across your body and soul that you’ll never be free of.

Deep breath. 

Your work phone and the tablet both start to beep, a shrill noise that makes you wince, muscle memory of what it indicates making you leap from the chair.

The screen shows a red flashing symbol next to room two sixty-eight.

Johnny.

“He’s tachycardic.” You tell the tech who’s fumbling with the phone, firing off a rapid text message to the on-call for this floor. You hold Johnny’s forehead still with the heel of your hand, using a finger to flick open his eyelids one by one, flashing the pen light across his pupils. “Pupils are dilated, BP is elevated- no call him- call him right now. Do what I said, I don’t care what he told you.” You bark, glancing up at where Simon is frozen across the bed from you, grip so tight against the rail that you think it might break.

“Simon-“ He cuts you off, but you’re half paying attention to him, too busy checking the site of Johnny’s chest tube, and then moving onto the dressing on his lower abdomen, ensuring it doesn’t feel scalding to the touch.

“He was fine. He was just… sleepin' and then-“ You move around the bed, pulling the oxygen tube longer, replacing the cannula with a mask.  

“Simon, I need you to step out.” You press two buttons on the machine, ensuring it’s on high flow, door sliding open with Nia’s arrival.

“No.” His refusal is steadfast.

“Simon, hey.” He lurches closer to Johnny, and on instinct, you reach out and grab his forearm, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes are wild, bleak with anguish, and his chest heaves heavily, panic radiating from his massive form. “Listen to me, listen. I’m here. I’ve got him, alright? But there are about to be five other people in this room, and we can’t work if you’re in the way.” You speak firmly, clearly, trying to get your point across as the door opens again, and the on-call attending is standing on the other side. Simon glances from him, back to you, and you nod reassuringly, swallowing the lump in your throat that forms when he latches onto your own arm, squeezing it tight. “He’s in good hands.” You tell him, nodding to the tech that’s waiting to usher him towards the hallway. 

He keeps his eyes trained on Johnny, before they flick over to where you’re lowering the bed completely flat, free hand on his bicep, thumb rubbing a small semi-circle into his skin, just like you watched Simon do last night, and earlier today. He swallows, endless depths of desperation welling in his eyes, and you take a deep breath, imbuing your voice with all the strength you have.

“I’ve got him. I promise.”

[fishnetdracula]

romance is like

in my head: my love for you is boundless. i cannot conceive of having this amount of love for someone, i don’t know where to store it in my 5’3 little body, it is bursting out through my skin surely like some sort of sunshine. how am i not levitating slightly off the pavement with the force of it. every hour im without you is an agony, you are the soft surface my brain rests on when it sits down. your smile is better than the first touch of warmth in spring that makes you remember why all those cold months were worth living through. looking at the contours, the mass of your body makes me near feral with want, or just fascination, a need to have my hands on it, as if that would make such perfection easier to fathom. i’ve never felt so at home with anyone, your laugh is magic, i feel our souls are intertwined. ive tried pouring all this mess into poetry and art and music and sex and bragging and it’s like a drop in the ocean, the amount that remains is an eldritch expanse i can’t even imagine the edges of. i understand every madman now: the exhumers, the moor-wanderers, the frantic name-carvers. of course i would wear a vial of your blood, of course i would follow you into hell. the world could be plunged into an inky black void and i would traipse it feeling for you in the dark and when i held you near to me, im sure the feeling of having your weight against me would blast through the cold somehow, would turn all the lights back on — or, as i sank, i’d at least have everything i needed.

out loud: hey loser. i’m gonna bite you

[aikaterini-drag]

Fragile Embrace

Summary: Bucky is afraid to hug you tightly because of the serum in his system. You sweetly convince him otherwise.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: established relationship, implied smut, fluff, intimacy.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a single lamp casting shadows across the walls in your bedroom. Bucky sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his shoulders tense, his hands clasped. He stayed silence, every inch of him hating his strength—the damned serum that felt like a curse.

Across the room, you watched him with concern and understanding. You had seen this struggle in him before, the internal battle he waged against his own abilities. He was afraid to let his true strength show, afraid to be anything other than super gentle with you.

You approached him slowly, your footsteps barely making a sound on the carpeted floor. Still, he could hear you. He was a super soldier, he knew the rhythm of your heartbeats inside out, knew the pattern of your breaths. He could also tell that you longed for his hugs—not just simple tender hugs, but the kind that squeezed you tightly, conveying the depth of your love. But every time you had reached out, he had pulled away, a look of agony in his eyes.

He couldn’t allow himself to let his guard down with you. He knew better than anyone what his strength could do, the damage it could cause… A small mishap and he could hurt you, and the mere thought of that broke his heart.

“James,” you said softly, your voice like a gentle breeze, “you don’t have to be afraid. I know you can’t always control your strength, but I trust you, and I trust your love for me.”

He turned to look at you, his beautiful blue eyes tormented. “Sweetheart, you don’t understand. You don’t understand how serious this is.”

You knelt in front of him, you hands reaching out to cup his face. “Baby, love isn’t about holding back. It’s about trusting each other, even when things are tough. I’d rather take the risk with you than live without your touch.”

“You feel my touch,” he said, his flesh hand slowly caressing your face.

“Yes. You are so very gentle with me.” You smiled and held his metal one. “I’m grateful but there are times when I want you to let go of your restrains and truly feel our love.”

He kissed your hair and closed his eyes. “I cannot let go of my restrains.”

Smiling gently, you rose to straddle his hips, your hands looping around his shoulders. “Not even a tiny little bit? Please? For me?”

He tensed but carefully embraced you, his hands encompassing your waist. “You are a little menace.”

“And don’t you love that?”

He chuckled. “I do love that. I love everything about you.”

“If you love me that much, then hold me tighter, Sergeant.”

“Like this?” His hands moved to cup your ass, squeezing the soft mounds and squeezing you against his hard body.

You hummed pleasantly. “More.”

With a low growl, he embraced your frame with his strong hands and squeezed just a little tighter. His face pained but when he watched you smile and writhe pleasantly on top of him, he relaxed and maintained his grip on you. You leaned down and brushed your lips together in a deep and wet caress. He responded immediately and coaxed your mouth open with a gentle nudge of his tongue, deepening the kiss.

“More,” you whispered against his mouth, your breaths mingling.

“No… sweets, I’m afraid—”

You framed his face, eyes locking onto his. "James Bucky Barnes," you whispered, your voice soothing yet decisive, "you could never hurt me. Your strength is a part of who you are, but it doesn't define our love.” You smiled, your thumb brushing against his unshaven cheek. "With me, you can always let go. I trust you completely."

“How can you be mine?” His breath ghosted over your lips. “How can this perfect softness be mine?”

“The same way you’re mine. You are mine, Barnes.” You traced his hard chest with your fingers. “This perfect man is mine. All mine.”

He looked at you with misty blue eyes. “You’ve quite undone me, sweets.”

“Make love to me,” you whispered, your mouth trailing a path of warmth along his jawline, stopping just shy of his lips. “Not slow and tender. But hard and emotional. I want to feel you. Every part of you.”

You sensed his apprehension at your words, the lingering doubts. But you crashed them with the loving press of your lips against his. With a trembling sigh, he succumbed, rolling you over, his big frame hovering above you on the bed. He wrapped his arms around you and pressed you down on the mattress.

You keened and he made love to you, holding you strongly, more tightly that he had ever done. It was a start. It was the beginning of your love’s resilience and eagerness to overcome any obstacle together. You found solace in each other's warmth, Bucky’s fear disappearing as he realized that your love was a force more potent than any serum or bionic arm and that he could hold you as close and as tightly as he desired, without ever causing you harm.

[honeybeefae]

You're Mine (Eris Vanserra x Reader)

Summary// After leaving Eris behind to fulfill your parents' desire for marriage, knowing the two of you could never be, you did your best to move on. It had been five years, and you were finally starting to settle into your life with your husband when a late-night visitor brought back feelings you thought you had long since buried. 

(This idea has burrowed its way into my head and won’t leave anytime soon, so I’m dragging you all into this with me. I hope you like it <3 It's been awhile since I've wrote anything so if you have any critiques or opinions, please let me know!)

WARNINGS: Smut, Fertility Issues, Verbal Abuse (Spouse), Physical Abuse (Spouse) (A slap but nothing more), Possessive!Eris, Jealous!Eris, Cheating, Breeding Kink, Spanking

Five Years Ago

“Mother, please!” You beg, tears streaking down your hot cheeks as she gives you a look full of pity. It was a useless cause to try to convince your father against this arrangement, but your mother… she used to be a dreamer like you. She once thought of running away with a prince, of living happily ever after, so why wouldn’t she give you the same chance?

“Darling, please, collect yourself.” She urges, grabbing your hands and pulling you towards her. “Pierre will be here any moment with his family. They cannot see you like this.”

“They don’t have to! You could sneak me out the back, let me run away with-” You begin only to flinch when she grabs your face roughly, her eyes shining with a strange mixture of anger and agony. 

“With you, Y/N? With Eris?” She hisses, eyebrows furrowing together. “He is the heir to the Court. He will never choose you. He cannot. He will go with whichever maiden secures more political power, and that is not you.”

Your lower lip trembles as her words cut through you like hot steel. They settle in your soul, trying to burn out any hope you might have, and yet you persist. 

“No, Mother, you don’t understand. I love him. He loves me. We’ve been courting for months, dancing together and strolling through the gardens. Hells, he gave me this!” You gesture to the ruby necklace resting above your collarbone, wrapped in a gold band that resembles a fox’s tail. “Everyone has seen us together. His family, my family, does that mean nothing?”

She stares at you for a moment, her mouth turning downwards as her fury fades into sorrow. You swallow, trying to get the lump in your throat to disappear as the silence stretches on, but it refuses. 

“My darling girl,” She coos, her hands now cupping your cheeks. “One’s first love is something special, an experience worth remembering, but it is one that is never meant to last. He has his duties, as do you. It was never meant to be.”

The realization of the situation hits you in waves of denial, anger, and agony. It makes your head swim, and your stomach lurch as you try desperately to find anything to keep you afloat. 

“What if he does choose me, though? What if his parents see me as he does? Someone who makes him smile and laugh, who treats him well. If you could just let me speak with him one more time, keep Pierre and his father busy, I only need an hour.” You try to bargain with her, placing your hands over her own. She goes to respond, your hope hanging by a thread, only for your father’s voice to rise above the two of you.

“He has moved on, Y/N.” He sighs, clearly exasperated by your antics. “Beron has told us about Eris’s betrothed. It’s been arranged since birth. It is time for you to do the same.”

“But if he knew, why would he fall in love with me? I know what I saw, I know what I felt.” You press, wrapping your arms around yourself as your father’s jaw clenches. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“You don’t think he would?” His scowl deepens as he glances at your mother over your shoulder before fishing for something in his coat pocket, ignoring his wife as she begins to protest. “Read this.”

“What is it?” You ask.

“Just read it.” He pushes the parchment into your hand, rolling his eyes.

Your fingers tremble as you glance at the letter, noticing Eris’s penmanship immediately. The words seem to blur together towards the end, but you realize it isn’t due to his writing but your tears. One of them splashes on the paper, staining it immediately as his voice echoes in your mind.

I regret to inform you of the ending of our courtship, effective immediately. Please know this is through not fault of your own. You were a wonderful experience. I should not have led you on, but I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Even though I am the least deserving of it. 

Yours,

Eris Vanserra

A loud sound echoed off the walls, and it wasn’t until your knees hit the floor that you realized it had come from you. You felt the world collapsing in, your dreams fading with each heartbeat as your worst fear came true. Your parents watched, one with sympathy and one with indifference, as you came to grips with reality. 

The silence after was choking you as the paper lay taunting you, his signature ingrained in your brain as a loud knock was heard from the front. Soft hands gingerly picked you up as your father’s footsteps led to the door, his voice booming as he greeted Pierre.

“Come now, Y/N,” She shushes you, brushing your tears away with a mother’s softness. “I know it hurts, but in time, it will fade, and you will find happiness with Pierre and your future family.”

“I cannot imagine feeling anything other than this, Mama.” You murmur, numbness starting to spread throughout your body as she smiles sadly and kisses your forehead.

“You will, sweet girl.” She assures you, pinching your cheeks to bring some color back as Pierre draws closer. 

“How do you know?” Your gaze raises to meet hers, searching.

She chuckles, though you know it is without humor, watching as she seems to drift far away for a moment before the sounds of your father's throat clearing behind you brings her back. 

Her arms pull you into a tight hug as she whispers into your ear, “Because I did.”

Present Day

From your wedding day to now, you have been desperately searching for the happiness your mom said would come. You threw everything into your relationship, forcing Eris into the darkest crevices of your heart so that you could move on. Pierre wasn’t an awful man. He was kind and generous, always concerned about your feelings and ensuring you were cared for. 

He knew about your past with Eris and never pushed you but soothed you like a balm to your soul. Your love for Pierre was different, but it was there; you just needed something more. However, you knew better than to dream of it. You could be happy with him, will be happy with him. 

Eris had made it very clear that he did not intend to return for you. He hadn’t even had the courage to come to your wedding nor send you any well wishes. You had seen him since, of course, but he always did his best to avoid you. If you did happen to catch his gaze during a dinner or ball, his eyes were always full of anger. 

It was in your best interest to forget all about him. 

You were torn from your thoughts as the front door opened, your husband poking his head around to look for you. A soft smile pulls at your lips effortlessly, rising up to greet him, only to stall when you see how angry he is. 

“Pierre, what is it?” You ask, forehead creasing as he all but slams a letter he had been holding onto the dining table.

“The new high lord,” He scowls, jaw clenching. “He is asking myself and the other merchants to travel across Prythian to secure new deals or else forfeit our titles.”

New high lord?

“Beron is dead?” You whisper, grasping the edge of the table. “How did he…who did…was it…?”

“Eris, yes, the treasonous snake,” Pierre grunts, raising his eyes to you. “It apparently happened overnight, and he is already throwing everything out. I knew he was a bastard, but to-”

“He is not a bastard,” You say before you can catch yourself, your mind screaming at you for rushing to his defense. You owe him nothing—no loyalty, no love, nothing. So why did you speak?

The air in the room seemed to change as he cocks his head, his eyes darkening dangerously. You feel the hairs on your neck raise as you step back, trying to put distance between you. However, Pierre doesn’t hesitate to follow you as the letter is now crumpled in his fist.

“I knew it.” He snaps, nostrils flaring as he grabs your arm and yanks you to him. You let out a small yelp, trying to push against him, but he doesn’t yield. “I’ve given you everything you could ever want. I’ve built you this home, this life when I could’ve treated you like filth.”

“Pierre, please, let go,” Your voice is a whimper as his grasp tightens. “You’re hurting me.”

“Me? Hurting you?” His laugh echoes off the walls, one of his hands running hastily through his hair. “Don’t act like you don’t deserve it. I’ve put up with this teenage moping for five fucking years. I’ve played the part of the gentleman, the family man, and you still can’t get over him. Pathetic doesn’t even begin to cover what you are.”

Tears fall down your face as you sob, finally gaining the strength to rip your arm away as he turns and punches a hole into the wall beside him. You cannot stop yourself from trembling as his shoulders shake with fury, his breath coming in short pants.

“Do you know what they all tell me? Our friends and family?” Pierre asks, closing his eyes. “They tell me how sorry they are for me. How much they pity me. They’ve even suggested taking a whore on the side, so at least that way I could secure an heir.”

The last sentence strikes deep, one of your hands resting on your lower stomach as he gives you a mocking laugh. You had been trying to have a child for a while now. Under the care of a midwife, you had been drinking the teas, reducing your stress, and month after month, you failed. Pierre had been there for you throughout it, promising you that it was not your fault, and for him now to throw it back in your face…it made you sick. 

“Y-you told me that it was okay, that these things take time. Going into this marriage, you knew what I had been through and who my former lover was, and you said it was fine.” You hate how your voice trembles as you keep your eyes on the floor. “I thought you understood me, that you could see I was finally starting to heal, but was it all a lie? Have I been sleeping next to someone who I do not know?”

He watches you momentarily, taking in how meek you look and the tears that now stain your face. Footsteps fill the silence and stop once you see his feet, a soft hand coming to cup your chin and force you to look up.

Pierre was there in body but not in mind. The eyes that once held so much comfort were now empty, the smile now a scowl, and his touch burning rather than soothing. He turned your face from side to side, mesmerizing your beauty before smirking.

“I guess that’s two men who’ve used you now, huh?”

You don’t register the slap you gave him until you see his pupils dilate, your eyes widening in fear as your palm begins to burn from the contact. He snarls at you, and before you can apologize or scream, you aren’t sure which one, he backhands you and sends you spiraling to the floor. 

“I’ll be back in the morning, don’t wait up.” He calls over his shoulder, straightening his jacket before he walks out the door without even a glance at your crumpled body.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit to collect yourself off the floor, your face red-hot even though you know you have already healed. He hit you. He yelled at you, belittled you, and then slapped you as if it were nothing. A wolf in sheep's clothing. 

Your hands dig into the wood of the table as you pull yourself up, hating how weak you feel as you cry. This wouldn't have happened if you had kept your mouth shut. Why did you even say anything? After all this time, why did you feel you still needed to speak up for the man who deserted you?

“Fuck!” You scream as your sadness turns to rage, grabbing a nearby vase and hurling it at the wall. It instantly shatters and clatters to the floor, flower petals scattering everywhere with the glass shards. 

It doesn’t make you feel better. So you throw another vase and another, and then a portrait until the room looks like a tornado ripped through it. But nothing is working to fill the hole in your chest that was just violently ripped open once again. 

A clock nearby chimes out twelve times, and you blink as you realize how much time has passed. Your adrenaline leaves your body quickly as exhaustion takes place, and your eyes glare at the front door one last time before you start heading up the stairs.

However, as your foot hits the first step, a loud knocking startles you. At first, you think it’s Pierre, drunk and probably without a key, but then you hear a voice. A voice that has haunted your dreams for five years.

“Y/N? Y/N, open the door. I know you are in there.” 

It can’t be…

You tiptoe to the door, your heart racing as you stare down at the knob. What should you do? Why was he here? What did he want? Should you even let him in? The consequences could be deadly, especially after what he had done just last night to his own father, but your heart was winning over your head right now.

“Please, my love, let me in.”

Your hand grasps the knob and turns it before you can stop yourself, the door opening to reveal Eris.

He looks the same, damn him. His red hair was tied back in a half-up style, the rest falling over his slender shoulders covered in a thick, dark green coat. Eris’s eyes, the color of molten amber, met yours with a ferocity that made your breath catch. Your stomach fills with butterflies as the night air caresses your skin, whispering long-forgotten memories that send your heart fluttering. 

“Eris…” you whisper, your voice tight with emotion. Whatever spell had taken over the two of you broke as you said his name. His hands came up to grasp your face as he pulled you in and kissed you, lips molding to yours as if they had never told you goodbye. 

And, cauldron help you, you kiss him back just as fiercely. You had thought about seeing him again more often than you care to admit, about how you would scream at him for what he did to you or prove to him you were better off without him. But once again, your heart craves what your mind desperately tries to discard.

It’s only when your back hits the wall of the foyer that you pull away, gasping for air as you shove him back. He blinks, dumbfounded, and goes for you again, but you shake your head and slap his hands away, gaze hot as years of resentment flood your veins.

“How dare you come into my home and kiss me like that after all you did.” You seethe, teeth clenching as he regards you like a caged predator. “You can’t just show up and do that! You can’t come in here and ruin my marriage, my life like you have any ownership of me.”

“I don’t think I was the one to ruin your marriage, little fox.” Eris replies smoothly, standing straight and giving a pointed look behind you to the mess of a dining room. 

“Don’t call me that.” You snarl, wrapping your arms around your body for comfort. “You need to leave. Now.”

“I won’t,” He states, looking you over. “I’ve defeated my father. I’m rebuilding the court and our reputation, gutting it from the inside out. I’m here to collect the last thing I need.”

Your brain goes fuzzy as he stretches out his hand, waiting for you to fall into his arms as if the past were not there. As if his letter and necklace weren’t still tucked away in a drawer by your bed. No matter how badly you missed and yearned for him, you couldn’t forgive him that easily.

“You led me on for years,” You say softly, your voice numb as you take another step back. “You courted me as if you cared. You made me believe we were real, that we would be together forever. Do you think I could just forgive and forget that after you left me with only a letter for an explanation?”

“I thought you were smarter than that.” Eris sighs and clenches his jaw, running a hand down his face as he closes the front door. 

“Excuse me? Get the-” 

“I didn’t write that letter, Y/N.” He interrupts you, coming to stand in front of you in just two short steps. “My father forced me. And yours, for that matter. I would never let you go. It was only under threat of your own harm that I chose to obey, but I swore to myself that as soon as I took control, I would come find you.”

The angry retort you had building dies in your throat, your head tilting to the side as if you hadn’t heard him correctly. 

“You…you didn’t mean what you wrote?” Your voice has a hint of hope, like the last spark of a fire, but you can’t help it. If he was telling the truth, and you still weren’t entirely convinced he was, it meant he had been waiting for you all these years. 

He grabs your face again, but it’s soft and caring this time, his thumb brushing across your cheek and collecting a tear you didn’t know had escaped. You look into his eyes, finding nothing but honesty, which only worsens it. 

“It hurt that you think I would treat you that way, that I could just throw everything we had away…” Eris whispers, tilting your chin up so you can’t look away. “I’m not your husband. I take care of what is mine. Forever. ”

The mention of him makes you wince and somewhat come back to your senses, glancing towards the clock and realizing he could be back at any moment. If he caught you with Eris, there would be no telling what he would do. Eris could take care of himself; he was a High Lord now after all, but you were vulnerable.

“Pierre…he could be home any minute. Eris, you can’t be here. You need to leave.” You frown, trying to move past him, only to gasp when his hand moves down to your neck and stills you. The hold isn’t tight, but you freeze, wide eyes looking up at him in worry. “Eris, if he finds you here with me-”

“Did you not hear what I said, little fox?” He asks mockingly, bowing his head so his lips can brush against your ear. “I take care of what is mine. And you are mine.”

Eris accentuates his words with a roll of his hips, his half-hard cock pressing against your lower half teasingly. You don’t stop the whimper that sneaks past your lips or the way your neck turns so he can mouth over your pulse point. 

“I’ve waited years for this moment, to see you again and take you home. I’ve watched as that pathetic excuse for a man dotes on you and brags about how pretty you sound in bed.” He growls, grabbing your hips and lifting you up effortlessly as you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist. “The only thing that kept me sane was knowing you weren’t moaning from him like you did for me, that he can’t fill you up like your needy little pussy begs for.” 

“Please…” You whine, though you aren’t entirely sure what you are asking for. His touch was like fire against your cool skin, setting you aflame in a way you hadn’t felt in years. 

One of his hands snakes between the two of you and quickly finds your panties, his lips curling back as he feels the heat of your cunt. You swear you hear him purr as he begins to furiously bite and suck on your neck and collarbone, marking you. 

“Tell me what you need.” Eris commands, pulling back to look into your eyes.

Words fail you momentarily as you stare at each other, your heart threatening to explode as he refuses to drop his gaze. There were so many consequences to this decision, no matter what you choose, and so many things that need to be said before you can logically proceed.

But when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit and circles it slowly, the corner of his mouth tilting up to smirk, you know logic will not win tonight. 

“You, Eris,” You moan, trying to press further onto his hand for more friction. “You’re all I’ve ever needed.”

You don’t have time to scream as he squeezes you tightly and carries you up the stairs, your body bouncing so that your lower half hits his cock with each step. He groans and looks around momentarily before kicking open your bedroom door. He then throws you onto the bed and starts to undo his belt, all while keeping those burning amber eyes on you.

“Strip. Now.” He orders, voice raspy as you hastily follow his instructions, your fingers fumbling with the laces of your corset. Eris is already naked by the time you have it halfway undone, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight as he stalks over to you and grabs both sides of your top. 

“I hope you weren’t too fond of this.” Eris hums, giving no warning as he rips it in two.  You shiver as the cool air licks at your skin, your nipples pebbling while he licks his lips in anticipation. “I always thought you looked better bare anyways.”

Heat runs down your body at the comment, your thighs clenching, immediately catching his eye. You try to rise up on your knees to kiss him, but he is quick to pin you down, straddling your waist as his cock rests heavily over your cunt. 

“Let me touch you, please,” You don’t even recognize your own voice as you beg for him. It had been so long since you had felt this needy for someone. “I need something, anything, just please!”

Before you can babble anymore, his lips collide with yours, claiming you possessively as two of his fingers prod at your soaking pussy. He bites down on your bottom lip, and at the same time, he shoves his fingers inside, giving you no prep as he swallows your cries. 

“I know, baby, I know,” He coos into your ear, moving to nibble on your earlobe. “We can make love next time, but right now, right now I need to fuck your pretty little brain out to make up for lost time.”

Your back arches as he curls his fingers, finding your spot with ease and teasing you as he kisses down your neck and to your breasts. He sucks your left nipple into his mouth, capturing it between his teeth and tugging until you moan. His cock is leaking against your thigh as he ruts against you. 

Rough sex wasn’t new to you, though it had been a while. Pierre was always gentle, taking his time, and while Eris had his moments, he was quite fond of making you beg. However, when fantasizing about this, you always imagine Eris cherishing the moment. This was raw and feral.

“Eris, I’m c-close…” You groan, rolling your hips so he can get even deeper. Your walls flutter around his thick fingers, squeezing them, but right before you can fall over the edge, he pulls them out roughly. “No!”

“The only way you are cumming tonight is around this cock.” He grunts, flipping you over so that you are lying on your stomach before dragging your hips up. Both of his hands squeeze your ass before he lines himself up to your hole, rubbing his length up and down to coat himself in your slick.

“Ohhh fuck…” You moan as the head catches on your clit, your entire cunt throbbing in anticipation. “Fuck me.”

“Not yet, little fox. I want you to tell me how badly you want it.” Eris says lowly, grasping his cock and barely pressing into you before pulling away. “Tell me how much you missed me, how much you thought about me while your husband fucked you in this bed.”

Your nails dig so hard into the mattress you are sure you’ll rip it as you screw your eyes shut, already so sensitive from his teasing. It felt so wrong to speak the thoughts you have been burying for so long, to admit that you never got over the High Lord behind you. 

All of your inhibitions get thrown out the window, though, as he lands a harsh smack on your ass, his fingers pinching your clit in annoyance. 

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about this, about me, Y/N. That whenever your husband would roll over at night after a mediocre fuck you wouldn’t rub that needy clit while wishing it was me.” He hisses, one of his hands grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking until your neck is craned up. “Give yourself to me, let it go.”

“Yes, okay, yes, I haven’t stopped thinking about you!” You sob, every nerve in your body on edge as he grins in approval. “Every time I had sex, every night in the bath, I couldn’t stop picturing your hands. Your chest. Your cock.”

Eris rewards your confession with what you had been craving, thrusting his entire length in one fluid movement as your pussy burns from the stretch. 

“More. Give me more.” He demands, pulling almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward.

“I-” You swallow, your mind starting to fuzz with the ecstasy of having him back inside you. “I would close my eyes and pretend it was you. I wanted it to be you. He could never compare to you, could never make me feel this good.”

Your head drops down as he lets go of your hair in favor of grabbing your hips, hypnotized by the way your cunt swallowed him whole. His hair was starting to stick to his forehead as he truly fucked you. There was no gentleness, no tendrils of love, just pure ownership and passion.

And cauldron damn you did you love it.

“Gods damn it,” Eris swears, moving one of his hands underneath you to rest on your abdomen so he could feel just how deep inside you he was. “Touch yourself, Y/N. I want you to cum on my cock as I fill you up.”

There was a distant panic in the back of your head at the thought of him cumming inside you. You weren’t on any special tea to prevent pregnancy. In fact, you were on something to encourage it. 

“Eris, wait-” You try to protest, your words dying in your throat as he starts to rub your clit for you. His hands are calloused from years of use, giving you the friction that you need to cum within minutes. “Eris, I’m not on any birth control. If you-”

“What, you think I don’t want to knock you up?” He chuckles, voice rough as he increases the speed of both his fingers and thrusts. “Oh, Y/N, did you already forget you’re mine? I came here to claim you and breed you, little fox.”

“Oh my gods,” You whimper, the image only making you draw closer to your finish as he bends over to get right next to your ear. 

“You’re going to take all of my cum and thank me for it. I’m going to do what your husband couldn’t, right here in his bed for him to smell when he comes home.” Eris sneers, a tingle going up his spine as he feels his balls tighten with the need to release. “I’ll have you barefoot and pregnant for me before he can even come get you. You’re fucking mine.”

“Yours, Eris!” You repeat, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you clench around him. He gives one more circle on your bud, and you are gone, lost to a mind-numbing orgasm that has him throwing his head back and roaring. 

Every muscle in your body tightens and releases as you greedily milk his own cum into your womb, your screams echoing off the bedroom walls. You don’t even register Eris biting your shoulder, the pain mixing dangerously with the pleasure as small rivulets of blood run down your back. 

You feel your knees give out as you collapse onto the bed, lungs begging for air while Eris slowly pulls out of you. He is silent, and you have just enough strength to look back to see him watching his speed leak out of your gaping hole, his fingers quick to collect it and stuff it back inside you.

“Eris…” You whisper, your eyes are heavy as he gingerly lifts you up and cradles you in his arms. “Is this…did you really come back for me?”

He lets out a small huff of air in humor as he nods, kissing your forehead and smoothing away your hair. Exhausted, you lean into the touch, and he seems to hold you closer. “I’ll always come back for you, little fox.” 

[luveline]

i would absolutely love a Hotch and stripper reader, him taking care of her after some kind of incident at her club or something? maybe a bit of angry hotch at the beginning, some angst? 💗💗💗

Your throat burns by the time his car pulls up. 

You take the butt of the cigarette from between your lips and ash it next to the first. Your hand is sore between the index finger and thumb from a bad stretch, aching as you press into your pocket for your stolen box of Marlboro golds. You’ll apologise for taking them some other time. 

You press the third between your lips and flick the lighter. You’re not good at lighting them, worse at the first inhale, your throat an agony that rivals the sting of your battered cheek. 

Shoes on the sidewalk, a scratch of loose gravel. Your eyes well with another line of tears that you work hard to hold in, taking another quick, cruel drag. They don’t make cigarettes long enough, in your opinion. They don’t last. 

He stops in front of you. Quiet, Agent Hotchner looks down at you where you’re sitting on the low wall, expression as steely as ever. You meet his eyes, worried your wobbly lip is giving you away, not sure calling him was the right thing to do after all. 

When he raises his hand to the cigarette you let him take it. His fingers wrap carefully around the butt of it, the side of his thumb brushing your lips. 

He flicks it to the ground and steps on it flat. 

You don’t say hello. It’s obvious you’ll cry, he can tell too, and he doesn’t make you. You wince as he raises his hand again, your eyes squinting closed, but he isn’t going to hurt you. His palm is warm where it cups your cheek, turning your face to the light emanating off of the club neons. 

“Do you know his name?” he asks. 

“No.” 

He raises your chin higher still. His frown turns to a glare, the brunt of which is directed elsewhere but intimidating all the same. His touching is gentle at least. 

“What happened?” 

“I told him no.” 

His jaw ticks. “Can I take you home?” 

You sniffle, turning your face out of his hand and down to your lap. He’s kissed you, he’s done more than that, but he knows you’d felt like you had no choice and so he’s giving it to you now. It’s exactly why you’d called him. It’s the man he is, and he should never have ended up looking after you. 

“Sorry I called you,” you say, hiding your face in one hand. Pain flickers behind your eyes as tears mount for the tenth time tonight. 

Hotch gives a sigh, sitting on the wall beside you. He wraps his arm behind your back and with a familiarity you need desperately. You press yourself into his side, sew your arm hesitantly over his stomach, the starch of a pressed shirt crisp on your clammy skin. 

“It’s cold out here,” he murmurs, bringing both hands to your arm, one to hold you tight, the other to rub your cool skin. 

“I think I want to quit.” 

He nods into the side of your head. “I think you should,” he says, “if that’s what you want… honey, you can do whatever you want.” 

“I don’t think I can. I’m trapped and it’s my fault.” 

“It’s not your fault.” He encourages your head under his, your face to his neck. When he talks, it’s a quiet, lulling promise. “You’re not trapped. I’ll do anything you need me to do. If you want an apartment, I’ll get it for you. If you want to shut this place down, I will. The last thing either of us want is for you to work here when you don’t want to.” 

“You don’t have to say work here like I’m not a glorified prostitute,” you say hotly, anger turned in rather than out. 

“You don’t really think that.”

Being a sex worker is complicated. You don’t know how you feel about it, and you can’t ever understand why Hotch would bother with you. You’d worried at first that your vulnerability is what attracted him, like a kid with a broken bird, but he’s proved a hundred times that your job is pretty much separate from why he likes you. He thinks you're pretty. He loves your voice. You make each other laugh, and somehow inexplicably he’s the first person you call when things go wrong. 

“Quit your job,” he says. “Even if it’s just to dance somewhere else.” 

“You can say strip.”

He nods. “You shouldn’t have to worry whether your ‘no’ will be met with a backhand. You know that breaks my heart?” 

You blink and pull away from him. He isn’t unemotional, but it’s a surprise nonetheless to hear him talk like this. “Aaron–” 

“Please,” he says. “I shouldn’t ask you to. But there are better places for you. You deserve more.” 

If it were anyone else you might get defensive. Only people who do your job could understand why you do it, it’s a hundred different things to you, but you do deserve more. You’re sick of leery men, sick of wolf whistles and bad tips and other people's hands. Hotch has never asked you to stop, but now he is, it’s to keep you safe. 

You can’t begrudge him. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“No.” He rubs your arm. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. And I’ll make it right.” 

“It’s not your fault.” 

“I’ll make it right,” he promises. “No matter what. No one gets to hurt you.” 

You could quit. You want to. Even if it’s just for a couple of weeks, just so you don’t have to pretend you know what you’re doing. You’ll think about it in the morning. “Could I stay with you for a bit?” you whisper. “Just tonight. Please.” 

Hotch taps your back for you to stand. He stands with you, brushing down your coat, his eyes impassive where they look over your face, your purpling bruise. 

“You can wait in the car,” he says quietly. “I’m going to ask a few questions inside before we leave.”