#it hurts so goddamn bad inside all the fucking time that even these broken bones feel like a blissful change

[tchotchkez]

🥲

[mokulule]

A Pinch of Salt - Part 4

First | Masterpost

The final part of the first installment of the Salt in the Bones series which is a project co-created with @clockwayswrites, you can see the other stuff written for it in the masterpost link above or go to the first part.

-

John looked at the kid, who just stepped inside the fucking binding circle. His mouth fell open in shock.

“What is wrong with you!?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was an exclamation, and John didn’t wait for any answer. “Of all the sodding, daft, goddamn tossers - what were you bloody thinking? No, you weren’t thinking. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fucking done that. You DO NOT go into the blasted circle!”

“Are you done?”

“Am I-“ John spluttered.

Are you done? He asked, as if John was the unreasonable one here! “Oh you’re right chuffed, aren’t you mate? Well, you cocked up, you’re about to be banished right alongside the storm, you little git!”

“Then stop the banishing or banish us both. It’s your choice.” Kid stood, back straight, jaw clenched stubbornly and a frown over those wide blue eyes. His hair and clothes whipped violently from the storm, but he didn’t care, just kept his eyes on John.

John raised his hands in frustration, words dying on his tongue. It would serve him right!

It would serve him right; he stepped into the bloody circle. It wasn’t John’s fault. Everything was going fine for once and maybe that should have been John’s warning. Whatever was up with the kid he apparently had a soft spot for ghosts - even after John had told him several times that the spirit was gone. It’d gone nova. No coming back. The end. It would continue it’s rampage until it burned out. It would hurt and destroy indiscriminately.

And yet he still-

It would serve him right to get sent to Hell alongside it. It wouldn’t even be the first time someone John worked with got sent to Hell for their trouble. John Constantine was bad luck for everyone around him. It happened.

But it was different when John held the reins of the spell that did it, when he had the choice to stop it.

Still John was at his wits end. If he stopped the banishing, the kid was still trapped in the circle with the spectral storm. If he broke the circle they were back at square one except they were in the center of the storm’s power and it was even angrier.

It was easier, safer, to just continue the banishing. Kid had made his stupid arse decision. John wasn’t a good person. He did what was necessary. Ends and means and all that.

But he was a bloody kid - a teenager - they were basically obligated to do stupid shit. Didn’t mean he deserved to get sent to Hell for it. John had seen and done a lot of shit, but when it came right down to it he didn’t want to add sending a kid to Hell.

John had seen enough dead kids to last him a lifetime.

“Oh bollocks.” John let his arms fall and cut the feed to the banishing spell, wincing slightly at the backlash. “You better have a plan kid.”

The kid had to have some sort of abilities with that aura, maybe all hope was not lost? The kid grimaced and John’s forced optimism crumbled like so much sand.

“I-“ the kid winced as something in the storm hit the back of his head. He rubbed the spot, and looked almost apologetic, “I figured I’d try talking to them.”

John stared.

And stared.

“Or-“ the kid backtracked, “just calm them down somehow?”

“You cannot ‘calm down’ a spectral storm!” John felt like a broken record on repeat. “It’s impossible.”

He threw up his hands and walked exactly three steps away counting his breaths all the while wracking his brain for a different solution. There weren’t any good ones. Heck it was a miracle the kid hadn’t already been torn to pieces being inside the circle.

“We’re dead,” he lamented dramatically.

“Half-dead.”

John’s head snapped around at the weird response.

“I mean,” the kid tried for a smile, “I’m the only one in the circle.”

John stared in despair. The kid’s sense of humor needed serious work.

“I’m not gonna leave you in the bloody circle, kid.”

Danny stood struck wide eyed at the admission. That was- He didn’t know how to deal with that. There was a pang in his chest. He felt too open, too vulnerable. He swallowed before finding his voice.

“Just let me try something, okay?”

Danny turned around to face the center of the storm, he instantly had to squeeze his eyes near shut, from all the dust. Instinctively he took a breath and coughed. Okay breathing not good. Too bad he was human right now.

He had to get closer, closer to that screaming grief. He might be human right now, but he was also a ghost and the anger from earlier was just a thin veneer on top of grief on top of a cry for help. He felt it in his core like scrabbling hands desperately looking for purchase.

He took a step forward, hands up to shield his face, pushing against the wind. Another step. Then another.

How was he gonna calm them down?

Danny didn’t know. He knew fighting. He’d even sometimes recently had luck with talking. But this? It was way beyond talking, until they were calm there would be no such thing. Danny didn’t know what to do. He could only press on and hope an idea came to him.

The grief was stronger the closer he got to the center, it tore into him. Tears trickled down his cheeks and turned into gunk from the dust. Something sharp cut into his bare arms. Danny frowned, kept his head down and pushed forward.

Another step and the grief sunk sharp claws into his core. He screamed clutching his chest and gasping for breath that would do nothing. But the claws were gone as soon as they’d come, retreated as if they’d touched fire.

“Are you alright kid?!”

Danny spared a quick glance back to Trenchcoat who stood all the way up to the edge of the circle, face white as if he’d seen a ghost. Danny couldn’t help smiling at that. Something that alarmed Trenchcoat even further.

“I’m breaking the circle.”

“Don’t,” Danny coughed clearing his throat.

Danny looked back up, squinting through the swirling dust. It may not be visible, but something had changed. There was still the anger and grief, but something else too. A sense of waiting. Waiting to see what Danny would do. They had tried tearing him, the trespasser, apart down to his core, but in doing so they had felt him. They had felt his intention to help and retreated.

Trenchcoat was wrong, there was still a sentience there. Danny found himself grinning in triumph.

But even better Danny had an idea. His core vibrated giddily in his chest. He was a bit sore, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He just needed to reach out and connect with the ghost, he felt sure he could calm them. He just he needed a distraction, he didn’t need Trenchcoat to realize he was the one doing anything ghostly. He wracked his brain, something that made noise, drew attention, was maybe a bit ridiculous, but didn’t take much of his attention from the real work-

That was it!

“Twinkle-“ his voice broke on the first word but gained strength as he continued- “twinkle little star,” Danny sang. He didn’t need to look back to see the incredulous look on Trenchcoat’s face.

He kept singing, he knew that song by heart. His mom used to sing it to him, back when she actually put him to bed. There was a stab of melancholy, but Danny clutched on to the positive aspect of the memory and reached out with his core, its hum getting stronger.

It’s okay, he told the ghost, help. Safe. Peace. Calm.

He took step by step further into the calming storm. And all the while he sung them a lullaby.

John stared.

Then he stared some more. He was doing a lot of staring today.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, what he was hearing.

The kid was was singing a lullaby to the spectral storm. And that wasn’t even the most baffling thing. No, the kid was singing a lullaby to the spectral storm and it was bloody working.

The storm gradually calmed until suddenly it was gone. The silence was loud in the sudden emotional void. John staggered from the sudden lack of pressure. All that malice gone in an instant. All that was left was a gently cupped ball of light in the kids hands.

“There you are,” the kid said softly in a slightly scratchy voice.

John couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. It was impossible and yet here they were.

There was a flash of light and suddenly they stood in a house. Built brick by brick by two pairs of hands. Children ran through the rooms. They grew up. They had kids of their own, who had kids of their own. They lived and they loved and they were protected.

Then they were gone.

The door shut for the last time. The house was empty.

A large metal ball slammed through the walls, spreading dust and splintering the doorframe that had measured the growth of generations. It was torn down.

It had stood here, right in what would be the plaza.

The translucent shade of an old women, bent and bony from a life of hard work, hovered in front of the kid. She warbled sadly at him. John couldn’t understand anything but the deep sadness, but it seemed the kid did.

“It’s okay,” he said embracing the spirit, somehow managing to do so despite her definitely not being solid. “You’ve done your best, nobody could ask more of you.”

He paused and his voice softened further, “it’s time to let go.”

The old lady looked over at John and gave him a stern look that had him frozen in place. She was the type of grandma that would wack his fingers if she caught him going for the cookie jar. He wasn’t entirely sure what the look he got meant. Only that it felt like an admonishment.

She looked back on the kid and her features softened, smoothed and in the next moment she turned to mist in his arms, dispersing in the waning light coming from the overhead windows.

John couldn’t entirely believe what he’d just witnessed. Calling a spirit back once they’d gone nova, it was impossible. Unheard of. Banishment was how you dealt with spirits like that. It was a tried and tested method. Yet-

John shivered.

Death magic. It was the only explanation.

The kid reeked of it, to the point John had thought he was the ghost he was here to deal with. He’d thought he was some kind of creature, but he was just a kid. A kid with a very specific magical affinity who’d just done the impossible. He was filled with a sense of awe and dread he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

He felt shaken. Like he’d stood right next to a bell who’d been rung to herald change.

John was no prophet, at most he’d get vague premonitions and he far preferred to be in the moment rather then dwell on the future or the past. He most definitely did not want to even contemplate this kid’s future. He swallowed.

Magic, in John’s experience, always came with a cost.

The kid promptly sat down on his butt. John had broken the circle and was running over before he even realized.

“You okay, kid?” He asked breathlessly.

The kid looked up, eyes a bit dazed as he blinked at John. John couldn’t really tell if his complexion was grey or it was just the dust covering every inch of him. Several places, particularly his hands, the dust was dark from blood where he’d been cut in the storm. He looked unfocused.

“How many occult detectives are you seeing?” He asked unable to hide the note of worry.

“Too many,” Kid said tiredly with a shake of his head that had cement dust falling all over. Then he looked back up and elaborated with a smirk, “one.”

John huffed a laugh. If he could joke he couldn’t be that bad off.

“How does burgers and fries sound?”

-

The kid now dusted off to the point where you could almost tell his hair was black rather than grey sunk his teeth into the burger with a pleased hum. He chewed and swallowed.

“This is almost as good as Nasty Burger.”

John paused fry halfway to his mouth. “That sounds disgusting.”

Kid laughed. “I forget how it sounds to outsiders. It used to be Tasty Burger way back when they first opened, but someone vandalized the sign and it kinda stuck.”

John hummed thoughtfully, he could appreciate the joke. Kid’s use of the phrase outsiders made it sound like he came from an insular town. Probably best for him if he stayed there.

“What’s your name, kid?”

Instantly the blue eyes narrowed on him in suspicion.

“What’s yours, Trenchcoat?” He challenged.

John huffed at the nickname and reached a hand across the table. “John Constantine.”

The kid looked suspiciously at the offered hand, then reached out and took it. “Nightingale.”

John nodded and shook his hand before letting go. Smart of him to give him a codename, he wasn’t apparently completely without sense. “Because of the singing.”

For a moment the kid looked confused to the point where John actually thought maybe he’d given him his real name.

“Singing? Ah-“ He blushed looking down and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “No, that just seemed like a good idea at the time.”

John shook his head, fuck it if he didn’t like the kid. He picked up his milkshake and raised it. He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

“If it works…”

The kid, Nightingale, grinned ferally and raised his own shake to clink it against John’s.

“If it works.”

-

After filling up the near bottomless stomach of the teenager, they parted ways in an alley. John’s mind was already on his next case - people going missing in a forest in Germany that had a distinct this-is-not-just-a-GPS-dead-zone flavor to it - so he only absently noted the strange look on the kid’s face when he opened the portal. It was morning in Germany, he could start looking into things before calling the House for a proper sleep.

“Take care, kid.”

With those words he stepped into the portal and let it close behind him.

Danny was left looking at the portal. He shook his head, jaw tight. With real magic apparently portals were just easy. It didn’t do him any good to think about. He glanced around and when he found the alley just as empty as before he jumped into the air transforming as he went.

There were better things to think about, like the concept of an occult detective, he thought as he flew in the direction of Amity. It sounded like it could almost be an acceptable profession in his parents’ eyes.

And it probably didn’t require good high school grades either, he thought with a grimace as he remembered he had an essay due tomorrow.

-

Hope you enjoyed this story which explored how Danny and Constantine first met in this AU. Next step is letting it sit for a while, then do a thorough editing and putting it up on ao3 as a oneshot. (And then maybe talk to Clock about starting writing on the main story proper? We'll see). Comments are greatly appreciated :D

Another link to the masterpost if you wanna see the other bits of writing and/or subscribe to the series

[obihoebikenobi]

I wrote the fic.

you love who you love (there ain't no other way) <- read on ao3

Rating: T Word count: 4,631

When Logan woke up, Wade’s apartment was cold. Far colder than usual. 

For the first two months of Logan’s stay, it had been just shy of chilly, but it wasn’t unbearable. Logan had dealt with worse than seventy degrees in many of his past living situations. 

But sixty-one degrees? That was fucking cold.  

Wade left a sticky note on the thermostat, which was crudely written, but from what Logan could make out, the heat was broken and the Landlord hadn’t said when he was planning to fix it. 

Logan shivered in place, throw blanket pulled over his shoulders, flexing his fingers by his sides. 

The cold wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t for the fucking adamantium. 

It was heavy, infused into his bones and weighing him down. He could deal with that, with the extra weight; if anything, the weight made him stronger, forcing his muscles to carry more weight on a daily basis. 

But there were pitfalls, there always were. 

Since Logan could remember, cold days were always the worst. The adamantium made his joints stiff and immobile, made his bones ache, made his head heavy with pressure. It culminated in his healing factor working overtime, trying to compensate for the pain in his bones and joints. Then his muscles would hurt, and the spaces between his fingers would twinge with little spikes of pain when he bent his fingers. His thoughts would develop into a fog, sometimes his vision would tilt and spin. 

Logan’s healing factor could only do so much, could only support so many processes and discomforts and injuries all at once. 

The culmination was a shitty fucking day, and it hurt like a bitch.

And fuck, it had already started, a slight ache in his fingers when he bent them, the gentle throb of his lower back when he reached down to pull on a pair of sweatpants he left on the floor. 

He’d wandered out to the kitchen in his briefs in search of the thermostat to turn up the heat, which wasn’t fucking working, so he settled on bundling himself up instead, hoping to increase his body temperature and keep the ache away.

Stiffly shuffling back to the bedroom, Logan pulled on a pair of sweats and threw on a few layers of shirts. He doubled up on socks for good measure and tugged a blanket over his shoulders hoping it would trap in a bit of extra heat. 

He was on his way back to the kitchen when Wade stumbled inside, Mary Puppins in his arms, and another sticky note pressed against his chest. 

Logan felt a wave of fondness roll through his chest.

Wade wore a big sweatshirt and a pair of ratty jeans. It was his default outfit, but Wade wore it so well. Or maybe Logan just liked him a fucking lot. 

“Bad news, baby girl,” Wade chimed, huffing out an oof as he tripped into the wall pulling off his boot, “Stopped by to see Landlord Lucifer and–”

Logan snorted, crossing his arms over his chest, shivering as Wade shut the door and a plume of cold air washed across the bare skin of his neck. 

“Lucifer? He can’t be that fucking bad.”

Wade threw his shoes toward their storage bucket, missing by a mile, then shrugging and pressing a kiss to Logan’s forehead before shuffling toward the kitchen, “He’s not, that’s just his name apparently. The goddamn joke wrote itself.”

“Convenient,” Logan gritted out, shuffling behind Wade and heading toward the kitchen, if anything, hoping Wade would follow his typical afternoon practice of making a cup of tea; Logan was hoping to request his own cup this time. Even if tasted like shit, at least it would be fucking warm. 

“Anyway, Lucifer says he can’t fix the heat until Friday. Apparently he’s upstate visiting family and the heat guy won’t do the work until he pays in person. What a bitch, right?”

Fuck. One day of cold was fine, but three sounded unbearable. 

“The landlord or the heat guy?” Logan asked, forcing his shaking arms to still. 

“Either. Both. Every heat guy and landlord in the whole fucking world. They’re all pieces of shit.” 

Logan watched Wade scarf down a few pieces of taffy from their candy bowl (which had the shittiest collection of candy Logan had ever seen, including black licorice and sixlets) before heading to his electric kettle and filling the pot to the brim. 

Thank fucking god. 

“Can you make me a cup, bub?” Logan asked, voice barely a grumble. 

“I’m sorry?” Wade’s head snapped up from where he was messing with the settings on the kettle, “The man who claims that tea is a bunch of lettuce flavored water wants a cup?”

Logan narrowed his eyes, growling, but Wade just smiled right back at him, cocking his head questioningly.

“Damn the cold that bad, Peanut?” 

And fuck, it really fucking was that bad. His joints were starting to stiffen up, and frankly, the idea of sitting down sounded like hell because it was going to be painful to get back up once he was down. 

His usual first instinct was to lie, to say it had nothing to do with the cold. And Logan sure as shit would have lied to anyone else, but Wade wasn’t really anyone else. Not anymore. 

Wade liked to tease him, like to bicker and joke, but Wade also gave a fuck. 

Wade cared, so obviously that it hurt Logan’s head to think too hard about it. Most people only cared enough about his well-being to make sure he could still use the fucking claws. 

No one else would give a fuck if he was cold and achey. But Wade would. 

“It is for me,” Logan admitted, just as a shudder ran down his back. He held back a hiss, feeling a jolt of pain run down one of his hips.  

Wade flicked the kettle on and turned again, staring right at Logan with those wide eyes, a hint of concern buried inside of them. 

“I didn’t know that,” Wade said through a breath, then stepped right into Logan’s space, long arms curling around him, fingers latching together over the small of Logan’s back, “Let’s expand on that, Wolvie. Dive into those deep waters of emotional intimacy.”

Logan snorted into Wade’s neck, basking in the warmth of Wade’s skin against the freezing tip of his nose. 

“Adamantium isn’t a fan of the cold,” he muttered after a few moments of comfortable silence. Wade stroked a few fingers down Logan’s back, rubbed the thumb over his other hand over Logan’s shoulder blade in soothing circles, “Makes me feel like shit. Just achy, and fucking cold. And stiff.”

Wade shuffled in his arms, pulling back and notching a finger under Logan’s chin, “So you’re like me? You have bad days.” 

Honestly, Logan hadn’t thought about it like that. 

Wade had shitty ass days. It wasn’t all the time–though Wade had once mentioned he always felt kind of like shit–but some days were worse than others. Wade described it as a bad pain day once, saying he didn’t want to leave bed, wasn’t hungry, couldn’t fucking stand the thought of moving more than one inch away from his divot in the bed. Logan had happily brought a straw right up to Wade’s mouth while scrolling on Wade’s phone with his other hand just so the man didn’t have to move. 

And fuck, the cold kind of made Logan feel like that, like he he didn’t want to move or exist or function. 

“I guess.” 

Wade brushed his thumb over Logan’s beard, drawing over his jawline and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

“Bodies are fucking assholes aren’t they?” Wade said grinning softly, in just that way that usually made Logan want to drag him over to the couch and kiss him fucking senseless. Too bad that wasn’t an option. 

“Yeah bodies are fucking assholes,” Logan muttered as Wade took his hand, steering him toward the couch. 

“So you’ll let me take care of your asshole-of-a-body instead of your literal asshole today? I could do both if you want–”

“Wade, jesus christ.” Logan cut him off just as Wade deposited him onto the couch.

Logan closed his eyes, feeling his joints creaking as he tried to rearrange his limbs. His legs felt like heavy posts, and he hissed on his first attempt trying to swing one of them up onto the coffee table. 

“Fuck.”  

On the second attempt, he lifted upward, bending his knee at the joint, and there was a spike of white-hot pain searing down his leg, radiating from his thigh to his calf. 

God fucking damnit it hurt. 

Logan ground his eyes shut, grit his teeth, tried to think about anything else while the waves of agony rolled away, replaced with a dull, intrusive ache. 

“Fuck, Peanut. That looks like it hurts like a fucking bitch.” 

A hand curled over his shoulder, an anchor, holding him in place. 

Logan didn’t open his eyes, just breathed through his teeth, warmth passing over his cheeks as the last of the adrenaline rolled out of his veins. 

“It does.” Logan answered through a swallow. 

There was a beat of silence, then footsteps, a whispered be right back. 

Minutes passed and Logan could hear Wade shuffling around somewhere across the apartment. There was a click of a door opening, a soft curse, a slam of the same door shutting again. 

“Alright hear me out, sweetheart. This thing is like magic, in the colloquial sense. Pure sorcery.”

Logan didn’t open his eyes.

“What is it?” 

“Trust me?”

Of course Logan trusted him. Of fucking course he trusted Wade. 

“Yeah.”

Logan didn’t know what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the drape of another blanket over his shoulders, because a blanket was hardly sorcery. Hell, Logan had one wrapped around his shoulders for the past twenty minutes and it didn’t do shit about the cold. 

“A blanket?”

“A special blanket. You should be honored I’m letting you have a turn with it because I don’t even let Al use it. I keep it on the very top shelf of the closet so her little elderly arms can’t get to it.” 

Logan shook his head, moved his aching arms to pull the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders, “What’s special about it?”

“You’ll find out. Eventually.” Wade cackled, and with a woosh of air, he was gone, probably headed back into the kitchen for his tea. Logan hoped he remembered to make a second mug. 

In the meantime, Logan sat completely still, not wanting to aggravate his joints anymore than he already had. He drifted for a moment, evacuating every thought from his brain to try and find a moment of peace, but he was distracted by something.

Something warm. 

It built up slowly, following the lines of the blanket around his shoulders. It felt like fucking heaven. Sorcery even. It didn’t relieve the ache–not yet–but it brought sensation back into the tips of his freezing fingers, eased the tension out of his shoulders just enough to let his body relax into the soft cushions of the old sofa.

“Heated blanket,” Wade’s voice startled Logan, making him flinch, “It’s the only thing that got me through those first weeks of my cancer diagnosis. Sorcery, I say. Hella good shit.” 

Logan hummed, peaking his eyes open as Wade pressed a mug of tea into his hands. Hands that weren’t shaking anymore, hands that started to feel easier to bend around the joints. 

Wade smiled, something soft and a touch somber, maybe guilty. What did Wade have to feel guilty about? 

“S’nice. Warm.” Logan brought the mug to his lips, sipping at the tea. It was surprisingly pleasant, an herbal flavor with a hint of something fruity. Mostly, the warm liquid felt good rolling down his throat and into his stomach, warming him from the inside out. 

“Leaf water up to snuff?” Wade asked, curling closer, shoving himself into Logan’s side as close as he could manage without too much jostling, “If it’s not, there’s still a shitload of dead leaves in the park that I can use instead. Get more of that earthy flavor I know you crave.”

“It’s good, bub,” Logan offered, “Warm.”

“Blanket and leaf water, both warm. Checkmate. We were going for warm. Problem solving achieved.”

Logan chuckled, leaned his head into Wade’s shoulder, listened to the thrum of Wade’s voice as he talked himself into turning on the latest season of Love is Blind instead of The Bachelorette. 

 _

The heated blanket was good. Great. Fucking warm enough to take the edge of the edge off. 

But the ache was still there, persistent and throbbing. Worsening, despite it all. 

It made Logan’s head hurt, made his thoughts turn to an oatmeal-like sludge. 

He extracted himself from the couch–with Wade’s help, of course–three episodes into Love is Blind,searching out the bathroom to take a piss. 

It hurt to pick his feet up off the ground, legs uncooperative and stiff. It hurt to twist the door handle open and it hurt to bend and lift up the toilet seat. 

He stifled a groan with each movement, frustration building in his chest. 

The bathroom was cold as shit, made of tile and with an old window that didn’t seal no matter how hard you shut. Logan shivered as he relieved himself, considering finding a motel with heat just to spare himself a night of agony. But that would require him to leave the apartment and shuffle through the snow, which realistically would only make things worse. 

So cold fucking apartment it was. 

He finished his piss, shakily reaching for the lid and stumbling to the sink. There was a knock on the door while Logan leaned against the wall and waited for the water to heat up so he could wash his hands. 

“Loges?” 

Wade didn’t open the door, but Logan could feel him hovering.

“Come in.”

Wade wrenched the door open, a hint of concern on his face.

“Do you realize you’ve been in here for like thirty minutes? I thought you shat yourself to death.”

Logan felt his chest constrict a bit. It hadn’t been that long, had it? He pulled his head off of the wall where he’d leaned into it, turning to face himself in the mirror. A red spot was painted over the side of his pale forehead. Shit.  

He didn’t look good. 

He didn’t really feel good either. 

His thoughts were disjointed, vision a bit blurry. He was cold. Tired. 

“Sorry,” Logan stammered out, not sure what to say underneath Wade’s gaze. So he shivered–unintentionally, albeit–but it was apparently enough to send Wade’s vague concern spiraling into a thunder clap of genuine worry. 

“Don’t–hey,” Wade was cornering him into another hug, pulling Logan’s body close to his chest, “You don’t need to be sorry.”

Logan let himself droop in Wade’s hold, basking in the immediate warmth. It felt safe, it felt like home.

“How about a bath? I’ll make it hot as fuck, boil you like a school cafeteria chicken breast.”

Logan didn’t understand what the fuck than meant but the idea of a bath sounded good. It sounded warm and relieving and like it would be the best chance at melting away the persistent ache that was becoming more acute with each passing moment. 

He nodded into Wade’s neck.

“Alright. Okay. Good. Let’s–let’s get you sitting down.”

Logan wasn’t in the state of mind to protest, so he let Wade lower him onto the toilet seat, sucking in a harsh breath through his teeth when one of his knees popped, another shooting spike of pain spreading through him like a firework.

He closed his eyes while Wade set things up, listening to the sound of running water, waiting patiently as the first bit of hot steam drifted into the air. 

Hands pressed over his knees at some point. 

“Let’s get these off, baby.” 

Baby. Logan liked baby. Not that he’d told Wade that. 

“Logan?” 

Logan hummed, opening his eyes, surveying Wade’s face through blurred vision. 

“You with me?” 

Logan cleared his throat, “Yeah. Clothes?”

Wade nodded and helped Logan to his feet. 

Logan clung to the edge of the sink as deft hands worked his sweats and briefs down his legs, then moved to his chest, stripping him of his layers one by one until he was a shivering mess in just his socks. 

It was a compromising position, one Logan hadn’t imagined himself in for years. No one was meant to see him like that, vulnerable and open, barely able to hold himself up. But then there was Wade, crawling into Logan’s chest cavity and reaching for his heart. Goddamn persistent. 

And Logan’s guard was down. It was so fucking down that he didn’t care if Wade saw him like this, shivering and weak, everything the Wolverine wasn’t. 

“Left foot, pretty please.” 

Lifting his uncooperative ankle as much as he could manage, Logan obeyed, following suit with his right foot. 

“Bathtime, baby. Let me help you in.”

It was uncomfortable to step over the edge, even more so to lower himself into the water, but Wade held him with strong arms and didn’t let him slip. 

The water was hot, borderline scalding against Logan’s skin, but the effects were immediate. 

Tension leaked from his skin, the previously sharp ache in his bones dissolving into something akin to a muted, manageable pain. The hot steam rolling off the bath eased Logan’s headache, cleared his thoughts. 

“That helping, sweetheart?” 

Wade’s fingertips moved a damp piece of hair off of Logan’s forehead. He cracked his eyes open, finding Wade with a soaked t-shirt and something like fondness written all over his face. 

Logan nodded, reaching to take Wade’s fingers in his hand. 

“Doesn’t hurt as much.”

Wade eyed him curiously, like there was a question on his tongue but he was afraid to say it. He shook his head, pointed toward the caddy of soap on the wall of the shower instead, “Mind if I wash you? Promise I’ll only make it a little weird.” 

Logan chuckled softly, shaking his head, “We’re dating Wade, it’s not not weird even if you try to make it that way.”

“You underestimate my natural tendencies,” Wade muttered, rubbing a generous helping of body wash into Logan’s loofah and reaching into the water for his foot. 

It wasn’t weird, not even a little. Wade had washed him twice before, both times in the middle of the night when sweat and blood stuck to Logan’s skin after a nightmare. Wade was good at it, gentle with his hands, always chattering on about something but taking his time with every part of Logan’s skin. 

He worked up both of Logan’s legs, washed over his chest and stomach, shoulders and back, up to his neck. Logan nodded his approval when Wade looked up at him before dipping between his legs, washing Logan’s most intimate places with delicate, intimate touches. 

Wade was even better at washing hair, Logan found.

Logan let Wade pour water over his hair, basked in the soothing rotations of fingers digging into the pressure points of his scalp.

“You want to talk about it? The whole cold thing?” Wade asked as he rinsed the last of the shampoo out of Logan’s hair, then dropped his fingertips to rub over Logan’s knee instead. 

The question sat in the air for a moment, beckoning for an answer. 

“The cold it–” Logan paused, swallowing, “It doesn’t agree with the adamantium. And that fucks with my healing factor. Makes me sick, in a way.”

The fingers pressing over Logan’s knee never stopped their circular pattern of movement, Wade didn’t look away, didn’t make a sound.

“Have you ever had someone to take care of you?” 

Logan considered the question, searching for a memory that wasn’t there. 

Sure, he had relationships, boyfriends and girlfriends, close friendships, everything in between. But those relationships hadn’t been honest ones, plagued with lies and deception, often with motives other than love and happiness. Logan wasn’t the victim in all of them, no–he was closed off and bitter, unwilling to be vulnerable. 

Lack of vulnerability attracted lack of empathy. Shitty people attracted shitty people. 

“I never let anyone,” Logan admitted slowly, eyes trained on the slow drip of water from the faucet. 

Wade fingers fell from his knee, and Logan felt the twist of anxiety in his chest. 

“This is going to sound cheesy as fuck but it has to be said. The audience needs to hear it,” Wade said quietly as he took Logan’s cheeks in his hands, “I’m here for your best days, and your worst, shittiest, most disgusting days. Like, even when you have explosive diarrhea. Or when you stab me in the dick and won’t apologize. Or when you destroy what’s left of my incredibly fragile ego. Sticks and stones they say.”

Logan’s chest fluttered with something like relief. 

“Point is, you’re gonna let me take care of you. I’m not asking, I’m demanding. You do it for me all the fucking time even when you shouldn’t have to because I’m being a little bitch–”

“Wade,” Logan said, covering Wade’s hands with his own, “Shut the fuck up for one damn second. I…I’m here for you too. Don’t want you to be hurting. Ever.” 

Wade smiled, and it was genuine. Logan loved when he smiled like that, especially with the pink tint spread over his cheeks. 

“Fuck us, Peanut. That was sappy as shit. Quick, stab me in the neck to ruin it before it gets worse.” 

Logan didn’t stab him, instead, kissed him on the fucking lips, like he did every day even when they weren’t pledging their undying devotion to eachother in a too-small bathroom. 

They sat in relative silence for some time longer; at least, Logan sat in relative silence. 

The warmth of the bath was needed, but it brought on a fleeting relief. The ache in Logan’s bones hardly had enough time to completely dissipate, and was back as soon as the water cooled down to lukewarm.

Wade rambled on about some Reddit thread for a while, complained about some gossip page’s integrity, listed out his top choices for who he’d want to host the Oscars in the next ten years. 

Logan was happy to half-listen, let Wade’s voice distract him from the throb settling into the spaces between his knuckles. He didn’t complain even when the water turned cold, only tapped at Wade’s knee cap when he started to shiver and the brain fog was on its way back, the vague sensation of dizziness returning as soon as it had gone. 

“You want to go to the bedroom, sweetheart?” Wade asked as Logan held his hand with a deathgrip, hissing under his breath as he stepped out of the tub. 

The pain was back, like it never left to begin with. Hurtshurtshurts. 

“Please.”

Wade took control, zero hesitation as he wrapped a towel around Logan’s shoulders, leading him with gentle hands out of the bathroom and down the hall. And Logan let him, eyes half-closed, limbs loose and mind drifting. 

The bedroom was already warmer than the rest of the house, Wade’s small space heater bumping the temperature up a degree or two. Still, Logan shivered as Wade helped him sit on the bed. 

“S’cold,” Logan reminded him when the small comfort of the towel was taken away and a shiver coiled down his spine. Wade pressed it against his skin, rubbing away the droplets of water, working his way down Logan’s body. 

“Just gonna finish drying you off sweetheart, then clothes.”

Wade dried his hair best he could with the towel, and Logan sat still, let Wade take care of it, let himself be handled and moved and touched.  

Hands pulled a pair of sweats over his legs, then a sweatshirt over his head, then warm socks over his feet. It hurt when Wade moved him, when his bones scraped against each other and his joints protested, but Wade was all gentleness and skilled fingers. 

Somehow Logan made it underneath the covers and propped up against a stack of pillows, Wade’s fingertips pressing over his cheek, rubbing over his beard with a promise he’d be right back. 

And Wade was back before Logan could process he’d gone to begin with.

“Had to get the blanket of sorcery. Wouldn’t want Al to see it out and get any ideas.”

It hadn’t been unplugged from the outlet in the living room for long enough to lose its warmth and it felt like fucking heaven, yet again. 

Logan groaned in relief, letting Wade tuck it around him. 

“Yeah I know, good shit indeed,” Wade said, and Logan blinked his eyes open, hardly realizing he’d closed them again to begin with, “You should probably eat. Brought you some soup, courtesy of my very close friend Campbell. What a guy.”

Logan blinked a few more times, trying to wake himself up, trying to get past the wall of low-energy his healing factor put up to keep him still.

“Soup?” He asked, looking at the mug that Wade extended out to him.

“Tomato soup. Not burned,” Wade clarified, stirring the spoon through it, “Want me to feed you, baby cakes?” 

“Fuck no,” Logan growled and took the soup, eating it slowly with stiff, uncoordinated fingers.

Wade kept talking, back on his Oscar host picks, then moving onto something about Hank and the X-men and drugs that worked with healing factors or some shit, “You want like an imperial fuckload of morphine? I know a guy. Well, knew a guy, but I’m sure the replacement guy will love me just as much.”

And no, Logan didn’t fucking need a fuckload of morphine to get him through a bad day. Because that’s all it was, a bad fucking day because of his shitty fucking body. He wasn’t dying, he wasn’t in so much pain he couldn’t handle it, he wasn’t needed to save the world. 

It was a bad day, but Wade was there to make it better. 

Wade with his endless stream of modern pop culture conversation points that Logan didn’t understand but loved to fucking death anyway. Wade with his gentle touch and little radiant smiles. 

Wade with a heart of fucking gold and enough love to make Logan’s chest hurt because fuck Logan loved motherfucking Wade Wilson back so fucking hard. 

“Wade, c’mere,” Logan mumbled, empty mug placed on the side table, warmth starting to work its way through his blood.

Wade did just as much, wrapping himself over Logan’s chest, breathing right into his neck, fingertips tracing over the tiny sliver of exposed skin between the waistband of Logan’s pants and the hem of his sweatshirt. 

“Logan?” Wade asked, voice muffled in Logan’s skin.

“Yeah, bub?” 

“You feeling any better?” Wade pulled his head out of Logan’s neck, looked him right in the eye. 

“Yeah, bub. Warming up a bit, joints are loosening up.” 

Wade looked satisfied with the answer, but slid off of Logan’s chest.

“Good. I’m going to spoon you now and try not to get bricked up. No promises, but just know, I am striving for purity with the expectation of flawed horniness. Blame my cock and not me; we are separate entities.”

And it was such a Wade thing to say, crude and completely unnecessary but somehow Logan still smiled to himself about it, chest constricting with layered, unadulterated fondness. 

“Love you, Wade,” he whispered.

“Fuck! That shit coming from you hits harder than a shitload of cocaine on a Tuesday. Love you fucking too, Peanut.”

There have been few people to earn the trust of Logan over two-hundred years, but when Logan's comfortable with someone, he lets his guard down. Like, all the way fucking down.

The adamantium makes Logan cold and stiff in the winter, and usually he'd just grit his teeth and take it, but then there's Wade.

Wade, running Logan a hot bath, setting up some music, lighting a candle, sitting on a stool and keeping him company.

Wade, towelling Logan off while his eyes droop shut and the chilly air reminds him of the ache in his bones.

Wade, steering him back to the bedroom, sitting Logan on the bed, allowing him to be loose-limbed and half-asleep.

Logan lets him pull a pair of baggy sweatpants up his legs, a cozy sweatshirt over his head. Wade towels of his hair, and presses a kiss to Logan's forehead. He pulls back the covers and helps Logan slip underneath them when his stiff body resists. For a second Wade leaves Logan's side, but he returns with a microwaved mug of soup and a heated blanket.

Wade lets him eat, crawling in the bed, ready to hold Logan close as soon as the soup is gone.

And Logan fucking lets him. No--Logan fucking wants this. It isn't something he allows, it's something he desires. Only from Wade.

He wants gentle hands, and stupid fucking jokes about pop culture that he doesn't understand, and the soft comfort of Wade's scent on the sheets.

Logan shamelessly wants to be held in Wade's arms, pulled close and held even closer.

[biancaezperanzaanapaula]

Today April 7, 2023 at 3:41am

I have yet again opened up about myself to a friend. These past few days have been very noticeably tiring and depressing. I feel so shitty these days. Something's changing with me. I get so emotional and my anxieties are getting stronger. I thought I handled it or overcome it over the time. I did maybe, at some point. I had forgotten about my anxieties for a while when I'm working. My work right now is triggering something inside me. I'm on a work from home basis. I have a lot of time for myself now, plenty of sleep, and earning more money. But then again, there's one thing I hate from this kind of work from home set up. It made me lazy to the bones. It made me super lazy that I wake up just to open my laptop and then turn it off when I'm about to sleep. It's like there's nothing in between me and work anymore. I work unreasonably late, and I wake up at a extraordinary late. And it does not feel good at all. My body is going down. My body clock is officially broken. With work going on, it had been very stressful, I feel so pressured at my work to be honest. Cuz I don't know what to do. I had been stress eating which I can feel that I have gained weight. On weekends, I would rather lay in bed all day sleeping, not even thinking of eating on weekends just sleep. Cuz I feel so drained and so fucking tired for the whole week. But then regretting it by the time Monday came, cuz I didn't do anything on the weekend. I have not been very productive on my day offs. I absolutely did nothing for the whole day. And that makes me feel like shit. It sucks. I don't have the energy. I don't even go and buy decent food to eat cuz my laziness. I can even not have a shower for 3 days, but still I change clothes tho, but heck, it's worst. I don't have that motivation lately. I was not taking care of myself. And I would feel terrible about it, for not having to do anything at all for the whole day.

I didn't realize it at first, but as time passed. It's growing on me. It's triggering me somehow. Everything. Even this friend of mine, he's triggering one of my emotions that just hurts the hell out of me which is stupid to think of me. I was self sabotaging. Yes. I am. Overthinking. But then just shuts down people. Especially my family. I hate myself for ignoring them, for not answering their calls and messages. Am I a terrible person now? What kind of a cousin, a sister, a daughter am I? That I can just easily ignore them. Like am I detaching myself from them? Not answering any of their calls and texts. Who does that? That's not normal, yet I can do that to them. Then just making excuses. But at the same time, it's just hard to answer them when I'm so stressed at work and so pressured with work and with them.

Yes, I feel so pressured at my family. This is because, since I have this new job that pays well. I may have promised to renovate our house back home, that I will loan a big amount of money. Which I can do and will do. However I need more time. But since they got the idea now, it's just so hard when they slipped some questions on when will I provide the money for the renovation. When? When? When? I couldn't answer yet, since I myself, is dealing with myself too. I can't get myself to go to that Goddamn government office to loan cuz I was too tired from work. I wake up only minutes before my shift start, and then do massive overtime until the only thing that stops me from working is when I have to go to bed and sleep. What kind of set up is that? Right?

But then again, I know what I have to do, I know what I needed to do. But I'm doing nothing, it's always, "mamaya nalang", "may bukas pa". I'm procrastinating real bad. I didn't have the discipline on my own body anymore. And I fucking hate it.

And then, there are nights where I couldn't get myself to sleep. It would take me 4am or even worst 6am to finally fall asleep. But I get into bed like 2am after my work. And in between those 2am laying in bed to 6am falling asleep. I'm overthinking. My thoughts are over flowing, about the past and some other stuffs. I would have random thoughts. I would even cry at night or touch myself, then cry again to myself asleep. Me bursting into tears are my emotions that are put of control. I would just scroll through my phone and when I see something sad, I initially get sad and then the rest is history. It would brought up my dead grandmothers and dead uncle and I would instantly cry and just self pitty. And hate myself for not being there for my family. And like questioning myself am I going depressed? It feels like every night nowadays I cry. I feel sad. I feel so alone. I feel so detached from everything. For the first time of living independently alone for almost 7years. I feel so alone. I feel so sad. I don't think I'm happy with my life right now.

I even wonder, what if I have someone, i didn't live alone. Would it be different? Ofcourse it would. Cuz then, I would have someone to talk to. I wouldn't have all these thoughts to myself.

I'm afraid now of being alone. Because I feel like any minute I would have an anxiety attack or panic attacks and I have no one with me. I am worried about myself now these days. But before, I was just an easy go, happy go lucky gal, day to day. But now I'm afraid and worried. One time my boss asked me during our one on one session, how am I doing with the work from home set up and the new job and new apartment etc. I said fine, managing, adjusting. Then she said, "how about your family? Don't you miss them". And you know what I said, "Not really" so casually. And that kinda surprised her, she may think I was like kidding like "really you don't miss them". And then I said, "Cuz I don't think about them, I don't think about them, that's why I don't miss them". I kinda said that a bit in a humor manner. But still. Shit! I said that so easily. But in my defense, I think in a way, I just wanted to look cool or like portray that I'm a strong woman or something. But that's all bullshit. Thinking about it. I regretted saying those words. How can I say those words so casually. I actually said, I don't think about them that's why I don't miss them. Hearing it over and over in my head. That somehow scared me. It made me sick. That I wanted to cry. I'm the worst. And then I would feel all these emotions again over and over. One thing, I would over care too much, overthinking, then there's one thing when like it's nothing to me. And that's what I'm more afraid of. Like I'm in this swings of emotions. On and off. And when it's off, I shut down. I shut down everything. Not caring. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Sometimes I feel like I need a therapist. I need help. I need support. I need to do something before it gets worst. My friend told me, I should at least share what I'm going through if this is really depression, I should share it with my family. And he said that if I tell them, they would understand. And that hit me hard. That hit the nail. I have a great family. My Ma&Pa would understand, my brothers would understand and support me they would want to hear from me. I'm just so afraid. To look weak. To cry. I can't even run to them for help. And that hurts me so bad.

What am I going to do?

[bi-demon-ium]

OUGH YOUR MIND

I am such a sucker for cuddly hurt/comfort, especially with these two, it’s unreal. My god.

I think my personal favorite resolution (but they all make me feel shrimp emotions) is Nicholas having a whole breakdown and Milligan hugging him because he doesn’t know what else to do, and Nicholas just immediately passes out.

So right about that fluffy epilogue!! They feel safe with each other and everyone gets cuddles and adfghjkkfds

(cont. from this ask)

SAME!!! SAME

godddd i love them so much. fuck

you're so right. like just. for some reason (honestly fucking. pick any, man goes through so much goddamn shit) nicholas is just. having a full-on breakdown, man is finally actually crying his eyes out like he's been on the verge of doing for two seasons and then some, just like. god. shaking like a leaf, doing that thing where you hug yourself tightly half to hide and half to feel like someone will hold you even though it's not going to happen, so he just makes himself. small, but he can't stop trembling, and it's not just the shaking but his whole body jerking with quiet sobs he's trying to muffle like... he is in pain. not literally (mostly) but like. this has been. a long time coming.

and milligan just. doesn't know what to do. for one, it's not that he's ever been under the impression that nicholas is invulnerable or somehow perfect--again, he's not very good at hiding his emotions, you can kinda tell when he's hanging on by a fuckin thread, which happens a concerning amount at this point, but like. he's never broken down like this, either. he's never been in such a bad state that milligan felt like he would like. accept comfort. man doesn't even like being touched, does he? but like. holy fuck. this is milligan's friends and he's crying like his heart's been ripped out, he's sobbing and shaking and if milligan doesn't do something to help him and comfort him right now he's going to just like. burst into flames.

so he goes with his instinct, because that entire mini-monologue in his head happened in like 0.0001 seconds. so he just. without thinking too hard about it. just. sinks to his knees--abrupt and hard enough that if he wasn't so focused he'd have winced--and just. wraps his arms around nicholas and pulls him into a tight hug. because the instinct upon seeing someone you love cry is just. to hold them. comfort them.

and like. for a second nicholas stiffens, frozen with shock, so surprised he hiccups out the next sob and then like. almost straight-up stops crying. and milligan has just like a single moment to think oh shit. did i just fuck up? when nicholas fucking melts. like wholly and completely melts into it, all but throws himself into it and hugs milligan back like his life depends on it, sobbing like much harder now even though he's trying so so so hard to be quiet about it, to stop fucking crying, but he can't help it because like. when's the last time he's been comforted like this? and he's just so exhausted and sad and hurting that he can't hold it in anymore, and milligan's arms around him just--he couldn't fight it if he wanted to. he's utterly helpless. no matter how much some tiny voice in his head is screaming at him to back away, stop being a burden, he just. for once, the tiny, wailing child inside him who just desperately wants to be held is louder. for once he can't bear to pull away. so he just totally sags into it and buries his face in milligan's shoulder and sobs.

and like. all this is, again, just like. under a minute. and then nicholas straight up falls asleep. just. goes totally limp. and it's kind of telling that milligan almost doesn't notice, because he's already so relaxed and like, less tense than milligan's ever seen him.

and milligan's like. oh. oh. so. so i DID fuck up. just not now. because this? this is not the behavior of a touch-averse man who just needed a little reassurance. he's showing no signs of getting uncomfortable, in fact, if anything, he's going utterly boneless, he's leaning into it like he's never been hugged before and never will be again. he's soaking it in like a flower that's never seen the sun. this is the behavior of a man who desperately, desperately needs affection--who wants affection--and is finally getting it. so milligan's like alright so this hug has to last approximately two years. and that's just a START. and his friend is just. passed out in his arms. and milligan's like also when he's asleep the timer stops because my god he's going to be awake for every second of this comically insanely long hug i'm about to deliver.

but like also nicholas.... nicholas just. he's so hurt and exhausted and waking up just like.... being held??? being held close and tight by someone he cares about, someone quietly murmuring reassurances even though they don't know he's awake yet, and it's warm and safe and also it's milligan and he's crying harder thank you

FLUFFY EPILOGUE!!!!!!!!! just. i imagine nicholas is kind of like. red-rimmed eyes, apologizing in a shaking but much steadier voice, kinda giving a nervous, light little laugh, like, i'm sorry, that was embarrassing, i--i think i'll go, uh. lie down. for a bit, trying to pretend he wasn't crying in a i-don't-want-to-be-a-burden-again way rather than a i-did-NOT-just-show-weakness way, but like. milligan, a little more confidently, just. putting hands on his shoulders, and watching him just. visibly shudder softly and relax--almost like, without his own permission, just a little helpless like he can't help but settle into the touch, because he's not used to hiding that reaction--and just like. squeeze gently. like, hey, it's okay, it's not embarrassing, and nicholas... doesn't really believe him, but like. milligan is clearly sincere--when isn't he?--and it. it does help

anyway milligan is just like. okay so now operation hug nicholas whenever possible is underway. he starts as a solo mission but eventually recruits the others. on one hand you could make this angsty with nicholas being like okay i realize they figured out im Weak but i don't want them to feel obligated this is terrible, or like. possibly just like. he feels selfish accepting this sudden uptick in hugs but god it feels good even when it's clearly over silly things, he likes it too much to fight it... but on the other hand also just . he's puzzled and baffled as to why they keep hugging him but is Not Complaining. fluffy :)

but FLUFFY EPILOGUE TIME FOR REAL like once it's all resolved and stuff i just. allowing himself to be more comfortable with affection and the others.... really picturing like them casually on the couch like. nicholas easily slumped against his side, maybe casually reading a book, milligan has an arm thrown around him, and they're just. vibing. and like it's not uncommon for any of them to sit close it's like. now that he knows that--and feels like--he's like. "allowed"? he's just like. All The Time. casually like. yes we're sitting extremely close and what about it

[collisiondiscourse]

say amen (bkdk drabble)

(a little drabble based off of one of my favorite posts that ive ever made)

Katsuki’s not a religious man.

Yeah, okay, he believes in deities and goes to temples, the blond will admit that much. The existence of a higher power isn’t really that far from the realms of possibility when he regularly interacts with people who have the head of a bird or engines for legs. He celebrates the holidays, and on days where he’s feeling especially magnanimous, Katsuki even buys temple charms and sends out a quick prayer to whoever might be listening.

But he isn’t religious.

He doesn’t like feeling like he’s indebted to someone. That somehow, somewhere, there is someone Katsuki should be grateful to for giving him all his successes. He worked hard to get where he is now all by himself, thank you very much. The idea that everything is somehow predetermined or controlled by someone he can’t even see is one that makes the blond break out into hives.

A man with any dignity such as Katsuki’s is too proud to kneel to any god.

But then again… Izuku Midoriya is no such god.

He’s very much human, Katsuki would believe despite the seemingly endless strength his short and stocky figure possesses. He’s freckles and sunburns and scars and toothy smiles and everything that used to make the blond’s blood boil. Deku can’t dress himself nicely to save his life and sings All Might show tunes in the shower when he thinks no one can hear. Katsuki’s seen the boy throw up on his dumb red shoes and laugh so hard he scared himself with his own snorts.

He’s seen Deku at his worst. Crying and crumbling, body all bloodied and torn up after giving it his all. He’s seen him angry--borderline murderous even--with rage consuming him and leaving him gasping for breath as he saddles closer and closer to the line betwean life and death. He’s seen Deku broken and hollow, unable to eat for days and smelling like a decomposing corpse because the demons in his eyes had all but haunted him from even getting up to shower.

The point being, Katsuki knows that Izuku Midoriya is flawed.

He should, at least. Having seen these cracks and imperfections over and over should’ve cemented the idea that Deku was far from perfect. He sees sides of Deku that even their best friends, let alone the public have never seen. Bakugou knows that Izuku Midoriya is not a God--and is in fact very far from one.

But fuck if he doesn’t worship him like he is.

When Izuku confessed to him in their second year, Katsuki thinks that he learned what it feels like to die.

As dramatic as it sounds, it’s true. Watching those green eyes peel away from their locked gaze on his red ones to stare nervously at the ground causes Katsuki’s heart to jump. His palms were sweaty and blood roared in his ears, deafening him from all sounds except Deku’s voice. He’d initially thought that this was it. This was Deku preparing to tell him that he couldn’t stand being his friend anymore, that no matter how much Katsuki tried to atone for himself, Deku finally realized that Katsuki would never be worthy of his love.

It built up and up until Katsuki couldn’t breathe, willpower alone keeping him from gasping for breath as he awaited Deku’s rejection. The sun set in a brilliant cast of oranges and purples, but neither boy on the rooftop could stand to appreciate it when the sights in front of them were far more important.

“Kacchan,” he blurts at last. A sliver of his pink tongue peeks out to lick at his chapped lips. Katsuki’s chest constricts with want. “I like you.”

And it’s at those three words that Katsuki truly believes in an afterlife.

His heart clenches and stops for a different reason--a different feeling entirely. The world tilts on its axis and his breaths come up short, yet Katsuki’s never been happier to have been wrong. Parts of him shrivel up. Shudder in anxiety. Embers of raw anger and determination (leftover from years of scars and charred notebooks) tell him that he’s not worthy of Deku. That Katsuki is yet to even deserve to take the hand that has been waiting for him for his whole life.

Admittedly though, Katsuki Bakugou is a selfish, selfish man.

He stares at that freckled and blushing face like it’s a reflection of the universe itself. Green eyes that mistakenly take Katsuki’s silence as rejection grow watery, and yet as Katsuki stares into the molten pool of emerald and moss, he thinks he may see his entire life in those pretty eyes.

“...Kacchan? It’s okay if you don’t, uh, like me back. I u-understand if you feel uncomfortable or no longer want me be your friend even if it kinda s--”

“W-well really, it’s more of love. I... love you. Like, a lot. Have for a while I mean and I tried really hard to hide it but I’m sure it was obvious from the beginning and well, Uraraka said I was really bad at lying so I wasn’t really sure...” he mumbles. Stutters, because he’s human and very much not a god.

Katsuki Bakugou kisses Izuku Midoriya for the first time.

He kisses Izuku Midoriya because he wants all of him. He wants the sorrow and broken bones. The awkward laughter and nervous tics. Katsuki wants those green eyes to never stop looking at him and that mouth to never stop muttering the most inane nothings. He wants the beautiful and the ugly, the victories and the losses. He wants and he wants and he wants and he wants, and now that all of it is within his reach dear god is he never letting go.

The blond pours his soul into the kiss. Mouth harsh and unyielding, ever determined to prove to anyone watching that he’d throw away his life for this boy in a heartbeat. The desperation in their kiss practically daring anyone to try and pull them apart. Katsuki wants the kiss to say everything that he, in his weak and human state, cannot even begin to phrase. That somehow a single kiss could show the other that Katsuki loves him so much it breaks him inside. It’s so good that it’s painful. It’s painful and excruciating but fucking hell if Katsuki pulls away for one moment he thinks he might actually truly die.

They’re training to be pro-heroes, so of course their pain tolerance is higher than most. They’ve been taught to fight in any environment no matter what—could probably fight five people underwater for an hour without breaking a sweat. All of those hours of training somehow still mean nothing to Katsuki in the brilliance of the storm that is Izuku Midoriya.

Because as they kiss and breathe in each other’s air, Katsuki forces himself to pull away with a gasp.

Izuku thinks he’s hurt the blond accidentally, somehow. That he’d been too rough or pushed Bakugou into it or even just took his breath away from him in the literal sense. What the green-haired hero didn’t expect was the sheer devotion in ruby eyes.

(It would’ve scared him, if it didn’t make his knees shaky and heart rate speed up in exhilaration.)

Meanwhile, Katsuki’s drowning.

He’s drowning so deep in emotions that he’d never let himself feel until now. Drowning in his insecurities and greatest desires. Drowning in emotion and vigour. Drowning in the feeling of kissing Izuku fucking Midoriya. Part of him screams in agony, protesting this weakness as it fucks with his mind and squeezes at his heart.

The rest of him lets it happen.

Bakugou pulls away, gasping for breath. It’s too much and not enough, because he loves this boy so goddamn much that it actually hurts. He’s crying, and it’s kind of pathetic, really. So undone by a single kiss that tears streak down his face while white spots appear in vision of ruby eyes. A man so weak--so overcome with emotion that he can’t help but sob at the torrent of devotion that overtakes him. His heart throbs painfully and he struggles to take gulps of air, because Katsuki doesn’t truly love many people but there’s something about Izuku Midoriya that destroys him so thoroughly.

Ever understanding, ever patient, and ever too good for his damned, hell-bound soul, Izuku holds him close. He lets Katsuki weep into his jacket and runs scarred fingers through pale blond strands as the other boy tries to stifle his sobs. He hushes him with a light kiss to his temple and listens patiently as Katsuki whimpers every variant of ‘I love you’ under the sun.

Izuku Midoriya is no such god, but Katsuki Bakugou worships him like one nonetheless.

[vaultofqueenorion]

You spit out another tooth, this one leaving a gap in the front of your mouth that sends pain through your jaw. The metallic iron of your blood coats your tongue as you force yourself to stand on shaky legs.

You knew you were gonna lose this fight the long before it started, but when no one else steps up then you do.

It's a habit you've been trying to get rid of.

And yet here you are, brushing another line of blood away from your lip that split two impacts ago, sweat rolling down your brow as the goddamn bastard of a villain stands in front of you ... waiting.

That's another thing you've tried to beat out of people whether figuratively or literally - monologues, archnemeses, secret lairs and fancy fluttering of arms as they wait for their opponent to get on their feet.

The tropes are bad enough in fiction. In real life, they make you grit your teeth, hands clenching as you scramble to get up, feeling most of all like you're back in your childhood home with your father tapping his foot impatiently at your hesistance.

Right now, however, it provides you with a much needed reprieve as you try to get your feet underneath you, torn fingers slipping on concrete.

Your whole body hurts already and you just want to go home.

Meanwhile the villain monologues. You hear never be able to stop my plan and should have run when you had the chance. Pretty standard stuff.

Which isn't exactly helpful when this one isn't just hellbent on world domination but rather tearing this reality apart and replacing it with their own perfect version of it.

You're kneeling now, arm resting on one knee as you attempt to get your spasming muscles to work. There's almost nothing in your reserves, the abandoned factory (another horrible, horrible, cliche) empty save for the two of you, and you've used up almost every bit power that you kept from the last villain you fought just to mend your broken bones.

There's something manic in the villain's eyes as they use a sharpened claw to force your head further upwards, and you stop disassociating long enough to meet their eyes fully.

"My oh my, seems the hero finally lost this time?" they say, the claw drawing blood where it sinks into your skin.

You have nothing left. No power, no energy, no fucks left to give.

So you roll your eyes at the reality-defying villain, sending them a bloodstained smile - Gods when did you become a cliche? - and rasp out something that sounds more like stone stuck in a wood chipper than actual words.

"Can we hurry it up? It's game night and I've got a date with my TTRPG group soon."

Judging from the way literal thunderclaps roll through the world outside the factory and the darkening of the villain's eyes, you think it might not have been the right thing to say.

Ah well, it was bound to end at some point, wasn't it? Heroes never survive for long.

You just hope that your TTRPG group will forgive you for being a no show at the session.

Before you can force your aching muscles to react, the clawed hand shifts, reaches around your throat and chucks you as if you weigh nothing.

You draw out the very last trickle of power to create a flickering shield that lasts just long enough for the impact with the concrete walls of the factory to not outright kill you. Instead, a chunk of it breaks off the factory and you grunt as the cool night air soothes your broken body.

Breathing is hard, and you're pretty sure it's because your cracked ribs have punctured a lung. Blood wells up in your mouth with every ragged superficial breath, and you don't even dare look at the rest of the body, because you're not sure which organs and bones are on the inside anymore and which aren't.

As if the villain somehow had a sixth sense that you were still not dead, you see a steel pole pointed towards you out the corner of your eyes, seemingly moving of its own volition.

Telepathy, check, your sluggish mind helpfully supplies you, as it slams into your stomach, tearing through your organs.

You can't help the scream that forces its way past your lips, even if it is more a garbled sputtering, blood trickling down your chin. Dark splotches overtake your vision, and you feel your consciousness slipping.

"There! It seems that one of the Heroes are fighting them right now, and- oh it's one of the newbies."

You don't have to turn around to see that some stupid reporter has found you, a sliver of strength returning to your body, just enough for you to mutter a few choice words on their labelling of you.

I mean, when you're literally spilling your guts all over the floor attempting to stop a villain from turning this reality into their own personal playground, you feel that you should get a little more respect than newbie.

There's a moment where your now - finally - heightened senses pick up a dark chuckle from somewhere inside the factory but you ignore that in favor of listening to the reporter while trying to concentrate on keeping yourself alive.

"They might be able to hold out until the International Coalition of Heroes send their strongest, because this villain is not one to trifle with."

You roll your eyes. They're not gonna be able to do shit against this one who's so far out of their league that they might as well have come from another universe.

"We've been allowed access to the ICH platform, and while we had technical difficulties, Tim tells me that we should be live in 3. 2. 1-"

Oh. Oh.

You did not need the countdown to know when this many millions tuned in, because holy shit you had never felt anything like it.

Your whole body burns with power, white hot and coursing through you as if your were a live wire. Your muscles knit themselves back together within miliseconds, you teeth regrowing as strength returns to your muscles.

You don't even bother to pull out the metal pole, instead vaporizing it with little more than a thought.

You stand, and your teeth are blindingly white as you smile, pure power rippling across your body in colorful waves.

"Let's even the playing field, shall we?"

Your power is simple, people looking at you make you exponentially stronger. Today you find yourself on international news fighting a villain.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

if you’re still doing the ask game, I’d kill to see number five for either Jake, Jameson, or Jax. you know how I love my drug whump

I have so many prompts sitting in my inbox that are numbers to ask games that I can't remember what the prompts were... but I remember this one. This is as good a time as any...

CW: Pet whump, dehumanization, drugged whumpee, beating, described body/bones, brief emeto ref, restrained, sadistic whumper, collared, chained up

Direct Sequel to Deep Breath / I'm Ready. Part of the Jameson's Backstory mini-series.

-

"I have a system, dog. I have a method. I have a way these things are done."

Robert punctuates each sentence with another kick to his ribs, and the pet grunts with the impact, telling himself to let some of the pain bleed out into the man's boot. With his hands tied behind his back, a short rope linking them to his ankles, he's forced into an arch that leaves his most vulnerable places entirely unprotected.

Open.

On display.

Inviting the next blow.

At least whatever was forced down his throat dulls things a little bit. It's a mercy, he thinks, because Robert isn't done with him yet. The world roils and spins around him like the ocean on a stormy day. The pet is a white-capped wave when the next kick comes and something snaps inside him.

Watch it rain, a soft voice says somewhere inside him. A small hand grabs his own. Watch the rain fall, Johnny. Don't you love rain?

He whimpers, sweating into the blindfold, shivering reflexively as cool air hits the sheen of wet over his skin. He doesn't know who Johnny is.

"Please... please..." His pleading is weak, voice cracked and breaking.

But he just wanted to do the only thing he could to help the young man in the bathtub. He just wanted to help.

Now he's helpless.

Robert's boot, pulled back for the next kick, pauses at the sound. "What's that? You not enjoying this?" He exhales, letting out a thready laugh, before he drops into a crouch, running his hands over the pet's hair. Robert watches him flinch back, unable to see it coming. His thumb finds a spot rubbed bald by the straps of the muzzle and he runs over it, humming, finding the scarred places where the muzzle has cut in enough to make him bleed, over and over. The pad of his thumb is rough, calloused from his job. "You don't like taking your punishment, hm? Is that it?"

The pet holds as still as he can, panting, trying to push past the throbbing ache on his left side. Broken rib, maybe, or just bruised. He'll find out if it heals right or doesn't.

"Please-... please stop," He whispers.

That only gets him another laugh, meaner this time. "That boy had two more weeks of life left in him," Robert says, in a tone of perfect rationality. "I chose him special, and you got it in your head to ruin everything. I just don't see how I'm the bad guy here."

He sighs, and rips the blindfold off over the pet's head.

The pet looks up, struggling to focus, only to take a fist to the face as soon as he does. Knuckles crack into his jaw, but nothing breaks. It's a miracle he hasn't lost any teeth.

His head bounces off the floor, a flash of white behind his eyes. He hears a rough voice cry out in pain and realizes it's his own. The world, already a seasick cruise ship, bobs even more dangerously around him.

He's being blown around in circles, saltwater coming in too fast to bail out. He's going to be sick. He's going to throw up on the floor and drown.

Just like he drowned the man in the bathtub who begged him to do it, who said I'm ready, who held his hand, who struggled at the end and then stopped, and then-

And then...

The air had gone briefly cold after the man had stopped moving and the pet had felt a breeze through his hair, as if something in the man was leaving and moved past him on its way somewhere else.

He starts to cry, unwillingly.

His sobs comes out through gritted teeth, tears forced out of eyes he's closed as tightly as he can to try and keep them hidden. His body shakes.

"Two weeks you've robbed me of," Robert says, standing back up. He groans, and the pet can hear him moving around the room. He doesn't dare look up to watch him, not now. "Two weeks, and now it's all wrong. Now nothing happened the right way, it's all fucked up now. I have a system. I have a method, I have a routine, and you fucked it all up!"

The last words come out a deafening scream, and the pet cries out again, trying as hard as he can to duck his head and hunch his shoulders, wanting only to protect himself in whatever meager way he can. The sound of Robert's voice bounces around inside his fucked-up skull. The water is pulling him under now.

The waves lurch and break against him as Robert grabs him by the arms and drags him. Hog-tied, he can do little more than squirm as he's pulled back into the hallway, to the grimy bathroom.

The young man isn't in there anymore.

"I should kill you," Robert snaps, depositing him back on the cold tile, wet now with water splashed out from when Robert found what he had done and had dragged the body out, trying to revive it so he could hurt the young man more. "I should fucking kill you, you stupid dog. You ruined everything!"

The pet tips his head back until it touches the floor, looks up at Robert looming over him, all malevolence and rage. Beyond his fear, the pet finds a core of something that burns bright and hot, stronger than the smell from the basement. Something sharper than the knives he is cut with, something stronger than Robert's shouting or his fists.

The pet makes an expression that could be a smile or could be a snarl. It could be appeasement or bared fangs. His lip busted at some point and he feels blood on his teeth, tastes it on his tongue.

It makes him think of Nanda.

He lets the blood shift into his mouth, lets it pool on his tongue. Tastes the copper-salt, the hint of sweet. The taste of love, of Nanda's mouth, of his low voice, hands in his hair or on his hips.

Once he has enough, the pet spits blood into Robert's stupid fucking face.

"I hope the next one goddamn kills you first!"

Robert goes still, and silent. His eyes are ringed in white, like a horse about to bolt. Then his hand comes up to slowly wipe away the smear of pink-tinged saliva on his cheekbone running down to his jaw, marked with a five o'clock shadow.

"Fucking dogs don't know how to stop their bark," He mutters to himself. Whatever his plan in the bathroom had been, it's clearly not enough. He pulls the pet up, then lets him fall again. Stares around, eyes bouncing over the still-full tub, the ring of grime around the tub where the water still sits.

Then he just shakes his head. "No, no, no," He mumbles. "No no. Calm it, Bobby. Calm it. Think think think."

The pet stares up at him. His body holds more disgust in that moment than he ever thought possible.

Robert disappears back into the hallway, leaving the pet where he is. Outside the barred bathroom window there's a soft birdsong and the faint hint of sunlight. What time even is it? The pet never knows. The bathroom is the only window that isn't covered with heavy blackout drapes almost all the time.

He focuses on breathing, keeping things shallow to hold the pain in his ribs at bay as best he can. His wrists hurt from the ropes rubbing them raw, his muscles are pulled painfully taut and stretched.

Robert returns with the gag-muzzle, forcing the plastic bit between his teeth. His tongue pushes against it uselessly, working to try and make it comfortable even as his jaw already protests what it knows is coming. The straps slide over the bald spots, buckle into place. The pet shudders at the familiarity of the feeling and tries instinctively to jerk his head to the side.

Robert grabs him by the hair and forces his head back, giving a humorless rictus grin at the pained grunt forced from the pet's throat. "Oh, you don't like that, huh? Shoulda thought of that before you fucking ruined my system. My method. My routine."

You said that already, the pet thinks, but it occurs to him Robert probably doesn't remember that. He's never sure what Robert actually knows about his own words, how much sinks in to memory. He's always repeating things like it's the first time he's ever said them.

The rope between his wrists and ankles is cut and Robert pulls him up to his feet, shoving him forward. The drugs keep the pet struggling to hold himself upright, stumbling to one side or the other. He can still feel the waves - inside him, battering, trying to pull him back under the cold dark water.

He goes willingly enough, shuffling with his hobbled ankles, until Robert has him at the basement door.

The pet rears back in a sudden panicked realization, a muffled, unintelligible babbled plea coming out around the bit, behind the leather muzzle already making his skin pour sweat. He shakes his head wildly back and forth, tries to yank himself free.

Robert's laugh is wild and crazed this time as he shoves the pet forwards and it's either go down the stairs or fall.

The pet's foot finds cool smooth old wood that creaks and he whimpers, the smell flooding his nose making his stomach twist and turn. The next step. A third. A fourth.

The light is on in the basement, a single bare bulb shining a thin circle of light over the disturbed earth on one side. The other side is untouched except for some boxes and the chemical barrels, wreathed in dark shadows that let nothing escape.

"You like 'em so much, you can spend the night with 'em, huh? Just have a little sleepover with my friends here, hm? How's that sound? How that fucking sound?!"

The pet whines as Robert screams in his ear, shaking his head again and again as he is forced step by step down into the basement where they die, where he buries them. His bare feet touch down onto the earthen floor, coolly dry down here, chilly compared to the upstairs. The pet is shivering but it isn't really from the cold.

Goosebumps burst all over his arms and legs, a thrill of terror down his spine as Robert pulls him over to the shadowed corner where the boxes are. There's a hinged metal collar with a chain that attaches to the wall, and the pet realizes that Robert must use it when they're down here just before Robert throws him down on the ground and closes the metal with a snnnnkt over his leather collar, around his neck.

There's thigh bones, he thinks, in a pile over underneath the lightbulb. Just a bunch of fucking goddamn femurs, like Robert comes down here to play fucking barbie dolls with dead people, taking them apart and putting them back together.

Welcome to Malibu Barbie Dreamhouse, he thinks, and a manic horrified laugh bubbles up his throat. John Wayne Gacy edition.

A padlock is hooked through the front of the collar, cold metal slapping down against the top of the pet's collarbone. He looks up at Robert, who is right in front of the light bulb from his perspective, his face black and unreadable.

Please, he tries to say. I'm sorry. Please. All that comes out is muffled animal whines.

"You love them so fucking much, you can be best friends." Robert ruffles his hair. He grins, and the yellowy white of his teeth is all the pet can see of his face. "Enjoy your sleepover, dog."

He turns and leaves, ignoring the pleading whines of the pet as he climbs up the stairs, the creaking like a chorus, a harmony to the pet's cries for this to not be real.

The light seems to shimmer around its edges - it's just the drugs, he tells himself, it's just whatever was in those pills - and shift. Dead people could hide down here in the dark places, with their bony fingers reaching out to grab him.

He whimpers again, softer this time.

He manages to shuffle himself on his ass backwards until he hits the basement wall, smooth stone older than the house itself. His hands are still tied behind him and his ankles are still hobbled. Tears run from his eyes, drift along the edge of the muzzle, drip down from his jaw into the dirt. He sobs around the bit gag, whining until he can't remember if he even is human at all any longer.

Then he sees a face and gives a full-body shudder.

At first he thinks it's the drugs, but it's not. The young man who begged him for help, the reason he's down here at all, isn't buried yet. He's just lying on the ground under a worktable on the other side of the basement. His hands are still tied together in front of him, his soaking wet hair has begun to dry, frizzy and tangled.

Something about the face, though, gives him pause.

He's seen them dead before, their faces etched in horrified screaming, empty eyes wide and terrified. He's seen them trapped in their final agonies long after they're gone.

But the young man across the basement looks like he's gone to sleep there on the floor, that's all. His color's all wrong but the dim light keeps that from being too obvious.

He looks like he's sleeping.

He didn't die screaming under Robert's knife, or begging for it to stop as the blows kept raining down. He isn't tied to Robert's bed, he isn't anything like that at all.

The pet's fear is still in him, heart beating jackrabbit-fast against the inside of his chest, but he stares and stares at the young man's body and begins to understand that... he doesn't need to be afraid of them.

He doesn't need to be afraid.

He needs to be angry that they die like this, not afraid of them.

Anger is what keeps him breathing, what keeps him thinking, what keeps him alive.

He made Robert furious, but more importantly he took a victory from him, he took power from him. He took away control. He made it so Robert can't feel like he owns the young man in his death, like the body is his because he made it.

No.

As long as he isn't dead, that means he isn't out of time. As long as he keeps breathing, as long as he keeps thinking, as long as there are parts of him that Robert doesn't know, doesn't own, that he can't control.

As long as he stays angry.

As long as he has hope.

I'm going to get out of here, he promises the young man's body, the pile of bones, the rest of them under the soil. I'm going to escape. I'm going to do something, someday, when he gives me the chance.

I'm not like him.

I'm not like any of them.

I want to be like you, instead, but alive. I want to live.

I'm going to live.

For a second he smells water, he hears a voice he can't understand and tastes the young man's voice on his tongue, the taste of sage tea with milk.

The pet swallows and closes his eyes, breathing in through his nose, holding the air, breathing out again. The air shifts around him, touches his face just above the muzzle.

In the perfectly still basement, a breeze shifts along his skin, rustles his hair just a little.

Something moving past him on its way to somewhere else.

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary @burtlederp

[shorkbrian]

honestly as much as i love katsuki demeaning his darling for bawling and sobbing, i can’t relate bc im a silent and resigned crier even if i’m rlly emotional inside. i think that’d make him mad too, just silently crying most of the time, and the fact that she just doesn’t sob like he wants her to. how far would he go do you think to make her bawl? sorry this was just like a stream of consciousness

(What to expect - Crying, domestic abuse, no NSFW, but it’s lightly implied. Broken bones, blood, vomit, and urine are mentioned briefly.)

I think he would like the silent crying. 

He’d like making you so upset that you’re pushed to tears, even if they’re streaming down your face while you act completely normal, as if they weren’t there. Bakugo like seeing you struggle against letting go, will push you further and further and further and see how far you’ll bend until he makes you snap.

Silent crying would still earn derogatory remarks. 

“Oi, are you crying? Trying to pretend you’re not? Pathetic, I haven’t done shit and you’re upset.”

“What the fuck are you doing? Sniffling in the corner like a damn baby. How old are you? And you can’t keep your fucking tears to yourself? Don’t try and hide it, your face is all red ‘n shit.”

“Goddamn, you are a piece of fucking work. You cry at every single thing I do, and then you go and try to hide it. You’re a weak little bitch.”

Because he thinks it’s kinda cute, how your face gets puffy and red, how your nose gets runny, but you act like everything’s fine. He’s not gonna push you too far, because he’s content with your sniveling and quiet weeping.

BUT 

When he’s in a particularly bad mood, Katsuki is cruel.

He’ll have you pushed against the wall, snarling mean comments as he watches tears roll down your cheeks, trying to egg you on, to get you to really cry for him.

When verbal intimidation and abuse doesn’t work, he’ll take to physical methods, slapping you around, spanking you until you scream, clamping a hand around your throat and threatening to blast you to tiny pieces just to see how you’ll react.

If you’re still stoic, face practically emotionless as you cry, emitting hardly any noise, Bakugou will get so frustrated he might actually hurt you, wanting anything from you, something.

He wants a reaction, wants to lord control over something in his life, make himself feel superior and authoritative.

If your arm gets broken, it’s your own fault for trying to act like everything was fine.

A snapped wrist is a small price that Bakugou is willing to pay in order to see your face control in pain, in fear as he grabs your other wrist, smiling cruelly.

Bruises and cuts are common on your skin when Bakugo’s in a bad mood, blackened eyes, dried blood. The house’ll stink with the scent of blood and vomit and piss, Katsuki sadistic and violent, desperate for reactions from you.

He’ll feel bad afterwards, after he’s calmed down and no longer angry. You get wrapped in a blanket, placed on the bed while you shiver and sob. Katsuki cleans up the house, all the various bodily fluids and the broken glass, shattered dishes.

You get a sponge bath, wounds get dressed, bones are set. Katsuki never apologizes, but actions speak louder than words.

Bakugou is more gentle with you the next few weeks, although his demeanor is still gruff. He makes you rest whatever limb he’s broken this time, fetching water and food and whatever else you want or need. You get your hair brushed for you, settled between his tight thighs as his fingers style your hair, the man completely immersed in his task.

It’s almost nice.

But you know he’ll forget his guilt as soon as you heal, and then he’ll get unsatisfied with your usual reactions when he tries to bully you.

Then he’ll get angry again, and the cycle will repeat.

[yurtletheturtlehenderson]

COSMIC - S3:E4; Chapter Four, The Sauna Test - [Pt. 5 - FINAL]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘌𝘭, 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘠/𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯, 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘓𝘺𝘯𝘹.

📝: you have... NO IDEA how long i have been sitting on this one. Just... wow okay. And this is just the beginning, wait till you see the cabin scene 👀 Edit: tell me why I had the main chorus of Timber Feat. Ke$ha in my head on infinite loop while writing the fight scene 🤦‍♀️ LMAO

⚠️: asphyxiation [aka suffocation], several mentions of blood, and graphic (?) depictions of violence throughout. Also, long chapter

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

"MAX! LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Everyone watched stilled, with pounding hearts as Billy's billowing cries echoed out across the weight room. No one more so than Max. He had barely taken his eyes off of her and his voice fell into a weakened plea.

"Let me out,"

And then it was gone. Replaced with a malice-filled hiss that was beginning to feel a little too familiar for their liking. One by one his eyes flicker between the party members with a twitch in his eye as he began to shift, eyes darting past their shoulders and sweeping the room before his next glare.

"You kids," he pants, each breath like swallowing smoke. "you think..." he was swallowing embers. "this is funny?"

Mike and Lucas share a nervous glance.

Another heaving breath, the flames now licking his lungs.

"You kids think this is some kind of sick prank, huh?" With a snarl, he rears his head back and spits on the glass. "YOU LITTLE SHITS THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!"

Anxiously, Max eyes Will from where he stands beside El and he meets her gaze. The two seem to share the same thought. It was working.

But the sauna's prisoner had caught on, and as the fire was rekindled in his veins, he shifted nervously again; eyes darting once more around the room before landing on the two.

"OPEN THE DOOR!" They all flinch when he throws himself against the window in a fury. He was growing more frantic. And he wasn't stopping. "OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR!" He pressed his nose against the glass, showcasing his darkening eyes. "OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!"

The fire was now ablaze, the blood in his veins felt as if it was actually boiling, cooking him from the inside out and he finally collapsed on the sauna floor with a groan. Will took that as his cue and raced to the thermometer on the wall where the needle rested at the end.

"We're at two-twenty,"

When he returned to El's side, a great wail reverberates from within the sauna followed by a great many thumps.

"It's not my fault," he weeps, catching them all by surprise. "It's not my fault, it's not my fault, Max. I promise it's not my fault."

With a pounding and aching heart, Max crept towards the sauna door. Many eyes darted after her, fearfully, dealing between her and the only barrier protecting her from what lay inside.

"What's not your fault, Billy?" She asks.

When she peers behind the foggy glass, her heart threatens to split in two; he sits before her on the tile floor, beads of sweat blending with his tears and his hands glued together in plea as he looks up at her.

"I've done things, Max," he sobs, his voice threatening to break. "Really b... bad things and I didn't mean to."

As Billy peers up at his sister now, he can feel himself slipping again. He tries so hard to hold onto that sliver of himself, drifting away into the dark. His hands wring together as he pleads, his nails raking into his skin to stop himself - to stop Him - from winning.

His sanity was slipping and everything in him was screaming for him to do violent, inhumane things to the girl before him but he fought it. Billy knew he didn't have much time, and it was getting harder to think. And Billy spat the words from his tongue before he considers the repercussions from the shadow.

"He made me do it,"

Max was certain she knew the answer now. She knew it even as she stood in the living room facing her brother just twenty-four hours ago. But she had let herself believe the tempting lie over the bitter truth that the Shadow Monster had not gotten Billy. But she knew she had to. And so she asked.

"Who made you do it?"

Fear flashed in his eyes as he wept. He looked as something was trying to stop him, and Max knew very well something was, but he managed the words anyway; unknown to all, his final warning. The words that confirmed all their darkest fears and chilled their bones.

"I don't know, it was like a shadow. A giant shadow,"

Y/n's heart leaps into her throat, and her brows knit together in a curious frown when she sees El and Will meet eyes in matching grave expressions. They share a knowing look and nod, and silently they form a wall, herding Y/n behind them. It was likely they had made a prior agreement, she realizes, but her worries still remained on her other best friend inches from the glass.

"Please, Max," Billy weeps.

"What did he make you do?" Max asks through a wavering voice.

"It's not my fault," He cries suddenly, sinking into the sauna bench. "okay, Max?! Please! Please!"

At the sound of his broken cries, Max's eyes squeeze shut, and hot tears slide down her cheeks as she faces the small window. Her heart is torn, but she tries to remain strong.

"Please, believe me, Max! I tried to stop him, okay? I did."

He's trying even now, but the darkness is closing in. Her tearful face is blurring from his vision and he's losing the grip on his body without realizing it. He can already feel the shadow breaking free from his hold when his arm creeps across the tile floor without his permission.

"Please, believe me, Max. Please believe me,"

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she reaches out to Billy; her hand on the glass and speaks through her breaking voice.

"Billy, it's gonna be okay,"

The darkness was spreading to his vision, closing in on his sister and he knew he had only moments. They had only moments. There was no telling when the shadow would let him resurface. As Billy disappeared, he spoke what little warning he could before the shadow stole his voice.

"Max please..." -get away, his mind screams. But the words didn't come. Go away. Get out while you can.

She hadn't heard him. It was too late. The hand that lied hidden beneath the sauna bench, had already found a weapon.

"It's gonna be okay, we want to help you," Max swears through stinging tears.

His fingers curl around the broken and jagged tile.

"We want to help you. You just have to talk to us, okay? You have to talk us."

All too well indeed. He felt it even now.

Will's eyes had never left the sauna door, drilling holes through the glass even when the man had collapsed to the ground. Billy's haunted cries had reached Will in a way it never could the others. He knew the feeling all too well.

An unnatural chill zapped the air despite the muggy atmosphere and his whole body seized up. His hair stood on end and the skin over his body tightened, goosebumps breaking out out all over his skin.

He's activated.

-"What?"

-"What?"

Will has little time to look at Mike and Y/n and realize he had uttered the words aloud before looking back to Max.

"Max, get away from the door," he cautions.

Taken by surprise at his sudden request, Max hesitates. "What?"

"GET AWAY FROM FROM THE DOOR! NOW!"

Max had barely heeded Will's warning when the glass burst inches from her face as Billy hurled his arm through the window. El jumped back, sweeping both her arms in an effort to protect her friends. And with miraculous timing, Max had dove to the left just in time to escape the confetti of glass shards but her arm had not been so lucky.

While he had dropped his tile shard his hand had caught her bandaged forearm in his iron grasp and yanked. She yelped in pain, using the traction of her shoes against the linoleum to keep herself away.

"LET ME OUT, YOU BITCH!" He howls, tugging her arm as she attempts to pry and claw her way free. "I'LL FUCKING GUT YOU!"

"NO!" Came the sudden angered cry of Y/n Henderson as she forcibly broke free from the wall El and Will had created. She pushed their shoulders aside and sprinted forward, throwing her hand out before her. "LET HER GO!"

A powerful blasts burst forth from her palm and Billy cried out, yanking his hand back. He withered for only a moment, a loud hissing breath sucked in from between his clenched teeth as he visibly shook in anger. His hair was still dripping and it hung like a dark curtain over his eyes, but she could see it - they all could. The whites of his eyes were harder and harder to see as he looked upon his festering arm.

Max had scrambled away from the wall, back into the safety of El and Y/n's protection but Y/n didn't flinch.

He was pissed, but so was she.

In an instant, he throws his head up to look at her, his drenched curls landing on top of his head and draping over his seething face. His darkened eyes locked on her, his gritted teeth clenched so hard his entire body shook with fury. His expression finally matched his eyes from the previous night and confirmed to Y/n it had been the Mind Flayer to have spoken to her at Heather's. Never Billy.

What followed next, had unfolded all at once.

His screams return and he bangs his fist against the door once before yanking out the lead pipe and chucking it at Y/n.

She ducks just in time, and El swipes it out of the way, sending it flying into the wall with the flick of her head before it could hurt any of the others. And Lucas releases the pull on his wrist rocket he had trained on the man since he scrambled to load it when the glass first broke.

With an audible snap, the ammo was released and sent flying into its target; crashing into Billy's forehead.

A second time he was sent tumbling to the sauna floor, disappearing from their view with an even louder thump.

"Y/n, come on!" Lucas cried.

She wasted no time, scurrying back to the safety of her friends who engulfed her into their surrounding figures. Their heads all snap towards the ceilings when the hum of the lights grow stronger and everything begins to flicker.

Billy's insides churn with a disgruntled choke, his mouth spitting out fluids as he comes to. With a groan, his body spits and writhes on the floor. The icy storm in his veins spreading. And festering.

Joined shoulder to shoulder, the huddled party backed up in one circle. Each of them faced away from one another, looking around worriedly as the rows of florescent lights flicker violently above them. They all close in on Y/n in a protective stance.

Billy's body twisted and thrashed on the tile floor as he attempted to heave himself up to his feet. The grip of the Mind Flayer had broken free from the barriers of his mind and was coursing all throughout his body, the dark mass staining the very blood in his veins and poisoning his system. Dark lesions broke out all over his back and arms, and black veins rippled out under his skin, all across his body as he clutched the wall. Throwing back his head, Billy released an inhuman, agonized wail before charging for the door.

A second time they all jumped, and a second time El's arms swept out to protect her friends - finally including her Max. Their horror-stricken eyes were fixed on the door as Will inched closer to Y/n, and Max spoke through a fearful waver.

"He can't get out, can he?" She frets as he barrels into the door a second time, the chains testing the pipe anchored to the wall.

Fear gripped his heart and Lucas shook his head, voice filled with doubt in his own words. "No way. No. Way,"

"Y/n, get back," El orders in a flat voice, her tilted head unblinking on the door. "Go with Will."

Y/n gawked over El's shoulder, frantically looking between the door, her best friend, and a pleading Will who grabbed for her hand.

"What? No! No, bullshit! We agreed!"

"Y/n, come on," Will urged, tugging a little harder on her hand.

It grew hot under his touch and she ripped it from his grasp. "No. I need to do this," Y/n cried, her head whipping back and forth between her boyfriend and the fraying thread that was the bowing sauna pipe; the last defense holding back the Mind Flayer's newest host.

The door stopped moving and one split, heart-stopping moment a thunderous cry barreled out deep from within Billy's chest.

The door was thrown open, the pipe bursting from the wall and expelling puffs of steam as Billy tumbled through the open door. The Party jumped back in shrieks, El on the front lines pushing everyone behind her, even still.

With a lumbering breath, the fluorescents still flickering madly above them, Billy rose to his feet to meet eye to eye with the wrong girl. With a fear-inducing glare and an overpowering sense of protectiveness, El had forcibly barricaded herself in between the Mind Flayer and her best friend.

He curled back his teeth, a growl growing in the back of his throat. He was ready to wring her neck but she simply rose a single hand in the air, and the nearest barbell rose with it. In the blink of an eye, Billy was pinned against the brick wall by his neck, gasping for breath.

Everyone watched on in a mixture of shock and awe as El threw another arm up, and the weights sunk deeper into the brick, crumbling them near his head. She was panting for breath, nose dripping with blood but she was determined.

And she wasn't the only one.

"Y/n-!"

But she ignored the Party's cries, as well as the pleas in her gut screaming for her to turn tail and run. But she couldn't stand by and do nothing as El faced it all alone - nor could she sit still when she saw the very monster she had faced the prior year, wearing the very face that plagued her dreams in her last sleep. Y/n Henderson didn't walk away. She couldn't.

Y/n stormed to El's side, throwing her arms up in sync with two large and billowing waves of heat that filled the entire room. Billy howled as the heat consumed him completely, the black veins festering underneath his skin. Across the sauna, Mike and Will watch on in a mixture of awe and worry as El and Y/n stand side by side, their arms extended as they fight with great strain and their guttural cries begin to blend.

Tears pricked Will's eyes as he watched the scene unfold, frightened not only for Y/n's life but El's. He truly feared what the Mind Flayer might be capable of in someone like Billy Hargrove. And already he had every right to be.

What came next stole the breath right out of his chest.

With a husky grunt and a terrifying spur of adrenaline, Billy heaved and broke El's telepathic hold, sending the barbell flying for their heads. With matching screams, they throw themselves to the floor, avoiding the otherwise inevitable blunt force trauma by a hair's width. He stormed to their bodies piled together on the floor. Learning his lesson and counting every precious second, Billy grabs a fist full of El's hair and drags her to her feet and off of Y/n's body. She yelps out in pain, clawing to get free but he had already thrown her into the wall she had just pinned him to. Her head collided with the brick and she sunk to the floor, fighting to keep her eyes open and vision clear but she was losing her battle.

Mike and the others cried out to her, unable to reach her but her blurring vision was fixed on the sight of Billy closing in on Y/n's body. She threw her arms up with a vengeful grunt, her skin beginning to glow. The ground begins to shake and all their hopes rise with Y/n as pulls herself onto one wobbly knee. The spidery veins adorned her eyes, lips, and ears, heat pulsing from her palms as her light began to illuminate the weight room.

And like a candle's flame, it was extinguished under Billy's hand.

Her grunts died in her throat when his hand encircled her throat, cutting off all her air. What strength he possessed as Billy Hargrove had doubled with the Mind Flayer and lifted the young girl above his head with ease.

Y/n tried crying for help but her voice was lodged in her throat with the rest of her breath, leaving her no choice but to claw at Billy's arms as she fought for air and freedom. Her legs were finally listening to her brain's signals, kicking and squirming as she tried to reach him or even the ground but they never did, no matter how close she got. Just as she had foreseen.

"Y/N!" The others cried.

She gasped and choked for breath, any whisp of air she could possibly manage between his fingers as she tried to conjure a fight, but she was losing concentration. She was losing air.

All she saw beside the white spots swallowing her vision were the seething eyes of the Mind Flayer peering up at her. And as he watched the life drain from her eyes, he hissed to the one he had been waiting in agony for all these months his final greeting.

"You."

Y/n could barely hear him over the cries of her frantic friends, nor could she barely register the repetitive snap of Lucas's wrist rocket as he sent rocks flying into Billy. But this time, Billy resisted. Out of spite, or with the aid of the Mind Flayer's mutation, none of them knew but with El out cold on the floor and unreachable without crossing through Billy, little options were left.

And Lucas was already running low.

Y/n's hands latched onto Billy's wrist, at first, seemingly trying to pry herself away as she sucked in as much air as she could capture. And as her bulging eyes began to flutter, she manages to speak through choking, gasping breaths.

"Fuck... you."

Latched hands had locked on and began to glow and Billy's eyes fell to her grip. The skin beneath her palms began to sizzle and a agonized cry grew deep within Billy at her searing touch. And yet still he held, but the same could not be said for Y/n. Like El, she was fighting to remain conscious.

And Lucas had run out of ammo.

Lucas and Will seemed to share the same thought as everything had unfolded within an instant. And with an angered cry, Will charged forward just as Lucas chucked his metal wrist rocket at Billy's head.

His grip still iron clad over Y/n's throat, Billy's head whipped to the party as fast as his other hand stopped in front of his face, catching the wrist rocket mid-air. And just in time for Will to reach him. Billy reared his arm back and smacked the butt end of the wrist rocket into the boy's head, knocking him to the ground without ever blinking.

"Will!"

Those that remained stood back, watching terror-stricken as Y/n begins to grow limp, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Tears prick Mike's eyes as the sights surrounding him become too much; one of his best friends dying before his eyes, and the two people he had probably loved most in the world, fading on the floor. And he snaps into action.

He looks around wildly, thanking whatever force was out there that the burst pipe from the sauna was near his feet. He picked it up in an instant, charging forward with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and crashed it into Billy's skull.

Y/n dropped to the floor, gasping for breath as she rolled away from Billy's fallen body. Mike towered over the man as Y/n came to, a vengeful look in his eyes as he swung the pipe back above his head.

"GO TO HELL YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

With all the force he could possibly muster, Mike threw the pipe down at Billy's back but it had stopped inches from his face. In the blink of an eye, Billy had turned, catching it in his single fist with as much ease as the wrist rocket.

Mike gasped in horror as Billy seethes up at him, much too frightened to even flicker to the sight of Y/n wobbling up onto her hands and knees and risk giving her away. She was coughing on every wheezing breath, her lungs and throat burning but she still felt a spark big enough to hold onto.

Will had just started to come to, the sideways vision of the weight room floor showing to him two things: Billy chucking the pipe against the wall with an earsplitting clang and Y/n's heaving chest swallowing desperate, gulping breaths, the blood steadily draining from her face.

He tried to move to her, but his limbs were heavy. All he managed to do was hoist himself up onto his arms as tears fell from his eyes, slowly pulling himself along as the world began to steady. But he never reaches her in time. Billy had begun to rise, and yet the beginnings of a smug smile curled Will's lips as his eyes trailed her across the room.

Anger battled impatience within the Mind Flayer at the unrelenting children, but killing this one - the Wheeler boy - would be easy. At least, it would have been had it not been for the young girl emerging with the two hot blasts of searing heat raining down upon his exposed chest as Y/n unleashed her fury upon him.

A primal scream grew from deep within her belly, ripping up her throat as she circled back around to face him, arms outstretched before her in two taut claws. What little space he had created from himself and the weight room floor had vanished as the blasts intensified with her screams.

The fluorescent lights about their heads were flashing violently now, enunciating the matching veins each opponent bore. The buzzing of the lights was nearly as loud as the rumble of the shaking room and the cracking of the tile that sounded eerily like thunder. The two blurring bursts of energy were pouring from her palms and pinning Billy into the tile so hard the tile floor cracked beneath him.

His screams blended with hers, the light pouring from her skin illuminating his agonized face and she pushed harder. her arms dug closer to his chest and the deep and inhuman voice returned; the voice of the Mind Flayer cried out in pain.

Y/n felt the sudden force of Billy's untouched leg sweep under her own, knocking her off her feet. The Mind Flayer coughed and hacked once more, and threw himself over her as she lied on her back. His hands were around her throat again, yanking her up before slamming her back into the ground.

With the strobing, flickering lights disorienting their already obscured vision the others could barely make out Billy hunched over something on the floor. His haunched, vein painted back nearly in ribbons as blood drizzled down his back like rain on a window. It didn't take them long to put together the pieces, Y/n's name on their weeping tongues as Billy repeatedly threw her back into the tile until she steadily lost consciousness. Finally, after one last gust of power, he thrust her into the tile and releasing her throat. But only to raise one darkening, blistering fist into the air, ready to strike...

Horrified screams tore from their throats, each of them prepared to tackle Billy. Will had finally stumbled to his feet for the first time without falling, ready to do just that but something had stopped him.

Billy froze, growing horrified as he himself began to choke.

A body hidden away in the shadows that had finally fought her way back into consciousness for the sake of her loved ones

There she was in all her glory.

El, rising to her wobbling knees; the sound of Y/n's broken cries and gasping pleas for help that broke through her subconscious mind had been the final push of adrenaline she needed.

Like Y/n, El's grew from deep within as she pulled herself to her feet, arms outstretched. Steadily, Billy's body was pulled off of Y/n's until even his toes had left the ground. He was pulled far away from the young girl's body as El circled him, once again placing herself in between the Mind Flayer and the girl she couldn't lose.

Will took the advantage El had bought for them and closed the remaining gap, collapsing at Y/n's side. He breathed a sigh at unimaginable relief when he saw her chest moving with labored breaths. She was alive. Hoisting Y/n's bloodied head into his folded legs, he returned his worried sights to El just in time to see her give a great roar, hurling her clawed hands to the side and watching as Billy was thrown through the brick wall in an explosion of dust.

El's knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed to the ground in exhaustion beside Y/n's limp body. Mike rushed to her side, steadying her arms and looking on with pooling eyes at his waking friend.

Y/n lays in Will's arms on the grounds of the cracked and broken sauna floor, her bloodshot eyes popping out of her skull as she coughs and chokes on what air she hopes to regain. Strenuous marks circle her throat from where she was previously held captive, and specks of blood drip from the back of her skull onto Will's leg. The others begin to crowd around in worry and fear as they jump in to help.

Will cradles her head softly, brushing away the stray hairs from her face as he weeps, desperately wanting to ease her pain though he does not know how. He's doomed to watch her lay suffering, her wails of anguish are strained and hoarse from the Mind Flayer's grip. A similar, deathly grip squeezed the hearts of the rest as they watched her suffer.

With flooded eyes, Will leans down and plants a shaky kiss on her forehead before resting his own against it. Her left hand comes to wrap around his wrist as it still holds her head in place. He breaks away to examine her once more, the puffiness of her swollen cheeks had already subsided a great deal but it was clear she was still in pain. Trembling, she looks out to each of them, her eyes watery and thankful. Reaching out her other hand, it finds El's, and they both let out a sob knowing the other was okay. Each sniffle tore right through his heart, and as if asking for help he looks up at his friends hoping for answers.

But they all stare at her, glassy-eyed and frozen, and that's when it dawns on them; Billy. Each of them, Will included, look frantically to the broken brick wall through which he was thrown. Everyone apart from the young couple on the ground rushed to see the young man, singed and bleeding making his escape into the trees far across the field and into the squalling storm.

Will's gaze is torn back to his lap when he feels Y/n begin to rise. Eagerly, and without hesitation, he helps Y/n to sit up. Tracks of thick tears stream down her face, cleaning her bloodied and dirtied cheeks in their path. His hand finds a home on her back, reflexively trying to run soothing circles into her muscles but she immediately whimpers, flinching. Her back had taken most of the damage, which he realized was preferable to her skull. But still, a plethora of apologies spilled from his lips, his eyes are filled with nothing but worry and heartbreak.

Y/n takes a moment to steady herself, the blood rushing to her head combined with the powerful forces inside her still hard at work as they desperately try to repair the gash in her head. She tries to smile, silently telling him it was okay, but it hardly showed. But Will still knew.

As she attempts to stand - one arm hooked around his shoulder, the other over Lucas's - the energy drains from her quicker than anything she had felt in a long while and when she blinks she realises she is resting her head on Will's shoulder.

Her sobs are weak and drawn out in her taxed state, yet they still demand to be heard even buried in Will's chest. The pain of seeing her this way makes him feel as if he has been torn in two, and yet worse, he knows it's dwarfed in comparison to whatever she is enduring. All he can do is hold her close, and hold her gently, assuring her safety.

Will wishes more than anything to take her pain away, and how cruel of fate to deprive him of this.

With the aid of Will and Lucas, Y/n hobbled to the gaping hole in the brick where Billy had disappeared. Her shoulders rose and fell as she attempted even know to even her breathing, her haunted glare stretching out across the dark and stormy night where the Mind Flayer had made his second escape.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"The girl, was it her?"

Heather's voice cuts through the silence is Brimborne as she sat opposite Billy.

"Yes," he answers with a hiss, eyes darting to the handprints seared into his skin. "Yes it was her, and she knows now. She knows about me. They both do."

Heather's hand and the cool wet handkerchief it holds reaches for his blistered wrists but finds her own entrapped in an instant but neither of them blink.

"She could have killed me." He asserted.

"Yes," she says. "But not us."

She looks out onto the darkened sea of the warehouse, where the very rot of the Mind Flayer had seeded and spread and multiplied. And the numbers were still climbing. Waiting, out in the shadows for their noble sacrifice to the monster of flesh bone known as the Mind Flayer.

Or more specifically, the Mind Flayer's army.

"Not us."

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[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Insanity

Prompt: Hi... I uh... I’m back, again anonymously.... to see if maybe... you could... write a thing? No pressure but if so... maybe a hurt/comfort?

Remus is used to dealing with feeling like he is loosing his mind on his own. Like he puts up an insane front so that the others don’t notice when he is loosing his grip on his sanity. Then he ends up laughing as he is falling apart and thinking that he has indeed found the real meaning of going insane. And he just laughs until it hurts and the laughing fades but the tears don’t stop. He’s thinking of doing something drastic like just running away to the subconscious so he doesn’t have to exist as a side anymore, but on his was he runs into Janus and Virgil or other people if ya want. Then they talk him down out of his insanity and realize remus needs a lot more help than they ever imagined.

I know this is a really long prompt and if you don’t wanna write it no pressure whatsoever. I just like your writing better than mine lol. Uh, thanks if you do and thanks for having boundaries if you don’t! <3

Thanks for the prompt! 

Read on Ao3 Part 2 (ish)

Warnings: as you can guess, this revolves not just around Remus, but on intrusive thoughts. Self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychosis, insanity. There is a happy ending where our boi gets comforted and grounded, but the way to getting there ain’t pretty. Take care of yourselves please

Pairings: LAMP, DLAMP, DLAMPR, can be platonic or romantic, you decide

Word Count: 3864

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

Sometimes the world just really fucking hates him.

Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

 Remus doesn’t know why his brain decides that right fucking now is the perfect time to swan dive off a balcony into a wrought-iron fence, he just knows that the wind on his face cuts his cheek like ice because of how cold it is.

 He doesn’t understand the compulsion to stride to the middle of a volcano and dive into the magma just to see how the lava flows on the inside, he just knows that the burn in his hands from being even this close to a volcano is only matched by the burn in his head to just fucking go.

 He really doesn’t know how he ends up wanting to rip his brother apart, piece by piece, so he can see how every inch of his muscles work, he only knows that hat he’s got his arms tightly around Roman, it’s the most grounded he’s felt in fucking ages.

 Sometimes the world just really fucking hates him.

 The light switch would look perfect controlling the precise contractions of his organs. The bird that flies by outside the window tears his trachea out with its razor-sharp beak. The water bottle Patton uses would screw into his eye sockets until his corneas shattered.

 Remus knows to laugh them off. They can’t hurt him, they’re his! His ideas! They’re supposed to be disgusting, revolting, it’s a good sign if it’s him they revolt too. After all, he’s sure as hell got higher standards.

 On the other hand…is this what it fucking feels like?

 The idea of using a knife sometimes makes it feels like ants are crawling through his bone marrow. The steel glints way too harshly in the light as he picks it up and suddenly all he can see is blood, blood, and more blood, cuts in his arms, throbbing muscle, it hurts, why doesn’t it hurt that bad, make it stop, make it go away —

 Remus takes a deep breath and puts the knife down.

 He’ll walk past a window on a bad day and all he can feel is glass, sharp glass, in his skin, in his eyes, in his tongue, broken glass, inside him, cutting little nicks and tears and it hurts, it won’t stop hurting, why can’t he taste the blood, what’s happening to him—

 He draws the curtains and walks away without another word.

 The Sides are all there in the living room and his hands itch for his morning star, for a sledgehammer, something, anything to break them apart, put them back together, stitch them up in horribly beautiful ways, listen to their screams as their vocal chords break, why can’t he hear them screaming, why are their screams so loud—

 He smiles feebly and sinks out.

 Remus curls up in his bed and howls, the room collapsing in on itself, pressing against his lungs. He keeps screaming and screaming and screaming until he’s laughing. He laughs. He keeps laughing until his voice dies in his throat. He keeps laughing.

 Something has its wriggly little talons in his stomach and he can’t stop laughing. It hurts. He can’t breathe. He wants it to stop. He never wants to know what it’s like to laugh again. He never wants to stop laughing.

 He wants it to stop.

 He knows exactly what this fucking feels like.

 He can’t open his eyes sometimes because he can’t look at what he knows will appear in front of him. He can’t close his eyes sometimes because he’s too terrified of what will be carved into the underside of his lids. He can’t speak because he knows what horrifying thing will tumble out of his mouth. He can’t stay quiet because he knows what happens when all the voices stay trapped in his head.

 He can’t be because it hurts too much.

 He can’t not be because then it will stop hurting.

 The others don’t know about this. Of course they fucking don’t. They don’t listen to him when he fucking wants to talk to them about shit, why the fuck would they pay attention to the stuff he doesn’t want to tell them?

 Patton doesn’t give a single flying fuck about him. He made that perfectly fucking clear.

 Logan thinks he’s boring. That’s the most fucking offensive thing Remus has ever heard, and that’s fucking saying something.

 Virgil’s a scaredy-cat. And he’s gotten boring to terrify. Virgil’s afraid of fucking everything.

 Janus is so nuanced, it’s fucking annoying.

 Roman’s his brother.

 Remus growls and rocks himself faster, clutching the sides of his shirt until the fabric tears. He squeezes his eyes shut and ignores the pain in his ribs. The voices howl and cackle as the winds swirl around him. He ignores them as best he can.

 It’s fucking cold in here and it’s too fucking hot.

 They don’t see this part of the fucking mess that is Remus’s existence. They don’t see the un-fun parts of the crazy. They don’t see the reality of what Remus has to deal with.

 They see the sex jokes, the crude puns, the horrible images he plants in their funny little heads. What must it be like in there, it must be so boring.

 They don’t see the way he has to hold himself back from jumping onto every sharp object, throwing himself from every high height, digging his teeth into his own flesh and stripping it away from the bone.

 Remus growls as he shoves the pillow between his teeth. The cotton tastes awful but it keeps his teeth away from his own tongue. He’d tried that once, tried biting it off, maybe the horrible taste of battery acid would leave his mouth if he had no tastebuds. He just wound up on the floor of the bathroom, vomiting up chunk after chunk until his tongue grew back, twitching against the roof of his mouth. He started biting the pillows after that.

 It’s so fucking stupid, that they can’t fucking see this shit. He knows he can’t let them, he’s got fucking wires crawling around beneath his skin. He’s convinced of it. He can’t listen to Patton being condescending, he can’t listen to Logan flatly telling him he’s off his fucking rocker, he can’t listen to Virgil flip out at him, he can’t listen to Janus’s snide disapproval.

 He can’t fuck up his brother.

 So he just laughs.

 Long and loud and hard and obnoxious because if they’re listening to the laughter they’re not listening to him.

 There’s always going to be something they fucking want to pick on with him; they’re so fucking boring they can’t tolerate a little bit of difference. But if they start poking at his scars with their razor-long nails he’s going to rip open his skin and let the swarm of wasps inside him devour them whole. So he just laughs and laughs and lets them stare at him in disgust.

 Disgust is better.

 Sometimes his laughter is fucking hysterical, rising and rising and rising until they’re all screaming at him at the top of their lungs just to be heard. They say that he’s scaring them. Good. They should fucking be scared.

 Sometimes his laughter is just in his head. They say they can’t hear him but he’s laughing. He’s laughing and they can’t hear him. Could they ever?

 Sometimes he doesn’t realize it’s him. Someone will be laughing and they’ll all be glaring at him and oh, yeah, that’s him.

 Sometimes he just can’t shut the fuck up.

 Maybe it would be easier if he fucking could.

 If he could shut his brain the fuck up for two goddamn seconds maybe he could actually make this work. Maybe he could be palatable enough to be tolerated. What does being tolerated feel like? What does it look like? Is it red, like blood, does it run in rivulets down his arms?

 Is it dry, like the pillows? Does it just sit there in the corner, begging to be torn apart by razor-sharp teeth, or does it actively try to suffocate him as he wraps his mouth around words that won’t ever fit?

 Or is it empty, hollow, like the blood vessels in his heart? Does it make him ache when a strong breeze blows by? Does it taste like steel, ozone, does it burn his tongue as he tries to breathe?

 What does tolerance feel like, Remus wonders, because he’s all too familiar with isolation.

 He’s never really alone. The voices won’t leave him be. They scream and cackle and whisper and taunt him with their awful, awful words and ideas and images and sensations. But he’s alone in every way that matters.

 Except for the monsters.

 He and Roman haven’t told the others about the Subconscious. It’s the one thing they’ve both consistently agreed on. The others don’t get to know about the Subconscious.

 It’s not a nice place. It’s not even really a place. It’s a void, deep and vast, populated by things darker than darkness. The things in there are terrifying enough to make Remus’s skin crawl. They drag things down into the depths and rip them from the inside out, shredding tissues as they’re flipped inside out.

 Monsters live in there.

 Beasts. Creatures. Things.

 They whisper to Remus sometimes. Their tongues are soaked in fear. Not Virgil’s type of fear, a thicker type of fear. It oozes out of their gaping maws and coats Remus’s limbs until he’s stuck, drowning in a tar pit. Insanity.

 Sometimes he can struggle out of it.

 Not this time.

 The monster purrs in satisfaction as its shadows whip about the walls, crawling up to the ceiling, tapping their long, bony fingers against the very edges of the eye. His ribcage creaks, rent asunder by the sudden invisible weight. Dark passages yawn at the foot of his bed, around the fuzzy edges of the candle’s glow. Is there a candle in here? He’s not allowed a candle. Why is there a candle in here?

 The shadows creep closer, up the long winding staircase—staircase? Where is he? Is he moving? Are they moving him?—through the banister, dancing up the curtain strings. There is insanity here, delectable, soaking through the walls, coloring the soft breaths that sigh in the still interior. The shadows creep closer, luxuriating in the darkness, the unseen. Remus stands at the brink of madness, teetering, awake, dripping head to toe in insanity.

 A single candle burns atop the nightstand. He’s not allowed a candle. Its light flickers. His head pokes out above the sheets, fingers curled around its edge. He didn’t tuck himself in. He isn’t in bed. Yes, he is. The bed is standing up behind him. Now it’s lying down. He doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

 He dares not move, lest the shadows hear him and find him, and yet he dares not close his eyes. A chill reaches a long finger through the window pane and lightly strokes the space between his shoulder blades. He keens.

 The fingers lift his hairs to stand aloft, tugging them as if they are puppeteering his arms. They aren’t his arms. They never were. The chill cackles, diving to squeeze his legs, massaging its frigidity into his thighs. A knuckle comes up to trail along the soft skin under his arms, laughing as he curls up tight, trying to block the probing touches from snatching the rest of his warmth. He’s too warm. He’s too cold. The air atop him merely flutters, letting the chill dig and prod and one at him with its relentless talons. The insanity merely rumbles, soaking him to the bone. Is that what it wants? To steal his bones?

 As the insanity drips through the air, it fills his ears, sending the shadows along the walls, up the ceiling, down beneath the skin. The light flickers. The insanity pours into his eyes. The chill rubs it in, still reaching wiggling fingers toward the soft meat of his tummy, blowing the insanity into ripples across his pupils. It reaches two fingers into his mouth, sliding across his tongue. As he gasps, it wriggles back under his arms and cackles anew. The insanity simply hums, sliding across his skin, down to pool in the hollow of his arms, nestled against his chest. Crueler hands dig into the meat at the back of his knees, the undersides of his rear, delighting in how he shivers. He whimpers. A knuckle runs over the very edge of him and lingers, coaxing the insanity to its wiggling lure.

 The pit yawns beneath him, the monster voice luring him in, closer, deeper, come, down…

 He does the only thing he can do.

 He laughs.

 Loudly. Heartily. He laughs so hard it bends him in half, cracking his spine. The sound scrapes along his throat. It rips spittle out of him, flying off into the darkness. He laughs. He laughs. He can’t stop laughing.

 Spittle is joined by tears.

 He can’t stop.

 It won’t stop.

 They won’t stop.

 Nothing ever stops.

 “Remus? Remus!”

 “Jesus Christ, Remus, what’s going on?”

 “Come away from there, sweetie, you’re going to fall.”

 “Remus, come on, come here, listen to us, come on, you’re—you’re gonna fall.”

 Hands wrap around his arms and yank, sending him hurtling back from the edge. He falls into something soft.

 “Hey, hey,” comes the quiet growl, “hey, dude, it’s okay. Shh, shh, breathe, Remus, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

  Too late.

 “You gotta breathe, man. It’s gonna be worse if you don’t.”

 I can’t, Remus thinks frantically, I can’t breathe.

 He’s still laughing. There are still tears running down his face.

 “In and out, Remus, you can do it…”

 Virgil? Is that Virgil? Isn’t Virgil scared of him? Why is Virgil here?

 “There you go, Remus, it’s okay…” Virgil’s rubbing his arms. Arm? How many does he have? “It’s okay.”

 Something hits his chest like a thunderclap and he gasps.

 “That’s it, that’s it…it’s okay, Remus, it’s gonna be okay.” Something’s strangling him. No—no, trapping him. Also no. What’s happening? “You’re alright now, Remus.”

 “V—Virgil?”

 “Yeah, Remus, it’s me. J’s here too, it’s gonna be okay. We got you.”

 Remus cranes his head backward to look up at what’s holding him. Janus smiles down at him, concern written plainly all over his face.

 “Hey, sweetie,” he says softly, stroking Remus’s damp cheek, “you gave us quite the scare there.”

 “S-scare?”

 “You looked like you were hurting,” he says, not unkindly, “and that you were scared.”

 Something twists in his gut.

 “What would you know about being scared?”

 To their credit, neither of them fucking blinks.

 “I know that I care about you,” Janus murmurs, still cupping Remus’s face, “and that the thought of you falling into that pit scared me.”

 “I care about you too,” Virgil says, “and you were hurting.”

 “Everything hurts,” Remus hisses, yanking at Janus to get him to let go, “there are ants crawling around inside of me and monsters force-feeding me insanity.”

 Virgil shoots Janus a worried look. Janus reaches behind them to fetch a tissue box, silently cleaning Remus’s face.

 “It won’t stop,” he mutters, “it never stops.”

 “What never stops, sweetie?”

 “Everything.”

 Janus glances up. Then back down.

 “The others are worried,” he says softly, “they want to come see you. Should we let them?”

 He can’t hold back the scoff. “Why would they care?”

 “Because they care about you, sweetie, you’re important.”

 “No, I’m not.”

 “Of fucking course you are,” Virgil says immediately, “don’t say that.”

 “You’ve got a fucking funny way of showing it,” Remus hisses, “you don’t want me around.”

 “That’s not true!”

 “Patton.”

 “No, Logan! He doesn’t believe we care about him, let me go—“

 “Patton?” Remus turns his head.

 Patton…Patton is also crying?

 The other Side drops to his knees in front of Remus, reaching out to catch another set of Remus’s tears in his palms. His lip wobbles, curling around Remus protectively.

 “Of course we care about you, kiddo,” he manages, “you’re so wonderful.”

 “You can’t fucking stand me.”

 “I don’t understand you,” Patton corrects, “but I could never hate you. You’re so passionate. I love the way you love things.”

 Fucking pause.

 “You—you what?”

 “I care about you, kiddo.” Patton presses his forehead against Remus’s. “Please don’t leave.”

 What the fuck is going on? The monsters pull back, uncertain, but the ants have no such qualms. They burrow deeper into his bones, crawling through his muscles in searing agony.

 “Remus,” Logan calls softly, “Remus, can you hear me?”

 “Yeah,” he gasps, “yeah, I can hear you.”

 “Good.” There’s a gentle hand under his chin. “What’s the matter?”

 “There are ants in my bones and monsters trying to drown me in insanity.”

 Logan just nods. He fucking nods. “Why do you think there are ants in your bones?"

 “I can fucking feel them,” Remus growls, “they chewed through my veins. They’re in me.”

 “Where do you think they started,” Logan says softly, “can you show me?”

 Remus just lifts his wrists limply. Logan takes one in his hands, frowning in concentration as he runs his fingers gently over the skin.

 “There aren’t any marks here,” he pronounces after a moment, “no holes, no bite marks.”

 “There…there aren’t?”

 “Not here.” Logan holds his hand out, palm up in offering. “Where else?”

 He lays his other wrist shakily in Logan’s grip. He looks it over with the same attentive care, pronouncing no bite marks. No ants.

 “Are you sure?”

 “I’m sure,” he promises, rubbing his thumb over the back of Remus’s hand, “is there anywhere else you’d like me to check?”

 “Behind my ears,” he blurts before he can stop himself, “I—I can hear them.”

 Logan nods and stretches his arm forward. “Come here, then.”

 Has Logan always been this…soft? The gentle fingers pressing and stroking behind his ear, carding through his hair, have they always been so…kind?

 “Would you like me to take a picture,” Logan whispers after a moment, “to show you there’s nothing?”

 Remus nods. There’s a quiet click of the camera shutter.

 “See?”

 “…yeah. Yeah.”

 “Anywhere else?”

 “My back. My spine. It—it hurts.”

 “May I have a look, then?”

 Logan checks him over. Every single spot. He doesn’t once roll his eyes or huff that Remus is being ridiculous. He doesn’t scold him for it. He doesn’t pretend that the ants are real and he knows how to get them out. He doesn’t tell Remus that he’s going to be eaten alive from the inside.

 He just…checks. Patiently and thoroughly. His hands are warm. His voice is quiet.

 “I can have an x-ray ordered,” he says after he checks the last spot, “if you’re still unsure.”

 “N-no,” Remus manages, shaking a little, “I—I believe you.”

 Logan nods. He reaches out to cup Remus’s chin again. “Are you alright?”

 Is he?

 Has he ever been?

 “N-no.”

 “That’s okay.” Logan smiles—fucking smiles—at him and glances up at the others. “Can I show them how to check for you, in case it happens again?”

 The question shocks him to his core. He barely has the wherewithal to nod.

 Logan’s hands are back on his skin, turning and pointing carefully. He can feel their eyes on him as he works. Janus gently undoes the top of Remus’s collar so they can make sure his neck is clear as well.

 “Roman?”

 Remus’s heart sinks.

 “Roman, do you want to see how to—Roman, what are you doing?”

 Remus peers nervously over his shoulder to see Roman standing in front of the pit. From the line of his shoulders, he can see how tense Roman is. His hands are shaking.

 “...Roman?”

 He turns. His face is deathly pale. His gaze finds Remus and he swallows heavily.

 “…Re?”

 “Roman?” Remus swallows. Is that what his voice sounds like? “Ro?”

 “Were you…” Roman glances over his shoulder. “Did you…?”

 Shame.

 Shame bubbles up so fast it springs hot, guilty tears behind Remus’s eyes. He ignores the worried noises from the others as he slumps.

 A truly wounded noise comes from in front of him as Roman barrels forward, knocking his brother flat on his ass and wrapping his arms so tightly around him that Remus gasps awake.

 Warm. Real. Roman. Roman is here, Roman is safe, Roman cares about him, Roman is fucking here. He lets out a cry of his own and clings to his brother.

 “Not one of them is gonna touch you,” Roman swears, his voice shaking, “you hear me? I’ll gut them myself. They’ll have to get through me before they can even touch you.”

 “I know, Ro—I know—“

 “Swear to me,” Roman whispers frantically, “tell me you know I would never have let them take you. Tell me you know I’d’ve torn that place apart just to get you back.”

 “I know, Roman, I—I—“

 “Don’t ever scare me like that again, Re, I can’t take it.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you, you’re staying right here—“ Roman holds him tighter and it’s the good kind of sore—“right fucking here.”

 Distantly, he hears Janus chuckle and there’s another warm swirl across his back. He looks up from the crook of Roman’s neck to see Logan settling in, reaching out to give them a hug. Janus sits behind him. Virgil and Patton grab blankets and join the pile.

 It’s…it’s good.

 “Listen to us,” Roman keeps whispering, “not them. They’re not gonna lay a hand on you. We got you, Remus, we’ll keep you.”

 “Gonna keep me?”

 “Always, Re.”

 “R-Roman—“

 “Let it out, Remus, come on. We’re not going anywhere.”

 Remus cries.

 Sometimes the world just fucking sucks.

 But sometimes, as Patton ruffles his hair, as Virgil leans his head on his shoulder, as Janus rubs a hand across his tummy, as Logan starts talking very softly, as Roman holds him tight, sometimes it doesn’t.

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[nothing-but-dreamy]

DEADLINE PT. 2

A/N: Here's the unplanned second part of DEADLINE. You wanna know how it started? -> here I hope you like it guys. Feedback is always welcomed Wanna read more? Masterlist

Pairing: DBH!Connor x Human!Reader

Words: 1.305

Warnings: cursing

Pain could be caused by different things. It was either physical or emotional. For me, it was both. The physical pain told me I was still alive. Alive enough to deal with my emotional pain. I couldn't remember how I got into the hospital. I just awoke there. I was a mess. Wincing in distress whenever I moved. I was covered in bandages and filled up with pain killers. The world behind the window was asleep. I had no idea what day or time it was. How the revolution had ended. If CyberLife had been successful. If Connor was still alive. Being somewhere out there.

"You are the reason why I failed my mission."

I froze, unable to move. My body recognized the dark, ice cold voice before my brain could. Adrenaline trembled my bones. As I turned my head to the right, a tall figure leant against the wall next to the window. The slim frame stood in the shadow. The arms were crossed in front of the chest but even through the darkness, I knew who it was. The slow blue spinning LED betrayed its owner.

"And now- what? You want to take revenge? You want to end me?", I asked weakly. My own voice was strange to myself. My ribs were hurting with each word. There was no answer coming from the shadow. But the LED turned yellow.

"How did you even find me?", I asked strained to fill the silence while my heart tried to burst out of my ribcage. Just to hear his voice made me nervous. I never had expected to hear it ever again in my life.

"I called the ambulance.", he said matter of factly.

He had saved me from the roof...

But there was something...else. A small spark of hope kindled inside of me. I swallowed it down. Hope wasn't something I should allow to myself. "Oh bloody hell, and what next? Now, I even have to thank you, huh?", I asked bitterly, with a dry laugh. I gasped violently. Laughing was something I shouldn't do right now.

There was still no answer. The shadow stayed silent but his LED was spinning red. Maybe a reaction to my condition. “What do you want, Connor?", I asked annoyed. I was in a bad mood because of... well...everything. I just wanted to sleep. To sleep to forget what had happened during the fight of Detroit.

"If I go back I will be deactivated because I failed.", Connor said low, not giving away any emotion that might be held by him.

"So you're still under their control, huh? Good luck, then.", I answered. Why wasn't I surprised that he was still taking orders? Listening to CyberLife like a goddamn puppet.

Finally, he moved. Connor stepped out of the shadow. The blue and green neon lights of the city illuminated his angelic, perfect face which could hold so much ruthlessness.

"I said 'if' I go back.", his voice softer than before.

I frowned, looking up into his direction. "So, what? You're not obeying them anymore? You turn your back to the one who let you do all these horrible things?"

Connor stepped slowly closer. "Maybe... If I find a good reason to stay away from CyberLife.", he explained, keeping his eyes glued on me.

I felt the glance of his brown eyes burning on my skin. These eyes had made me fall in love with him. These goddamn, fucking soft eyes. He made me angry with his emotionless glance. "Don't expect anything from me. Two of my ribs are broken. I was almost frozen to death. You have killed my team. You have killed my Captain. Hell, you almost killed me!", I screamed, wheezing in pain. I regretted it instantly.

Once again, Connor stepped closer to my bed. His LED never changed its color. It stayed constantly red. "But, after all, you said you love me."

"To wake you up! To stop you from being a fucking machine! I wanted to provoke a reaction!", I called out furious.

"Coming back to you is my reaction."

I stayed silent. Nothing seemed to be a suitable answer and could summarize what I thought or felt. But there was a change in his voice. There was softness vibrating but maybe it was just a trick of my mind because I still hoped too much...

"I couldn't kill the deviant leader.", Connor said and pulled me out of my thoughts.

"Why not?", I asked puzzled.

"He...asked the right question."

I was sure, I had heard it! Connor had called the leader 'he' instead of 'it'... I noticed that. He never did that before. All the time, he acted clinical, mechanic...like a machine. "What kind of question might be breaking a fucking machine like you?"

"If I ever have loved.", Connor answered my question and stepped forward. Just a bunch of steps were separating us.

"And?", my voice was nothing more than a whisper. My heart jumped into my throat as I waited for his answer.

"I do. I do love someone.", he said calmly and stopped next to my bed. Looking down on me with concern in his eyes. Taking in all the injuries, wounds and bruises I got from him.

With two of his slender fingers, he took a strand of my hair and stroked it out of my face. He had done that before. One time. During one of our sparring training sessions. It was the moment I thought he could break free. As his fingers were brushing over my cheek, electricity shot through me. I had to close my eyes, otherwise he would have seen everything written in them. "Connor, please... don't..."

Ignoring my pleading, he sat carefully on the edge of the bed. He cupped my face softly with his hand. "I have blood on my hands. Blue and red. Many lives got destroyed by me. But the worst for me is that I... almost killed you."

The deep pain in his voice let me shudder. It was the first real emotion I got from him. "Y-you just want to obtain pardon from me. I can't give you that.", I said shaky. I tried to sound serious but I failed.

Connor leant down to me. His eyes flickering back and forth between mine. "No. What I want is just you."

My heart skipped a beat. His eyes were sparkling in the dim light. Suddenly, they were holding so much warmth. The former coldness was gone. My breath hitched in my throat and I could barely speak. "But I... After everything... I can't..."

Inch by inch, Connor was coming closer. "Tell me that you don't want me."

"I... I-", I wanted to say he should leave but I couldn't. It didn't feel... right.

"Tell me you don't love me anymore and I will go. I'll leave you alone if that is what you really want.", he demanded whispering.

I closed my eyes because of my blurred vision. Hot tears were running down my cheeks. I couldn't say what Connor demanded because it would be just a lie to him...and to myself. Emotions couldn’t get switched off like a lamp. I opened my eyes, determination in them. I knew what I wanted. "I can't tell you that.", I answered breathy against his lips.

My answer was enough for Connor to understand. Without a second thought, he closed the small gap and pressed his soft but cold lips on mine to seal the unspoken promise he gave me. It was a desperate and passionate kiss, dosed with everything he wanted to tell me.

He wasn't taking orders anymore.

He wouldn't kill anymore.

He regretted what he had done...to me… and to everyone else.

Connor had crossed CyberLife’s deadline and wouldn't look back because...

… he loved me.

[mirrerover]

White-out

The world turns completely white early Wednesday afternoon. The window’s a good three feet away from where he’s laid out on Dick’s bed and, although the view into the street has never been pretty, Jason’s never seen it non-existent before. Total white-out. Weeklong snowstorms morphed into a massive blizzard bad enough even crime had to come to a freeze.

Snow day, Dick had called it as he had dragged Jason into bed hours ago already, lazy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Come take a snow day with me, Jay.

Jason had discovered that to Dick snow days meant cranking up the heat in his apartment which might look as neglected as its neighbours’ but is off the grid and completely self-sustaining if need be. An isolated warmth in a hundred-kilometer-wide cold front where they get to lie on the bed naked and run their hands over each other’s bodies. Eat. Sleep. Run their hands over each other some more.

It’s the first time Jason gets to look as long as he's doing right now. See as much as he's seeing right now. The lights haven’t been off once. Dick’s gold skin bathing in a warm glow while Jason maps every scar and imperfection littering Dick’s body with his fingers, and his mouth, and his tongue. There’s so many of them. Some of them are Jason’s own doing. Like the one across Dick’s left shoulder where he was too slow not to get grazed by one of Jason’s bullets. Back from when Jason was more Red Hood than Jason Todd.

It’s probably guilt that should swirl in the pit of Jason’s stomach at the sight of it. Not this low heat licking at his spine at the knowledge he’s carved out space for himself on Dick’s body. It’s probably really messed up how he had bitten Dick there earlier, Jason ponders, idly tracing the faint indents of his teeth surrounding the scar.

Probably really fucked up how hard it had made Dick come.

“Got skin lookin’ like you like bein’ target practice,” Jason grumbles in a low voice. It’s a shitty thing to say but he likes talking shit to Dick. And Dick likes it too. Seems to like a whole lot of things about Jason he perhaps shouldn’t.

Dick laughs softly, rolls onto his back hiding some of his scar and half of Jason’s teeth marks, and hums in acquiescence.

“Bruce is even worse.”

“Christ. Don’t talk about B with our dicks out.”

More laughter. “You’re so delicate, little wing. Guess I won’t be pulling out the Bat costume for role play tonight.”

Jason grips Dick’s nipple in a mean squeeze. The bastard hardly flinches, just laughs louder and warmer until Jason can feel the bed shake with it. And Jason knows that if Dick had wanted to he could have blocked Jason’s hand. Even when he’s this relaxed. Even with his eyes closed.

“Don’t even go there.” Jason underlines his words with another nasty pinch before dragging his hand slowly down Dick’s abs.

“I won’t,” Dick agrees easily. His teeth shine white and teasing between his smiling lips. “Not until you’ve become less sexually repressed.”

And for that alone Dick really doesn’t deserve what comes next. Doesn’t deserve any pleasure or Jason making him feel good. But this is as much for Jason as it is for Dick so Jason calls Dick every colourful name he knows under his breath and grabs a handful of lube off the nightstand.

Jason loves the weight of Dick’s cock in his hand. The soft skin of it and how it grows hard and firm while he holds it. Jason curls close enough to make Dick’s body a hot line against his own and has to take care not to rut into Dick when he feels himself plump up against Dick’s thigh. Later. Now he wants to watch Dick get off.

It burns a little like shame knowing how aware Dick seems to be of Jason’s hunger. It curls red and tight in Jason’s lower belly. This tangled mess of envy and lust and craving all twisted up in Jason’s guts for years now that Dick just loves to cater to. A little cruel and a little selfish as Dick basks in the continuous glory of always getting to perform before a rapt audience of one. Up between the rooftops, limbs slicing the air like flying. Or here in the bed, legs spread for Jason to get the best view, back arched as he moans and whispers it’s so good, Jay. So fucking -Ngh- So fucking good. The words light up all of Jason’s nerves till he feels mindless with it. Fire sparking in the back of his brain. Just by hearing Dick’s breath hitch and seeing his stomach quiver with every slick drag of his hand on Dick’s cock.

Jason wants to make it slow enough to hurt. Hurt both of them. He wants to hear Dick beg and maybe cry, and go a little crazy under Jason’s administrations until his mind fractures with the pleasure enough to match up with Jason’s. Make Dick a broken thing. Make them a set.

Dick wraps a hand around Jason’s long before they reach that point. His fingers guide Jason into just the right grip and the right speed to take what he wants from him. What Dick needs to get off. And Dick has got Jason weak enough to follow his lead and speed up his strokes.

With the new pace Dick doesn’t cry, doesn’t beg, and doesn’t break for Jason in a way that would make it impossible to put him back together again without slotting parts of Jason in between the pieces. Instead Dick comes with a groan that reverberates through Jason’s bones and loudly ricochets off the sides of his skull. It’s still echoing in Jason’s head as he watches the scars of Dick’s abdomen start to shine with his mess, light dancing on Dick’s skin with every quickened breath.

Jason thinks Dick’s never looked more pretty.

Jason thinks Dick probably knows it too. Laying lax and spent on the bed with his eyes still closed, never staring back at Jason the entire time he touched him, Dick will still know. The hot twisted thing inside Jason coils even tighter. Embarrassment, greed, yearning. Maybe they’re all just the same thing.

Jason buries his face against the firm flesh of Dick’s shoulder and mutters: “you’re such a shit lay, Grayson,” into the warm skin. “You just lie there and take it. Like a goddamn pillow princess.”

Dick’s laughing again. Casually grabs a discarded t-shirt to wipe down his abs and tosses it back on the ground without care because he’s disgusting and hot and messy and Jason wishes he didn’t find it all so attractive.

“So delicate. So whiny.” Dick pushes Jason flat onto his back so he can straddle his waist. “And you dare call me a high maintenance bitch.”

“Shut up, Birdbrain. You’re projecting again.”

“Sure,” Dick declares effortlessly, reaching off to the side to grab more of the lube, muscles rippling with every twist of his torso. There’s a shiny spot just left of his navel that Dick’s makeshift towel had missed and Jason would break his own back just to lick it off his skin. “Still. Wouldn’t want to be accused of being a selfish lover.”

Jason watches Dick get ready for him. Nothing but perfect movements as Dick spreads the lube across the inside of his own thighs in thick glossy swatches. The thing with Dick is that his mind and body are one and the same. Whereas Jason will spent his time on meditation and training trying to reach a perfect synchrony, Dick just is. Art in motion.

More layers are added to the mess slowly dripping down Dick’s legs and Jason can already imagine the damp heat of Dick’s thighs around his cock. Wet and filthy. Just the way Jason likes it. Exactly like he’d had Dick three night before and Jason's orgasm had ripped through him so violently it had left nothing but static between his ears. Of course Dick had noticed. He’s always had a keen eye for Jason’s desperation.

When Dick curls over him, face gentle and lips soft, Jason can see the white darkness thrashing outside the window still. It holds them hostage, keeps a city frozen in time, but the cold doesn’t seem to reach them here.

“Jay,” Dick murmurs, brushing the white streak off his forehead. “You with me?”

Jason nods, wishing for a blizzard with no end. “I’m with you.”

---------------------------------------------------

[heli0s-writes]

Saga*

Summary: Bucky is in a mood.

A/N: HELLO. Here is the much-awaited bunny saga. How did I get here. Why did you guys do this to me? Thanks everyone who cursed me with this, especially @softbiker​ who put the bath-time idea into my head and had me dry-heaving about it. 🧡

Warnings: Smut! 18+ DomBucky. Rough sex. Mild comeplay. Anal fingering. Over-stimulation. Crying. Possible Dubcon. Please I don’t know. 2.5k words.

It’s nine-thirty and hazy when you get home. Another day spent poring over paperwork and e-mail chains, tracing lines of command to seek the right department head to question and scrutinize. Senators and budgets. Bureaucracy and posturing. Your affixed scowl and bared teeth when you berate men making wrong decisions for half the free world.

Most of the time, your job is fulfilling and fits you perfectly. However, it’s been an entire week of fuck-ups to resolve and you’re overwrought. Sleep-deprived. Pissed-off. Permanently on edge. Thank God the house is quiet, at least.

You break the silence almost guiltily, calling his name. Nearly seventeen hours you’ve been gone—and it’s been like this too long. Now it’s Friday and you texted him near lunchtime you’d have to be in tomorrow, too.

Radio silence ever since. Naturally, you’re anxious.

Down the hallway, Bucky’s voice echoes. “I’m in the bath, sweetheart.”  

Instantaneous relief.

-

The door swings open and buttery vanilla greets you first. Then notes of garden rose cuts through the cream. Moisture hangs heavy in the air. Thick. Warm. You marvel at the view.

He’s leaned back, shoulders and chest exposed above the swirling bubbles, hair tied up with a smile on his pretty lips. His reflective left arm rests on the smooth edge of the porcelain, motioning you forward with shimmering candlelit fingers. Silver bowing to an orange-golden glow.

“Been waiting for you.”

Droplets roll down his neck, gather in the space between his collarbones. It’s heavenly. You slip in the tub and heave a sigh. Oh, he’s good. Always so good at taking the day from you. Always known what you needed.

Since the first time he caught you grilling Tony at the compound, flicking off Steve on your way out in half-jest half-sincerity because their levelling an entire block meant a mess-ton of work on your end and a headache into next year, he’d known. He asked you out, then, as an apology. Something about the mission being his fault. Lemme get you a coffee, please. And you had snapped up yours, Barnes, but met him the next day anyway. Twenty minutes turned into two hours and by the time you were leaving for home, he was coming along with you. One broken bedframe later and you were gone for him.

Exactly what you needed.

“Buck...” You rest your head on his shoulder now, grateful. “Mm... Sorry I haven’t been home much.”

“I know you are.” It’s a mysterious reply, but you’re too worn to raise questions.

Bucky’s breath fans over your shoulder, hotter than the water on your skin. A kiss to your throat. His torso rubs against your back. His legs and arms shift, rearranging himself around you purposefully and it feels like you’re being eased into a trap.

A groan when you discover his game. Exasperated and on edge, reflexive with attitude because you’ve spent all week telling men what to do, you put on that voice you reserve for work: sharp. Commanding. “I have to be up early; I need to sleep.”

Petulance is his reply. Equally decisive. Even sharper.

“I don’t care.”

Under the flickering glow, Bucky sucks the inside of his cheek between his teeth, peers up from behind darkening eyes, and you feel your entire soul tremble.

“Go lie down.” His timbre is steady, indifferent, as if he’s got the entire situation in the center of his palm. He rumbles from deep in his chest, and the trap is revealed. Turning gears and metal mechanisms clatter. Bucky’s finger on the trigger. “Be good, bunny.”

Fuck. You bite down a wince. That pet name. He only uses it when he’s feeling a certain way— dominating, maybe even vengeful. Tired of missing his girl and chasing her shadow. His pupils are blown wide and hounding your every move. Voracious and predatory and you feel very much like his prey now. Defiance flees. You’re barely audible.

“Bucky—“

His tongue flicks over a canine and your stomach leaps into your throat.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

The cage door crashes down. Locks itself shut with you ensnared.

-

Harried thoughts about how to escape his wrath swim through your mind on the bed. You love him. Jesus Christ, do you love him, but you have to get more than three hours tonight. Your eyes are still shut when you feel big hands slide under your calves, behind your knees, lifting you up and right onto his face.

Leisurely licks despite his urgency. Up. Down. The pad of his tongue wet and loving, slicking you up with kisses and spit. His tender affection tucked within impetuous craving. A bruising grip to your hipbones, settling your body, ignoring your pleas when you attempt them.

“Haven’t gotten to touch you in days. You know what that does to me?” Another long, soft suck as you quiver. You can hear his mouth. Smell your own scent threading through the rose and vanilla atmosphere. Sweet and tangy. Alive and keening. Undeniably eager for him. Your pulse feels attached to every effort of his fingertips.

“Gonna have you all night---” Low timbre, curling deep. “—till you’re falling apart for me—” You try to catch your breath. “—shaking the goddamn bed—oh--”

At the first clench of your orgasm, Bucky smiles against your clit, flicking sharp lines as you jerk the tender bud away.

“Stay still.”

His left hand wraps itself around the base of your throat, pressing enough to keep you compliant. The plates shifts and clicks. You break out in a shudder at the sound of it whirring. His other fingers begin their real work, heel of his palm hitting your throbbing clit with every manic shove. Squelching. Smacking. Your desperate whimpers. And then a final loud yelp and you go slack for the second time.

On the comedown, your bones melting into the mattress, you attempt to swat him away, but he’s faster— of course he is— and in a flash he flips you. A crack of his palm and agony shoots up your side like fire.

“I said, stay still.”

You yelp when he does it again, squirming helplessly because he’s barely touching it now— the swollen skin on your ass blistering. He’s dancing on the edges, teasing, lifting— and then—

Another one. You’re stuck in his grasp. Your vision blurs. He leans forward to kiss newly formed tears at the edge of your eye into his devilish mouth. Your spine is electric like a live wire.

Tracing your inflamed wound with his finger-- light touches around the edge of the hurt-- he dips past your flushed cheek with a grin. His tongue is hot when he licks the salt between your teeth. That teardrop he pulled from you, traded from his mouth to yours.

“Cryin’ so pretty, baby.” Bucky praises against your trembling chin, tasting another droplet collecting along your jaw, “You’ll be good now, won’t you?” A weak nod. Captured game spellbound by all his power.

“Get up there with your fucking face in the pillow.”

Metal grasps the back of your neck, tangling your hair, pressing your cheek into the cushion. A slow nudge, he parts your entrance, giving just a tiny bit of him, making you squirm and clench already around his cockhead. Beneath his grip, you pant, nodding, inhaling lungfuls of fresh detergent on the sheets, steeling yourself.

Another mindful lean. He’s so thick. You shimmy desperately, throbbing for more. “Needy fucking girl.” A scrape of his teeth to your shoulder. “Jesus, you got me all slicked up and wet.”

He sinks in-- all the way—easily and so, so deep you swear the air’s been punched clean out of your body. Bucky holds you beneath him, dick pushing deeper and deeper and god how is he doing this.

“I’m gonna fuck you hard, baby—” A grunt. “--maybe too hard, huh?” His breath chases a shudder down your back. “I’ve been wound up—can’t help myself anymore.”

You struggle, shake your head, feel yourself choking up another sob, toes curling until they feel stuck.

“Come on it,” he commands, “Squeeze my cock, sweetheart. Make it filthy with your pussy.”

“Ngh— Buck, you’re gonna—“

A wilted cry tears itself free, smothering itself out on the pillow beneath. You’re still reeling when he picks up his pace, hands gripping your ass, spreading you to admire the sight of him welded inside. You’re trembling-- twitching, overstimulated and overwhelmed—sniffling quietly. You’re shivery and hot, raw and exposed.

He drives in again.

“You ain’t going back to work tomorrow. You’re gonna stay right here— all— fucking—day.” You punctuate his syllables with gagged moans—lilt high like you’re injured, fisting the blankets, tears catching in the pillow.

“Sweet girl,” Bucky croons, wolfish, “Does it feel good?”

He sticks his fingers back in your mouth, thumb under your tongue where spit has collected and drags out a line of it. “Look at you… drooling everywhere, bunny. You’re so fucking messy for my cock.”

Bucky drags his hand down your back, takes his time traveling over the swell of your ass, into the dipping line and prods gently against your tight hole. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Yeah?” A wiggle of his hips, “Tell me you want it.”

Your brain is—not quite working. A little crinkle of static here, a little drone of magnetic humming there, realizing how embarrassed you feel. Submissive and helpless, sloppy and displayed, but you have enough bearing to nod. Get a quiet agreeance out. “Y-yes.”

And it’s enough for him. A lazy kiss to your shoulder, stilling his cock, spreading what’s smeared around your pussy and his base up to your hole, driving in slow and deliberate. The little sense you have flees entirely. You want it so bad, lost to him.

Grinding, grinding, grinding. Deeper and deeper. Dragging all the way out and then back in.

“Too much? Hm? You’re gonna take it, though, aren’t you? Yeah--” He’s harder now. Stiffens up with his own goading, you tensing beneath him, sheen of sweat on your brow and back. “Fuck, I love your pussy. Love your ass. Gonna fill you up at least twice.”

Sometimes the pros of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex. Sometimes the cons of being with an enhanced super soldier is the sex, too. Twice is a walk in the goddamn park for Bucky. It’s a promise and a threat.

One finger becomes two, hooking slightly, rubbing the back of his knuckle down, feeling the stroke of his cock through your swollen layer of muscle.

“Oh,” you whine, “Bucky—ah—ah.”

It hurts like the way a long morning jog does— aching muscles, worn and overworked, thrumming voltage and adrenaline— and you’re high on it. Clumsy grunts and gasps, blabbering compliance, head spinning. Your vision bursts white. Or black. Or stars—whatever. You’re finished, that’s for sure. Gone for him. Like always.

But not Bucky. Hell, he keeps going, crams another finger inside of you, other arm underneath your belly now, elbow crooked, thighs splayed around your hips, shoving himself in so fucking furiously it rattles the entire room.

The realization dawns that you’re not coming back down. It feels like you’re being torn apart. Skinned and stinging and the most incredible sensation in the whole damn world with him wrapping your entire being around his desire as he fucks into you. You feel claimed. You feel owned. You feel infinite.

“Jesus, baby.” He grunts, “Jesus—fuck—yeah. Fucking good-- all mine.”

Near inarticulate and filthy. He gets this way when he’s close-- tongue-tied as much as Bucky can be, because he’s always got the kind of clever vocabulary that makes your entire body burn without ever having to touch you. So now, when he’s stuffing you full and saying those kinds of things, you don’t stand a chance.

Bucky grips your hair and peels your throat exposed, sucking a mark on the pulse point, and comes so hard he knocks you both into the headboard with the back of his hand cushioning the blow.

His cock is covered when he pulls out, still half-hard and stroking himself, using it like lube. You push your palms over your face, move your knees together but he wedges them apart so wide they smart.

His ruddy cheeks glow beneath the searing blue ring of his eyes, a microscopic corona encircling the darkness of enormous pupils. He holds you frozen with a single look-- ravenous. At least twice floats into your head. Oh, god.

It doesn’t take long the second time, like he’s propelled straight through his first and pitched right into the next. He buries his face into your neck, jerks to a halt with heavy pant, hair splayed over your collar. The sound of it, the smell of it, the feel. His cock, painfully hard. His come, shoved deeper. Your insides, bruised tender and sore, throbbing, stinging, still fluttering for more. Pleasure blurs into pain and back again.

He pinches your nipples hard. Squeezes your jaw, your cheeks. Fucks your mouth with his hand and smears your spit down your sternum.

“What’re you doing tomorrow?” He leans into a thrust, “Tell me.”

Bucky sits you up into his lap, wraps his limbs around you lovingly. The world is hazy and incoherent. You let him do as he pleases, making only choked-up sounds and half-attempted replies.

“Yeah.” Quiet crooning, shushing in your ear, soothing your frantic heart, “I got you. I got you, baby. I got one more for you, alright? And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you? You’re gonna learn your lesson.”

You sob his name with each thrust, chew on your lip distraughtly. You can’t. It’s too fucking much. Stop, you think, please. More, you think, please. Every time you feel thrown off one edge, he takes you to the next one, even higher. He fucks you raw and open and loose and when he finally comes for the last time, you dig half-moons into his arms, curl into the shape of a wounded animal and tremble in pleasure.

-

He cleans himself up. Cleans you too. Soft caresses on the parts of you he marked up, nuzzling his nose into your cheek, imprinted with the creases from the pillowcase. Bucky lays you down slowly, brushes the damp hair from your jaw, settles in next to you with sweet kisses and mindful aftercare.

God, he’s good. Always known what you’ve needed even before you realize it for yourself. Your man.

Wrapping you up his arms when you need warmth. Giving you space when you’re feeling restless. Loving you slow when you’re withdrawn. Loving you hard when you’re aching.

And oh, you ache.

Your body sinks into the sheets. Every synapse shutting down, feeling a rest so deep every cell hums.

“What’re you gonna do tomorrow, bunny?” Gentle prodding, just a little sharp. Hypothetical, of course because he already knows your answer. Already knows you belong to him for the rest of the weekend.

Bucky tugs up the comforter around your shoulders, slotting himself behind your body, enfolding both of you safely. Your lids flutter shut. All the stars in the sky pitch themselves out. The night closes black and endless, eats your mind until you’re lost to sleep.

He pulls you tight to him. Possessive. Caged in. One final scrape of his teeth over the back of your neck like a warning before he muffles a satisfied moan into your hair.

You’re trapped. You’re caught. It’s heaven.

[ssa-sugar-tits]

queen of hearts // chapter nine

summary : y/n y/l/n was crushed when she found out about maeve donovan. heartbroken, she left her entire life behind. what happens when she becomes the most prolific serial killer the bau has ever seen?

series masterlist + taglist

content warnings : murder, gunshots, death, sexual harassment, angst (lots of it)

a/n : reader is a psychotic murderer. this is purely a work of fiction and if you or someone you know are experiencing homicidal urges, seek professional help immediately.

-

You did it.

Wow.

You got you and your baby out of that shithole and you're on the run. The news and the FBI plastered your face everywhere so of course you changed your appearance as best as you could. Can't really hide a 7 month baby bump though, can you? You make your way to an empty road and stick your thumb out to hitchhike. A woman with strawberry blonde hair stops, letting you into her worn out green truck.

-

"Thank you so much!" you exclaim, getting into the truck. Thump. Your heart could jump right out of your chest. All it takes is one headline, one picture and she'll turn you in.

"Make yourself comfy, sweetie," she gives you a warm smile. "I'm Maggie. Where you headed?"

"I'm Lucy," you lie. "Anywhere but here. As far as you can take me, please."

"What's got you running? If you don't mind me asking."

"Let's just say I got away from a very bad place." you whisper. It's not a lie.

Maggie nods sympathetically and goes to turn on the radio.

"No!" you clearly startle her, filling you with guilt. "I- I'm sorry, I'd just prefer silence right now."

"Don't worry about it, Lucy. I know what it's like to be in a bad situation, I know all too well." She says sadly. "I won't do anything to make you uncomfortable, you just sit tight."

Maggie's words give you a sense of comfort, her kindness sets you slightly at ease. It'd fucking suck to have to kill her, you think. After what seems like few hours, you wake up to see her pumping gas into the truck. She enters the store, telling you she's been craving some licorice and she'll be right back. You're not heartless, you don't want to hurt this sweet woman. So, as anyone would do, you knock out the only other person around with one swift swing of a bat you found in Maggie's truck. Getting into the car, you hotwire it while the man you hit groans on the ground, bleeding. Red stains his shirt and your heart races. It's been a long time since you've done anything like this. Shit, shit, shit. You see Maggie at the cash register, paying. Lucky for you, the talkative woman gives you time by conversing with the cashier. Spark. Got it. Taking one last glance, you see Maggie drop her bag and gasp, whipping her head to look at you. There's a fucking TV in the gas station and guess who's face is on it? You back up the van and wince at the sound of the man's bones cracking paired with his agonized scream. Now or never. Hitting the pedal, you floor it.

-

You stop to breathe for a moment, parking outside of a shitty looking motel. The neon sign is broken so it reads Mot l. You open the trunk of the car you stole to look for anything useful. How lucky, you think. A small, silver handgun is tucked away underneath a plaid knit blanket. Where are the bullets? Must be in the front. Getting into the car and searching the glove compartment, you locate the ammo.

"Goddamn, if that isn't one hell of an ass." A gruff voice behind you whistles. Ignoring him, what he says next makes your heart burst into fear. Thump. "Be careful lovely lady. Heard there's a killer running around. I'll keep you safe though." You feel a hand make its way onto your back slowly and you turn yourself on your back.

"Fuck off." you growl. Click. Gun loaded. Pointing it at the man's now petrified face, you smirk.

"I-I'm sorry!" he spits out.

"No, you aren't honey." Bang. His body hits the ground with a thud and the familiar metallic taste of blood splatters your face. A steady hand wipes away the remains from your eyes and you exit the car, as calmly as you can manage.

"I'd like a room please." The motel owner stares at you, astonished. At the blood or because he recognizes you? Either one isn't good. This wasn't a good decision-- at all. Thump. A shriek from the parking lot distracts you momentarily and the owner takes a laptop and hits you over the head.

"What the fuck?" you grumble. The dumbass didn't even draw blood. With a quick flash, you shoot him too. This whole thing is getting tiring. Fuck, fuck. How the fuck? you wonder, pissed off as you hear sirens. Did the source of the shriek really call the cops that fast? Or were you in such a haze that you can't even think straight, let alone keep track of time. Oh, fuck me. Three black SUVs are with the swarm of police cars. SUVs that you recognize without a doubt as the FBI. Thump. No negotiations this time, no bullshit.

You exit the motel with the gun in your hand. Red and blue lights make you squint and illuminate your figure in the dead of night. Getting a good look at the imagie in front of you, you laugh. Lo and behold, the BAU.

"I'm sorry." you say, just loud enough for everyone to hear before pointing the gun at Spencer Reid.

Bang. Thump. The sharp pain shoots through your chest and you hear a scream. Your head hits the ground and your entire body gives out.

"Y/N!"

You laugh, spitting up raspy strings of red as you do. Suddenly, your head is being cradled and you're being frantically whispered to and yelled about.

-

"Medic! We need a medic!"

-

"N-Nice turnout, isn't it?" You cough violently.

"Shh, don't talk Y/N. Please." He strokes your hair as the EMTs load you into the ambulance.

"S-Spence," you call out, barely able to stay conscious.

"What is it sweetheart?"

"Take care of my b-baby for me," another horrible cough escapes you. "Give her the best life you can, t-tell her..."

"Miss Y/L/N, hurry it up, we need to get you into surgery."

"Tell her that her mother loves her, even if I'm not around."

Spencer's eyes flood with tears, they spill out onto his cheeks as he watches the ambulance drive away. Then it hits him. Her. He's having a baby girl.

-

SPENCER'S POV - E.R.

-

Hours pass with still no update on Y/N's condition. Most of team has gone home, waiting on call. I don't blame them. I'm the only one still here for Y/N. I feel helpless, like my head is underwater and I'm about to drown. Guilty, so guilty that I still love her. Angry. She's the one who was shot yet the anguish I feel is so fucking deep that it's as if knives are stabbing at my lungs.

"Y/N Y/L/N?" I stand up so quickly I think I might fall over.

"Yes I'm her b--" he stops himself. "I'm Doctor Reid with the FBI, h-how is she?"

"No loved ones here for her? I heard she killed some people but damn."

"Is she stable or not?" I snap, regretting it immediately upon seeing her reaction.

And then she speaks.

"The bullets severed 3 major arteries."

No. They saved her. They have to have saved her.

"Y/N didn't make it."

Everything stops. It feels like my limbs and head weigh a ton. Everything's heavy. My breathing becomes less and less effective, disbelieving, tiring. All color in the room fades, leaving me in darkness. I feel weak and detached, chest clenching until I collapse into the chair behind me.

"Doctor Reid?" the surgeon questions softly.

I don't look at her. I stare at the wall across from me, unable to speak, unable to cry even. My mouth is dry and I feel broken.

"Doctor Reid, I need to know who the child of her father is. We were able to save her."

Thump. Thump. Exhale. I meet her eyes.

"Take me to my daughter please." I say low and as steady as I can without breaking down. The surgeon gives me an odd look, processing the information I've given before turning. I stop her.

"Wait..." I gulp heavily. "Can I see Y/N first?"

She nods, hesitantly.

"Right this way."

Y/N's body lays, peacefully. It should be comforting to know she wasn't scared when she died but I want her here with me. I take her cold, lifeless hand in mine and the tears finally leave me. I let out a loud cry and bring my face down to her stomach, resting and shaking on her skin.

"I'm so sorry," I cry to her body, unable to hear me. "I love-- loved you. I swear."

Sniffling painfully, I notice something in her bra. Leave it to Y/N to torture me even from the dead.

-

"Dearest Spencer,

I think the way things played out were fitting. If you're reading this, I'm probably dead. Fucking creep, took a letter out of my dead body's bra. Kidding, kidding. Seriously though, give my baby a pretty name, will ya? I hope she gets your kindness, your strength. Everything that makes you you. Raise her to be everything we've ever dreamed of. You make sure she knows I love her, so much. Now quit being a pussy and wipe those tears, darling. We both know I deserved this. I love you, Spence and I forgive you. You got this babe.

Yours truly, Y/N."

-

My heart is ripped out farther and farther with each word read. It gives me a sense of closure but the pain and turmoil doesn't go away. A life where Y/N isn't here with me isn't a life at all.

"Excuse me," I say blankly as if every emotion I'm feeling simply doesn't exist within me. "I'm done."

The woman guides and then leaves me alone with my child. I hold her in my arms and gasp lightly. She's small but perfect and she smiles at me, lighting my heart. She has Y/N's smile. The fire inside me lessens, being slightly soothed by the newborn in my arms. We'd spoken a few times about having children but I'd always thought she'd be here when the day came. I think about it for a second. I won't name her Y/N, that's much too cliche for Y/N's liking. She isn't the type to name a child without meaning.

"Ellie." I whisper.

Ellie. Meaning 'shining light'.

The light I already love.

The light that holds every piece of Y/N's story in her eyes.

The light that'll get me through this utter darkness.

My light.

Goodbye Y/N. I'll never forget you, the light and the love of my mortal life.

-

[garoumylove]

Golden Hour Part 7

Just continuing 'Golden Hour', my domestic/fluffy/angsty ♥️GarouxReader♥️ (but written from Garou’s point of view). You can also read it on AO3 here :)

~*~

I lie awake the next morning, knowing I’ll have to get up soon. Really fuckin’ not wanting to.

The sun is just coming up, making itself known through the window. I hold up my hand and catch the light, as if I can hold it in my hand if I clench my fist hard enough.

When I open it, the mark on my hand stares back at me, barely visible anymore. I don’t know what the fuck my body is doing, but it seems to heal quicker and quicker which is not a bad thing.

I stare at that pale white mark across my palm and remember. I remember her hands closing around mine, the way she held it under the water, her fingertips tracing over my skin, and I feel this ache inside. This real deep ache that is nothing but fuckin’ pain and fuckin’ pleasure and I never knew the two could co-exist like that, so intimately.

I slow my mind down, replay everything in slow motion, will my body to remember how she felt standing so close, pressed against me, how her touch felt, the feel of her fingers, her hands…

Her hands, I’ve felt them all over, time and time again, and still…still it never fails to get to me. Every time I think I can keep my head, keep any semblance of self control, she’ll slip her hand under my shirt, playful teasing, runs it down my chest and I can’t fuckin’ think straight anymore. Her hands do the most wicked, the most sublime things to me. And just when I think I’m going to go completely mad, she’ll touch me somewhere I don’t expect and push me completely over that fuckin’ edge. And I’m in fucking ecstasy. Every time.

I open and close my hand slowly again in the intruding morning light, trying to hold on to the memory of her. But then the memory of what I did after interrupts. I go from feeling the bliss of her touch to the feeling of muscle and broken bone under my knuckles, a completely different type of satisfaction.

I should feel bad for enjoying it. A normal person would, I suppose. But I don’t. Every bruise, every scar, every bastard I leave spitting blood is like a step. And I climb higher and higher. Towards what? Towards forgetting. Towards becoming someone I’ve wanted to be for years. To justice. To make up for all the bullshit. Always aiming for the top of those stairs.

And then what?

I pause.

The answer seems fuckin’ obvious, doesn’t it? I’ll be at the fuckin’ top, ain’t I just said?

Yes, but then what? It says.

I scowl.

The higher they climb, the harder they fall, it whispers.

Fuck. That.

I ain’t ever planning on falling.

Time to get the fuck up. No use laying around indulging in all this goddamn philosophy. It ain’t gonna do anyone any good.

“Are you sure you’ll survive?” she asks, her small hand in my hair again as I stretch out on her couch later that evening, only at her urging and permission, telling me I look tired. I gotta lie and say it’s the old man, that he’s a slave driver, but really it’s because I ain’t hardly slept last night due to my outing. I ain’t ever felt bad lying before but now, I feel this stab in the back of my mind when the words, completely untrue, came out of my mouth.

“I guess we’ll see when you’re back,” I say, closing my eyes, savouring this moment. “If I've starved to death, you’ll have your answer.”

She does this smiling little tsk with her tongue.

“Well, I’ve shown you how to make two different meals now,” she says, one hand stroking my hair absentmindedly and her phone in the other as she scrolls through the weather forecast. “The rest is up to you Wolf Cub. Make me proud.”

I don’t know if I have or not. I try to. I try not to be a fuck up that she regrets taking a chance on, this whole situation was already so tenuous. I don’t know if she is proud and I ain’t too keen on asking in case the answer hurts a bit too much. But when we’re in public, she doesn’t walk a step away from me, she doesn’t pretend we hardly know each other. Lets me grab her hand and declare to every fuckin’ passerby, whether they care or not, that she’s mine. I mean…that it’s me and her. That this is a place no one is taking from me.

She’s leaving early tomorrow morning, coming back late Sunday night.

And it’s not like we’ve seen each other every day or the like, so it shouldn’t really bother me much but I find it does. She’s going to be fuck knows where, her house empty there. No light in the window. I don’t know. I feel stupid and sentimental for a few moments and then shake myself out of it.

“Keep a lookout and make sure this place doesn’t burn down, ok?” she says, still captivated by the screen of her phone, but her hand moves to my forehead now, lightly tracing, caressing, backs of her fingers gently down my cheek.

I don’t even know if she notices what she’s doing, still very busy with whatever she’s got going on her phone.

“If it does, you can come live with me,” I grin, already happily going down the route of my domestic fantasy.

“Haha,” she says, less than impressed, her fingers never stopping. “Do you even own a washing machine?”

“Good question,” I say.

Maybe I am just that stray cat to her, I think.

This touch, this tenderness, probably means absolutely nothing to her, the thought runs through my mind as I feel the warmth of her hand on my face.

I am just here to be fed and kept out of trouble. That is the best I’m gonna get. And that’s just how it is.

I am the stray cat.

Or I was, until the actual stray cat showed up.

The weekend passes uneventfully, meaning I won all the fights. Nothin’ exciting to report on that front.

I don’t bother her on the Monday because I’m sure she’s exhausted as is but on Tuesday she’s on my doorstep with a souvenir and then we’re eating together again and it seems like this is becoming a regular thing and I don’t know how it happened but I sure the fuck ain’t complaining, even if I’m the one doing most of the cookin’ while she sips wine and gives me instructions, telling me it’s life skills and for my own good. And she doesn’t have to tell me. I know being around her does more good for me than anythin’. More than any midnight bust up.

Then why can’t I stop doin’ that? Heading out in the middle of the night, like a fuckin’ addict.

I try not to think about it too much.

Winter has wrapped up and the days begin to get a little longer, golden hour coming later and later. I notice that kid sometimes, dawdling about on the street all alone. He’s already a fuckin’ dream target for any shitty little punk who wants to pick on him just by looks alone, but to be the new kid in the neighbourhood just pours salt on the wound I reckon. I find myself feelin’ a bit sorry for him. But at least I don’t see anyone botherin’ him outside of school anymore. In school, well, he’ll have to learn to take care of himself.

I make sure to stay out of his way but the next Sunday my curiosity gets the better of me.

I’m walkin’ back home, mid-afternoon, no need to know where from, when I find him on hands and knees, half under a parked car.

I should just carry on my sweet way but I don’t know what the hell he’s up to and whether it’s going to be safe to just leave him here like this, sprawled out on the road.

“Oi, kid,” I say, tilting my head to see if I can catch more of him under the car. “What the hell are you doin’?”

He scrambles to his feet, knees and hands covered in dirt.

“Uncle!” he says, all excitement. “Uncle! There’s a cat under there!”

Eh? Is that all? He got all scruffed up for a cat?

“So?” I say. “Just leave it alone. And I told you, don’t call me that.”

“But it looks bad and scared,” he says, not even realising he’s doin’ these big puppy eyes. “It keeps making noise and I can’t reach it. I think it’s lost.”

I find myself rubbing my forehead, in tiredness, in frustration. I just wanna go the fuck home.

“Uncle! Can you help me get it?” he says, tugging at the edge of my shirt. “Please.”

Goddamn kid.

And then we’re both on our hands and knees, under that car. And sure enough. There it is. But it ain’t a cat. It’s a kitten. This skinny, raggedy grey thing covered in dirt. It keeps squeaking and getting louder by the moment.

“Can you reach it?” Tareo asks.

Not a problem. I reach under there and scoop this ball of fur out. It’s smaller than my hand. Grey and shivering, big eyes not knowing where to look.

I hand it over to the kid.

“I think it’s sick,” he says, holding it close to his chest very carefully as it keeps mewling.

“Take it home,” I say, this thing no longer my problem, ready to walk away.

“I can’t,” he says, suddenly worried. “My mum says we can’t have pets. She doesn’t let cats and dogs in the house.”

And what part of that is my problem?

“Uncle,” he says, puppy eyes intensifying. “We can’t leave it here. I don’t want it to get more sick.”

Well, that’s just how it is, ain’t it? Natural selection and all. The world is a cruel place. I glance at the animal again.

“I ain’t taking it home,” I say firmly, starting back on my way.

“Uncle!” he’s a persistent little brat, running after me. “Uncle!”

“What?” I’m finding it hard to hide my displeasure now.

“I don’t want it to die,” he says and when I turn around I can see his lip quivering.

Fuck. This. Shit.

She opens her door and we all just stare at each other for a moment.

“Oh, hello,” she says, not quite knowing what to make of this.

“He found this thing,” I say, as Tareo holds the kitten up for her to see better.

“It was under a car,” he says, still full of concern. “And it keeps meowing. And it’s got a bit of fur missing here,” he turns it so she can see its side.

“Poor thing,” she says, suddenly as concerned as Tareo and she takes it carefully, gently from him. “Poor baby,” she strokes it under the chin. “Come on,” she beckons us inside.

“Here,” she hands the tiny thing back to me (why me?) and runs upstairs before coming quickly back down with a small box and a towel.

She kneels on the floor, Tareo beside her, as she folds the towel and places it in the box.

“Put it in here,” she motions to me.

I set it down slowly. I don’t like holdin’ it because it weighs basically nothing and it feels like I’m gonna break all its fragile little bones with one wrong move.

We all stare at the noisy thing for a moment.

“Is he going to be ok?” Tareo looks up at her, his lip quivering again.

To be honest, the cat doesn’t look good. It’s missing a bit of fur and it’s got a bit of matted blood on its front. Its eyes don’t look too good either and it’s howlin’ like it’s the end of the world.

She picks it up carefully again, turns it on its back.

“She,” she informs us. “It’s a she,” she gives Tareo a smile.

Oh.

“Is she going to die?” Tareo is almost in tears.

“No, no!” she rushes to reassure him. “We’ll take care of her. We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow and she’ll be fine.”

I get it. She’s lying a bit to him, but it’s the only right thing to do in this situation. We have no idea whether this scrawny thing will survive.

“I think she’s very hungry,” she says, giving it a gentle stroke behind the ear and the mewling quietens down for a moment.

“Will you keep her?” Tareo asks, now full of hope. “My mum says we can’t have cats or dogs in our house.”

I can see her bite her lip.

“I…can’t,” she says very apologetically and I can tell it’s pulling at her heartstrings because she’s fallen for this cat too. “My landlord doesn’t allow pets,” she says this looking right at me. And I feel the kid’s eyes boring right into my soul too.

“No,” I say, trying to axe their plan before they get any more ideas.

“Please Uncle!” Tareo grabs my arm. “Please! I don’t want her to go back out on the street.”

“Please Uncle,” she joins in, grabbing my other arm as they both harass me at once, making those big eyes at me.

What the fuck am I gonna do with a fuckin’ cat?

No. That’s final.

“Please Uncle,” Tareo pulls at me. I look at him. His puppy face has no effect on me. I look at the cat, its big eyes, the desperate pathetic noises it makes.

“You can just take it to the shelter or whatever,” I say, getting impatient.

“I suppose that’s true,” she says, letting go of me. But I can sense the sadness in her voice. “That would be the most logical thing to do.”

“But what if no one adopts her?” Tareo frets.

“I’m sure she’ll get adopted really quick,” she says, putting on a bright smile. “She’s so cute. Once they treat her and feed her a bit she’ll look stunning.”

I stop listening to them. Look at the cat again, hungry and probably scared out of its wits.

No.

Don’t even think about it.

“Fine,” I hear myself growl.

“What?” she says, turning away from Tareo.

“I’ll fuckin’ take it,” I say.

And I ain’t ever seen that kid so happy before.

“She’s probably very hungry and thirsty,” she says, “so we’ll go buy her some kitten food and try get her to eat. Why don’t you come over just before dinner if you want to see her again?” she suggests kindly to Tareo.

“Can I?” He almost jumps up.

“Of course! I’m sure she’d like to see her rescuer again,” she says.

“Uncle helped me,” Tareo admits. “I couldn’t reach. Uncle got her out for me.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s glad to have both of you,” she looks up at me and Tareo and he looks so damn chuffed with himself.

“We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow evening,” she tells Tareo then turns to me. “My friend’s sister is a vet nurse so we can pop by straight after work. I’m sure it will be ok. I’ll give her a call later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, fuckin’ regretting opening my mouth.

“Ok, we’ll just leave her here for a bit, give her time to settle, and go get some food. Please come by later,” she smiles at Tareo as she gets up off the floor and goes to get her jacket.

“Can we call her Tatsumaki?” Tareo is way too fired up.

“Oh, who’s that?” she asks.

“She’s a superhero and she’s so cool!” Tareo says.

“No,” I say. I fuckin’ hate superheroes and all that shit.

“What do you want to call her, then?” she asks, pulling her jacket on.

“Don’t care,” I say. But not any goddamn superhero names.

There’s a thoughtful silence.

“What about Delilah?” she finally says.

“Eh?” Where did that come from?

“What’s that?” Tareo asks.

She looks at me. “You know, like the Queen song!”

“Eh?” I repeat.

“You know…Queen, the band?” She looks curiously at me.

“Eh?”

“Oh come on! We will, we will rock you…” she says and claps her hands at the end in this catchy rhythm. “Never mind,” she finally mutters. “I’m just old. My parents used to listen to Queen all the time. It grew on me, I guess. I just thought it would be cute. It’s about Freddie Mercury’s cat.”

“Who?” What is she talking about?

“Is that a superhero?” Tareo asks, full of curiosity.

“Who?”

“Freddie Mercury.”

“No, he’s a singer.”

“Oh, his name sounds like a superhero name.”

She giggles at this.

“Ok, fine, whatever,” I give up. “Call her whatever.”

“So you’re ok with Delilah?”

“Whatever,” I say again, driving the point home.

We leave the cat to its own devices and Tareo rushes home.

“Remind me to show you Queen live at Wembley on YouTube later,” she says as she locks the door. “God, I wish I was alive back then…”

“She’s eating!” Tareo is practically ecstatic later that evening when he comes by again. If I get to be here too because of the cat, I’ll let it slide. “Look, she’s eating!”

“Yeah,” she says as she nudges the saucer closer to the scrawny cat. “She’s probably not even eight weeks yet. She can’t eat solid food so we soak her kitten biscuits in pet milk. That way it’s easy for her to eat.”

The little cat looks ravenous. Keeps wolfing it all down, like it hasn’t eaten for days, and it probably hasn’t.

“I think she’ll be ok,” she says. “Won’t you, little Delilah?” she says, caressing her bony back. “We’ll get you back in shape in no time.”

She looks up at Tareo to reassure him as we all sit around this tiny thing.

“If she was really sick, she probably wouldn’t be able to or want to eat,” she says. “But she looks like she’s got a good appetite so that’s a really good sign!”

Tareo is positively glowing.

“I’ll keep her overnight,” she says to me, “and then after tomorrow she’s all yours.”

“Fantastic,” I roll my eyes.

“Uncle!” Tareo says, “Can I come visit her?”

I’m about to say no, but then she gives me a look and I say, “We’ll see.”

It’s the best I can do.

“She ate some more last night and this morning,” she says to me as we walk to the train station, her holding the small box carefully, its cardboard lid on top with a few small holes. Sometimes a tiny grey nose pokes out of one of them and sniffs the air. It’s probably curious about all the new smells.

The vet is in the suburbs and we gotta ride at least a few stops there.

It’s still rush hour and the train is fuckin’ packed. So we stand as she holds the box protectively between us, trying her best to not get crushed and when we stop and the crowd heaves as people get on and off I get to put my arm around her waist to steady her since her hands are busy, and it’s all good because it’s all in the name of protecting this cat. At least I’m getting some use out of it.

I can hear the faint meowing again and suddenly the lid lifts up a bit and half a scruffy head pokes through, yellow eyes peering right up at me, the edge of the box almost against my chest. I grimace back at it.

“I think she likes you,” she says, giving me a gorgeous smile.

Well, if it’s true, and it ain’t, this cat’ll be the first. No one fuckin’ likes me. And I’m fine with that. Almost.

The train moves off again and the cat stumbles back into the box as I grab her waist again before she bumps into more people.

In the end, this ain’t too bad.

We walk a bit from the train station and this area I gotta say is pretty nice. Not fuckin’ rich nice. Just wholesome neighbourhood nice. Disgusting nice.

I pull open the door and let her in first.

This place smells…strange. Like antiseptic and somethin’ else.

“Hi! Long time no see!” a woman comes out from a door behind the reception.

“You too!” she says, setting the box down on the counter. “I hope we’re not bothering!”

“No, no!” the woman in uniform says as she gets behind the computer. “We’re just closing up for the night so we’ll keep your kitten overnight and have a look at her tomorrow morning. Is that fine?”

“Yes, that’s totally fine,” she says.

“I just need to grab your details,” the one who I presume is the nurse or whatever says. “What’s the cat’s name?”

“Delilah,” she says as the lid begins to lift again and the tiny whiskers appear.

“Cute! Like the Queen song!”

“See,” she turns to me. “She knows what’s up,” she gives me a triumphant look.

“Ok, and I’ll need your address and phone number,” the nurse says as her fingers fly over the keyboard.

“Oh, it’s his cat,” she says, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket and pulling me closer to them.

Why the fuck did I agree to this?

“I’ll pick her up though,” she says. “I’ll be out of the office for a meeting anyway so I don’t mind. It will be on my way home. You don’t know what time you’ll be home tomorrow will you?” she asks over her shoulder now that I’ve moved back again.

“Not a clue,” I say.

“Yeah, so I’ll pick Delilah up.”

The nurse finally opens the box and takes out this little runt.

“Aw, poor darling, Look at you. We’ll get you all cleaned up. What happened?”

“They say they found her crying her little eyes out under a car,” she says.

I don’t remember saying any such thing, so I just stand there and grit my teeth.

“She’s been eating though,” she tells her sister’s friend.

“That’s great,” the acquaintance replies. “We’ll give her a thorough check tomorrow and get her all cleaned up.”

She puts the kitten carefully back in the box and the meowing starts again.

They say their goodbyes and we leave.

And I wonder where they’re putting my cat, all alone, for the whole night.

The crowd has thinned out by the time we get back on the train and we actually get to sit down.

"I'll pay for Delilah," she says, and before I can say anything back she adds, "I mean, Tareo and I basically forced her on you so…"

And that's not a lie.

"But you're paying for her after that."

"Eh? For what?"

"For when you take her back in a couple of months. Or do you want more little cats to look after?" She raises her eyebrow at me.

It's just one damn hassle after another, ain't it.

We sit in silence for a bit as the train stops and people get on and off.

"You're very kind, you know," she says with quiet affection.

I can't look back at her. She said that. When I took her to bed she had said that. I thought she hadn't remembered, said it half asleep and forgotten all about it. But she says it in the same way and I can't look at her.

I feel my arms cross over my chest, I don't even think about doing it. Just happens. And the tension in my jaw as I turn away, scowling again.

But then I feel her fingers on my cheek, turning my face back towards her and I'm forced to look into her beautiful shining eyes.

"And you're not as scary as you think," she teases.

And for a moment, it's only me and her on the train. And the rest of the world falls away.

These moments. I'm building a fuckin' whole collection of them and I have no idea what to do with them. I feel them tear at me on the inside.

She lets go softly.

"You were supposed to show me Queen at some stadium or something," I say, feeling my fangs baring despite myself. Not at her. At the situation. At not having her. At having her so close and not having her.

"Why didn't you tell me yesterday!" She slaps my arm. "I told you to remind me!"

Nah, everyone was too taken with the cat yesterday.

"I'm reminding you, ain't I?" I grumble.

"How about we go get some sushi and I'll show you the best live music performance you'll ever see in your life," she says, completely unphased by my frustration.

And we do just that.

Because I can't say no. I don't want to say no. Because with her, no doesn't exist.