#right this shit is heavy so uh maybe a tissue warning too

[pastafossa]

THEYDIES AND GENTLETHEMS, CRYPTIDS AND PEBBLES OF ALL AGES ABOVE 18, OUR NEW CHAPTER, AFTER A BRIEF DELAY, HAS BEEN POSTED.

PLEASE FORM A NEAT AND POLITE LINE AT THE CHAPTER START AND KEEP YOUR HANDS AND TEARS INSIDE THE ANGST AT ALL TIMES.

Thank you, and cry enjoy your ride.

[ozarkthedog]

Hidden Solace

Summary: Andy finds comfort in the most unsuspecting place.

Pairing: Andy Barber x Female Sex Worker!Reader

Word Count: 1,929

Warnings: SMUT. Oral Sex (Male Receiving). Glory Hole Virgin. Swearing. Slight Angst?. It’s up to you to decide if he is with Laurie or not while you read this.

Author Notes: This fic is full of smut and feelings! I hope you all love this little fic as much as I loved writing it. 💙 *Credit goes to gif owner.

📖 Master list  

Reblogs and Likes are amazing! Feedback and Comments are encouraged!

This work has Adult Content. If you click “Keep Reading” you have agreed that you are over the age of 18 and are willing to view such content.

Andy’s palms were sweaty as he sat in his Audi psyching himself up.

He stared out the wind shield taking in the shady looking building with its neon sign blaring into the dark night. He was taking a chance showing up at a place like this, but he was desperate.

Andy sucked in a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

He pulled his Red Sox cap low and covered his eyes with his shades as he crossed the threshold into the XXX Store.

He heard this place was running tricks. A Glory Hole out back for paying customers who could keep their mouths shut. Andy had no problem with that.

Soft Core Pornos played on small TVs embedded into the walls with copious amounts of toys, lubes and bondage gear stocking the shelves.

Andy casually strolled down the last isle pretending to look at some magazines before sauntering over to a grimy countertop placed at the back of the building.

An older woman sat at the oversized counter engrossed in an erotic novel as Andy shifted on his feet, clearing his throat.  

The woman’s eyes flicked up to Andy before she begrudgingly put her book down.

“It’ll be $50. Cash.” She said, sounding disinterested.

He ruffled through his wallet and deposited the money in her hand trying to not raise his head.

“Down the hall. Last door on the left.” She said, pointing with her thumb to the black curtain to her left.

“Have fun.” She feigned a smile and picked her book back up.

Andy passed through the curtain and walked down the hall intent with getting to his location. Various groans, creaky wood and the smell of sex filled the air as he strode by a handful of doors before arriving to his destination.

He stood in front of the door for a moment, unsure if he could actually go through with this. Maybe he could get his money back?

He heard a set of footsteps sound at the end of the hall and without thinking he grabbed the doorknob and dove into the room.

His heart pounded heavily against his chest as he leaned against the door feeling as though he almost got caught. He laughed to himself thinking how stupid he just looked to some guy who was headed to get his rocks off.

Andy peered around the tiny room as he took his hat off and stuck the brim in the back pocket of his jeans along with his sunglasses. A small bulb hung from the ceiling producing a dim yellow hue, a bench with a box of tissues and a small cut out in what looked like a wall covered in wood paneling.

He rubbed his face with dismay. How he ever talked himself into doing this…

Andy heard shuffling beyond the wall and then a faint, female voice.

“Hello?” You ponder with a quiet tone, unsure if anyone was in the opposite room.

You learned to not look through the hole. You made that mistake once and you never wanted to repeat it. Plus, the boss man didn’t want you to know who you’d be “servicing”. Something about privacy.

Andy cleared his throat nervously, his voice sounding just as timid. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Hi.”

You smile at his apprehensiveness. It was rare that you got a Glory Hole Virgin.

“First time, huh?” Your smile coming across in your tone.

“That obvious?” Andy smirked as you let out a warm laugh.

“Yeah, but it’s ok. There’s nothing to be afraid off.” You scoot closer to the wall, the padded plastic bench you sat on crinkled under your weight.

“Why don’t you get relaxed. If you’re wearing a jacket you can hang it on the hook to the left.” You hear him shucking off his jacket in the tiny space. His movements cause the small bit of light pouring through the hole to flicker.

You motion for him to come forward when you slipped your hand through the hole, reaching out into the empty space until his hand found yours.

It caught you off guard, your hand jolting in his grip. “Shit. I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to do that?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“It’s alright. I was just expecting a hard cock is all.” You laughed again, overcome with how sweet the man on the other side of the wall was. His larger hand encased yours until you maneuver his grip and lock hands with him.

“Oh…” He’s grateful you can’t see his face as it turns beat red. “That makes sense.”

“You’ve got soft skin.” You say, running your hands over his palm and up his wrist.

“Uh, thanks.” He responds with a dazed tone, enraptured with the way your hands feel tracing over his palm.

Andy bit his lip from the tender sensation. If your hands felt this nice on just his palm, he could only imagine how they would feel on his dick.

Blood began to pool in his cock, straining against his jeans with every trace you made from fingertip to wrist.

Boldly, you made a fist with your hand and grasped two of his fingers. Andy gasped at the lewd motion as you slowly jerked his fingers. You knew what was happening when the man went quiet.

“Are you hard?” Your lust filled voice cut through the spell Andy was under as he watched your tiny hand pull at his digits.

“Yes.” He declared, no longer ashamed of where he was.

“Good. Now, why don’t you take your cock out and let me feel all of you.”

You hear him shuffling his clothes around and a zipper sound before he speaks with unease, “Do you want me to just place it in your hands or…?”

“Yes, come here. I want to see how big you are.”

Andy stepped closer to the wall as your tiny hand wrapped around his impressive girth. You both gasp when your hand circles his rock hard length and slides down ever so slowly.

“Fuck.” Andy groaned, leaning his head back on his shoulders. Your tender touches make his blood boil.

“Does that feel good?” You ask, jerking your fist around his cock before grazing the crown with gentle caresses.

“You have no idea.”

His hips shake when you jerk his cock with a steady grip, traveling down his shaft and back up to swirl your palm around the head. Precum smears your hand prompting you to want more.

“Let me have a taste?” Your voice sounds innocent but it’s laced with a hint of yearning.

You carefully pull his cock through the cut-out in the wood paneling. His package takes up the entire hole, making him press his body against the wall when you bring his balls through to your side.

You stare at the straining appendage for a minute, overwhelmed with how thick he was. Your mouth watered and your thighs clenched together instinctively as a drop of precum leaked from the tip.

“Uh… everything ok?” Andy questions worriedly until he feels a hot swipe travel from the hairy base to the reddened tip.

His eyes slammed shut with a hearty growl when you dragged your tongue up the expanse of his girth before swirling around the head. You lick at the precum and relish it’s salty tang.

“You’ve got a magnificent cock, Sir.” You declared before stretching your mouth wide and swallowing him down.

Andy’s hips jolt forward not expecting you to take him completely in your mouth so suddenly. Your jaw stretched to accommodate his thickness as your hand fondles his sack with light caresses.

His deep, sinful moans are somewhat muffled but they hit your ears like a choir of angels.

Your bob your head on his length and jerk what you cannot fit, saliva slicking your grip as he thrusts a little in your hand. Your lips suckle at his frenulum, causing him to growl.

“God Damn. Your mouth feels amazing.”

You smile with glee around his throbbing cock, determined on getting him to fill your mouth.

Hard tugs jerk his thickness with prowess as your left hand pulls tenderly at his sack. You can’t help but vibrate his length with your joyful moans as you feel him swell over your tongue. Rarely did you get to service a cock like this.

Your core wept wantonly as you sucked on his cock. It pooled between your thighs and screamed at you to ease the tremendous ache caused by this stranger.

Andy out right whimpered when you poked at his urethra, gingerly nudging your tongue into the tiny hole.

He rested his head on the wood paneling, overcome with the intense sensations. He never had a woman use her tongue on him this way, it was devastatingly profound.

It’d been too long; he wasn’t going to last. He brought his fist up and banged on the wall with pleasant irritation.

You halted nervously, pulling off with a slurp, “Are you ok?”

“Shit- Yes. Sorry. It’s just been... it’s been a long time.” Andy sputtered. “Please, keep going.”

You heard the sadness in his voice and it tugged at your heart strings.

“A cock like this should never go a day without getting wet.” You crudely professed before taking his cock back into your mouth and sucking greedily at the bulging head, desperately needing to taste his seed

Andy felt his belly go taunt when you flicked your tongue around his cock head before swallowing him down. Your gag reflex kicked in as he met the back of your throat with a heavy punch.

He growled a low, “Fuck” as his body shook. His sack shrunk signaling his oncoming orgasm.

“Fill my mouth, Sir.” You command quickly before swallowing him down and gagging heavily around his length.

Andy’s muscles lock tight as his brain floods with endorphins. The rapture of finally hitting his peak via another person causes a full body shudder to pass through him and he cums with a strong howl.

He released his hearty load into your awaiting mouth and you eagerly swallowed it down. You slowly jerk his cock adding to the overstimulation of sucking at the tip making sure you got every last drop.

Sadly, you let his cock slip from your mouth and he pulls his dick through the hole.

You hear him panting from the powerful orgasm when he rests his body against the wall. He sluggishly stuffs his throbbing cock back in his jeans overwhelmed with the pleasure he so desperately needed.

“Um… I hope that was good for you.” Your usual meekness back in play.

Andy huffs out a laugh. “Oh, Darlin. If you only knew what you just did for me…” He trails off, not wanting to divulge too much.

You beam upon hearing how satisfied he was. Something about him made you feel different but you tried not to think about it. That wasn’t good for this line of work.

“Well, I’ll be here the same time next week… you know, if you want to stop by. Just ask for Room 6.” You hated the way you sounded, smacking your hand against your forehead. This wasn’t a restaurant.

He waited a minute before he speaking, twisting his ballcap in his hands.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect coming here… so thank you. Honestly.” His voice was full of sincerity and longing. You wished you could see his face; rules be damned.

He gathers his jacket, throws his hat on and shades his eyes before stepping out of the door with a smirk.

“I’ll see you next week.”

[shorkbrian]

Guided

Okay I’m posting on mobile so bear with me

Was gonna do a thanksgiving feeder fic but I’m tired lol

So instead like imagine Kuroo helping Kenma lose his virginity 😳

(Warnings - NSFW! Rape, obvious denial (by Kenma, he knows it’s bad), Kuroo bein a creep, Kenma being a creep. Just general not good vibes)

Like Kenma isn’t exactly anti-social, it’s just he’s a lil shy and prefers to stay in his comfort zone, which involves gaming and little else.

One day the team will not stop bugging leetle Virgin Kenma about getting a girlfriend (“online girlfriends don’t count!”), and he gets a bit self conscious.

Goes to Kuroo, his best friend, his bro, his homie, asks Kuroo what’s the process - how does he get a girlfriend and lose his virginity?

Kuroo is almost taken aback at first, simply cause he assumed Kenma was either gay or just plain not into dating. But after he gets over his shock, he’s so pumped to show his bro the ropes.

Kenna’s expecting like, a talk, or maybe Kuroo will give him tips about how to pick up cute girls, or something like that.

What he was not expecting, was you.

Sitting on the edge of Kuroo’s bed, sniffling, hands balled into fists on top of your skirt.

And Kuroo’s so excited, quickly ushering Kenma into his room to proudly show off his cute little neighbor. You don’t seem happy, but Kuroo ignores that, so Kenma does too.

There’d be no buildup. Just Kuroo pushing Kenma towards you, before taking a seat in his desk chair.

“Go ahead and touch her.” He prompts.

Kenma hesitates, looking at Kuroo with knitted brows.

“Do you not know how?”

Kenma shrugs. He stands in front of you, raises a hand to your shoulder. You flinch when he touches your shirt, when the weight of his hand rests against you. He plays with a piece of your hair, looking at your face, your body, the cute way you’re trembling and shaking like a scared little kid.

“I’ll talk you through it.” Kuroo offers. He’s clearly impatient, but in an excited way, foot tapping against the ground as he leans forward.

Kenma’s glad Kuroo will be giving instructions. He feels a bit awkward like this, and he doesn’t want you to laugh at him.

“You’re sure she’s fine?” Kenma checks. You look scared and you’re crying a bit, which is kinda hot, but Kenma doesn’t want you telling people he assaulted you or something.

“Yeah, she’ll be alright. We had a little chat before you came over - she’s good with this.”

The way you glare at Kuroo through your tears confirms to Kenma that you probably aren’t as okay with this as Kuroo makes it seem. But Kenma kind of doesn’t care, because he’s chubbing up in his pants as he thinks about what’s about to happen.

“Alright, (Y/N), scoot back on the bed so Kenma can sit.”

You promptly obey, and Kenma slides onto the bed in front of you, following Kuroo’s implied suggestion.

“You should always give ‘em a kiss first. You can use tongue if you want, don’t be afraid to really get into it.” Kuroo continues.

Kenma shuffles closer, gingerly grabs your shoulders. He’s starts out with a peck to your lips, the stereotypical sound of kissing is made as he does so.

Kuroo encourages him to do it again, this time for longer.

Kenma indulges, lets himself linger over your lips. He can taste your chapstick, and it’s not unpleasant. Your lips are soft, and your warm, and Kenma quickly decides he likes kissing.

Then Kuroo tells him to use tongue, which Kenma does, and the younger man cringes at the feeling. He doesn’t like using tongue.

But he enjoys kissing, so he goes back to that, almost sucking at your lips, pressing himself close to you. It’s intimate, and it’s kind of exciting, and Kenma finds himself wanting more.

“You can use your hands y’know. Feel her tits, they look nice.”

Kenma does exactly that, and you squeak into his mouth when his hands grab at your chest. Admittedly, he’s probably a bit too excited, cause the second he feels soft flesh under his hands he’s pinching and groping and pulling, and you’re making pained little noises that Kenma discovers he likes.

Kuroo chuckles. “Damn, you’re going pretty hard there. Didn’t take you for a sadist. You can touch other places too, by the way. Anywhere you want.”

Anywhere?

Kenma pulls back from the kiss, his hands abandoning your breasts to roam over your sides, feel the curve of your waist, circle around to palm at your ass. He’s never touched a girl like this, it’s so different from what he knows of his own body.

That goes on for a little bit longer, but Kuroo’s quickly moving him along.

“Okay, you can lay her onto her back now... or I guess you could go doggystyle.” The older man leans back in his chair. “It’s up to you.”

“Okay.” Kenma breathes. He’s fully hard now, and it’s a bit uncomfortable, his cock tenting his pants like that. But he doesn’t know if now was the right time to undress, so he just does what Kuroo says.

He pushes you to lay down on your back - he wants to see your face. It’s a bit puffy and red from the crying, but it makes you look pretty. Plus, Kenma likes your eyes.

He looks over to Kuroo for what he should do next.

“She’s not wearing anything underneath the skirt.” Kuroo grins, and he looks so utterly pleased with himself, but Kenma doesn’t even register that because he’s flipping up your skirt to see for himself.

And fuck, you really aren’t.

He’s seen porn, he knows what he expected to find. But it’s so different in person. He wants to touch, to feel, so he does. Kenma grabs one of your legs, carefully pulling it to the side so he can see a bit more, and you let him, thigh muscles clenching.

Then he’s running a single finger over your folds and holy shit, you’re so warm and pink and his cock is throbbing and he doesn’t know how much longer he can wait.

“You can take your dick out now. She’s all prepped and stuff, so just go for it.”

Kenma pushes his sweatpants just far down enough that his dick can spring free - Kuroo knows how he is about his body, and Kenma doubts you’ll say anything because you’re staring blankly at the ceiling.

It’s a new experience, so it takes him a second to figure out that he has to part your folds with one hand, guide his dripping cock to your home with the other. You keep... fluttering down there and it’s driving him crazy, he can’t even imagine what that’s going to feel like

The second he pushes inside (you’re all wet and hot and tight and - oh you feel so good) he can’t stop the embarrassing noise the tumbles out of his mouth. His cheeks color red, but Kuroo’s quick to reassure him.

“Don’t worry, keep making noise - girls like hearing that you’re feeling good. And you can talk to her you know.”

“You’re-you’re cute.” Kenma blurts, voice shaky. He’s too overwhelmed to do much, he can hardly breathe right now, he can’t think.

“.... how does it feel?” Kuroo prods.

Kenma has to take a second to calm himself before stuttering out “G-good. Really good.”

He was barely a third of the way in, and the way your walls were pulsing around him, sucking him in, trying to milk him was almost too much. He groaned, hands coming to grip your hips, push your legs up and out of the way.

“Kuroo, it feels so good, she’s so tight. H-holy fuck, oh god, this is-“

Kenma gave a little thrust, and whined, almost crumpling over top of you, panting.

“Take your time, there’s no rush.” Kuroo reminds him, and Kenma huffs.

He’s right next to your face like this, and so he moves just a little bit so he can kiss you again. You don’t do much, but Kenma doesn’t know if you’re supposed to. He just hopes that he’s doing an okay job. Maybe you’re a virgin like him, and don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like? Kuroo would be considerate like that, take into account Kenma’s insecurities.

“Yeah, there you go. Move your hips a little.”

Kenma does, gives a few tiny, explorative thrusts. Then a few more, a bit more confident this time. And then he keeps going, and he finds his cock rutting into you steadily, and he doesn’t know how else to describe it other than it feels fucking divine.

He breaks from the kiss with a low moan, looks at your eyes. You’re crying again, cheeks red, avoiding his gaze. That’s okay. Kenma knows eye contact is hard.

Faintly, he registers the sound of Kuroo’s heavy panting, the low curses coming from where his best friend is sitting. He can’t focus on that though, not when his system is short circuiting.

It’s too much stimulation, and his dick has never been this wet and warm and massages like this before, and then Kuroo’s telling him to pull out and jack off over your face, or your skirt, or wherever, and Kenma doesn’t want to because you keep sucking him in hungrily.

But he knows in the back of his mind that pregnancy is a thing, and he’s not thinking straight, wanting to stay inside you forever. That’s why Kuroo’s here, to tell him what to do.

So Kenma pulls out, whimpering at the temperature difference his cock encounters. He’s so sensitive and keyed up that it barely takes a stroke or two (holy shit, your cream is all over his cock and it’s so wet and he’s going to die of pleasure, fuck) before he’s cumming hard.

He hadn’t moved, so his cum shoots onto your skirt, some of it falling onto your bare skin at your hips.

Kenma finishes, and he doesn’t know what to do. Seconds pass, and his breathing evens out, and he can think again. The younger man pats your cheek softly. “Thank you, you uh, did good. Felt nice.”

Kuroo snorts.

Kenma’s incredibly thirsty, and his dick is still out, and he wants to clean it off.

“You have tissues?”

Kuroo scrambles out of the chair, digs in his bedside drawer before a travel size packet of tissues thumps into Kenma’s lap.

“I’ll go get you some water.” He offers. “You did good sweet cheeks, knew you would.” He tells you, before exiting the room.

Kenma clumsily cleans himself off, then tries to wipe his cum out of your skirt. That’s pretty much hopeless, so he quickly gives up. He notices the slick shining over your folds, so he holds up a tissue.

“Do you uh, want me to-“

“Please stop.”

You’re barely loud enough for Kenma to hear. The man shrugs, before tucking his cock back into his sweatpants, pulling them so they’re snug against his hips again.

He clambers off the bed to throw the tissues away, gets met at the door by Kuroo, who’s holding a cup of water.

“So? You feel like a man now?”

Kenma gives a lopsided grin. He feels proud - the other guys can’t tease him about this anymore, he’s fucked a girl.

Kuroo pats him on the shoulder, before handing over the cup of water. “Hell yeah man! Here, I’ll go finish our girl off.”

Finish her off?

Kuroo catches Kenma’s confused look, and he does his best not to chuckle, but Kenma’s known him long enough that he can’t hide his laughter like that.

“She didn’t cum.” Kuroo offers. “Not your fault, it takes a bit more practice. But hey, you can watch how I do it, yeah? Pick up some technique for next time.”

A quick glance to the bed shows you’ve barely moved, just curled up on your side, arms wrapped around your chest.

“Oh, okay.”

Kenma sits in Kuroo’s desk chair, takes a sip of water while he watches Kuroo unbuckle his belt.

He feels good.

[flourgirl]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: Months after you and Peter have broken up, you run into each other at Harry’s Christmas party.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Both fluffy and angsty. Mentions of alcohol and sex. A mild amount of curse words.

A/N: I’m ALIVE! I hope you all are having a wonderful holiday season, and Merry Christmas to everybody that celebrates it! I am so happy to be able to share my work with all of you! Enjoy <3

“And maybe we got lost in translation Maybe I asked for too much But maybe this thing was a masterpiece Till you tore it all up” -All Too Well, Taylor Swift

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Harry had promised you that his roommate would be spending the holidays with May back in Queens. But here he was, wearing the sweater that you had given him last year with his arm snaked around another girl’s waist.

“Hey!” Betty grinned, throwing her arms around you. She had a half-empty glass of mulled wine that you could tell was doing a good job of getting her tipsy. “I’ve missed you so much, Y/N. We never see each other anymore.”

She pouted, a pair of reindeer antlers where her signature black headband usually sat. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” you assured her, still staring at Peter effortlessly carrying the conversation with a bunch of people you didn’t recognize. “Uh, who’s the girl with Peter?”

“Gwen Stacy,” she muttered, obviously not a very big fan. You figured it was because there was only room for one preppy blonde girl, and Betty didn’t feel like sharing that position with anybody else. “Don’t worry though! It’s nothing serious. Peter actually hasn’t really dated anybody ever since the two of you…”

Her voice trailed off as you locked eyes with her, silently communicating for her to drop the subject. It was a relief to know that he hadn’t moved on, but the fact that he was wrapped up in a fling with somebody else still made your heart hurt.

“Come on, Y/N. I’m sure MJ and Ned would love to see you! They’re over in the kitchen.” She reached for your hand, dragging you along through Harry’s expertly decorated apartment. 

You dropped the box of cookies that you had baked on the counter before tapping MJ on the shoulder. She was turned away from you, lecturing Ned on why his secondhand Beyblades were not acceptable Christmas presents.

“Who the hell is touching me?” she snapped, turning around with a look on her face that told you she was ready to throw hands. “Holy fuck. Y/N! How long have you been here?”

MJ’s frown faded into a smile as she pulled you into a side-hug, her other hand busy nursing a glass of Harry’s infamously terrible eggnog. “Only a few minutes,” you laughed, your face smushed into her torso. 

“Hi,” Ned piped up, offering a small wave. You could tell he didn’t really know where he stood ever since his best friend basically ripped your heart out and threw it on the floor. Well, it wasn’t actually that dramatic, but he had a flair for exaggerating stories. “Remember me?”

“Of course, stupid,” you grinned, offering a fist bump that he happily accepted. “How could I forget those iconic fits of yours?”

“True,” he said, popping his collar and doing a little twirl that made Betty and MJ roll their eyes. “You look pretty fly too, though.”

“Thanks,” you replied, holding the edge of your dress as you curtsied, something you and Ned had made a habit of doing as the so-called best dressed members of the group.

“You two are just as ridiculous as ever,” Betty mused, happy to see you still fit in just as perfectly as when you were Peter’s girlfriend, even if you weren’t around as much.

The reunion was interrupted by the loud chatter of a certain couple, and your heart sank as you watched a very drunk Peter and Gwen stumble towards the kitchen, a giggling mess. They situated themselves under the archway that separated the two rooms, a piece of mistletoe conveniently hanging above them. 

You could tell that MJ was ready to put a stop to her friend’s embarrassing behavior, and the looks on Ned and Betty’s faces told you that they had no intentions of holding her back. 

“They’re so gross,” MJ complained, setting down her untouched cup before excusing herself to drag Peter out of his drunken makeout session. “I can’t believe he’d do that when you’re right here!”

“Wait, MJ,” you blurted, grabbing onto her wrist to stop her. She turned to face you, her eyebrows furrowed. “It’s okay. I don’t care about it. I’m just going to head to the bathroom, alright? I’ll be right back.”

You did your best to stop yourself from tearing up, although you realized you had made the utter mistake of forgetting that the very arch that Peter and Gwen were sucking each other’s faces under was the only way out of the kitchen.

Not even a few moments of you awkwardly standing next to them, occasionally clearing your throat, made them notice you. Eventually, the discomfort grew too heavy, and you tapped Peter on the shoulder. He finally pulled away from Gwen, her lipstick smudged across his mouth and a dazed look on his face.

Gwen whimpered at the loss of his kiss, obviously annoyed at the random girl that had just interrupted them. As soon as Peter recognized that it was you, he stepped away from her, wiping his mouth and fixing the hair she had been running her hands through, just like you used to.

“Y/N. I didn’t know that you’d be here,” he reasoned, a blush spreading across his face as a sense of regret settled into his stomach. 

“Obviously,” you sighed. This wasn’t the Peter you knew—the sweet, shy one that you had fallen in love with. “You guys are blocking the hallway, by the way.”

“Shit, sorry,” he stammered, stepping aside to allow you to pass in between them. He followed you, leaving Gwen irritated and confused as to who you were. “Y/N. Can we talk later?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Nice sweater, though,” you quipped, not even turning back to meet his gaze before climbing the stairs towards the guest bathroom. Everything felt all too familiar, memories of you and Peter stumbling up the same steps after a date flooding your brain.

The first time Peter had kissed you was after MJ’s birthday party. Neither of you had been drinking, since you hated alcohol and Peter refused to touch any before he turned 21. This meant that you got to spend the whole night laughing at everybody else’s drunken mischief. 

In the middle of his performance of some Nicki Minaj song, Ned managed to spill a whole can of beer on you and Peter, which resulted in many cheers as the two of you ran to his room to grab a change of clothes. Shirts came off, confessions were made, and the party went on without you guys.

You took a deep breath, shutting the bathroom door behind you and sitting on the edge of the bathtub. If you had known Peter would end up being here, you would have never accepted Harry’s invitation. There were so many old wounds being opened up that you had spent months trying to heal, and you weren’t sure some stupid Christmas party was worth it. 

But you didn’t want to leave. It wasn’t fair how much the break up had stolen from you. All of your friends were here and you were tired of shying away from going out with them anymore because you were too scared to see Peter. Too scared that you would never be able to stop being in love with him.

By the time you rejoined the rest of your friends, Harry was announcing that it was time to start the game of White Elephant. You bit the edges of your fingernails as the party guests filed into Harry’s living room, hoping that Peter wouldn’t somehow pick your present.

“What’d you bring?” you asked Betty, squishing in next to her on the couch. 

“Gift card to In-N-Out,” she giggled, satisfied that her present could only be used on the other side of the country. “But Harry’s rich friends might not have any trouble flying their private jets to California, so maybe I’m not as clever as I thought.”

“Heard that,” Harry said, leaning behind you on the edge of the couch. He placed a quick kiss on your cheek, something the two of you had always done as friends but stopped once you started dating Peter. “Hey, Y/N. Glad you could make it.”

“Hey, you,” you replied, smiling back at him, your leg bouncing impatiently. “We doing this thing or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute,” he laughed, running out of the room. Moments later, he came back wearing a fake beard and a Santa hat, complete with a miniature sack of toys. 

“Alright, boys and girls. Let’s get this game started! Hopefully you all know the rules, but I’ll repeat them anyway. I draw a name out of the sack, you pick a random present and open it up for everybody to see. The next person that goes can either steal your gift or pick a new one. If your gift gets stolen, you get to do the same. No stealing twice!”

The first couple of people you didn’t really know, and they had all pulled presents that were relatively uninteresting. A scented candle, toilet paper, a pair of socks. Nothing you really considered worth stealing, although Ned ended up taking a framed, autographed photo of Harry from MJ, which resulted in her stealing Gwen’s mini waffle iron.

By the time it was your turn, there weren’t many gifts left. Going with your gut, you grabbed the bag covered in glittering polar bears. Reaching past all of the tissue paper stuffed inside, you pulled out a red sweatshirt that you unfolded to see had a large graphic of Spider-Man printed on it. 

“Oh,” you said, a little confused. The only people you knew that wore stuff with the Avengers on it were little kids, but you figured that was part of the joke. “I mean, I prefer Captain America, but thanks, whoever this is from!”

Peter’s face blushed to a shade of red, amazed that out of all the presents, you picked his. The only issue was that you didn’t know that he was actually the guy on the front of it. Nobody except Ned knew, although he was sure that MJ and Harry had caught on to his secret identity by now.

“Okay, two people left. Jake, you’re up next, buddy,” Harry called out, happily bouncing around the room, his Santa hat now replaced with a baseball cap that had “I Love Ned!” embroidered on it. You watched nervously as he walked around the room, eyeing up all of the presents before settling on the tiny, golden box that you had placed under the tree when you first arrived.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” he smirked. Your thoughts raced, immediately feeling a sense of regret over the gift you had picked. “Oh, shit. Sweet! I’ve got a date with Y/N!”

“Sup, baby,” Jake continued, his words slightly slurred. He pointed at you and winked, and you offered him a polite smile in return. “We’re gonna have a good time. Just name the time and place and I got you.”

“Awesome, congrats, man,” Harry said, obviously ready for the game to be over. It had been going for way longer than any of you had expected, mostly due to the fact that two girls wouldn’t stop arguing over a piece of rose quartz. “Okay, we’re nearly finished, guys. Peter, you’re up. Pick any of the gifts that haven’t been stolen yet, or the last one under the tree.”

You locked eyes with him, a familiar scowl on his face that told you he was thinking really hard about which gift to pick. His spidey-senses felt your heartbeat pick up as he walked around the room before stopping in front of Jake, who was busy gloating to his friend about how “hot” you were. Your face heated up as you watched Peter take the little note that you had written out of Jake’s hands, smugly gesturing for him to pick up the present under the tree.

He waved sheepishly at you, and you felt both relieved and angry at his decision. Did you want to go on that date with Jake? No. Were you still mad that, technically, you now had to go out with your ex-boyfriend? Yes.

The game ended and the party-goers dispersed throughout the apartment. You lingered in your spot on the couch, your arms crossed and heart full of mixed emotions. Peter, whose gaze never strayed from you, walked over to where you were sitting.

“We don’t actually have to go out,” he whispered, hoping that you’d actually look at him this time. “I just didn’t think you wanted to go out with that guy. He seemed like kind of an asshole.”

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice if you let me decide that. You’re not my boyfriend, anymore Peter. We aren’t even friends. You don’t get a say in who I go out on dates with,” you grumbled, your eyes focusing on everything in the room except for him.

Before you could say anything else, Peter had already grabbed you by the hand, dragging you away from the rest of the party. Strangely enough, you went along with it, a little curious to hear him out.

You started to remember your first date, and it was almost like you could hear his excited laughter after you finally managed to knock a pin down. It became a tradition that whenever you had something to celebrate, Peter would pick you up and twirl you around until you had to beg him to stop.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Peter slamming the door behind him and cornering you against it, his heartbeat racing. He had pulled you into the laundry room. “I can’t stand seeing you with anybody else,” he panted, eyes flickering down towards your mouth.

His hand pushed a piece of your hair behind your ear, and your breath hitched as you felt his rough fingertips against your skin. But before he could lean in to kiss you, you were ducking underneath his arm and backing away.

“Peter, we really shouldn’t,” you whispered, watching the disappointment wash over his face. No matter how much you wanted to kiss him, you just couldn't forget how he had broken your heart months ago. “It’s over, okay?”

“Y/N, please. I—”

“You what? You love me? Because last time we were together, I told you how much I loved you and you said that we should break up. Remember?” you cried, embarrassed at how you couldn’t control your emotions anymore. “You’re just… you’re too late.”

You fumbled with the door, slipping through the opening before rushing towards the balcony. As soon as the cold air hit you, a wave of relief washed over your body, and you laid your head against the metal railing. Your breathing slowed and time seemed to stand still as you watched the snowflakes flutter through the wind.

“Peter’s an idiot,” you heard a voice call out from behind you. You turned to see Harry holding an extra coat in his arms, and you started to wonder just how long you had been standing out there. He draped it over your shoulders before leaning next to you against the balcony’s edge.

“Huh?” you asked, wondering if he knew what had just happened. You looked at him, the multicolored Christmas lights reflecting off his shiny hair. “What do you mean?”

“He’s stupid for ever letting you go,” he remarked. He had a look in his eyes that made you unsure of what he actually meant. “I mean, look at you. You’re so beautiful, and smart, and funny. And if he was dumb enough to throw all of that away, then yeah, Peter’s an idiot.”

“Oh, thanks, I guess,” you shrugged, your voice faint under the music that was still playing inside. You looked at him, his cheeks a rosy hue, which you couldn’t tell was from the cold or whatever he was trying to tell you.

“You know, I used to have the biggest crush on you,” Harry admitted, laughing a little bit at how nervous he was. Everybody knew that he was a player, so being flustered over a girl was uncharted territory for him. “I never told you this, but you were my first kiss.”

“Wait, really?” you asked, a little shocked at his confession. “But I thought you kissed Sarah Emerson on the playground in the fifth grade?”

“Nope. I was just a liar,” he grinned, running a hand through his hair. “It was right before our eighth grade formal, when you asked me to teach you how to kiss because you were scared that Jeremy Pellegrino was going to try and french you.

“Oh! I forgot all about that,” you laughed, suddenly remembering just how long you and Harry had been friends. “Hold on a second... You gave me kissing lessons without knowing how to kiss!?”

“Guilty,” Harry chuckled as you punched him on the arm. “Ow! Damn, Y/N. When did you get so strong?”

“I have a lot of rage,” you mumbled before the two of you burst out into laughter, which slowly faded into a comfortable silence. 

“You don’t feel that way anymore, right?” you wondered out loud. Harry looked at you, smiling softly.

“No, not anymore,” he affirmed, and you let out a sigh of relief. You knew what it felt like to love someone and not be loved back. “I think what really helped me get over it was seeing how happy you and Parker were when you were dating.” 

“He misses you a lot,” Harry continued, his tone more serious than before. “He keeps this scarf that you left behind under his pillow because it still smells like you. I found out because he was having a pretty bad dream one night and I had to try really hard to calm him back down. And we both thought Gwen would help him move on and get his mind off of you, but I think she only made him realize just how much he still loves you—”

“Harry,” you interrupted, cutting his rambles short. “Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because you and Peter should be together.”

“You think so?” you asked him, pulling the jacket tighter to keep you warm.

“Yeah. We all do.” It took only seconds for Harry to realize his fumble, accidentally admitting that the whole thing had been planned by him and your friends.

“We?” Your frowned, all of the coincidences from tonight suddenly making much more sense. “Wait, did you know that Peter was going to be here tonight all along?”

“Uh… yeah, about that. MJ, Ned, and I have kind of been pulling a Parent Trap on you guys.”

“HARRY!” You glared inside to see them not-so-secretly watching the entire exchange from behind the Christmas tree. Ned did some awkward finger guns, which MJ immediately swatted down. “I am so going to get you guys!”

You marched inside to where your friends were attempting to hide, the rest of the party guests too drunk and oblivious to notice what was happening. 

“The eagle has left the nest. I repeat, The eagle has left the nest!” Ned yelled, ducking behind MJ, who was already shielding herself with a throw pillow.

“What’s going on?” Betty whined, half-asleep on the couch. “Is this that stupid plan about Peter and Y/N?”

“It’s not stupid!” Harry grumbled, his voice cracking a little bit. You could hear MJ snorting about it from her hiding spot. “Whatever, Michelle.”

“Shut up!” she shouted back.

“No, you!” he said, crossing his arms and standing his ground.

“Make me,” MJ said, narrowing her eyes and shooting daggers at him.

“Uh, guys. This isn’t about you two,” Ned interrupted, snapping them out of their mini argument. There was a weird tension between them that you just knew you would have to address some time in the future.

“Right,” MJ continued, sticking a middle finger up at Harry before turning to you. “Y/N. You should go talk to Peter.”

You nodded, exchanging hopeful looks with each of your friends before walking away. They might be dramatic goofballs, but you loved them so much that you didn’t really care.

Wandering around the party, you spotted Peter trapped in a conversation with Brad Davis, who was explaining his conspiracy theories about the Denver Airport and its demonic horse statue.

“So, all I’m saying is that they’re totally planning the end of the world over there. I mean, the Freemasons built an entire bunker for when they activate the nukes!” he rambled, Peter politely nodding along to his nonsense.

“Hey,” you said, tapping Brad on the shoulder and batting your eyelashes at him. “Can I borrow Peter?”

“Uh, yeah, totally, Y/N,” he stuttered, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards into a smirk. You could smell the peppermint Schnapps on his breath.

“Great. Thanks, Brad!” you smiled, grabbing Peter’s hand and pulling him towards the staircase. By the time you made it to his bedroom, he had already asked what was going on about ten times.

“Why’d you dump me?” you asked, the two of you sitting together on the edge of his bed, your knee brushing against his. He could tell you were wasting no time in getting to the point. “Be honest.”

He stared at the floor, unsure of how to answer your question. You reached for his hand, running your thumb across his knuckles until he looked up to see you smiling at him. His eyes were starting to water. “Just tell me, Peter. It’s okay.”

“I was scared,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I was scared of how much I love you. I mean, Liz was just a crush, and Gwen was a hookup. I’ve only ever loved you, Y/N. Before we met, I had to watch May’s heart break day after day when we lost Uncle Ben, and when I realized how much I loved you... I just wasn’t sure if I could handle ever losing you like that. And so I felt like I needed to protect you from all of the people who would want to hurt you.”

“Hey, Peter. Calm down. I’m right here,” you whispered, wiping a tear from his face. You watched as his breathing slowed, eventually evening out. “Why would anybody want to hurt me?”

“Because…” he started, hesitating a little bit. “Because I’m Spider-Man.”

Your eyes grew big as you mulled over what he had just said. “Are you being serious right now?”

He nodded, feeling a weight lift from his chest. Your eyes followed him as he walked over to his closet, digging around through piles of clothes before he found what he was looking for.

“Holy shit,” you breathed out. Peter was holding up Spider-Man’s suit. His suit. The sweatshirt from earlier made a lot more sense now.

“I would never lie to you,” he said, folding it up and sitting back down. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I thought I was doing the right thing—that you’d be safe—but I was so stupid. I, uh, I think about you all the time. I worry whether you’ve gotten home alright and how your little brother’s doing and if your mom got the promotion that she wanted and—”

You cut him off with a kiss, something you had been dying to do ever since you shut his bedroom door. “I forgive you,” you sighed, gently playing with his hair.

Peter stared back at you, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “Does this mean that we’re back together?”

“Yep,” you confirmed, before leaning into another kiss. And another. And another.

“Wait,” Peter said, breaking away from you. “I have a present for you. It’s actually from when we first started dating, but I was waiting until Christmas to give it to you.”

He moved to his desk, digging through one of the drawers before pulling out a flash drive. “Here it is,” he smiled, dropping it into your hand. It had your name scribbled on it next to a cat sticker. “It’s a playlist. Of all the songs that make me think of you. I think it’s got around a hundred on there?”

“Wow,” you beamed, marveling at the little piece of plastic in your hand. “You’re making me look bad. I didn’t get you anything.”

“Not true. You owe me a date, remember?” he reminded you, wiggling his eyebrows and pulling you into his lap.

“You’re right. Let me think,” you hummed, running through all the ideas of what the two of you could do. “Oh! I got it. The Central Park Squirrel Census for this year just got released. What if we analyzed the data? You could do the wrangling and I could do the visualizations!”

“I love you so much,” he laughed, pressing a kiss onto the tip of your nose. You giggled as Peter buried his face into your shoulder, his grip around your waist tightening. “But you are such a nerd.”

“I’m your nerd, Parker,” you agreed, leaning further into his embrace. “Always have been and always will be.”

—————-

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[mandoalorian]

Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Chapter 7

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 3.4k

Warnings: Smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption. This is a sugardaddy x sugarbaby fic soooo… a daddy k!nk too oops.

But in this chapter - suicide mention, more angst

Author’s note: GRAB YOUR TISSUES.

MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS - CHAPTER SEVEN - NEXT

Bruce motherfucking Wayne. You couldn't believe it. You pondered why he was at the Black Gold Cooperative Christmas gala— perhaps he was a friend of Maxwell's? They were, on the surface, very alike; both hailing from wealthy families and CEO’s of the most prestigious international conglomerates. You sipped on your bubbling champagne and laughed as he cracked a joke with you.

You had completely lost track of time. The music was loud and the ballroom was bustling with people of high importance. Everyone looked marvellous in their designer outfits and styled hair. You hadn't even seen Maxwell, that was until you hear him tap a glass, raising the attention of everyone including you and Bruce. The room fell obscenely quiet.

Maxwell was… nervous. He was good at being on television, but live speeches in front of all these important business associates, his mother and the president? That was terrifying. His eyes scanned the room for you. When his gaze finally landed on you, you shot him a warm and encouraging smile and he felt a gush of relief wash over his tensed up body.

"Hello everyone, I'd like to thank you all for joining me this evening. Firstly I'd like to thank the president for letting me use his beautiful home as a function," Maxwell spoke into the mic, his words earning an applause. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, sir. I wish you all the best for your presidency." you knew how much Max disagreed with the president and practically cringed at the fauxness of his tone. Maxwell spoke for a long while about the past year, the highs and the lows of his company and what Black Gold Cooperative had been through. Rubbing your eyes, you let out a shaky yawn.

"Hey?" Bruce whispered, putting his champagne glass on the bar. "Wanna get out of here?"

You were taken aback by his proposal. What exactly was he suggesting? Bruce Wayne was, by far, one of the more handsome men in the room. And he certainly seemed nice. He hadn't given the staff attitude (unlike Maxwell, who was rude to everyone he saw lesser than him), and he had been nothing but kind to you.

"I-" you sighed, glancing between Maxwell who was on the stage, and Bruce who was by your side. "I really shouldn't." you rejected him, and Bruce nodded sadly.

"No worries," he replied, taking a sip of his champagne.

"What do you think of him?" you asked, out of the blue. Your eyes were heavy as you drank in Maxwell's appearance. There was just something so fascinating about him. He wasn't your type but from the moment you met him you were so compelled to him.

"Who?" Bruce responded, cocking a curious dark eyebrow.

"Maxwell Lord." you pursed your lips into a thin line. He was charismatic, the coverboy of Forbes, a household name. He was Maxwell Lord.

"I think it's a shame, what happened to him when he was a kid," Bruce shook his head and your head snapped to face him. "But, the man has built his career and fortune on lies and greed. He thinks he's some kind of hero but really he's just… a lonely, broken little boy."

You were about to ask Bruce what he meant, what happened to Maxwell when he was a kid, when a thunderous applause erupted in the room and Maxwell padded off the stage. "I should go see him. But it was lovely talking to you." you smiled at Bruce. You leaned in, brushing your lips over his cheek. He smelled delicious. Another man drenched in expensive cologne, no doubt, but nevertheless you were sad to leave him.

You made your way past through the crowds of people in the ballroom, trying to peer over hundreds of heads in-attempt to find Maxwell. You just about made out his dark blonde head of hair talking to the president. You hurried over, holding your gown in your hands, careful not to trip over.

"Hey!" you gasped, placing your hands on Maxwell's back. The suit was soft in your hands, you didn't want to let go off him.

"Hi," Maxwell smiled, his eyes gleaming now that he had finally found you. "Uh, I'd like to introduce you to the president of the United States."

"The pres-" your jaw dropped as you shook hands with President Reagan.

"She's quite the gem," the president nodded, his hand stroking your arm. The contact was more than enough to make you uncomfortable.

"Yeah but, we're just friends." Maxwell insisted and you felt your heart sink a little. It was exactly what you had told the press, but hearing it from him was devastating.

"That's good then. Because I'd like to introduce you to my daughter Margaret." the president beamed, taking the hand of his daughter and thrusting her into Maxwell. She fell into her chest and he caught her just in time, albeit stumbling backwards.

She had tight blonde curls and pink glossy lips, her pearl earrings bringing out the blue in her ice cold eyes. "Oh, hi Mr Lord," she purred affectionately. You scrunched up your nose in disdain as he gently pushed her off him.

"Pleasure to meet you Margaret," Maxwell smiled, shaking her hand.

"Please, call me Maggie," she replied, not breaking eye contact once.

"Right Maggie…" Maxwell laughed awkwardly and you took a step back, scowling.

The burning feeling of jealousy rinsed through your body. This was outrageous— you had no reason to be jealous. Yours and Maxwell's relationship was strictly business only. But it didn't mean you had to enjoy seeing that woman leaning into his chest, his arms wrapped around her.

It seemed that everyday you grew more and more angered and confused by your feelings. It must've just been something in the December air.

"I'll be at the bar," you mumbled as Maxwell and Margaret continued to chat.

You sighed, walking back over to Bruce with a frown.

"Everything okay?" Bruce asked, concern dripping from his tongue. You didn't reply, shaking your head sadly and staring into the oak wood bar like it was going to give you answers. "Two glasses of your finest house wine, please." Bruce called over the bartender before turning back to you.

"Trying to get me drunk, Wayne?" you rolled your eyes.

"I'd never," Bruce replied, placing a hand on the small of your back. "I just know we're both going to need plenty of alcohol to get through this evening."

"Touché." you agreed, taking a swing of your drink and shuddering at the strong taste.

"Where do you hail from?" Bruce asked, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "Never seen you around before. And trust me, I'd recognise someone as beautiful as you."

"I-" you felt yourself blush under his touch, and subconsciously lean into his hand, biting your lip. Just then, you spotted him. The man of the night. Maxwell Lord barked your name, anger crossing his dark brown eyes. "What is it?" you sighed, taking another sip of wine.

"I didn't know you'd be here." Maxwell snarled at Bruce, grabbing your hand and interlocking his fingers with yours. His action was rough and harsh but you felt butterflies just from his touch and his possessive nature.

"My father would've wanted me to be here," Bruce smiled. "When your mother invited me, how could I refuse? I think your father would've wanted me here too. Don't worry, I've placed a donation…"

Maxwell dug his finger in Bruce's chest. "You don't know shit about what my father would want."

You were confused, making quick glances between the two men who were, quite frankly acting like little boys. "And you do?" Bruce chuckled. "Your father is the reason for your success. He built his business on hope with the aim of helping those less fortunate than him. And what did you do? You turned it into an abomination… all his hard work, gone. Because you're greedy."

"Bruce!" you gasped, speechless at the businessman's cold words. You turned to Maxwell with pleading eyes. "Max… maybe we should leave." you placed a hand on his shoulder but his glare didn't tear from Bruce. You had never seen so much hate in his eyes.

"No," Maxwell breathed eventually. He couldn't even bring himself to look at you, his gaze finding the floor as he shuffled his feet sadly. "You can stay. I'm leaving." Maxwell murmured.

"Max I'm coming with you," you began to protest.

"No." Maxwell repeated, this time his voice was more stern. "I'm going home with Maggie. You're clearly more comfortable here, with Bruce. Wouldn't want to spoil your evening."

"Max?" you whispered as tears pricked your eyes.

"Good night." he said finally, before walking away with his head held high.

"What a man." Bruce tsked.

You turned to him, blindsighted by rage and picked up your wine glass from the bar. You didn't know how to react, you didn't know what to say. You were left so bewildered by the dialogue between Maxwell and Bruce. All you knew was that you had never seen Maxwell so hurt in his life. And that did not sit well with you at all. You threw the remenints of your wine all over Bruce, drenching him in the expensive liquid.

"You're a real jerk." you spat. The music stopped and everyone turned to face you. "I don't know what is going on with you and Max, but stay away from him." you gritted before storming off.

You tried to locate Margaret, spotting her by the Christmas tree as she overlooked the dancers. "Hey, Maggie?" you asked.

"Oh it's you," she spat, looking you up and down. "My name is Margaret."

You wished you had kept a little wine to throw over her. "I don't care," you shook your head. "Have you seen Max? Has he spoken to you in the last few minutes?"

"No? Why?" Margaret asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Shit okay, nevermind." you replied, spinning around on your heel.

You raced to the lobby, asking a member of staff to call you a cab. She gave you a judgemental look but followed your instruction none the less. Letting you know when your can had arrived outside, you raced out into the thick snow. Low and behold, the paparazzi were still there, snapping photos of you as you ran to the taxi. They screamed your name, asking questions about why you weren't with Max and why you were taking a taxi home. You ignored them, pushing past them furiously until you reached the yellow cab and slid inside. Your gown got caught in the door but you didn't care. You needed to see Max. You needed to make sure he was okay. Your heart ached knowing he was upset.

You arrived to his penthouse in your ripped gala dress and messy hair, still running to the reach the elevator. When you got to his penthouses the warmth and familiarity relieved you.

You closed the front door gently behind you and tip-toed to Maxwell's office. Before you could open the door and let yourself in, you heard gentle sobbing. It was quiet and there was the occasional pause before a sniff and a cry. You leaned against the wall, trying to process what you were hearing. Maxwell Lord IV was in his office, crying. You felt a pang of pain in your chest. Maxwell Lord doesn't cry— and yet here he was. You suddenly felt defensive and you wanted to know what had happened. You decided you could push your argument to one side. You slowly opened the door and stepped inside.

Maxwell was sat at his desk with a half drunk bottle of whiskey. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his shirt had the top three buttons undone. His fingers were laced in his dark blonde hair and you noticed he was tugging on it out of frustration. He hadn't noticed you standing there yet. You took a deep breath.

"Max?"

You watched him stiffen up and wipe his eyes. He didn't turn to look at you— he didn't need to. Instead, his gaze burned into the amber coloured scotch in the crystal glass. He felt ashamed. Embarrassed. He didn't say a word. Cautiously, you approached him, with slow and light footsteps. As you neared him you noticed his eyes were sore and red and you wondered how long he had been crying for. You crouched down to his level and gently pressed your hand into his back, rubbing comforting circles.

Maxwell gulped as you touched him, but still didn't say a word. He was afraid that if he opened his mouth he'd croak something ridiculous out or just as easy burst into tears. He knew it. You were there for him, as always. You had come back for him. His guardian angel— the only person who truly cared about him.

You cupped his cheek and turned his head to face you. He did so, willingly, his glossy brown eyes gazing into yours. "What happened, Max?" you whispered, your fingers gently tracing his golden tear stained cheeks. Max stayed silent and tried his best to suppress another sob. "Was it Bruce?" you whispered again, and leaned into him, resting your head in his lap.

Maxwell dropped his hands into your hair and your eyes fluttered shut under his gentle touch as he softly stroked you. "It's so much more." Maxwell admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "Bruce's words tipped me over the edge. This time of the year is already so hard and my mother… at the gala…."

"What did she do, Max?" you stood up from the floor and pulled a chair up so you could sit next to him.

"She always puts these ideas in my head," Maxwell admitted. "Fuck- I should know better. My whole life she's tried controlling me. And I know it's wrong but I still let her get in my head."

"What ideas?"

"It's always been about my father. Didn't want me to make the same mistakes he made. So she'd do everything in her power to ensure that, no matter what, I put the business first. She tells me it's my legacy. That I must finish what my father started. And my grandfather. And if I don't- if I don't, then I've failed them."

"Your father… Bruce mentioned him." your voice was quiet and you didn't know whether or not you were overstepping by bringing it up.

"Did he tell you what happened?" Maxwell asked you and you shook your head. "Because it's not public information. Bruce only knows because his family… his parents helped my mother cover it up."

"Cover what up?" you asked, almost afraid of how he was going to answer.

"The suicide." Maxwell deadpanned, looking at you with glossy eyes.

"Your father?" you were speechless, your heart breaking at his words.

"Yeah." Maxwell replied. "I was sixteen."

"Why?"

"I don't know… he. He never left a note." Maxwell crossed his arms over his chest. "I- I'm sorry. I've never spoken about this before. My mother chose to cover up the suicide because she said it would bring shame on the business."

"Shame? But it's- it's not shameful. It's…" you were really struggling to find words, all you could do was console Maxwell, as your friend if nothing more. "Your mother does not get to choose your legacy." You told Maxwell, taking his hands and squeezing them gently. "This is your life Max. Don't let her control it."

"I freaked out on you at the gala because my mother came and she told me that I should leave you-" Maxwell paused before correcting himself. "Fire you. I mean. I don't know. She told me that the weakness in my father was his love for his family, and his love for her, and his love for me. She told me my grandfather was the same and now- she sees that weakness in me. She blames you. Says I've been different since we began our arrangement," Maxwell scoffed. "She says you distract me. I didn't realise it at first. But I think she's right." Maxwell looked up at you, teary eyed. "She thinks if I marry Margaret sales will boost and… once again she's right."

You felt yourself freeze up. "Max…" you whispered, not knowing what to say or how to even process his words. Was he about to terminate the contract? Was he going to tell you to walk away and leave?

"I can't-" Maxwell choked out a sob. " I can't let her keep controlling me. After seeing you with Bruce, I was so fucking afraid of losing you for good and it was all her fault. I won't choose between you and the company. And she can't make me choose. But you know, if I had to? Fuck. I'd choose you."

"Maxwell don't be ridiculous," You shook your head sadly. He'd had a lot to drink. He was emotional. He couldn't be meaning these words. "You're an amazing CEO, look at the greatness that you've led Black Gold Cooperative to. Front page of Forbes three years in a row. No business in history has earned as much as yours in profit. You've done this by yourself. Sure your ancestors founded Black Gold, but Max, you've been working your ass off since you were sixteen."

"I don't want to hear it," Maxwell cut you off and took another sip of his whiskey. "I just want to make my father proud. I loved him so much." he sniffed.

"Your mother said that your father's love for his family was his weakness. But I believe that it was his strength. That warmth in his heart he passed down to you, and Max, I'm so glad he did. Because I feel it. I feel your compassion. I feel your love. Before we met everyone said you were cold and distant… but you've shown me more care in the past ten days than I've felt in my whole life." You smiled at him and he gazed longingly into your eyes. "In the end, your father cared more about protecting your family than running the risk of exploiting Black Gold Cooperative. He chose love over his business. And for that reason, I know your father would be proud of you because I'm proud of you."

"Nobody has ever told me that they're proud of me."

"They haven't?" You furrowed your brows together and Maxwell shook his head sadly. You wrapped your arms around him and he nuzzled his face into your shoulders.

"You've shown me what love can feel like." Maxwell mumbled into your skin. "Never- never believed in it until I met you."

"Oh Max," you felt a tear slip down your cheek.

Max pulled away from you and cupped his hands around your face. He whispered your name and gently brushed his nose against yours.

"I think," Maxwell swallowed. "No. I know. I know that I've fallen deeply in love with you."

Taglists: let me know if you wish to be added!

December Magic: @100layersofdaddyissues @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-wayson @this-cat-is-dea @blonde2bomshell @maiyaaaa0130

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes

[marmolady]

Back to School

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC, hints of Quinchelle

Summary: Endless Ending. The Catalysts are heading back to school. Or, at least, most of them are. For Taylor, Hartfeld is a whole new beginning... but the past isn't done with her yet.

WARNINGS: Character death (flashbacks), self-harm.

Word Count: 6348

Chronology: After 'Homecoming' and 'Clarity'.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove @mauvecatfic​

Thanks for reading

“Stay with me, okay? S-stay with me!” Taylor frantically tried to stem the bleeding with the shirt she’d taken off her own back, but it was already stained through. “I can’t… I can’t lose you too. Not you, Diego, please…. P-please…. Please….”

His breath rattled in his throat, strained and weak. “T-tell… tell Varyyn I’m… I… s-sorr--”

“No. No. You’ll tell him yourself, all right? You’ve got to hang on, Diego, please….”

Even as Taylor spoke, she could feel her friend’s fingers growing cold in hers. A distant yell sent a chill down her spine. The Arachnids were closing in. If she was going to get Diego to safety, she had to get him on his feet. Fast.

“...Tayl… you… f-find…” he croaked.

Taylor tried to meet his gaze and failed. He couldn’t see her there before him, though he was trying… he was trying so hard…. Until his eyes were still, searching no longer.

And she shrieked. She screamed into the night, knowing that she was good as sealing her own fate but not caring. How could she care anymore? She was alone. She collapsed into the blood-soaked chest of the best friend she’d ever had… and howled.

“Taylor!”

Woken by a shake, she kept on screaming, her body convulsing with violent sobs. Where was she?

Diego… Diego, no….

Estela cradled her face, stroking tenderly with gentle fingers. But all Taylor could see was a lingering vision of unseeing eyes. Of blood, and death, and….

“Shh-sh-sh-shh…, it’s over, amor. Everyone’s safe….”

Taylor tried to ground herself, to bring herself back, but she was swimming in anguish-- no, she was drowning.

“Diego!”

More urgently, Estela stroked Taylor’s face and hair. Her own eyes were sparkling. “Querida, he’s fine. He’s safe-- I swear he’s safe. Taylor-- Taylor? I need you to come back to me, baby….”

Something about the fear in that voice snapped Taylor to reality. Estela. Estela was holding her. They were… home.

The tears kept coming. Why? Why was she not allowed any fucking peace? She was broken… her head was broken….

She couldn’t stop howling, even as she was held. The blood could still be on her hands… she could feel it there….

“I… can’t… make it… stop…,” she whimpered. Her hands trembled as she lifted them; they tingled with the expectation of what should have been there but wasn’t. Why won’t it stop?  She raised a hand to her head and smacked herself with all the force she could muster.

“I… can’t… make it… STOP!” Taylor hollered, and she slammed her open palm to her head again and again, resisting Estela’s panicked grappling. “MAKE… IT… STOP!”

Then Estela managed to wrestle her way to Taylor’s hands. The grip was like iron, though Taylor kept on struggling.

“Taylor-- Taylor!”

“LET… ME… GO!”

“I’m sorry.… I’m sorry, I can’t. It’s okay that you’re overwhelmed and you’re scared, but you can’t… you can’t hurt yourself like that.”

“LET ME… let me….”

Taylor screamed and sobbed, but she stopped fighting at the sound of the pain in her wife’s voice, and let herself be cradled and gently rocked.

“Sh-shh-shh… I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“It’s too much…,” Taylor whimpered through her tears. “I--I can’t stand it anymore.”

“I know, mi amor. I know.” Shaking, Estela softly kissed her wife’s temple. “Will you be all right if I let go? I’m just going to grab you a tissue, okay?”

Just then, there was a loud rapping at the door, followed by Quinn’s voice.

“Can we come in? It’s me and Michelle… just a little worried about you guys.”

“Yeah… come in. And if you wanna help, we could use some tissues.”

At the sight of more friends, looking towards her in concern, Taylor cried all the harder, and very quickly she was being hugged by Quinn and Michelle… and Diego, who was also now wide awake and worried. Surrounded by friends’ arms and soothing words, she let her emotions flow forth until she had no tears left to cry.

With the risk of Taylor hurting herself diminished, Estela stepped away to get a hold of herself. “I’ll just get you a drink of water, cariña, okay?”

Taylor blew her nose noisily. “Actually, um, I might get up for a little while. If I try and go back to sleep now, I’m pretty sure it’s just gonna be nightmares all over again.” She shrunk into herself guiltily. This was not the ‘good night’s sleep before the first day of college’ that everyone had in mind. “And I don’t expect everyone to stay up just for me--”

“Oh, shut up, Taylor.” Michelle offered another tissue. “The sooner you let us help you, the sooner we can all get some sleep, all right?”

It turned out-- unsurprisingly, given the noise-- that the rest of the house had been woken by Taylor’s shrieking.

“So, uh… someone getting murdered up there?” Zahra quipped as the group descended the stairs.

Estela gave her a look, but turned her attention quickly back to Taylor. God, she was still shaking like a leaf… and then Estela realised that her wife wasn’t the only one.

Pull yourself together. For fuck’s sake.

If she was going to be any use at all, Estela knew she needed to sort herself out… and it felt like she was on the verge of breaking down sobbing. “I’ll… I’ll get you that drink, Taylor.”

Grabbing a glass from her wife’s bedside table, Estela retreated to the bathroom and collapsed over the basin with her head in her hands.

Taylor hadn’t hurt herself before. The way she’d hit herself over the head, as if determined to pound out a part of her she couldn’t stand… it struck Estela as hauntingly like the way she herself had lost immunity to her own fists in her frantic need to purge the poison. It hadn’t happened many times-- four?-- five at the most-- but Taylor was like a human sponge; it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that she’d been influenced by her wife’s response to trauma and taken it as her own. That was troubling.

Estela felt ill. Sick with guilt. Helpless.

So, when Raj popped his head around the door to offer a hug, she all but fell into his arms, all the bottled-up frustration bursting forth.

“I know it was stupid and naive,” she lamented against her friend’s chest, “but I really thought we’d cracked it.”

“I wouldn’t say you haven’t cracked it,” Raj said thoughtfully. “Taylor used to have these visions most nights, right? If this is the first time it’s happened since you guys moved in here, you must be on the right track… but even the right track’s gonna have a bump in the road here and there.”

“If she’s waking up screaming in the middle of the night, ‘the right track’ isn’t fucking good enough!” To her frustration, angry tears splashed down Estela’s cheeks. Crying wouldn’t do a damn thing to help Taylor. Roughly, she rubbed her face dry. She should have seen this coming; stepping foot into Hartfeld University as a student would be, for Taylor, incredibly significant. Estela had known Taylor was stressed leading up to the start of term. She should have done more….

“Yeah… I know. And it’s not fair at all-- after everything our girl was prepared to do for us, the least she deserves is a bit of peace at the end of it. So, we’re just gonna have to keep on taking good care of her. Like she always does for us. You know-- if relaxation is the key to Tayls’ good night sleep, I’m happy to give coaching….”

In spite of everything, Estela spluttered a laugh. “Raj, if Taylor ever wants to give the getting stoned route a try, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know about it. If I’m honest, some days I could probably use some of that shit myself.”

Raj grinned. “Even just the thought got a smile out of you-- that’s a win! But if a good hug is more your thing, I’m more than happy to deliver on that one too.”

Estela exhaled slowly, her eyes shut. She’d needed that hug… more than she’d known. Those disturbed nights punctuated by the anguished sobs of her poor wife crying out in her sleep, and it had been all Estela could do to stay calm enough to offer any kind of soothing comfort… they’d taken a heavy toll.

“I need to go back to her,” she said quietly.

“So, Tayls,” Craig had been asking, as if it was the most everyday thing in the world, “what’s the worst way I died? Gory details!”

“Craig!”

“I mean, we’re all curious, but come on!”

“What? You know what they say, ‘if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry’-- I mean, it’s not like any of those things are actually gonna happen now. There’s nothing to be scared of!”

Taylor’s mouth hung open. Actually… would that help? It wasn’t an approach she’d even considered. But as her mind flickered back to the vision of Diego dead in her arms… the feel of the weight of his body, she knew she couldn’t do it.

“I, um, I don’t think I’m ready. To laugh about these things. When I have these dreams it’s like… they’re fresh. New and visceral and vivid every time.  I… I can’t bounce back from that and just laugh. Maybe in like… a couple of weeks? That’s if it doesn’t happen again. But it’s like I’m living it. And when I wake up… all the shock, and dread… it’s all still there.”

Everyone was quiet. Taylor didn’t blame them. How the hell could anyone know what to do with this? Estela sat down beside her and offered the glass of water.

“Thanks, babe,” Taylor murmured. Her throat was parched and sore… she supposed screaming bloody murder could do that. She took a few sips, then let herself relax into the couch, and Estela’s and Diego’s arms around her.

“I think, “ she said, “I underestimated how nervous I was about starting tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen, but I guess it’s ‘cause I feel like… well, a bit of a fraud.”

Zahra scoffed. “Freaking pseudo-humans think they can muscle in on our school. Man, they’re letting that place go to shit.”

Taylor looked at her, taken off guard, then slowly… she started to laugh, until she was near doubled-over. Wheezing, she sat up and wiped away a tear. “Oh my god. It’s ridiculous!”

“Honestly?” Michelle said, “I think it’s going to be surreal. ‘Normal’ is going to be hard, after….” She shuddered, and Taylor knew where her mind had wandered to… the smoldering wreckage that was a past not another soul bar the twelve of them could ever comprehend.

Quinn hugged Michelle tightly. “That’s why we need to keep doing this. Sharing the burden. If we can survive the end of the world that way… well, that’ll be how we survive the aftermath as well.”

Regaining her breath, Taylor snuggled into Diego’s shoulder. She’d been the damsel in distress tonight, but come the next, it could be any one of her friends drowning in the enormity of what they’d survived. And she’d be there, offering a shoulder, as they’d done her. Taylor closed her eyes, and focused on her breathing; slow and deep into her belly. The horrors would fade, just as long as she could keep them at bay for long enough for them to do so.  It wasn’t as if she wasn’t well-used to the challenge; it had become almost routine until she’d thought she’d mastered it. Her friends had gathered around her, offering whatever comfort they could give, and that was the best hope she could ask for.

Raj sat bolt upright, clearly struck by inspiration. Always a worry.

“Guys! Gu-u-uuys!”

Taylor snorted an affectionate little laugh. “Raj! Ra-a-aaj! What’re you thinking?”

He jumped up and began moving furniture out the way.

“This is ominous….” Zahra muttered.

“Okay, doodlejumps, everyone one the floor! Sitting in a nice, wide circle.”

“Yup. I knew I had a bad feeling…. If this isn’t ‘pass the bong’, I’m out.”

Raj was undeterred, in spite of the scepticism shown by a chunk of the group. “Now, lie down, so that your head is resting on the belly of the dude or dudette to your right.”

“Er, okay,” Diego said, angling himself so that his head would fall to Taylor’s middle, “kinda weird, but why not?”

“Is everyone in positio--”

But Craig was already laughing; being sleep-deprived and tickled by the movements of Zahra’s diaphragm, he couldn’t help it if he tried. And Quinn with her head on his belly, found herself jiggled up and down in a most giggle-inducing manner.

“There you go-- you’re doing it!”

Bouncing up and down on Estela’s firm belly, Taylor laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Which made both Estela and Diego laugh more, which made her laugh more…. And so, Raj’s laughing circle worked its magic. It was simple, and silly, but actually… it worked. She was smiling so hard her jaw ached. The genius of Raj had struck again.

She laughed until…. “Okay, okay, I c-can’t breathe! Too much laughing!”

Taylor sat up clumsily, and a rosy-cheeked Estela put an arm around her once more, still giggling herself.

A rather uncharacteristically disheveled Michelle caught her breath long enough to give Raj a look of incredulation.

“I hate the fact that I feel so much better after that.” She collapsed against Quinn’s shoulder and shook her head. “I don’t even want to know how ridiculous we all looked just then…. The things I do for you people….”

“For what it’s worth,” Taylor said, “I appreciate it. More than I can say.”

It would be over an hour before everyone at last trundled along back to bed. An hour that Taylor’s loved ones had filled with chamomile tea, a giggly session of group yoga, a massage with soothing lotions from a talented Michelle, and many, many hugs. She even managed to snag a hug from Zahra; very brief and well out of sight of anyone else, but a hug nonetheless.

Taylor sunk into the mattress with a quiet moan, and curled her body into a ball, soon to have Estela’s wrapped lovingly around it. She was tired… so tired that the weight of her eyelids was painful. But she was relaxed, more-so than should have been possible after the horrific vision she endured, and with something as momentous as her first day as a student at Hartfeld lying ahead.

“Duerme ya, dulce bien; mi capullo de nardo,” Estela sang softly as her gentle fingers stroked Taylor’s hair.

Taylor closed her eyes, knowing nothing but the feel and sound of her wife. The surest thing she could ever trust in.

“Despacito duermete, como la abeja en la flor.

Duerme ya, dulce bien;

Duerme ya, dulce amor

Dulces sueños tendrás

al oir mi canción.”

And Taylor slept soundly, cocooned in love.

_________________________

As she pulled the van up into one of several car-parks on campus, Estela was struck by how right Michelle had been about it feeling surreal to be back in this place. The only reason she’d ended up there to begin with was because she’d intended to kidnap one Aleister Rourke and hold him hostage to gain access to his father. Circumstances had… definitely changed. That she was studying now wasn’t just a means to a probably violent end; it was to equip her to live a life fulfilling and true to who she was.

Her passengers piled out of the van; usually, those without a class first-thing would more than likely take a bus in later, but today felt significant.

“How are you feeling?” Estela checked in with Taylor, noting that she looked rather like someone on the verge of vomiting.

Taylor felt rather like she was on the verge of vomiting. She was a walking jumble of nerves. The smile she gave her wife was shaky. “It’s just… weird. Other than the Lernaean Gate experience, and I’m trying to keep that out of my mind, I’ve never stepped foot in this place. But I look over there, and I know that’s the Humanities building, and the best coffee shop on campus is around that corner, and if I were to bump into another Freshman, I could probably give them accurate directions to whatever lecture hall they were searching for. I know all that, and still… it’s new.”

“It’s okay,” Estela said gently, finding Taylor’s hand and squeezing it. “All the other new students are gonna be freaking out too. You’ll blend right in.”

“Yeah… yeah, you’re right.” Taylor took a deep breath. This was nothing, nothing that she couldn’t handle. When she stepped back and looked at it logically, there was obviously no threat. All those months of building this up in her head sure had wreaked havoc on her. “What do you have up first? Was it the subject on discrimination and identities?” That sounds right.

Estela nodded. “Yep, that’s the one.” She had just the three classes on this first day; one each for Identity and Discrimination, Conflict Resolution and Peace Building, and Social Development. Having opted to change her major from Business Studies to Peace and Conflict Studies-- something that hadn’t even been an option when she began studying in San Trobida-- she was starting this school year as a Junior rather than a Senior.

She wasn’t alone-- Craig had also decided to change direction, now focusing his degree on Game Development. “Well, uh, that sounds… fun,” he said, grateful that Introduction to Computer Game Design would be his first lecture. It was something he’d wanted to try out back in his Freshman year, before he’d gotten swept up in the popularity that came with joining the football team. Now, his inner nerd wouldn’t be hidden in shame. “Anyways, I’ve got to go-- I actually don’t wanna miss this class. Weird. That’s like… never happened before.”

He shuffled off with Zahra, who rolled her eyes as she swung an arm around his shoulder.

Taylor pulled Estela into a kiss. All too brief, for they had company, and because that Identity and Discrimination lecture wouldn’t attend itself.

“You still on for coffee?” Quinn asked Taylor as the rest of the group broke off for lessons. “Grace says she’s on the way there now.”

With a tight hug goodbye, Taylor let Estela go off to her lecture, and joined Quinn in a brisk walk to the coffee shop.

As with much of the Hartfeld campus, the coffee shop felt as familiar as if Taylor had been there many times before. Rather than feeling odd, in this particular instance it added to the warm and comforting feel of the place…. It was like a hug from an old friend.

And the coffee itself….

“Actually, that’s a nice cappuccino!”

“Good enough that you’ll convince Estela to give it a go?” Grace asked, a twinkle in her eye. She knew well from experience that, as a rule, Estela found American coffee to taste-- to quote her directly-- ‘like ass’.

Taylor snickered. “I could get her to join us no problem, but I’d put money on her sticking to her flask of a superior Colombian brew.”

Whether it was a world-beating cup of coffee or not, it certainly fulfilled the job of giving Taylor the wake-up she needed. It was hard not to keep on apologising for being the cause of a disrupted night’s sleep, but she bit it back. There was no shame in not being okay. Soon enough, it would be someone else’s turn, and she sure as hell didn’t want anyone else beating themselves up the way she did. Estela had always been very quick to snap Taylor out of hypocritical thinking where guilt was concerned, and it was appreciated. So, Taylor just let herself enjoy a warm brew and the company of two of the best friends she could ask for as they pondered on this new year of college.

“Ooh!” Quinn cried suddenly. “You could try ‘Hartfeld Creates’; it’s basically a club for people who are into arts and crafts of all kinds-- well, basically, anything that you create yourself.”

That sounded all right. If she was going to ingratiate herself into the school community, starting with something Taylor already had an interest in wouldn’t hurt.

“Do they take bumbling beginner knitters like me, d’you think?”

“They do a big exhibition at the end of the school year; if I remember correctly from last time, there were definitely a few knitters showing off their work.” Quinn took another sip of her coffee, then looked up with a shy smile. “Actually,” she said, “I’d wanted to sign up, but commitments were always tough for me. I guess… there’s nothing to hold me back now.”

Grace returned the smile. “It sounds like a good excuse for me to really start diving in to fractal art. If you wanted, we could all sign up together.”

“I think I might really like that,” Taylor said, and she licked froth from her lips. Estela was missing out-- this was a good coffee. “At least I’ll know there’ll be two people who will say nice things about my lumpy knitting.”

She brought her mug upwards to chink with her two friends’.

“To new experiences!” she toasted, before hastily adding, “--of the low-key variety!” No more sea monsters for me, thank you.

Before Taylor knew it, the next of her new experiences had rolled around. She’d found her way to the lecture hall for Introductory Spanish without a sweat, as if she had a campus map pre-downloaded in her brain. It was weird, but she did turn up looking less frazzled than a few of her classmates, so it had its value. Taylor took a seat beside a mature-aged student, quietly relieved that not everyone in her first class was fresh out of high school. And, of course, being Taylor, she immediately made herself acquainted.

“Hi,” she said, offering a hand that was gratefully shaken, “I’m Taylor.”

The silver-haired woman returned a smile. “Lovely to meet you. Sue.”

“Is this your first class, too?”

“Not my first class-- I just came from a Molecular Biology lecture-- but it’s my first day, so still getting my head around how it all works. I did try college years back, but, you know… life happened. I can tell you it’s changed a lot since then!”

This was so much easier than Taylor had anticipated. Caught up in her own head, she found herself frequently falling into the trap of underestimating the qualities that had always best served her. She wasn’t just the glue that held the Catalysts together simply because she’d been created as a perfect match to their needs;  it was more than that. Taylor loved people. She was good at people. So long as she focused on her innate humanity and not the part of her that felt alien, she could find her confidence.

“So, Molecular Biology, and Introductory Spanish. That’s broad. I’m guessing you don’t have a major in mind yet? I’m the same.”

Sue chuckled. “Well, I’m not studying for anything in particular. No one strong direction. To be honest, I don’t have a great deal of interest in a career change. I work part-time from home, which suits me fine. Plenty of time for the grandkids. But I have always loved to learn. The way I see it, if I’m to broaden my horizons, I might as well cast a wide net.”

“Fair enough,” Taylor said. “There’s certainly the range here to do that. I found it a little intimidating to have so much choice. I vaguely know what direction I want to take, but really, until I give things a go….” She shrugged her shoulders. “What’s really going to grab me, I don’t know.”

“There’s something to be said for the fun being in the journey. I know I’ve always wanted a university education, and I’ve always wanted to travel. Both things are coming to fruition after more years than I care to count, but I wouldn’t trade any of the stops along the way for anything. That’s what inspired me to take Spanish-- Latin America is high on the list.”

“You should go off the beaten track and give San Trobida a try! It’s really beautiful.” Taylor suggested to an intrigued nod. “For me…. My wife’s Colombian-San Trobidan and my best friend’s Mexican by blood. I’m kinda curious about what they say to one other about me.” She smiled cheekily, had a momentary realisation of ‘oh, I’m not sure how LGBT-friendly this older stranger is’, then realised Sue hadn’t batted an eyelid, and continued. “No, we’re probably going to end up spending a lot of time in San Trobida; my wife’s only family is there.” Well, I guess that’s not even entirely true anymore. “A bit more Spanish will serve me well. Wifey’s teachings have mostly centred around curse words and romantic pet-names… neither of which are appropriate in all circumstances.”

Sue gave a short laugh. “It’s a useful language,” she said. “Widely used. And once you know a bit of Spanish, you find related languages start to make some sense as well. French is next on my list.”

And so, by the time the professor arranged his notes and set up the projector, Taylor had realised that she really needn’t have worried about a thing. She was a social butterfly; on La Huerta, or anywhere else. All she had to do was spread her wings.

_____________________

Estela’s morning had been uneventful. Her classes had basically been introductions to the respective courses; general overviews of what to expect in the coming weeks and months of study. This was just as well, because she found her mind wandering.

The previous night’s events had rattled her. So long it had been since Taylor had one of her horrific nighttime visions-- the last one had been back in San Trobida-- Estela had been caught off-guard. Once again, that helpless feeling was seemingly inescapable.

She sat down in the library and buried her head in her assigned Peace and Conflict textbook, trying to focus for long enough to string two sentences together.

It was just a freak thing because of all the build-up to starting college. Chances are, she’ll sleep like a baby tonight.

Babies sleep like shit.

Who came up with that dumbass idiom anyway? No one who ever met a goddamn baby….

Taylor had always been prone to vivid dreams; dreams that weren’t normal dreams. Actually, on La Huerta, Estela had experienced a few of those herself. But after Taylor released the part of Vaanu that resided in her, things changed. The memories gifted to her by the Endless took over all of Taylor’s dreams. Between the two of them, they’d managed to note patterns; flashes of violent scenes had-- without fail-- been in the wake of a period of stress, while a reduction of Taylor’s waking anxiety led to lighter scenes playing through her head at night. The key, they’d deducted, was to ensure she went to bed relaxed and happy. Estela couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid to think it was a phase that had passed; it had simply been a case of waiting for a significant enough stressor and --whoomp-- back to nightmare city. And once Taylor closed her eyes each night… there wasn’t a damn thing Estela could do to keep her safe from the cruelties of her own mind.

Estela glanced at the clock. It would be three-quarters-of-an-hour at least before Taylor was done with her second class. She should at least take a few notes while she waited.

Then a voice echoed out from behind one of the rows of shelves.

“.…I’m still not convinced scar-girl wasn’t somehow involved. Nine students disappear off the face of the earth and that creeper just happens to be with them? I’m not buying it.”

In an instant, Estela felt a hot blush rise to her cheeks, and her stomach drop. In all honesty, she hadn’t expected much different but… she’d hoped she could get through the first day without… without…. How could it not hurt? Pointedly, she kept looking down into her notes, though any remaining hope she might have had to actually focus on them had fled. Nine students? She didn’t even count; she was an ‘other’. As everyone had always seen her. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let anyone see that it gets to you.

“Oh my god-- right? I can’t believe they let her back here after what happened….”

Another voice cut through, sharp and comfortingly familiar.

“I’m sorry-- are you serious?” Michelle demanded.

“...We didn’t ask you!”

“I know, I know. You’re just too busy making up poisonous gossip about a person who you’re well aware has just survived a traumatic event. Classy!”

“What the fu--”

“I’m sure the dean would be interested in hearing all about your treatment of one of the Hartfeld Ten. Someone the rest of them owe their lives to several times over. Or, you know…. The both of you could just get out of here, and while you’re at it…. Get. A. Fucking. Life.”

There was some rude and clearly embarrassed muttering aimed in Michelle’s direction, the shuffling of feet, then quiet.

Estela realised she’d been holding her breath. Everything was different now. The sting was still real, but coming up behind it was something soothing. And she wasn’t the ‘other’ any longer; not in that moment.

“Michelle….”

And Michelle came around the corner, a look of horror across her face. “Oh, shit--you heard that?”

Estela offered a shaky smile. “It’s okay; I’ve heard worse.”

“It’s not okay! It’s not remotely-- They’re just… assholes. Self-absorbed, ignorant assholes.” Michelle was shaking with fury. And Estela found herself not surprised those students scarpered quickly as they did. “You would not believe how close I came to slapping those bitches just now--”

“No, I can guess. Thank you.”

“I used to be friends with people like that. Or… I thought they were my friends. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that now I’ve got the real thing.”

Michelle pulled off her shoulder-bag and sat down in the chair beside Estela.

“Are any of them still here?” she asked. “The people you used to know.”

“’Know’ is a strong word in hindsight,” Michelle commented dryly. “But, the vast majority graduated when I was meant to, or the year after. There are a couple of girls I was in the sorority with who were Freshmen at the time. I caught a ‘you saw Michelle Nguyen’s gay now?’ ‘thank god we saved poor Sean when we did-- he deserves so much better’.” She rolled her eyes.

Estela huffed. “Ignorant assholes,” she affirmed. She looked back down at her notes. “Too bad, though. So far up their own asses they missed out on knowing the most amazing friend a person could ask for. Sucks to be them.”

There was quiet, and noting the silence, Estela raised her eyes to see Michelle looking at her with the warmest, most appreciative of smiles. Somewhat shyly-- she’d not intended to stir up deep emotions-- Estela returned it.

Michelle glanced around, checking there was no one in earshot. “I was talking with Grace earlier; bringing her up to date on everything that went down last night,” she whispered.

Estela quirked an eyebrow. “Any words of wisdom there?” she asked with a soft sigh. “Anything at all, I’ll take it. Please.”

Sympathetic, Michelle reached out and squeezed her friend’s arm. “We’re going to look after each other. That’s the best wisdom I think any of us has to offer.”

It was hard to argue with that… but it didn’t feel like enough. Not when Taylor was still being wrenched back to the darkest of places, powerless make it end.

“We wanted to float an idea with the others,” Michelle continued, sensing Estela’s helplessness. “Maybe we could get together every month, every fortnight… whatever it might be, and all of us just… talk. Like therapy, but just us, because so much of what’s been the fucking hardest we can’t tell anyone else. I dunno… maybe Quinn will bring cupcakes or something….”

“That usually reels everyone in,” Estela noted, a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t a bad idea. For herself, she’d looked at the idea of some kind of counselling, but it had come down to the fact that she’d only really want to do that with a therapist from San Trobida-- someone who understood where and what she’d come from. That was a tall order, even before the challenge of dodging around sensitive La Huerta business was considered. Obviously, everyone else would also need to get help in their own ways, but for some things, they had to be one another. “I think…. I think that might be a really good idea.”

_________________________

“See? You survived two whole classes!” Diego laughed, coming out of a lecture theatre beside Taylor. He’d made a point of choosing at least one best-friend-friendly elective, landing on ‘Gender, Sexuality and the Media’. If the first lecture was anything to go by, they were going to enjoy it. “All those nightmares for nothing.”

Taylor sighed dramatically. “All we’ve gotta do now is hope my brain gets with the programme. She can be tricky, that one.”

With a kind smile, Diego gently bumped shoulders with his friend. The night before had been eye-opening. Of course, Taylor had told him all about the ghastly visions she’d been haunted with, but to be present through the aftermath… it had slammed it home just what she’d been enduring. And he didn’t know she’d kept herself together as well as she did.

“Hey… it’s all gonna get better.” As Taylor met his eye, appreciative but unconvinced, explained. “The way I see it, you’re basically Stitch right now--”

“I’m gonna need you to spell this out for me,” Taylor said with a laugh.

“Ha. Trust me, it’ll all make sense. You know how Stitch had been made for only one purpose, and he felt kinda lost when all that was gone? That’s you.”

“I… guess….”

“Hear me out!”

“Always.”

“Well, when Vaanu left you, there was this big empty space left behind. And The Endless’ memories are basically you clinging to what your purpose always was-- to care for us all. It’s like Stitch; you don’t have your own memories to take up space, it’s just you and your purpose.”

Taylor stopped in her tracks. “Hang on. Is Estela my aggressive, lonely orphan Lilo?”

Diego sputtered a laugh. “I’d like to think Estela and I are both your Lilo. But what matters is that’s not going to last. All that empty space is going to fill up, day by day.”

“I… really wanna believe that.”

“I know.” He put an arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “You know what else I think? I think the more you see that we’re all okay, the less you’re going to have that protective part of your brain setting off those nightmares as alarm bells to you. And for as long as it takes for you to be okay… I’m here for you. We all are.”

Taylor looked into his earnest face and saw only genuine love and care. And it broke her heart, because she couldn’t gaze into his warm, dark eyes and not see their light going out. A hard lump rose in her throat, choking her, and she buried her face against Diego’s neck, hugging him tight.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Really. Thanks.”

Finally pulling away from an embrace that had been so needed, Taylor and Diego hurried toward the green wooded area of campus where they’d arranged to meet Estela.

She was waiting for them by the fountain, her eyes lit with a smile at the sight of her beloved.

“Hola, mi angel!” she called out as they approached. “Te traje el almuerzo. Quieres encontrar un lugar?”

“Hahaha,” Taylor said sardonically, rolling her eyes exaggeratedly for good measure. “Yes, one lecture and I’m not fluent. Clearly university is money down the drain. Pfft.”

“Joder!”

“That, I understand.” She reached for Estela… the simple feel of her bringing her instantly home. “If we ever have an exam on curse words, you’ll have me on the trajectory for an A.”

What a relief it was to see Taylor happy, joking. Estela wrapped both her arms around her wife’s neck, and just held her. And when she finally released Taylor, it was only for her to move in once more to kiss her.

“Uh, guys? Are you going to do this after every block of classes? I might need you two to get a room.”

“Por favor! You love it. We all know you’re as invested in Taylor’s love life as you are your own.”

“Hey!” Diego exclaimed, hand to his heart as if mortally wounded. “A little rude, but true. But, I guess I can leave you lovebirds to it for a few minutes. Is it sad that I’m dying to see if they have anything new in the food court?”

And so, Estela and Taylor were left to wander a beautiful corner of the sprawling campus. Estela hooked her little finger in Taylor’s, and everything that had once made this world hostile melted to nothing. It was hard sometimes, not to feel like a round peg being forced through a square hole. Somehow, Taylor softened the world’s edges to her… and when she was near, Estela fit. Just as she was.

“Querida?” Estela looked at Taylor, and adored her. She could only hope that in her, Taylor found the same sense of belonging… the kind so strong that it defied all else.

“Mm?”

“I really love you.”

Taylor’s heart swelled. As it did every time she heard those words stated anew. Every time, it was a promise that for all the pain that still lingered, everything really would be all right.

“I really love you, too.”

[leejungchans]

— coming clean.

word count: 2k

warning(s): mentions of anxiety, swearing

set in early january 2021 after the events of our first snow

notes: all the conversations and text messages here are in korean!!

summary: juliet goes to hongjoong for advice after making her relationship with dino official.

juliet’s masterlist | ask game

Juliet forces herself to take several deep breaths at the familiar door leading to Hongjoong’s studio. She’s been hanging outside in the hallway for the past ten minutes ever since she finished practising for their upcoming comeback, not being able to bring herself to knock as she knew exactly why she was still here at this hour.

Come on, Baek Minyoung. It’s just Hongjoong, he won’t be mad. You have to do this. He’ll help you.

She brings her fist up only to falter at the last second. If anyone passed by now, they’d definitely question why she’s standing ominously still with her fist suspended in the air.

To say that Juliet is dreading the imminent conversation would be a gross understatement. She even doubted if it was a good idea coming to Hongjoong first instead of telling all eight members at once. She hates keeping secrets from them, who know her as well as, if not more than, her family, and could definitely tell if she was hiding something.

But the thought of having this conversation with everyone felt so daunting, and she had hoped that if she spoke with the leader first she could ease herself into telling the others.

It isn’t that she’s afraid of them—no, that isn’t it at all. All nine of them value honesty and communication above everything else, and they’ve each came clean to one another about many things many times prior to today. So she wasn’t scared of them, but their reaction and very likely, their disappointment.

She doesn’t feel mentally prepared enough, it’s like giving a class presentation when you know nothing about the material, or jumping out a plane without checking if you have a parachute on. The anxiety is building within her, causing her chest to constrict and her breathing to become harsher and laboured. Her nails dug into her palm as her fist clenched more and more with every second.

Chan knew she was doing this tonight because she texted him earlier with the promise that she’d call him as soon as it was over, and he in turn assured her that he would be there waiting for her call no matter the hour. She tried to imagine his voice telling her to take deep breaths while forcing herself to uncurl her fist.

Is it possible to feel your heartbeat in your ear? Because that’s fucking happening.

She doesn’t how long she’s been at this when her hand, as though moving on its own accord, raps at the frosted glass. Upon realising what she had done, Juliet quickly lowers her arm so it rests at her side, heart now beating even more rapidly because holy shit what have I done I wasn’t ready yet why did I knock whatthefuckwhatthefuck—

“Come in!”

Good fucking job, Juliet.

Releasing a heavy sigh, the girl cracks open the door and sticks her head in, meeting the concerned gaze of Hongjoong who rakes a tired hand through his hair, the exhaustion that seems to settle permanently in his features when he’s working is unmistakable.

It always pains her to see him like this. Juliet thinks he works too hard—not that working hard is a bad thing necessarily, but it’s no secret that Hongjoong can sometimes give too much to the point where he neglects himself.

Of course, she’s not the first person who’s said something about it to him, because she’s definitely overheard Seonghwa lightly scolding the leader for not taking care of himself more. And she knows Hongjoong is trying, so she tries not to bring it up as much to avoid placing more burden on his shoulders.

The irony of this sentiment is not lost on Juliet, because she is very well aware that what she is about to confess to him is most certainly going to be another cause of worry. She hates it—knowing that she’s the reason why someone is upset or stressed. But she also knows that telling him is the right (and inevitable) thing to do.

“Minyoung-ah, you’re still here? It’s—” Hongjoong spins around in his chair to glance at his phone screen—“it’s almost one. I thought you went home already,” he says disapprovingly. “You should be sleeping by now.”

Juliet bites down on her tongue to prevent herself from making a “well, you’re still working too” comment, and instead hands him the cup of takeaway coffee she’s been holding onto all this time with a sheepish smile. “I got you coffee?”

He sighs but takes the cup nonetheless while she makes herself comfortable on the spare office chair. “I thought you hated bringing me coffee.”

“Only because it would make you stay up even later and I don’t want to keep enabling your bad sleeping habits.”

“Yet you still do it. Bribing me, perhaps? What is it this time?”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “You say that like I’m the problem child in the family,” she pouts before sobering up. “I don’t know if you’d call it a bribe, but...um...I came here for advice because I thought you’d be the best person to go to.”

Hongjoong knows that look on her face better than anyone else, instantly recognising that whatever she has on her mind is serious.

“Okay, one sec,” he says, turning around to click a few buttons on his software before facing her once more. “What’s wrong? I’m all ears.”

“Will you be mad?”

Hongjoong sighs again, hand reaching out to give the maknae’s a few gentle pats on the head. “You know I could never be mad at you.”

Juliet holds out her pinky finger. “Promise?” she asks, prompting a snort from him.

“What are we, twelve?” he says teasingly, though he humours her anyways and interlaces his pinky with hers.

“Only on a scale of one to ten.”

This makes Hongjoong cackle, and he can’t help but admire how she manages to stay witty despite being clearly nervous about something. “Fine, you win. But seriously, is everything okay?”

Here goes nothing.

“Uh...well...you know how Chan and I went out last week?”

“I recall it, yes. What about it?”

“I—he—um...” That fear and nervous she was feeling earlier returns with full force. She might’ve had a chance to run away when she was still in the hallway, but she doubts that she can bolt out of the studio to avoid having this conversation.

Hongjoong places a hand on hers which are starting to shake. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” he says softly, “I can’t guarantee that I’ll react the way you want me to, but I’ll always hear you out.”

A tiny sniffle. “That’s not very reassuring.”

He chuckles. “Maybe not, but just take some deep breaths, okay? We’re here to support each other, this is a safe space to talk about anything.”

It takes a minute or so for Juliet to compose herself before she decides that it’s pointless to beat around the bush. “He...he asked me to be his girlfriend.”

Hongjoong nods. If her confession shocked him, he’s doing a good job not showing it. “And what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Juliet echoes in disbelief, “that’s all you have to say?”

The rapper shrugs. “I mean, I think we all know you two were going to get together officially sooner or later, so I can’t say I’m surprised or anything.”

“Are you disappointed?” she asks lightly, trying not to give away how nervous she is and how devastated she’d be if he was. “Mad?”

“No,” the response comes immediately. “If anything, I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me. You’re an adult, you can make decisions for yourself, and I think it goes without saying that we all trust you with such a decision, and that you’ve thought about it comprehensively before coming to it. Also, you’re allowed to have a personal life, no one has the right to hold it against you.”

Juliet’s eyebrows knit so closely together that they almost form a single line. “But...I promised you guys back then that I’d be careful and wait.”

“Hasn’t it almost been a full year since you met?” Hongjoong asks rhetorically. “I think you two waited long enough.”

A tear escapes her eye. “I just don’t want to get you guys in trouble because of something wrong I did,” she says quietly.

The leader wordlessly grabs a tissue from his desk to dab away the tears that flow down her cheeks. “It’s not wrong to want to have a relationship, Minyoung-ah,” he says, still wiping away the droplets. “I know it can seem otherwise in this industry, but it’s true. If something happens, we’ll deal with it then and we’ll get through it, like we have with anything else.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Nine makes one team, right?”

Juliet cracks a small smile, which Hongjoong returns with one of his own. “Right.”

“Have you told the others yet?”

“No,” she admits, “I thought I might get too overwhelmed breaking the news to all eight of you at the same time, but I’ll tell them tomorrow morning because I think some of them will probably already be asleep by the time I get home.”

Hongjoong nods. “Okay, good. What about the company?”

She stays quiet for a few seconds, weighing her options for what seems like the hundredth time that week. “I think I’ll tell them,” she finally says. “I’d rather them find out about us from me than from a tabloid.”

“I agree,” he concurs, “it shows that you trust them enough to let them know and that you’re not hiding something from them.” Hongjoong pauses, as though debating on whether to say what he’s thinking of. “Are you worried that they might say no?”

“Of course, but...if that happens...I’ll just see what I can do.”

“If they tell you to break it off, the eight of us will cover for you,” Hongjoong suggests cheekily.

Juliet giggles. “I’ll hold you to that, because I like Chan too much to break it off like that.”

The leader makes a face. “Okay, gross, you did not have to say that. A simple ‘thanks!’ would’ve sufficed, you know.”

“Don’t make me throw this snotty ball of tissue at you.”

Hongjoong snorts before his features soften. “Feel better?” he asks gently as he watches the girl dab away any remaining moisture from her waterline.

“Much,” Juliet smiles gratefully, feeling as though a significant weight has been lifted off her chest. “Thanks for talking this out with me.”

He ruffles her hair, prompting her to swat his hands away. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see. You two have my blessing.”

“Sure, like I need it,” Juliet says sarcastically, though she can’t help the blush that spreads across her cheeks.

“Yah! I practically raised you with Seonghwa!”

“Okay, okay,” Juliet concedes, wrapping her arms around Hongjoong’s neck to hug him. “Thanks again,” she whispers.

The boy pats her on the head. “Hurry up and go home.”

“Don’t work too late, understand?”

Hongjoong playfully salutes her. “Yes, ma’am. I’m almost done anyways.”

“Nice try, but I’ll spare you the lecture this time.”

“Thank you, O Mighty One, you are as merciful as you are beautiful.”

Juliet cackles at the exasperation dripping from Hongjoong’s tone before giving him a final hug and leaving the studio with a quiet click! of the door shutting.

For a few minutes, she stays there to watch him through the door, and though his figure is blurry and unclear from the frosted glass, it’s not hard to spot that he’s already resuming his work, back hunched over the desk and head occasionally darting up to look at the computer screen. She can only hope that he’ll keep his promise and get some rest soon.

As Juliet walks to the car park where her manager is waiting, Hongjoong’s heartfelt words echo over and over in her head. Feeling much lighter from relief, gratitude and hope, she pulls out her phone to send two messages.

TO: channie 🦖💕

[01:23] hongjoongie-oppa says he gives us his blessing ㅋㅋㅋ ❤️

TO: Nine Makes One Team

[01:24] minus hongjoong-oppa because i just talked with him, can the rest of us have a quick family meeting tomorrow morning please? there’s something i need to tell you guys...

a/n: hongjoong bestest bestest bestest boy ;-; hehe let me know what you think of this update!! we stan people who actively, honestly and healthily communicate with each other!! communication really is so important in any relationship and that’s something i had to learn the hard way.

i’m also debating on whether i should write one of the others’ reactions when juliet tells them but i also think it’d be pretty similar to this one (ie. they’d all be really supportive of their relationship even if they were slightly worried for them), so i don’t want to repeat any content but let me know if you want to see that or anything else (eg. more dino/juliet or ateez/juliet moments)!! 💕

please do consider leaving feedback whether it’s a reblog, a reply or an ask, it would mean the absolute world to me 🥺 thank you for reading and i hope you’re having a good day 💕 remember you can always chat with me through my asks and i’m here for you!!

[dastardlydandelion]

Please post the sickfic prompt turned corpse disposal. 😂

sure! that one’s p bloodless, i can post that one. 

ao3 link 

content warnings: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced spousal abuse, minimally described fresh dead body, illness description 

Billy isn’t sick.

Billy doesn’t get sick. He really doesn’t. Hasn’t had so much as a cold in years, albeit he’s claimed one as cover here and there whenever coke overuse made him maybe sorta sniffly and Neil started to eye him up like he might be suspicious.

Billy isn’t sick.

If he’s feeling achy, well, he’s just sore because Neil laid the belt on him pretty hard two days ago after he got sent home from school midday Monday, written up and suspended. If he’s coughing, well, it’s just because he’s been smoking more than usual. Neil’s been stressed out lately, so that means Billy’s stressed out too.

“No,” his father says sharply when Billy takes a seat at the breakfast table.

And Billy blinks at him, confused but careful.

“You’re not going to sit with us and cough all over the food like a human biohazard. I raised you to show more courtesy than that.” Neil gives him a stern look. “Go back to bed.”

“I’m not even—“

“Go back to bed, Billy.”

Billy hears the warning heighten in his father’s tone. He doesn’t argue. He hauls himself back to his bedroom and it’s whatever. He wasn’t really hungry anyway.

* * * 

Okay, so Billy is sick.

He got himself suspended because he felt something coming on. He knows his body. He was feeling off kilter and sluggish, uncomfortable in the chest when he inhaled too deeply. So he put his boots on the desk in history class and flipped the teacher the bird when she asked him to sit properly. Even went the extra mile and sneered, told her to blow him when her jaw hit the floor.

He figured it’d buy him enough time to recover without having to call in sick, or get in trouble for skipping class. A suspension was one indiscretion and only likely to invoke one punishment. Skipping multiple days would’ve been multiple indiscretions and more likely to invoke multiple punishments.

In retrospect he should’ve just called in sick because the whole point of avoiding that route was avoiding having to admit it, but he can’t really hide it. Whatever he’s got came on hard and fast, doubled-down by Monday evening. It hasn’t gotten any better. Billy feels bad all over, the cough is near constant, and he’s shaking with chills. Puts his leather jacket on before he buries himself under the blankets and still can’t get warm.

And the coughing, ugh, the fucking coughing. Billy knows he’s being loud. He tries to hold it in but he just can’t. Spasm after spasm squeezes his lungs until they’re aching for air. His chest feels like it’s full of swamp muck and all he can do is ride it out, clutch at his ribs until he makes it to the oxygen on the other side.

Billy should get up. He should make himself get off his ass, go buy some cough drops or at least refill his glass of water. He’s going to make it happen. He’s definitely going to make it happen…just maybe not yet.

He never really gets around to it. Spends most of the afternoon slogging through coughs and trying to get comfortable even though it doesn’t really matter which way he tosses or turns, he’s still cold to the bone, chest stabbing with every burdened breath. The day drags and Billy catches snippets of the other members of the household moving about, knows it’s evening when Neil sticks his head in.

“I dug this out of the cabinet for you,” he announces, holding up a blue container. “Vapor rub. It’ll calm your cough down. Help you sleep.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

His father pads across the carpet, sets the container down on Billy’s nightstand, right within reach. He hovers uncertainly, eyes narrowed. Opens his mouth to say something and maybe he does, but Billy doesn’t catch it, snapping upright to bury another flurry of coughs into his closed fist. It’s a forceful fit and before he knows it, his father’s thumping him on the back. He’s probably trying to help but the heel of his hand connects with one of the bruises the belt buckle left and Billy can’t stop himself before he flinches.

Neil retracts his hand, leaves without another word. Billy rakes in breath at the coda of the coughs, air scraping against his roughshod throat. He goes as deep as he can even though it hurts, snatches the container of vapor rub.

Billy begins to unscrew the lid and notices some of the ointment is crusted under the lid. It flakes off. This stuff looks old. Billy checks the date on the label. Sure enough, it’s been expired for close to a year.

He throws it across the room in frustration, watches it bounce off the wall. Lies back down and pulls the covers up to his chin.

At some point Neil bangs on his door and demands he cut out the racket, probably thinking Billy rebuffed his generosity. Billy’s too exhausted to bother explaining the shit’s expired. Instead he turns his face into the pillow and smothers his fits into the fabric, hoping it muffles the sounds.

* * * 

Sometime later Thursday morning, Susan knocks on his door. Billy contemplates pretending to be asleep. Really, he wishes he was. He’s feeling pretty rundown but he can’t seem to get more than a wink before he wakes up coughing.

But if he doesn’t answer it now, she’ll probably just bother him later. So Billy plods to the door and pulls it open.

“What?”

“Um,” Susan begins eloquently, blinking at him as she fiddles with the thin object in her hands. A thermometer.

“Neil tell you to do this?”

“N-No, but, uh. It’s probably a good idea to check your temperature. No offense, Billy, but you don’t sound so good and you’re awfully flush…”

“If I cared, I’d check myself,” he snorts irritably. “Try to stick that under my tongue and I’ll break it in half. Save your mother hen shit for Max.”

With that, he slams the door in her face. They’ve no love for each other. On infrequent occasions Susan will forget this and make some half-assed attempt to get closer to him. Billy’s always quick to remind her where they stand. It doesn’t take much.

Afternoon rolls around without Susan bugging him anymore. Billy isn’t a big reader but he doesn’t feel up to much else between increasingly productive coughing bouts that leave him hacking up gross, greenish globs into his small wire mesh trashcan. So he flips through some music magazines and the book he’s supposed to read for english class until he gathers enough energy to kick himself into gear.

He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes yesterday so he doesn’t need to change now. Just sprays himself with some cologne, figures he probably smells because he’s sweating nonstop. Discomforting drenching cold sweats like getting caught outside in icy rains, an experience Billy was blissfully unfamiliar with until Neil decided to leave sunny California behind.

He browses the small medical selection at Melvald’s, grabs a couple bags of cherry flavored lozenges  and a bottle of cough syrup. Covers a couple fits with the crook of his elbow on the way to the counter. He swallows the gunk that comes up because there’s nowhere to spit it into and scrunches his nose in disgust, feels like freaking slime sliding down his throat.

It’s the town cuckoo who rings him up. Or that’s her reputation anyway but she doesn’t seem particularly nutty to Billy. Hell, seems less weird than Susan does when she’s doing shit like talking to the spiders she takes outside.

“Time to go, Little Creepy Crawly,” she’d singsonged last week, shaking a daddy longlegs out of her tissue on the front porch. “Go be free.”

“You need fucking friends,” Billy had told her after the fact. Sound advice, he’d thought. Susan only ducked her head and disappeared into the next room.

Town Cuckoo gives the amount. Billy digs through his wallet and comes up two dollars short. Ugh. Fucking brandname linctuses. Shit’s a ripoff but there was no generic equivalent on the shelf.

She tells Billy it’s on the house, forehead crinkling just a bit as she studies him, eyes all melty with sympathy. Screw that shit. Billy isn’t anybody’s charity case. He gives her a pointed glower as he stamps a five down on the counter, takes the two bags of lozenges, and leaves.

He eats through half of the first bag until his throat tingles with menthol and artificial sweetness, and actually manages to sleep for a few solid hours. He knows it’s been hours because when he wakes himself coughing, it’s dark out. Nighttime.

Billy curls inward with the spasms, tries to catch his breath between stabbing pains. This sucks so much. He’s hacking up more gunk. Attempts to rub some of the discomfort from his heavy, congestion leaden chest to no avail.

He just keeps coughing and coughing and he knows before long, Neil’s going to get in his shit about the noise so he forces himself to throw off the covers. His bruises are still healing. He doesn’t need any more.

Billy crams his feet in his boots and drags himself down the hall. To his surprise, Susan’s sitting at the kitchen table. She’s crying. The sobs wrack her whole body the way the coughs wrack his and her cheeks are blotched cherry red just like his lozenges, tear tracks shining under the kitchen light. It throws him, really. He’s lived with Susan for years and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her cry. She just. Doesn’t show much emotion at all, let alone displays like this.  

Billy watches it the way he’d watch a car crash. Susan doesn’t even notice him until he’s coughing again. He curls his fist around his mouth, muffles them as best he can. Fumbles for his car keys when he’s made it through to the other side.

“Where could you possibly be going?” Susan asks, her voice thick, like there’s a bubble in her throat.

Maybe Neil hit her. Billy’s seen it so he knows it happens sometimes even though he’s pretty sure it’s not often. Not like how Neil hits him. Or hit his own mother. Susan is probably Neil’s favorite, obedient like a well trained dressage horse following all of his cues. Isn’t anything like his own mom who defied Neil like a wild mustang he couldn’t tame, who went braless and smoked hash with the hippies, screamed her lungs out at Neil in furious harpy volumes and called him names no matter how mad it made him. Who did her best to give back as good as she got even outmatched, even if it made him madder, throwing things or fists or swinging Billy’s Little League bat.

Susan is submissively behaved and tepid tempered, always wears her bra under the clothes Neil buys her in the fashions he prefers her in. Susan speaks softly and sweetly, never stays out unscheduled and doesn’t smoke anything at all, always smells like floral perfumes and lotions, never ever, ever like cigarettes or marijuana or other men’s cologne. When Neil hits Susan she goes slack and sloth and silent, and does not lift a finger to fight. It is the only thing she and Billy have in common.

“Nowhere,” he answers. “Gonna sleep in the car before Neil gets on me about making noise.”

“Billy, it’s too cold for that…besides, Neil isn’t going to wake up yet.”

“How do you know?”

What, does Susan think she’s a fucking fortune teller now?

Sure enough, she doesn’t have a straight answer for him. She stumbles over syllables that don’t shape into sentences and the last thing Billy feels like doing is indulging her.

“Pfft. That’s what I thought. By the way, you’re ugly when you cry.” Billy glares at her until she turns away, timid, bowing her head. He heads out to the Camaro, gets in the driver’s seat and pulls it back.

Yeah, it’s cold out but he can’t get warm inside under the blankets anyway. Neil’s already in a bad mood. He’d only barked about the racket last night but his father’s bite is worse than his bark and Billy knows better than to expect a second warning.

* * * 

Friday morning, the frosty air scrapes Billy’s throat raw and makes him cough so, so hard. He’s beyond done with this shit, fuck everything. He takes shallow breaths to avoid the pangs of going too deep. The coughing still brings up gunk he spits out and he can feel the congestion crackling in his chest like thick, goopy molasses drowning his lungs, sticking between every rung of his ribcage.

It’s actually. Kind of. Beginning to concern him.

Is being sick normally like this?

Billy hasn’t been sick in so long, he seriously doesn’t know. But it’s been days and he’s not feeling any better. He feels worse. He really does. Breathing has become a grueling travail. Even to his own ears, his exhales sound wet and ratty. The coughing was a nuisance when it first came on but now it’s just downright exhausting.

But.

Well. He’s gotta be okay. He’s too young to be like, seriously sick. It’s probably just one of those things where it’s going to get worse before it gets better. A lot of things are like that, right?

Everything gets worse before it gets better. He’s fine. He’s definitely fine.

Billy goes inside. Everyone’s at the breakfast table and he doesn’t take a seat because he’s a biohazard and Neil already looks dour. Susan’s pouring him coffee. Max nibbles at a piece of toast. She has a cut on her cheek that wasn’t there when Billy saw her yesterday. Doesn’t look bad, just a simple scratch stretched under her eye, but when he peers closer is that…is that a bruise?

Yes. It’s pretty small. Faint. He would’ve missed it entirely if the thin red thread of her cut wasn’t so stark against Max’s pasty skin.

He’s smart enough not to ask in front of Neil. He doesn’t say anything. Gets the juice from the fridge and pours himself a glass. He’s two sips in before he has to set it aside, covering his mouth as another fit takes hold.

Neil is glaring when he makes it through. Right. Don’t cough around the food. Billy isn’t even sitting with them but whatever. He’s not gonna poke the bear. Heads off to Max’s room and waits.

Eventually she comes in to get her backpack, frowning at his presence. “What’re you doing in here?”

“What happened to your face?”

“Geez, Billy, you sound terrible.” Her nose crinkles.

“I asked you a question, Max.” Billy impatiently twirls his finger, slightly annoyed. He already knows he sounds bad, doesn’t need to be reminded.

Max turns away from him with a shrug, starts stuffing her textbooks into the bag. “I fell on the pond yesterday when I was playing with my friends. Where I fell…the ice wasn’t smooth. It was rough and it scratched.”

Billy narrows his eyes and measures her up. It isn’t a particularly unlikely story. But he wants to be sure.

“You’d tell me if it was Neil, right?”

“…of course I’d tell you if it Neil.” Max looks up from messing with her stuff and faces him with clear resolution in her gaze. “Neil hits you all the time so if he hit me, you’d be the first person I’d tell.”

Billy keeps his eyes on her as he goes over what she said. She doesn’t look like she’s lying. She doesn’t sound like she’s lying. Besides, Neil’s striking hand probably would’ve left a bigger bruise and he can’t place anything on it that would’ve scratched her skin like that. Neil’s fingernails are short and blunt, smoother than Billy’s, which get jagged when he bites. He doesn’t wear rings beyond his wedding band, and his is smooth silver, no shiny rock cut in the middle like Susan’s.

“Alright,” he concedes, turns to leave.

The coughing fit hits heavy, like a wrecking ball to the chest. Billy hangs onto the doorframe with one hand, covers his mouth with the other. It’ll pass. It’ll pass. It’ll pass.

Christ, he’s sick of being sick.

It passes. Billy keeps his grip on the doorframe as he works on drawing in air.

“You okay?” Max asks from behind.

And he can’t actually answer that just yet, still catching his breath.

“You sound really gross, like you’re literally dying.”

“I’m not…I’m fine…even run you to school, if you want.” Billy relaxes his grip on the doorframe and turns back to her.

“Oh.” Max perks up at that, eyes bright. “Yeah, can you?”

She lowers her voice as she adds, “I’m mad at my mom. I don’t really wanna ride with her.”

Billy doesn’t ask what for. It’s probably something stupid. Susan getting after her for not zipping up her coat or touching yellow snow or some other dumb shit. He’s too tired to care, really.

“Sure I can, s’what I just said, isn’t it? Finish getting your stuff together, bus leaves in five.”

* * *

Billy does’t go home for a long time. After dropping Max off, he just sits in the parking lot for awhile, rests his head against the steering wheel while the heat blasts from the vents. He’s got it all the way up and he’s so sweaty his hair’s plastered to the back of his neck, but he’s still freaking cold.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this.

Or.

Okay, maybe he does.

Eventually he pulls out of the parking lot, drives around listening to music just to be doing something. Winds up in another lot, an empty lot, where the rumor is they’re going to build a mall next year. Billy hopes so. Hawkins is mind-numbingly boring. Sometimes he just wants to scream about it, set fire to the fucking cornfields and scream at the top of his lungs.

His lungs aren’t really up to screaming right now though. Neither is his throat, really, tender from coughing spasm after coughing spasm tearing it up. Billy doesn’t know if he’s even been this sick.

He’s even considering bringing it up to his dad, maybe even. Asking Dad for help. And that.

That means he’s either desperate or delirious, and neither is a particularly reassuring thought.

Fuck.

Billy despises the fact it even crossed his mind. He can’t go to Neil. He won’t. That’s stupid. Neil would probably just dig him out some more expired vapor rub. Definitely wouldn’t take him to a doctor, at least not until the bruises heal. Maybe he’d compromise and get him the cough syrup Billy didn’t have enough cash for…

Between musings, Billy finds himself squeezed in another fit that pummels his chest like invisible fists. It’s so bad he’s left battling for just a breath of air, so forceful for one very scary second he’s even worried he won’t get it. That the coughing will go on and on, and he’ll never take another breath again. That they’ll find his body right here in the empty lot where maybe the mall will be one day.

Except the coughing eventually does subside and Billy does manage to get some air. But the fit spooks him a little. Takes enough out of Billy that he decides he’s probably going to have to go to Neil. Shit.

He puts it off as long as he can. Doesn’t even go home until he knows everyone is done with dinner. To his surprise, Neil isn’t watching tv. Billy heads down the hall. The light is on under Max’s door. The light is on under the master bedroom door too. Billy hesitates before knocking.

Does he really need to go to Neil?

Maybe he was exaggerating when he was worried earlier. Billy’s hand retracts from the door. It's promptly clamped around his mouth for what must be the hundredth time. He’s hacking hard into his palm, chest throbbing.

He doesn’t actually mean to open the door. But he grabs the knob for support and jerks when the metal is shockingly cold under his fingers. The next thing Billy knows, he’s stumbling over the threshold.

Susan whips toward him, eyes as wide as dinner plates and mouth frozen open in horror. At first Billy thinks it’s him. She’s so disgusted she’s horrified by him and his biohazard germs and any second Neil’s going to pick his head up from the bed and bark at Billy for intruding without so much as a knock, and then—

Then his eyes fall to the long bloodied baiting needle in Susan’s suddenly trembling hands.

“S-Self d-defense,” she quavers, backing away, that needle outward in her shaky, shaky hands almost like she thinks Billy’s going to advance on her. “It was s-self defense, B-Billy, I had to.”

Because Neil’s still motionless, facedown on the bed even though his son’s still coughing, making a racket and expelling biohazard bacteria in his very bedroom. He’s still coughing, fuck, his eyes are watering, but they aren’t so watery he can’t see what’s right in front of him. Billy plants a hand down against the dresser and tries to breathe.

“Self defense,” he rasps at the end of the fit, blinking at the acupuncture kit open inches away from his hand on the dresser.

“S-Slightly preemptive self defense,” Susan amends, swallowing. “Make no m-mistake, I had to. I had to, he— he was right on the verge of a b-blowup. You know your father, Billy.”

That is true. Billy knows his father well. He doesn’t speak to Susan as he shuffles up to the bed. Gulps down some of the gunk in his throat, grazes his father’s cheek with his fingertips. There’s blood welled up in a hole at the base of his skull but he’s warm, kinda, so maybe Susan didn’t kill him after all. He moves his fingers to feel for a pulse.

It isn’t there. Neil’s dead? Neil’s really dead?

“Dad?” he tries. It comes out a hoarse squeak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Dad? Dad, c’mon.”

Billy jostles his father’s shoulder. It yields no response. The bare skin is still warm, deceptively so. There’s not so much as a flicker of life beneath it.

“Holy shit,” Billy gasps.

Susan presses back against the wall, eyes still very wide, clutching that baiting needle so tight her knuckles are blanched. Her hands shake and shake.

“What are you going to do?” she asks in a whisper.

“What am I going to go?” Billy echoes. “I— I don’t know! What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

Because even if her self defense was preemptive, to use her description, maybe it’d still fly. Billy has bruises. Maybe Susan has some too hidden under that deep cranberry dress.

“Cops?” Susan’s mouth tightens as her head gives a firm shake. “Of course not. Don’t you know what police are like? Your father would’ve fit right in.”

Billy considers this as he coughs, stuffing them into the sleeve of his leather jacket. He can’t say his own experience with the law has ever been positive. And Neil was a security guard. What’s a security guard if not a wannabe cop?

“You planned this,” Billy heaves out when he’s done coughing.

“I’m….I mean, y-yes, but I—“

“What was your plan?” Billy interrupts. “Where were you going to go from here?”

“I didn’t expect you to show up,” Susan says, soft and frowning.

“I live here,” Billy points out and he laughs. Strange, strained laughter peals out of him until it triggers another bout of coughing because. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

“Oh, Billy…do you want some water? Maybe you should sit down.”

“Where?” he rasps between coughs. “Next to my dead dad?!”

“Keep your voice down,” Susan urges, waving the needle like a conductor’s baton. “Max is still awake.”

Billy wipes the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. Stares at Susan as he does his best to take even breaths.

“You’re wheezing.”

“You’re deflecting,” he fires back. “What are you going to do?”

“Um, uh…chop him up,” Susan admits quietly. “I’d p-planned to chop him up.”

“That’ll make a mess,” Billy blurts out, blunt.

“Messy, yes, but it’s the easiest way. I can’t exactly carry him.”

Billy touches the small of Neil’s bare back, skims his fingertips between hair thin acupuncture needles. He probes at the small of his own back, winces when dull pain pulses through the bruise. His throat is thick with something other than phlegm and his heart is racing rabbity fast. In this moment, Billy makes a decision.

“Not by yourself.”

Susan gapes.

“Where we taking him?” Billy asks.

“I…I honestly didn’t have an exact location mind, but farther away. Not here in Hawkins, the town is too small.” Susan swallows again and tugs at her sleeve. “I planned to bag his parts in pieces and drive a few hours out and spend the night disposing of the bags in different areas.”

That makes sense, he thinks.

“Sometimes I go to this gay bar about two hours away. Pretty big dumpster in the back.”

Billy tries to hit it at least once a month, if he can save up enough of his allowance for gas. Sometimes he collects enough chump change from idiots at school who forget to close their lockers, and isn’t above duping people outta their dough by turning on the charm, either. His interest in girls isn’t exclusive, he finds a helluva lotta guys interesting too. It’s just nice to get out of fucking Nowheresville even on the nights he doesn’t end up fooling around with anybody.

Susan looks absolutely bewildered.

“Gay bar,” he repeats slowly. “You know. Pride pub, homo hub?”

“I know what a gay bar is, Billy. Why on earth are you going to one?”

“Gee, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’m secretly a drag queen bingo champion,” Billy scoffs in annoyance and it turns into a cough. The one sets off a fit.

“Billy, um…I don’t, um. I’m not judging your preference in partners or your private life, but you’re too young to be going to the bar. Any bar. It’s not legal, you’re a teenager.”

Jesus, he can hardly breathe. He feels like he’s going to fall over. Maybe he actually should’ve sat down next to his dead dad.

“Oh dear. I’m— I’m going to get you some water.”

Billy doesn’t fall over. He has good stamina. He’s hard to knock over, prides himself on that fact. He makes it through the fit upright. His chest is sore from the stabbing and he’s a little dizzy, perhaps from fatigue or breathlessness, but he’s steadfast.

Billy accepts the glass Susan holds out to him upon her return. Her fingers feel like icicles as they brush his and he suppresses a shiver. Takes slow sips and finds a little relief. Eventually sets the glass down on the dresser when he’s done.

“Technically, it’s not me who goes to the bar. You’re right, I’m not twenty-one yet. But Jason Scott on the other hand, well, he’s twenty-five.” Billy fishes his wallet out and frees his fake ID from its fold. “Looks pretty legit, right?”

Susan silently studies the piece of plastic and worries her lip between her teeth.

“But we don’t actually have to go into the bar to put my dad’s body in the dumpster anyway. I mean, going inside would really be a pretty bad idea…”

“Indeed it would, but I’m glad you showed this to me. It wouldn’t be smart to put Neil anywhere you or I associate with at all. But if you’re not actually associated, it’s an option.”

“It’d take less time than the way you were gonna go about it. Cleaner too.”

Susan nods her agreement. “However, I still might…mm, Billy. I’m not sure if you’re going to like this. But in order to prevent him from being identified, I think I’m going to chop off his head…and his hands. Well, perhaps those I’ll just burn with the clothes iron, um. Either way, his fingerprints need to be destroyed.”

Billy’s gut lurches as he soaks it in. It sounds logical. He can’t deny that, but something about the idea of his dad’s decapitation doesn’t sit. Kinda gives him the heebie-jeebies. And that’s weird. That’s really weird because he’s okay with everything else.

Well.

Okay, maybe he’s not okay with it, but. He understands it. It’s Neil. Of course he understands the bruises she may or may not be hiding, the fear in her heart regardless.

“Do you have to chop his head off? Can’t you just smash his face in?”

“I considered that,” Susan says, nodding again. “Those cast iron lion bookends on the shelf are nine pounds each. I weighed them this morning.”

Billy likes the sound of that better. Neil is going to be dead and disfigured either way. He’s not sure why it makes a difference. Maybe it doesn’t, really. He thinks he might have a fever. Maybe the fever’s just getting to him, making him a little loopy and pulling his thoughts in less than rational directions.

“I could do that part,” he offers. It’d probably take him less time to bash Neil’s face in than it’d take Susan. He has more physical prowess, after all, more power to put behind the blows.

“Are you up for that?” she asks, eyeing him skeptically.

“Yes,” he snaps, somewhat defensive. He’s sick but he’s not helpless.

Billy’s claim isn’t undermined by the brief bout of coughing that overtakes him. He halts the reflex to clutch his ribs. Not now, not in front of her. Especially not with what they have to do.

“There’s two bookends,” Susan points out, seems a little nervous as she watches him cough. “We could take turns.”

With that, she disappears from view. Billy hacks some more gross globs into his hand and for convenience’s sake, just wipes it off on his jeans. When Susan comes back, she has one of those big black contractor trash bags. Spreads it out on the bed beside Neil’s form.

They roll him together and Billy doesn’t know what to make of what he feels when he actually sees his father’s face, features devoid and dead. Very, very dead. Tears do not sting his eyes. They just well up watery because he’s coughing again, battling for breath again, so, so wrung and exhausted, lungs like sodden sponges sopped with sputum.

Then he’s holding the bookend, cast iron artistically sculpted, the maned king of the jungle bearing his teeth in a roar. Billy looks at his father’s dead face and hesitates for only a heartbeat. When he brings the heavy object down, he puts all the force he can muster behind it and it makes an utterly atrocious noise Billy will never forget, but—

Some part of him has always wanted to do this. For that part of him, it is the only thing he’s ever truly wanted. And when Susan takes her turn Billy watches her face and realizes, oh, going slack and sloth and silent with the taste of Neil Hargrove’s hand isn’t the only thing they share at all.

* * * 

They wait until late to don gloves and roll Neil up in the shower liner. They stuff him in the bed of his own truck for transport. Billy takes the torso end because it’s heavier, Susan hefts him under the legs. Billy drives because he knows the way even though it’s the last thing he feels like doing.

It goes mostly okay. He only has a paroxysm bad enough to make him pull over once.

Susan reaches across the seats and rubs his shoulder. Billy’s too busy getting his breath to shrug her off.

“I’m sure you’re not going to love this idea, but I think it’s time to see a doctor. This could be bronchitis, Billy, or even pneumonia.”

“Pneumonia isn’t real,” Billy grouses tiredly. “It’s like the boogeyman. Just some story old people made up so their grandkids wouldn’t play in the rain and track mud all over the house.”

“Uh…um.” She blinks owlishly, forehead creasing. “No, that’s not quite accurate…”

“I’m screwing with you, Susan.” Because that’s easier than conceding to her.

It would’ve been one thing with Neil. As fucked up as things were, Neil was his dad. Neil was supposed to take care of him.

But Susan. Susan is different. Susan is mostly Max’s weird mom who displays about as much emotion as a mannequin whenever she isn’t (wasn’t) dancing on Neil’s puppet strings or talking to the spiders as she shakes them free from soft tissues. Albeit tonight is a game changer. They’re very literally partners in crime now.

“We could even go to the ER after this,” she suggests uncertainly, wary edge to her tone.

“That’s for emergencies. I can wait.”

“If you’re sure.” Susan hums in her throat and draws her hand away.

They have good timing. The bar’s been closed for almost an hour by the time they get there and all the cars have cleared out. Billy backs up to the dumpster so he and Susan can stand on the bed and lift Neil in that way, rather than having to drag his deadweight out and struggle to raise his cumbersome bulk up over the side.

He doesn’t want to be out here any longer than he has to. Whole thing gives him the heebie-jeebies. He feels like a cop is about to pull up any second now and frankly, it’s cold as fuck. He’s cold as fuck.

Not as cold as the unearthly chill that seems to pierce through the plastic liner when Billy lifts his father’s trunk for the second time tonight.

“Do you feel that?” he irresistibly asks Susan, watching her adjust her grip on Neil’s legs and searching her face for the eeriness he’s feeling.

“Feel what?” Susan asks, frowning.

Death itself? Billy doesn’t know.

“Nothing, it’s…just cold, I guess.”

“Oh, Billy, I think you have the chills.”

And he knows he does but it’s not the same thing. He doesn’t comment any more on it. Together they get Neil up on the metal rim of the open dumpster, push him over. Garbage crunches and crinkles beneath his deadweight. Billy feels another coughing fit coming on and manages to suppress it until he gets back inside the truck.

“Do you want me to drive home?” Susan asks.

“No. I know the way better, it’s easier if I do it.”

“You could, um. I mean, you could direct me if I get a little turned around. You’re looking pretty tuckered out.” It’s dark but Billy can hear the frown in her voice.

“Alright,” he sighs out. “Fine.”

Because she’s not wrong. He’s drained at this point. Shoving his dad’s body in the dumpster spent the last store of energy he had. He and Susan swap places. She doesn’t have much trouble once she actually gets back on the main road.

“Thank you,” she murmurs eventually. “If I had to do this myself, I’d still be in the middle of it.”

“Yeah…sure thing, I guess.” She killed his dad. No big deal. Billy blinks, isn’t sure what else to say.

“…so, um…you like the fellas, huh?” she asks, voice light and not a bit unkind.

“Uh-huh." He shrugs. "Guys, girls, I mean, I'm not that picky. A hole’s a hole, a mouth’s a mouth, fingers are fingers.”

Susan chokes on a scandalized gasp and Billy gets a chuckle out of it, even as it turns into a cough.

“That’s, uh. T-That’s certainly crude.”

And it’s funny really, that Susan seems more creeped out by a boorish comment than she did by holding his dead dad’s corpse legs.

By the time they get home, Billy’s so beyond spent he knows he can’t even make it to his room. Doesn’t bother to try. Collapses on the couch cushions without attempting to take his boots off. Smothers what has to be the goddamn millionth round of coughs into the throw pillow.

When he picks his head up, Susan’s standing there, fiddling with the thermometer again, fretful expression on her features. Oh, fuck it. Fine. Billy bites the bullet and takes it from her, begrudgingly jamming the thing under his tongue.

[moonstruckholland]

I Need You (p.p)

Word Count: 2,171

Warnings: angst? Little bits of fluff?

A/N: This was loosely inspired by an episode of Gilmore Girls 😂 I hope y'all enjoy and if ya do, I'd definitely love some feedback 💕 also shout-out to @hoe-forharry and @theadventurousqueen for reading this and helping me out 💖

Dealing with a breaking up was one of the hardest things you've ever had to do.

Barely a full twenty-four hours had passed, mostly spent in your pajamas, practically permanent tear stains on your cheeks from all the crying, and all you wanted was to be with the one person who could always make you feel safe; your best friend.

But what is one supposed to do when their best friend just happens to be the one that broke their heart in the first place?

You can't even remember how the argument started. One moment you were having a lovely dinner with the love of your life, prepared to have the movie marathon of a lifetime, and the next the two of you were spitting out things you were sure both of you would regret the next day. The night ended with your body going completely numb as you heard the words, "I think we need to break up," come out of Peter's mouth.

He was gone before you could manage to come up with a coherent thought, before you could beg him to stop and talk things out with you. You stared at your apartment door for a good 20 minutes in shock, hoping he would come back. He never did. You crawled into bed shortly after, a heaviness in your chest as you started to cry.

You weren't sure how long you laid there, tears flooding your face, never stopping, the numbness eventually going, leaving pure misery around to linger and force you to replay his last words to you in your head over and over. You fell asleep shortly after, only to continue the process again in the morning when you woke up to an empty bed and realized this was going to be your new normal from now on.

You tried everything to distract yourself. Well, everything that was within the vicinity of your bed, which included watching tv, reading your psychology textbook, and scrolling on your phone until you were forced to leave it alone to charge.

Nothing really worked, your mind coming back to Peter each time. You had to see him, talk to him, anything. You just needed him.

Before you knew it, you were unlocking your phone with a shaky hand, your fingers immediately tapping over the phone icon, Peter's number the first one to show on your call log. You hesitated over his name. Were you really about to call him?

Your body seemed to decide for you, pressing down on his contact before you could even really process or talk yourself out of it.

It rang a few times before disappointingly going to voicemail. You would've hung up if it wasn't for Peter's cheery voice ringing through your ears as his voicemail message started playing.

"Hey, it's Peter! Please lea-" you suddenly heard your own voice, saying something unintelligible in the background, making Peter laugh.

"Two seconds, babe, I'm trying to set up my-oh shit, it's still going. Um," you must've moved closer to him, your voice becoming clear as day you said "leave a message after the beep" with him, the two of you a mess of giggles.

You sounded so happy. What had changed from then to lead to heartbreak you were feeling now?

Your eyes were watering as you heard the sound of the beep.

"H-hey, Peter. It's me," you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, "Um, I know it's against protocol to call your ex after a break up, especially when it's only been a day, but I usually have my best friend here to talk me out of doing that."

You could feel the small resolve you had starting to break down, "I'm not really doing too great right now and I really need my best friend. Could you please come over? I need you, Pete."

You were full on crying now, sniffling in between your words. You were sure you were barely making sense at this point, "I-Um, please? Come here?"

Something inside of you snapped and you came to your senses, a gasp escaping your lips as you immediately hung up the phone. You felt so humiliated, how could you do that?

You threw yourself back on your bed with a groan, hoping more than anything that Peter would somehow not get that voicemail and you could save yourself from dying of embarrassment.

You spent the next hour contemplating your options on keeping Peter from hearing that message, your best ones being somehow getting into his apartment and deleting it or learning how to hack into his phone. Though you figured by this point he either hadn't heard it or had and didn't care. You almost hoped it was the latter, feeling guilty for calling him in the first place.

Suddenly there was a familiar tap on your window and you looked up to find your favorite masked hero sitting on the fire escape, giving you an awkward wave when your eyes met his. You rushed over to let him in, for a moment feeling like everything was normal.

"You're here," you mumbled, feeling breathless as you backed away to give him some space.

You watched as Peter crawled in, very ungracefully, immediately pulling off his mask, "I'm sorry it took me so long to get here, I was out patrolling and Mr. Stark said if I broke another phone, he would make me use an old flip phone."

You would've laughed if you weren't in complete awe of the boy standing in front of you, the one who no matter what, would always have your heart. "I just can't-you're here."

"Of course I'm here," he hesitantly reached out, as if contemplating what he was about to do, before setting his hand on your cheek, "Are you okay?"

Out of habit, you leaned into hand, savoring the feeling of his skin against yours. You sighed both out of content and sadness, "I could be better."

"Yeah, me too."

He stepped away from you, leaving an aching feeling in your tummy at the lack of contact. He took in your appearance, making you look away self-consciously. You knew you looked like a mess, with your puffy, red eyes, and makeup smudged around your face. Your room didn't look much better, wrappers and tissues thrown across your bed, some on your floor. You didn't have to look at him to know Peter most likely had a look of concern and probably pity on his face.

"Have you eaten any real food today?"

You gave him your signature guilty smile, "Do mini kitkats and oreos count as real food?"

He sighed, "I'm ordering dominos."

"Peter, wait," you gently touched his arm, wanting to feel him under your fingertips one last time before saying what you were sure you would regret later, "You should go. It was selfish of me to call you like that and I feel horrible. I'm sorry."

Peter looked down, "Don't, feel horrible, I mean. I would be lying if I said I didn't need this, need you, too."

"Oh."

You felt a pang of guilt in your heart at his words, realizing you'd been so selfish you hadn't thought that Peter would be hurting too.

"So, uh, pizza," he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, "Pepperoni and bacon?"

"Yep! Can we get those wannabe garlic knot ball things too?"

"Is that even a question? Of course we can."

You smiled, your first smile of the day. You knew nothing was normal and this was a temporary happiness, but a whole pizza and many episodes of friends later, that thought was far away in the back of your mind.

You found yourself laying beside Peter, you head on his chest and his fingers playing with your hair. You talked about everything, reminiscing about high school and your childhood together, all the embarrassing stories that haunted the both of you at night, the classes you were going to take when your next semester started in the fall, anything to avoid the topic of your break up.

"You wanna know how I found out you were Spider-Man?"

Peter paused his soothing movements on your scalp, "What are you talking about? I told you I was Spider-Man."

"Do you remember the first time I went and visited you at the Stark tower junior year? Well, Tony must've thought you told me, because he dragged me over to his lab to show me the new suit he was making for your birthday."

"Wait, so Mr. Stark spilled the beans and you never told me?"

"He made me promise not to!"

Peter pulled away from you, dramatically laying back against your pillow, a hand clutching his chest, causing a burst of laughter to escape from your lips. "I'm offended! How could side with Mr. Stark over your boy-" he cut himself off with a cough, a blush on his cheeks as he realized what he was about to say, "um, best friend."

The air seemed to shift, that heaviness from the night before making a reappearance. You wanted to change the subject, make him laugh and see his heart stopping smile once more, but now that it was on your mind, you knew you couldn't put off talking about it anymore.

So much for avoiding the breakup.

"Peter," you sat up, crossing your legs underneath you, "I think we have to-"

"I know."

Your teeth tugged on your lips nervously as you heard Peter take a deep breath. You kept your eyes glued to your bedsheets, hoping if you didn't look at him you'd refrain from crying.

"I'm not happy anymore."

"With me?" You held your breath, waiting for the confirmation you knew would shatter your heart into tinier pieces than it already was.

"No! I-I love you, y/n. I always have."

Your eyes shot up at him, full of hurt and confusion. "I don't understand?"

"You're one of the few things I've always been sure about, a constant in my life I can always count on, but right now, you're all I'm sure about and I need some time to figure everything out."

"Maybe, I could help?"

He shook his head, "This is something I have to do on my own."

You didn't know what to say, a hundred thoughts going through your head. The insecure part of you questioned his explanation, what if was just trying to spare your feelings?

No, you knew Peter wouldn't lie to you, not unless he was trying to protect you.

You wanted to ask him more about what was going on with him, he'd always come to you when he was in trouble before, but you didn't want to push him.

"Maybe I should go," Peter said, bringing you out of your thoughts.

"No, please don't," you pleaded, "I want you here."

You shifted, laying back down beside him. You laced your fingers through his, a small wave of relief washing over you when he didn't pull his hand away. "Can we pretend everything's normal for tonight?"

"I'd like that."

In hindsight it was probably a bad idea, but neither of you didn't care. How could you when you got to spend the night in Peter's arms?

You stayed up almost all night, kissing, talking, being wrapped up with each like you would any other day. The two of you fell asleep around 4 am, Peter's head nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his arm around your waist. You knew in the morning the hurt would be back and you'd have to deal with it on your own, but at least you were content, that feeling following you in your dreams.

Peter was the first one to wake up, the small bit of sunshine peeking through your blinds hitting his face. You looked so peaceful beside him, mouth slightly ajar, letting out the softest breaths, the sunlight behind you making you glow. He wished more than anything he could stay.

He placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, softly whispering, “I love you,” against your skin, before carefully crawling out of bed. He quickly changed out of the clothes you'd given him last night, his clothes, your favorite shirt and pair of sweats you'd stolen from him a long time ago, and back into his suit.

Pulling his mask over his head, he slipped out the window, giving your sleeping figure one last look before closing it behind him. He hesitated on the fire escape, thinking about the lies he told you last night. He considered telling you the truth, telling you about the impending doom on it's way to shred the whole world apart and how he was apart of the solution to stop it.

'It's safer for her not to know,' he thought, convincing himself he was making the right decision, even if it meant losing precious time with you.

As he started swinging away, he sent out a silent prayer, hoping he'd come back from it all to make it up to you.

Tagging: @fangirlwithasweettooth @bravest-at-heart @constellatinq @devildisguiseasangel @hollandstea @ravenclawmarvel​ @rachramblesstuff​ @fairytaleparker​ @angelhaz11​ @parkerpuff​ @petersmparker​ @nedthegay​ @spaceship707​ @parkeroffline​ @lovinnholland​ @tomhollandsumbrella​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @officiallyunofficialperson​ @babebenhardy​ @sleepybesson​ @its-the-unknownspidey​ @antoouu​ @petersstarcadet​ @kxrtwxgner​ @styles-balor4eva​ @80sthottie​ @meghan-8520xx​ @marshyrebelcloud​ @jillanaholland​

[scatter-the-stars]

Smutty doctor!Kurt

Maybe fucking one of his residents is a terrible idea.  Actually, there is no maybe in this situation.  It is a terrible idea to fuck one of his residents.  Him and the other doctors were vehemently warned at the beginning of the program that hooking up with one of their residents could result in severe punishment for both parties involved.

Kurt heeded those warnings like a responsible person.  Put the importance of his job before anything.  He worked hard to get where he was.  And he wasn’t going to let a resident ruin what he took years to achieve.

That was before Blaine Anderson transferred to his hospital and became one of his residents.

Pierced, tattooed, and with a “I don’t give a shit” attitude, he was the exact opposite of his type.  He was attracted to clean-cut and safe.  Not the bad boy type.  But his attraction was instant.  The moment he laid his eyes on the “dangerous” guy—as other doctors and nurses labeled him—he was smitten like a teenager with a crush.

He was good, though.  He didn’t give into his wants and desires.  He did his best to ignore the looks and comments Blaine frequently sent his way.  Made sure not to flirt back with him whenever Blaine did.  Which seemed to be any chance he got.  He brushed off any sexual advance Blaine threw his way.  Although every fibre of his being wanted Blaine to take him.  But he never gave in.

He was good.

Until he wasn’t.  Until he was forgetting rules and consequences and falling into bed with the bad boy of medicine.

Which is how he finds himself in one of the on-call rooms in the hospital pressed up against the door with his scrubs down around his ankles and Blaine stretching him open with fingers that just saved a person’s life.

The adrenaline of the surgery they just performed together, one where he let Blaine scrub in and join him for experience, has left them both needy and reckless.  Because they are smarter than this.  They both made the decision early on into this relationship that they wouldn’t be stupid and hook-up at the hospital.  They didn’t want to run the risk of being caught and getting in trouble by the higher ups.

Where they both should have been exhausted after completing the surgery, they both found a burst of adrenaline that had Kurt letting Blaine pull him into the on-call room.  The tiredness from moments before was gone and replaced with raw, carnal need.

Fingers brush his prostate.  He bites back a moan.

Blaine kisses at the back of his neck and he feels the brush of metal from his tongue piercing.  Thrusts his fingers; making sure to hit his prostate.

“Quit fucking teasing,” he groans in annoyance to him.  Blaine has been fingering him for the past fifteen minutes.  He’s on edge and ready to be fucked.  Plus, they only have so much time before some other doctors and nurses and residents will need use of the on-call room.

“I love teasing you.”  Blaine punctuates his words by pressing hard against Kurt’s prostate.

Pleasure zings through him.  He curls his fingers against the hardwood of the door and thrusts his hips back on Blaine’s talented fingers.  Hates and loves what he’s doing to him.  He wants it to stop at the same time that he wants Blaine to continue until he comes.  And he knows about Blaine’s love of teasing him.  There have been several moments in the past few months that they’ve been hooking up where Blaine will edge him for hours until he’s a begging, whimpering mess with a desperate need to come.

Blaine wraps his free hand around his cock and gives it a slow stroke.  Thumbs at the beads of precum gathered at the slit.  The glide of his hand is made better by the precum on his palm.  Kurt takes notice of how different it feels to have Blaine’s hand stroking him without the feel of his rings there.  He doesn’t let his thoughts linger on that for too long.  Instead, he begins to fuck Blaine’s tight fist.  Seeks out the friction and pleasure his body is so hungry for.  Has been hungry for since the moment his eyes connected with Blaine’s after they finished their surgery and he saw the need burning in those stunning hazel eyes.

“Blaine, we don’t have time,” he warns him.  He has residents he needs to get back to soon.

Blaine mouths at the slope of his neck where it meets his shoulder.  Finally removes his fingers.

It’s only as he stands there waiting for Blaine to fuck him does Kurt realize one problem they didn’t consider.

“We don’t have condoms,” he points out in frustration.

“This is a hospital, Kurt.”  He hears the distinctive sound of a condom wrapper being opened.  “There’s bound to be a condom somewhere.”

It’s right then that it becomes clear to him why Blaine disappeared for a few minutes after he cleaned-up after surgery.

He tenses for a moment and then relaxes when Blaine presses his covered, slicked cock to his hole.  He digs his teeth into his lower lip as Blaine begins to push in and he feels the beads of his Prince Albert piercing against his inner walls.

Blaine is the first guy he’s fucked who has a Prince Albert.  Where he was hesitant and unsure the first time he saw the piercing, not entirely sure he would like the feeling of the circular barbell inside him, now he can’t get enough of it.  The jewelry adds something exciting and different he’s never had with another guy.

“Fuck.  You’re always so fucking tight,” Blaine grunts as he pushes in.

Hands tightly grip his hips.  Fingers dig into flesh hard enough to leave marks.  He sticks his ass out more.  Blaine shoves his scrub shirt up to his armpits.  Drags his hand down his back and rests it on his left ass cheek.  Grips it and spreads him open to watch the last inch of himself push inside.

Hips press against his ass once Blaine is buried deep inside him.

“Brace yourself, Kurt,” Blaine says while kicking his feet further apart.  “I’m going to ride this ass good and hard.”

Kurt plants his hands on the door and pushes his body off.  He clenches around Blaine.  “Give me your best.”

Blaine grabs his hips with both hands again.  Slowly—slow enough he feels the barbells dragging against his inner walls—pulls his hips back, rocks forward when Kurt is stretched open just by the head, and then slams his hips forward.  He does that over and over again.  Pulls back, holds there for a second, before slamming forward.

Kurt curls his fingers against the door as he does his best to contain the loud moan that wants to escape him every time Blaine slams his hips into him.  When one of his moans accidentally slips free, Blaine covers his mouth with his hand while continuing to fuck him.

He reaches back and grabs at Blaine’s hip.  Squeezes at the inked flesh.

Although fucking in the hospital where anyone could catch them is a bad idea, he can’t deny he’s getting off on the thrill it’s producing.  The rush he feels at doing something naughty, something against the rules, makes this a thousand times better.  And it was already amazing to begin with.

The moan he releases when Blaine hits his prostate is muffled against Blaine’s palm.  His cock gives a twitch as his balls draw tight to his body.

He’s being fucked so good he’ll feel Blaine for the rest of his shift; feel him with every step he takes.

Blaine’s hand covering his mouth slips down his body and wraps around his straining cock.

“Come, Kurt,” Blaine growls into his ear while stroking his cock and pounding into him.

It takes only a few strokes of Blaine’s hand before he’s spilling over his fist.  He comes fast and hard.  Clenches around Blaine’s cock as he still fucks him chasing his own release.

“Fuck!”  Blaine groans when he buries himself deep inside him and comes.  Kurt feels his cock twitch as he empties into the condom.

Both of them move for several moments after.  They both breathe heavy.  Kurt feels Blaine’s hot breath against the back of his neck.

“Holy fuck!”  He heavily pants; body trembling with aftershocks.

Blaine slips free of him.  “You can say that again.”

Kurt grabs a few tissues and cleans up before pulling his scrubs back up and smoothing a hand down the slightly wrinkled material.  He turns to face Blaine; his cock giving a twitch at the sight of the tattooed and pierced guy who is so much more than what he initially thought.

Blaine smirks when he catches him staring.  Runs a hand through his messed up hair.  “See something you like, Dr. Anderson?”  He arches the eyebrow with a barbell piercing.

Kurt drops his eyes to Blaine’s tattooed throat.  Watches the muscles work when he swallows.  Thinks about how that throat looked just a few nights ago swallowing around his cock.  He lifts his eyes back up to Blaine.  “Yeah,” he steps close to him and brushes their mouths together, “I definitely see something I like.”

Blaine grabs his hip and deepens the kiss.  Thrusts and strokes their tongues together.

Before they can get carried away, Kurt pulls away from Blaine.  “I have to go.  I’ll see you soon.”

He opens the door, takes one more look at Blaine, and steps out of the room.  He nearly has a heart attack when he almost runs into someone and sees it’s Calvin.

“Oh.  Sorry, I-”  He slams the on-call door shut before Calvin can look in.

“Dr. Hummel,” Calvin says, “I heard your surgery went well.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies, heart racing for an entirely new reason.  “It couldn’t have gone better.”

“That’s good.”  Calvin proudly grins.  “I also heard you let my son scrub in with you.”

“Yes, sir.  I did.”

“How was he?”

The question has him thinking of how Blaine just fucked his brains out against the very door he stands in front of.  “He was, uh…”  He forces his thoughts to the surgery and how Blaine performed during that.  “He was amazing.  Definitely has your touch.”

Calvin beams with pride.  “That’s great to hear.”

A nurse comes over the intercom and pages Calvin.

Kurt walks away after Calvin leaves.  A huge relief off his shoulders for the time being.  That was extremely close.  Closer than he likes.  Blaine and him have to be more careful.

This is why he established the no messing around at work rule.  Because the last thing he needs is for the Chief of Surgery to find out he’s fucking his son who also happens to be one of his residents.

[babbushka]

Closin’ Time

Inspired by a sinday prompt, 1.5k, public rough oral sex! 

                                                            ----------

“Clyde?” He hears a familiar voice accompanied by the soft closing of the front door. 

He doesn’t have to turn around to know it’s you, but he does anyway. He does because he loves lookin’ at you, at his girl. He still doesn’t know how any of that happened, how he managed to get ya, but he did, and you were his, and every time he caught sight of ya his veins pulsed with lust. 

You’re standing there wearing probably not enough, wearing something cute but not too practical, not for the autumn chill that’s settled in around West Virginia, and he drinks you in like the tall glass of water you are, throat suddenly parched.

“Hey darlin’, whatcha doin’ out here?” Clyde asks, wondering why you left the warm safety of the bar to venture outside. 

He already knows the answer in the way you saunter over to him, the way you press yourself up against his side, left arm coming around to hold you close. He liked that you never shied away from him, when he wasn’t wearin’ his prosthetic or nothin’.

You smile up at him, and he sees something dark there, something devious. He swallows, cheeks already tinging pink. 

“I was just gonna ask you the same thing.” You let your fingertips walk up his chest, fiddle with the buttons on his ironed shirt, “I didn’t take you for a smoker.”

Y’all hadn’t been dating long, but Clyde holds his hand up to show it’s cigarette free. He hadn’t smoked in years and years, wanted you to know that. 

“Was just needin’ some fresh air, that’s all.” He replies, letting that hand come over to your throat, let it tilt your chin up to meet his lips in a soft kiss. 

He normally isn’t this bold, normally isn’t this public, but the parking lot is empty, and there’s no one watchin’ but the moon as he slides his tongue against yours. 

“Aren’t you lonely? Out here all by yourself?” You ask, pout at him, mock sadness for him having left you in the bar for a few moments. 

“I don’t gotta be, on account of you bein’ here now.” Clyde says back, and you grin, pulling him down for a kiss once more. 

Fuck, he loves the feeling of your mouth on his, loves the way your lips get puffy and swollen from being kissed kissed kissed, bitten and bruised and scratched up by his facial hair. He loves how delicate your bones feel under his big hand, how he could bruise you so easy with a grip that’s a little too hard. 

Maybe you’d like the bruises, he thinks, with the way you sigh happily into his mouth as he does it. 

“Clyde?” You ask, voice breathy and needy, and going straight to his balls. 

“Yeah darlin’?” He replies, eyes lidded but open enough to see you shifting around to be perfectly in front of him, aware enough to feel your hand toying with his belt. 

“I was hopin’ you wouldn’t mind me sucking your dick.” You look up at him through your lashes, and he swears his knees are gonna buckle, swears he’s gonna black out from how dizzy he gets, all the blood in his brain rushing to his cock. 

“Sweetheart, I’d never mind. Closin’ time ain’t here for another hour – ” He tucks some of your hair behind your ear but you shake your head, bite at your bottom lip.

“No, I want you right now.” You say, insistent, and he has to gulp, heart thudding in his chest.

“Now?” He asks, looking around, but you’re already undoing his belt, already popping the button on top of his fitted jeans, already gearing up to sink to your knees and he just has to grab you.

“Uh huh, right here.” You grin, taking his hand and shoving it up under your top, letting it grope at your breast, “’S’that okay?”

And he’s almost drunk off of it, the feeling of your velvety skin under his calloused palm, almost ready to let you do whatever you want. 

But still, something nags the back of his mind. 

“Someone could see.” He shakes his head, makes you pout, makes you lean in real close and with his hand still on your chest, lick a broad stripe up his adam’s apple, breathe hot air onto the skin and set him alight with shivers. 

“Let them.” You say simply, and Clyde has to groan, has to, because now his jeans are too tight, his cock wants to be let free, wants to shove itself down your throat, especially when you suck on his neck hard, with a needy little, “Let me?”

He maneuvers you so that he can grip your jaw in his hand, look at you real stern.

“Fuck you’re so pretty, don’t go teasin’ me now, or else I won’t be able to hold back.” He says, but your chest is heaving and he can smell how eager you are for it, how wet the idea of it is making you, so he relents with, “Come on, let’s go around to the side.”

You practically jump for joy when he manhandles you around the porch of the bar, around to the side of the building where it’s cold and dark and deliciously empty.

You drop to your knees almost immediately, almost as soon as you’re out of view of the parking lot, almost as soon as Clyde can groan, hard cock rubbing against his boxers, demanding friction.

“Your throat ain’t gonna fit all of me, I’m pretty big.” Clyde says, hand already winding into your hair and gripping it tight, as you set to work on tugging his jeans and boxers down far enough his muscular thighs to give enough room for his cock and balls to nearly smack you in the face.

“I know just how big you are Mr. Logan, and I promise you, I can take it.” You smirk, proving your point by licking a broad stripe up his shaft, tongue swirling around the head of his cock with a, “Don’t hold back.”

 And he doesn’t, not one bit. He watches with heavy breathing as you work his dick further and further down your throat, can feel how it’s so tight around him, can feel the wet slippery slide of your mouth and tongue and spit and drool all around him – and when you swallow, when you hollow out your cheeks, he loses it just a little and starts thrusting.

You take only the briefest of moments to realize he’s going to fuck your face, and when you go limp for him it’s a blessed feeling, and Clyde has to lean his head back against the wall of Duck Tape, as he forces your head down down down, closer to him, until your nose is buried right against his skin.

You’re crying and it’s gorgeous, mascara smudging onto your cheeks just from being overwhelmed, from choking. He likes when you choke on his cock – but he loves this. He doesn’t know why, it’s so dirty, so seedy, not anything like he’s used to before, but then again neither are you. And if this is the sort of shit you want, he’s not in any mood to deny you.

He alternates between thrusting in and out of your mouth, and pulling and pushing your head by your hair onto him, bobbing it up and down up and down, using you, using your throat. You’d be covered in your own spit, if he didn’t occupy all the room in your mouth, he knows that.

When he comes it’s a surprise for you both, and he has a moment of panic because he can’t warn you, there’s no time for it, but you’re good – so fucking good, and he can feel you drink him down.

“Shit, you swallowed all of that?” He asks, slowly easing out of your throat, watching the stretch of it, the bulge of it slide out of you for the final time. It’s mesmerizing, how thoroughly debauched you are, covered in spit and tears and mascara, lipstick smudged around your mouth, lipstick on the very base of his cock.

He doesn’t know why that makes his dick twitch for more, but he’s spent for right now.

“Every drop, see?” You offer, open your mouth wide and stick your tongue out, not a single strand of pearly white come to be seen.

Maybe he isn’t entirely spent, he thinks, hauling you up off the floor carefully tucking you against him gently, wiping your face clean with a tissue he has in his pocket for whatever reason. Maybe he’ll take you home and fuck you right that second, close up the bar and lock you in his bedroom.

You grin wide, press your thighs together, and he realizes he’s said that out loud.

“I think that’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time.” You say with a wink and he’s practically scrambling to tuck himself away, suddenly desperate and eager for closin’ time.

                                                           ----------

tagging some clyde lovin’ friends lol, @kyloxfem @kylo-renne @callmehopeless @dreamboatdriver @adamsnackdriver @fullofbees ! <3

[ineffably-good]

Snake Husbandry, 1/2 (GO Fic)

Summary: Aziraphale has some secret books he hides from Crowley about understanding his favorite snake. This story explores a few myths and realities about snake behavior. 

Part of my Serpent and the Seagull series. 

Complete! Read the whole thing on AO3!

______________________________

Chapter 1

One thing Aziraphale had learned in the first year of marriage was that Crowley always curious about what he was reading. It was nice, most of the time, having his partner show a steady interest in what he was thinking about and looking at and doing. But every once in a while, he just wanted to look at a book that he didn’t feel like sharing – something more private. He kept these books in the deepest drawer of his desk, behind a pile of folders.

The hidden books generally fell into one of three categories: romance novels, which he was secretly addicted to and which Crowley would tease him mercilessly about; books about things Crowley considered dangerous, such as spells that could injure one or the other of them but which he nonetheless felt it his duty to be somewhat informed about; and a few books that Aziraphale had acquired very early in their relationship, shortly after he’d first brought Frederick home.  He had three – a slim volume on basic snake care that he’d used rather extensively at the beginning to ensure his new companion was healthy and happy, a rather fascinating and more academic book about different types of snakes and their characteristics, and one thick volume which would daunt any but the most passionate of snake enthusiasts – crammed full of tiny type and hand drawn illustrations and tissue-thin pages and titled “The Enthusiast’s Handbook of Snake Husbandry and Care.”

The third one was the one he most often reached for. Its academic and research-heavy focus appealed to him, but best of all it went on and on about snake lore – the myths and legends that had developed around snakes over the centuries – and took its time in proving or disproving them one by one. It spent a good deal of time on snake psychology and mating habits, and so help him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but draw parallels now and then not only between the book and Frederick, but between it and his spouse. Crowley was, after all, part snake. Sometimes, and especially in the winter, he was all snake, and for longer periods of time than one might expect.

Whenever he wanted to read it, he first made sure that Crowley was out and occupied for a few hours. Then he usually arranged it so that Frederick was curled up around his neck or shoulders. Best to have a plausible reason he was reading about snake husbandry if Crowley showed up unexpectedly and inquired.

But in all honestly, the truth was that he was reading and ruminating about both of the snakes in his life.

What could possibly be the harm?

--

Myth: Snakes will attack you if confronted.

Fact: Most snakes are not likely to attack unless they truly have no other option. When cornered, a snake will panic and do just about anything to flee the situation before resorting to brute force.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called from the kitchen.

Crowley looked up from his spot on the couch. “What?”

“Come in here please?”

Oh shit, he thought, the angel sounded snippy. Snippy was never good. What had he done or forgotten to do?

“I’m comfy,” he whined, just to buy time. If he was extremely lucky, it would work and the angel would give up and take care of whatever it was himself.

“I really must insist!” the angel said.

Definitely an increase in snippiness there. Snippitude? Was that a word, Crowley thought? It should be. No one could be as snippitudinous as his angel.

He heaved himself up with a sigh and sauntered his way into the kitchen. The angel was standing with portions of the coffee maker in his hand, looking prissy.

“We’ve talked about this, Crowley,” he said, shaking the basket at him. “You have to empty the grounds out of it at least once in a while! Look at this buildup, it’s obviously been sitting there dirty for most of the week!”

Crowley sighed. “Oh cmon, angel, we’re ethereal beings! We don’t have to clean things the hard way! You just –” he snapped a finger and the basket was suddenly magically clean – “take care of it the quick way.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That is not the point! We need to talk about household chores again, Crowley. Again! You’re going to have a seat at the table and we’re going to go over the chart of things that need to be done for the eleventh time and try to –”

“Oh, I’d love to angel, really!” Crowley said over his shoulder as he made a break for it as quickly as he could without literally running. “But I’ve got a client meeting – important, very important, thwarting to be done, freelance job – you know how it is –”

“Crowley, come back here!” Aziraphale called after him, sounding exasperated.

“Can’t right now!” Crowley shouted, fingers closing around the doorknob in triumph. “Back later and we can, uh, do that thing. The talking thing. Bye!”

He made straight for the park, where he found a bench in an area he knew Aziraphale rarely visited, and set about having a long nap in the sun.

--

Myth: Snakes strike without warning.

Fact: Snakes will warn you before they strike – if they can sense you, that is.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Crowley warned, as Aziraphale leaned over to pick up Frederick out of the basket where he was noodled up into a tight ball.

Aziraphale straightened up. “Whyever not?”

“Because he’s in a mood.”

Aziraphale tutted. “He’s not in a mood, he’s a lovely little snake, aren’t you Frederick?” he asked, peering into the basket.

Frederick reared up his head and spat at the fuzzy angel, giving his best, loudest warning. He truly didn’t feel like biting the angel today, not unless he had no other choice.

Aziraphale pulled back, then looked up at Crowley, who made no effort whatsoever to not have a “told you so” look on his face. “What happened?”

“He had a little fight with his intended breakfast,” Crowley said.

“Which was?”

“Greckle,” Crowley said.

“All right, please explain.”

“There was a greckle hopping around on the window by your desk, and Freddie here somehow got himself up onto the sill, and tried to eat him, not realizing there was glass in between them.”

Aziraphale winced. “Did he hurt himself?”

“Hurt his pride, maybe,” Crowley said. “The stupid bird mocked him mercilessly once he saw him face plant on the window. You know how greckles are. Only thing worse than a greckle is a starling.”

Aziraphale hrmed in agreement. He couldn’t put his finger quite on why, but even he knew that starlings were utter bastards.

TELL HIM TO STAY AWAY! Frederick shrieked, his voice somewhat muffled by the fact that his head was buried beneath several loops of his body. I’M FEELING VERY BITEY!

“He says to stay away, he’s feeling bitey,” Crowley dutifully translated.

Aziraphale sat down and picked up his teacup. “Well,” he said pleasantly, “nice of him to warn me off, I suppose. Better than just sinking his teeth into my thumb. He’s a good snake, regardless of what any bird might have said.”

“Shh, angel, he’ll hear you,” Crowley said. “And then he’ll just be unbearable.”

TOO LATE! Came the muffled cry from the basket.

Crowley rolled his eyes.  

--

Myth: snakes have excellent eyesight and use it to see movement in their intended prey.

Fact: Snakes don’t always see as clearly as you might think.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said one day, a tone of inquiry in his voice.

Crowley looked up from his rather fascinating game of candy crush. “Yes?”

“I read in an article the other day that snakes can only see dichromatically – just two colors, blue and green,” Aziraphale said. “Is that true?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said. “Do you want me to ask him?”

“Ask who?”

“Frederick, you pillock,” Crowley said. “I’ve never specifically talked to him about what he sees. Could be interesting to find out.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, shifting guiltily in his chair, and then lighting up with false bravado. “Why yes, that’s exactly what I meant. Yes, indeed, let’s do that. Spirit of scientific inquiry and all that!”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “You meant me, didn’t you?”

“What?” Aziraphale demurred. “Heavens no. I certainly did not.”

“You did,” Crowley drawled. “Just a big ol’ serpent to you, aren’t I?”

Aziraphale looked at him pointedly. “Did you or did you not just spend two weeks mostly in snake form because it got below freezing outside?”

Crowley knew when it was time to change tactics. “Don’t you think that if I could only see the colors blue and green you would have heard about it sometime in the last six THOUSAND years?”

“Well I don’t know, do I?” Aziraphale protested. “Your eyes are very special, and it’s not like we sit around and – and paint! And I nearly ALWAYS have a blue shirt on. And the Bentley is black and the only real color in your old apartment came from the green of the plants! It seemed plausible that maybe I might have missed something.”

Crowley harrumphed. He stood up and walked over to the bookshelf to the left of the desk and ran his finger along the spines of the books there.

“Red,” he said snarkily. “Blue. Light blue. Gray. Tan. White. Kind of an orange. Dark yellow. Turquoise –”

“Oh, that last one is really more cerulean, my dear,” the angel cut in.

The demon glared at him. He came over to the desk and starting flinging Aziraphale’s pencils onto the desktop. “White. Goldenrod. Yellow. Brown. Red --”

“Actually –” the angel chirped.

“So help me, if you’re breaking in to tell me that one is more of a claret, we are going to have an argument, angel.”

Aziraphale blinked helplessly at him. “All right then,” he said faintly. “You can see colors. I don’t see what you’re so upset about.”

Crowley sat back down on the couch with a thump. He picked up his glass. “Red, by the way,” he said. “I’m drinking red.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You’re being such a child.” Aziraphale turned back towards his work.

They both sat in silence, Aziraphale scratching away on his ledgers and Crowley staring into space, until the demon broke the silence a few minutes later.

“We should test Frederick though,” he said. “It’d be interesting.”

--

Figuring out how to do so was a challenge. They’d learned that Freddie could point to things with his tail, so they finally settled on printing out a kind of simple color wheel for him that they laid in front of him on the kitchen table. Just the primary and secondary colors, plus black, white, and gray, all big and easy to identify. Then they got his agreement to look at various objects and try to tell them what color they were.

They held up an apple.

Frederick pointed to gray.

Carrot – gray. Lettuce – green. A picture of the sky – blue. Aziraphale – blue. Crowley – green.

“Wait a minute,” Crowley said. “What do you mean that he’s blue and I’m green? Our skin? Our hair? What are you seeing?”

Frederick looked confused, and confusion always made him irritated. I DON’T KNOW, he shrieked. HE’S JUST BLUE. BLUE IS SOFT. YOU’RE ALL GREEN AND SHARP.

“I’m mostly black and red,” Crowley pointed out to him, after translating for Aziraphale.

DON’T BE AN IDIOT, YOU’RE GREEN, JUST LIKE ME.

“He says he’s green too,” Crowley told Aziraphale.

“Fascinating!”

CAN WE BE DONE WITH THIS STUPID GAME NOW? Frederick shrieked. I’M COLD. PUT ME BACK UNDER THE HEAT LAMP, PLEASE!

Crowley sighed. “He says he’s done.” He picked him up and took him back to his heat lamp on the table in the office.

IF YOU’VE GOT ANY MORE STUPID IDEAS ABOUT THE STATE OF THE WORLD THAT YOU NEED DISPROVEN, JUST LET ME KNOW! Freddie said sarcastically as he settled back in his warm spot.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Crowley assured him. “You’re first on the list.”

HONESTLY, BLACK AND RED. YOU’RE UNBELIEVABLE.

Crowley turned the lamp up to just the right setting, and left him to continue to snicker quietly to himself about his ridiculous owners.

--

Myth: Snakes are social animals and enjoy the company of other snakes.

Fact: Snakes, in general, do not like other snakes.

Despite the many, many instances in which Aziraphale threatened to never take him out of the bookstore ever again, the angel often couldn’t resist taking Frederick out for a stroll on a particularly nice day. All the snake had to do was look at him in a certain way – a sort of helpless, pouty kind of expression, punctuated by a tiny tongue flick – and the fluffy one would roll his eyes, stuff him in a pocket or wrap him around his neck, and bring him along on his intended walk through the park. Frederick, for his part, would contentedly hiss and settle in for the ride, determined to be good.

It wasn’t his fault if at least some of the time, a rambunctious bird made that impossible. And better not to discuss the incident with the rat beneath the raspberry bush at all. Some things were best forgotten.

--

On this particular day, the fluffy one and the pointy one were heading out to St. James with a bag of frozen peas for the ducks when Frederick decided he was not going to be left behind.

YO SNAKEBIRD, he shouted. I WANNA COME.

Crowley checked in with the angel, then shrugged and came over to his basket and picked him up. “Fine,” he said, draping the snake around his neck, “but you’re riding with me.”

Fine with him, Frederick thought. The nice thing about riding around Crowley’s neck was that they could actually talk the whole time. He curled up with his head on the demon’s shoulder, facing front, so he could watch all the people going by and insult them as needed. This was going to be fun.

It was a warm, beautiful day in early spring, and it seemed like half of London had headed to the park. They saw on a bench and fed the ducks their peas, then spread a blanket out on a sunny hillside and sprawled out for a rest. They were sitting there, munching on olives, when suddenly Frederick hissed and pulled his head up to stare pointedly at something.

“What?” Crowley said. “What is it?”

JUST LOOK! The snake shrieked. LOOK AT THAT!

Both of his companions turned to follow the direction he was pointing in and saw a man sitting about ten yards away. He was slim, with tight cropped hair and tattoos visible on both arms, but what was most notable about him was the extremely large yellow and white snake that was wrapped around his neck and shoulders. The snake appeared to be a yellow boa, intricately patterned in yellow and white, and had to be close to eight feet long. It literally rippled with muscle and a sense of tightly coiled power. It laid with its head on the man’s chest, languid and warm in the sun.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale said. “What a lovely specimen!” He immediately felt both of his companions turn to glare at him and couldn’t quite help himself from needling them just a little. “I mean, he’s such a lovely color… I do like yellow, you know.”

“That’s enough, angel,” Crowley hissed. “You’re insulting both of us, here.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I’m insulting you both by admiring another snake?”

YES YOU ARE, DUHHHHHH,  Frederick shouted.

Crowley translated. “Especially him,” he added.

WE HATE HIM, Frederick howled.

“We do,” Crowley confirmed, continuing to share Freddie’s comments with the angel.

Aziraphale blinked. “Well,” he said firmly, “I do think the yellow, while attractive, is a bit showy. I much prefer snakes in shades of black and red, as you both know.”

Crowley rolled his shoulders and allowed himself to be mollified as Aziraphale went back to his book. He and Frederick, though, continued to watch the yellow boa and make sneering comments to each other.

“He’s not very smart, is he?” Crowley muttered at one point as the boa just… laid there.

TOTAL POSER, Frederick agreed.

The snake, possibly picking up on some of the negativity wafting his way from a few blankets over, lifted its head and sighted them both for a moment, flicking its tongue out to scent them, and then went back to staring at whatever it had been staring at before. It looked unimpressed.

“All brawn, no brains,” Crowley said under his breath.

STRICTLY DECORATIVE.

“Couldn’t catch a bird if his life depended on it.”

PROBABLY TOO FAT TO EVEN MOVE.

Aziraphale slapped his book shut. “Will you two please stop?” he said. “You’re going to start some kind of skirmish and I’m going to have to separate everyone and then one of us is going to punched by the rather muscle-bound owner of the snake in question, and then I will be very put out.”

Frederick and Crowley both looked at him, Crowley blinking innocently and Frederick doing his best completely-harmless look.

“Why do you hate him anyways?” he asked, puzzled. “He hasn’t done anything to you.”

Crowley, eloquent as always shrugged.

JUST DO, Frederick shrieked. DON’T LIKE OTHER SNAKES.

Crowley dutifully translated.

“But… you two like each other,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley and Frederick looked a little surprised at that, and they eyed each other warily for a moment as if startled to be reminded that this should have been an issue between them.

Crowley flapped a hand around dismissively. “That’s different,” he said. “Freddie’s the only true snake here. I’m a serpent demon. It’s not the same thing at all.”

HE’S HALF BIRD, Frederick squawked indignantly. IT DOESN’T COUNT.

Plus, he thought, well aware that he’d never share these thoughts with either of them, Crowley was just cool. He was the largest snake Freddie had ever seen or heard of, he could fly, he had magic powers, and he was, inexplicably, a member of his family. He wasn’t about to look a gift serpent in the mouth. He knew he was one lucky king snake to end up where he was.

“Snakes don’t like other snakes,” Crowley said. “You know that. We aren’t social creatures.”

I DON’T LIKE THE LOOK OF HIM. Frederick screeched. LET’S GO OVER AND TALK TO HIM AND TELL HIM HE’S STUPID.

“Perhaps we should go,” Aziraphale said, sensing trouble.

PROBABLY, Freddie shouted. I’M PRETTY SURE I’LL END UP BEATING HIM UP IF WE STAY.

“It would save him the humiliation,” Crowley affirmed.

HE’D PROBABLY CRY.

“Almost certainly.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, tucked his book away and stood up and pushed the other two aside to shake out the blanket.  He rolled it up into a tight cylinder and tucked it inside the picnic basket, then ushered Crowley and his juvenile delinquent towards the sidewalk in the opposite direction from the boa.

“Keep walking,” he said tersely as they both turned their heads to take one last glare at the yellow serpent.

The boa’s owner, looking vaguely amused, raised a hand in greeting to Aziraphale, who politely waved back.

Too bad, he thought. He seemed like a nice man. It would have been interesting to talk to him about his snake friend and see if he had any tips to share. He had the sudden urge to read more of his snake book at home, and see if he could ever hope to understand these two. He’d have to find something distracting for them both to do when they returned to the shop.

[thorne93]

Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 30)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 2819

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy​​​​​​, @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​ - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​ and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

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

While you and the rest of the BAU worked on the Bay Harbor case, Dexter and Doakes and several others went to another case where a step daughter was dead. Doakes wanted to believe the step father did it, and Dexter backed him up, although it was false. Doakes arrested the step father and continued to question him, even though Dexter put the report on his desk that proved otherwise. 

When the team took a break, you and Spencer went back to Dexter’s lab and started chatting before an older woman came into the room. 

“Oh, uh, Dexter, can I talk to you a moment?” she asked, tossing a glance your way.

“They’re fine, Camille,” he assured. 

She came in and sat down and explained that Doakes was chasing after the records that Dexter had wanted, and when she told him the same thing, he got angry and made her scared. Dexter vowed he would take care of it and she thanked him before leaving, nodding to you and your husband. 

“Doakes is really starting to piss me off,” Dexter muttered as he wheeled over his station. 

“Wait, you care that he threatened her?” Spence suddenly asked, his brows furrowing. 

“Of course?” he responded, confused. “She’s a good friend. She’s nice. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. She does her job and does it well. Doakes is just a fucking asshole trying to scare a nice woman.”

You gave a sympathetic smile before saying, “Well we should head back. See you later.” 

As the two of you walked back towards the conference room, Spencer quietly said, “I’m a little impressed at his compassion for that woman… Maybe I misunderstood him.” 

The next few minutes were spent going over the manifesto. Spencer offered psycholinguistics. But nothing really moved forward that day, thankfully.

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

Two days had passed since the manifesto came to light. All of you were analyzing each sentence when suddenly there was a commotion in the bullpen. All of you turned around to see what it was when you saw it was Dexter, getting slammed to the ground by Doakes. 

“What the fuck?” you hissed quietly before scrambling to get up out of your seat and go out through the doors and into the bullpen.

As soon as you got to him, Doakes was hitting him repeatedly. You went to pull Doakes off, but Batista and another detetive pulled Doakes off of Dexter before you could. As soon as he was off, you helped Dexter up, fawning all over him. 

“Are you alright?” you asked fervently, your hands on his chest. 

He nodded slightly, eyeing Doakes as if he truly feared him. 

“Shit, no you’re not alright, you’re bleeding.” You grabbed a tissue off the desk he was leaning against, dabbing at the blood. 

LaGuerta came out and ordered Doakes a suspension. He was escorted out and then you led Dexter back to his lab. 

“Let’s get this cleaned up,” you quietly said. 

Once he got back to his lab and he sat down, you began opening up the cotton swabs and peroxide. 

“So,” you started, working on the wound, “you wanna tell me what that was all about?”

“I’m trying to get Doakes out of here, and off my case, and make him look like the crazy fucker he is,” he explained. 

“Ah, I see. Well, I trust your judgement, even if you didn’t tell me about Olson.” You smirked down at him before grabbing gauze. 

“Sorry again.”

You waved him off. 

“How are you doing with the whole not killing thing?” you asked. “Aside from Olson.”

“Surprisingly well.” 

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” you mused with a grin. 

“Thanks for being my savior,” he teased. 

You made a playful face at him. “Don’t make it a habit of getting your assed kicked. I won’t always be there.” 

He smiled and you two returned to your individual work. 

At this point Masuka was going over what he’d gotten from another linguist he sent the manifesto ff to. Batista was going over what he interpreted. Two other officers said the unsub was politically motivated. Then arguments started throughout the room before Rossi suddenly said, “This is what he wants.” 

Debra looked at your boss. “He wants a cluster fuck?” 

“He’s always been a private person, killing silently. Now suddenly he’s a media junkie? It doesn't fit the profile.” 

Everyone frowned at his revelation, realizing he was right. 

“But who would do that?” he prompted. 

“Law enforcement,” Luke responded. “They know what we are looking for.” 

With that, a heavy tension fell over the room. It snaked its way into your skin too. This meant you just pushed the investigation closer to yourself and Dex. 

“As of right now, this is a FBI central case. We’re going to investigate all eighteen cases with a fine tooth comb, which means that Miami PD - you’re under investigation. Full cooperation is an unspoken understanding here.”

“No offense, sir, uh, Agent Rossi, but if you do this, you risk alienating the force,” Batista said. 

“We go where the chase leads us,” he responded. 

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

That night, you and the guys were catching dinner at a local seafood place. 

“So much for that manifesto,” Dexter said before taking a swig of his beer, disappointment lacing his voice.

“I really thought it would work,” Spencer responded with a dejected tone.

At least they weren’t fighting. 

“What are we gonna do?” you asked desperately. 

“Well I know what I’m going to do,” Dexter said. 

“Another brilliant solo idea?” Spencer asked and you couldn’t tell if it was a teasing question or actually filled with malice. 

“Actually, I’m telling you what I’m doing so it’s not a solo idea,” Dexter shot back with a grin. “No, I think I’ve decided it’s actually best if I stay in the shadows. I don’t do well being proactive.” 

You nodded. “Yeah, I guess all your best work has always been hidden.”

“I agree,” Spence chimed in. “We should just react to whatever the case brings up.” 

Everyone agreed and Spencer suddenly said, “Also, Dexter you’re going to be called in. Rossi wants to discuss some bloodwork with you so, get a good night’s rest.” 

“Aww, Spencer is that some form of compassion I hear in your voice?” Dexter inquired, trying not to laugh.

“It’s a cautious warning to help you and protect my wife, nothing else,” he coolly replied. 

“You’re just a big softee,” Dexter replied. 

Spencer stared at him and said, “If you keep this shit up I will turn you in right now.”

“Spence,” you chided. 

Spencer relaxed and the three of you finished dinner before heading your separate ways to sleep. 

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

When Rossi pulled Dexter into the room to question him, your nerves were on fire. Rossi was a skilled man, albeit not as keen as you were at profiling. He was still very much brilliant and you were incredibly worried he would see through him. Dexter relied on charm and wit, but Rossi could always see through that, especially when it came to a high profile murder case. 

You sat in the bull pen trying not to think about it or watch them, but you were bouncing your leg and becoming restless. Spencer saw you and came over to sit next to you,putting his hand on your knee, to silently signal that you needed to stop being so fidgety. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” he assured quietly. “We need to focus on the cases, combing through them,” he reminded. 

You were nodding, about to respond when Batista and Deb found some lead. They announced they were going to see a citizen that took notes all the time, so they wanted to see if he had anything of value. You just shook your head, writing it off. What would some random citizen know? 

Unfortunately, that answer would come back to bite you later. 

When Dexter exited the interview, he was clearly unhappy and that made you swallow. Of course you knew Dexter would never hurt you, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a very eerie man when he was upset. 

“Your boss is very astute,” Dexter complimented as he sat down next to you and Spencer. 

“Yes, he is,” Spencer agreed, seeming uninterested. 

“Look at this fucking jackpot,” Debra said as she walked in, throwing a heavy box onto her desk. The three of you looked up to see Batista carrying one of his own, and dropping it on his desk. 

“Jackpot?” you asked, trying to sound professionally curious and not mortified. 

“This guy lives next to Rodrigo, he takes notes on every fucking thing. We get the joy of sorting through all this,” she informed, as if she were clever. 

“That will help, how?” Dexter asked. 

“Because he might have something on the night Rodrigo was killed. A description of the gy, the car, something to go on,” she explained. “Hey, Agent Reid, do you care to help read over these? Since you’re like super fast at this shit.” 

“Sure, give me a few moments to finish this case and I’ll help,” he obliged. 

You wanted to give him a look that begged him not to help, but you couldn’t. Spence had to pretend he was on the case, and furthermore he had to show he was a team player. It was absolutely exhausting trying to keep up with the appearances. 

As the day wrapped up, Dexter walked out with you. You and Dexter went to his place for a casual night in, while Spencer stayed behind at the station for another hour or so before going back to the hotel.  

Batista and the guys called asked to go out. Dexter confirmed with you if it was alright if he went. You said you weren’t his girlfriend so the two of you went out. He went bowling and you sat by and simply watched. It gave Batista and Masuka plenty of time to try and find out even more about you, but you just stayed focused on Dexter. 

As everyone came out of the alley, you and Dexter were laughing about something before you saw a guy run up behind Dexter. 

“Dex!” you shouted as he made his way around a car in front of you. 

Dexter tried to find him off with his bowling ball bag, but the guy just kept coming after him knife in hand. The guy was able to punch Dexter in the face before slicing at him, cutting his arm. You jumped into action without thinking. You kicked towards him, hitting his ribs but as you went to go to kick him again, he gathered himself quickly, jumped in his truck and sped off. 

The other Miami PD officers heard the commotion and came over, guns out. They checked on Dexter, seeing if he needed to be taken to a hospital. You assured them you’d take care of him.

You got behind the wheel of his car, Dexter in the passenger seat. 

“Do you need a hospital?” you asked. 

“No, I’m fine. Just need to patch it up.”

“Okay, we can do that at your place. Why did you lie to them? That guy didn’t grab for your watch at all.” 

He didn’t say anything though. He averted his gaze out the passenger window as you drove. 

“Are you fucking serious? You’re going to lie to me right now? After everything we’ve been through? Dex, what the hell. Who was that?” 

“It was my mother’s killer. Jiminez.” 

“Why was your mother’s killer after you? How did he know you’d be there?” 

“He must’ve followed me…” He sighed. “Look, a few weeks ago, I went to Naples. I found my mother’s killer, learned he was alive.” 

“You told me he was alive…. But you never told me you went to see him, why not?  What the fuck?” 

“My sponsor told me to do it. She said I should face him, talk to him, tell him what he took from me.”

“That’s the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard. Do you hear yourself? And you also didn’t tell me? I thought we told each other everything. I’ve told you about my marital problems and everything else.”

“I know. I should've told you.” 

“So why didn’t you?” 

“I guess because I realized it was stupid the second I did it. I also didn’t want to add any more to your plate.” 

You bobbed your head side to side. “Well, I appreciate that, but now he knows where you bowl and he nearly stabbed you.”

You pulled into his apartment complex. You jumped out and grabbed his stuff before jogging up the stairs to unlock his door. You got inside and he sat on his bed, at your order, and you gathered the tools to clean up his cut. 

He took his shirt off and you came back into the bedroom sitting beside him on the bed. 

“Oh, well it’s not too deep,” you commented. You set to work on the wound. “So, you weren’t going to tell me about your mom’s killer, fine. I don’t like you keeping me in the dark, but that’s your personal business. So you obviously didn’t kill him, did you get anything from visiting him?” 

“No,” he affirmed.

“So what are you going to do? You can’t just have this guy stalking you.”

“You’re right. I’m going to kill him.”

“What? Dex… No, come on, you’ve made such good progress,” you begged, finishing cleaning the wound. 

He took his hand and put it on yours, getting you to stop working on him. He held your hand, staring at you. He started to speak softly, “Y/N, whether or not Harry made me what I am, I am what I am. I know I’m not a monster to you, and I’m starting to believe you, but for better or worse, I am a killer. The minute I let my guard down, I almost got killed. I have to kill him. It’s part closure, part who I am.” 

You nodded. “I understand. So… you’re going to kill him?”

You didn’t like it. You were somewhat hoping to cure Dexter of his desires, but he’d tried this route, and truth be told, you did understand. If you found the person responsible for killing someone you loved, you’d take the same revenge. You knew you had to be supportive of him in this. 

“I have to.”

“I want to be there, to help you, if you’ll have me. This is something big in your life and I’d like to help.” 

He stared at you. “I’d like that a lot, actually. I’d also like it if your husband came along.”

You pulled away from him, your hand and all. You were shocked. “What? Spencer? Why? Are you insane?” 

“Don’t you see? His issue with us is all in his head. He doesn’t know how we work, how I work. He needs to see us in action. Maybe then it would kill off all of his illusions. He’s made up this idea in his head that is probably far worse than what we actually do.” 

“This is insane. No! We can’t invite him!”

“You've told me yourself that the only person he loves as much as you is his mother Now, I’m trying to get revenge for my mother. He can understand that. When that woman had his mother held hostage, he strangled her. If this doesn’t bond us, nothing will.”

A sigh escaped you as you stood up and gathered the things to clean up. “It’s not the worst idea… I suppose you’re right. If showing him how we operate at any time would work, now would be the time.” 

“It’s the one case he could possibly completely sympathize with.”

You nodded. “Okay, I’ll ask him. You should be good, by the way.” 

“Thank you,” he gently said. “I’m glad you were with me tonight. If you weren’t there, he could’ve done a lot worse than a cut on the arm. He was behind me, I didn’t see him--” he shook his head, staring off as if he was already contemplating how to do it. 

“Well, I did, and that’s all that matters.” 

“What’s worse is you upstaged me in a fight,” he said with a bit of a smile. “I’m supposed to be the vigilant, tactful killer. It would appear that around you, I have a weak spot.” 

Bobbing your head side to side you mused, “Well, since I did protect you and warn you, maybe I’m not a blind spot, but a guardian angel.” You smiled at him warmly. “I warned you about everything in the case. I’ll always be on your side, helping you.” 

“Yeah, despite all the things that should’ve told you to run.” 

“I’d never do that to you.”

“I know.”

The two of you smiled at each other before wrapping up your evening and heading home to talk to Spencer about Dexter’s plan.

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

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[latestageyouth]

A free couch

soo this is a continuation of this fic and this fic but this time it’s focused on Deceit and Logan (*cough* if you want this to be a full-blown series just say so I will gladly do a tag list n shit*cough*)

Pairings: anxceitmus, platonic loceit

Word count: 1,174

Warnings: unsympathetic!Patton, unsympathetic!Roman, sympathetic!Deceit, sympathetic!Remus, swearing, crying, mentions of abuse, bruises (let me know if I should add something)

Summary: When Deceit hears a knock on his door at midnight, the last person he expected to be behind it is Logan, who got kicked out of the mindscape by Patton after confronting him about their treatment of the “dark” sides

Dee loved watching storms when there was one outside, like now, for example. Sure, maybe it was almost midnight, but the storm was too loud for him to sleep through anyways. A particularly loud thunder cracked throughout the commons, and suddenly everything was dark. The lamp on the nightstand turned off, so did the light in the hallway that Remus always turned on just to annoy Deceit. He paid it no mind, still watching the storm from his window. He doesn't know how long it was until he heard someone knock on his door. He checked his digital clock, but, of course, it was turned off, like everything electric.

Maybe Virgil had another nightmare? Or Remus was still awake and his nyctophobia got to him? Well, no, it was neither of those. When Dee opened the door, instead of seeing a familiar face of one of his lovers, he saw, "Logan?"

The smaller man flinched as if he wasn't aware of Deceit, "Uh, greetings," he refused to look at Dee, instead looking on the floor.

Dee furrowed his eyebrows, "What do you want?"

Logan shifted on his feet, and as far as Dee could see with the light from the windows, he was still dressed in his usual clothes. Little dishevelled, yes, but still in his clothes, "I wanted...to ask if I, uh, if I could...sleep on the couch in the dark s-side...commons?" 

Deceit furrowed his eyebrows further, "Why? Did Patton finally snap and kicked you out?" he taunted the other.

Logan stiffened, "N-no, why would, why would he do that?"

Dee could feel the heaviness of the lie, it tasted like denial.  Logan must've noticed, even though he was still yet to look up at him.

"Look, I...Just this night, okay? When you wake up there will be no sign of me ever being here. I understand Virgil would be...less than pleased with me being here after what I've...done, a-and...I am not quite s-sure what...Remus would do to me."

There was something in the way that Logan worded his sentences that made Deceit feel like something was not quite right. Logan was a confident jerk with unreasonably loud vocal cords...this wasn't Logan. It was after another thunder cracked that Dee noticed he was subtly shaking. It wasn't from cold, no, Dee would be freezing right now if it was from cold. Did he, the unfazed ever so stoic logic, fear him? That was something Dee wanted for a long time, but for some reason...it didn't feel good like it should've, like Deceit imagined it would. And then there was the fact that Logan still hadn't looked up at him, and Dee didn't want to be right about why that was.

"Logan, why did Patton kick you out?"

"He-he didn't! I already told you that!"

Deceit's tone turned more serious, deepening a little, "You should be well aware of the fact that I can tell when you lie. Spill the beans, sherlock."

Logan was silent for a long time, before letting out a quiet, shaky sigh, "I...realized the error of our ways and...what we were...doing...to you. Patton didn't. Can I sleep on the couch of not?"

Deceit wanted to let it go. He wanted to let Logan go sleep on the couch and forget this conversation ever happened. Go back to them ridiculing each other with spite in their tone. 

But...

Deceit couldn't. Besides the fact that he was a nosy fucker, he was genuinely concerned for Logan, something he never in a million years thought was going to happen. So, he responded with an order, "Logan, look at me."

Logan stepped back, "I-I beg you...pardon?"

Dee stepped with him, "You haven't looked up at me for the entirety of this conversation. Why? And don't lie."

"..." Logan folded in on himself, "...I simply don't want to," he muttered in response, just barely on the edge of Dee's hearing.

"That's a damn fucking lie and you know it," Deceit stepped closer to Logan, just barely stepping out of his room.

Logan didn't say anything this time, and Dee couldn't blame him, but after all the years of Logan being an asshole to him, Dee felt like he deserved it. That belief immediately crumbled as he felt something wet dripping onto his bare feet, just barely catching the soft sound Logan so desperately tried to muffle with his hand. 

"P-please don't hit me. I do-don't-I..." ragged breaths stopped him from completing the sentence.

Dee bend down, trying to get a look at the smaller man's face, but before he could even get a glimpse, Logan covered it with his hands. Just barely did he see the fresh bruise below Logan's wrist. He knew better than to touch him. 

"Hey, Logan, it's okay, I won't hurt you."

After a while, Logan replied, "You should...I've done...terrible thing to you. A-and Remus. And Virgil," his broken voice was muffled by the hands on his face. 

"You did," Logan flinched at the words, "But I won't hit you. You never got physical, I don't see why should I."

Logan dug the nails on his hands into his forehead.

"Hey, c'mon, let me see you."

Logan shook his head, "I look revolting."

"Not more revolting then Remus ever did," Deceit tried to lighten the atmosphere, but it didn't help. He slowly reached over to touch the ever-so faint bruise on Logan's forearm. Logan flinched out of Deceit's touch.

"I-I apologize..."

"No need," Dee seemed to think for a few seconds, glancing at his room and back to Logan, "I have some first aid stuff in my room for when Remus comes back from his missions, and I'm sure that isn't the only bruise you have. How about we patch you up, huh?"

"Is that some-"

"No," Deceit shook his head, although Logan could not see it, "It's not some kind of trick. I can not lie, you know that, right?"

Logan was silent.

"Is that a yes?"

He nodded slowly.

"Will you take the hands off?"

Once again, Logan didn't respond. Deceit straightened up again, walking back to his room, glancing over his shoulder multiple times. Logan took the hands off for a brief few seconds, the hands still shieling his forehead he looked down and walked slowly to the other's room. Dee shut the door, watching as Logan flinched once again. He walked to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer pulling out some ibuprofen and a kitchen towel, also some tissues in case something was bleeding. He turned back to Logan, who was standing in the middle of the room, hands finally off his face, looking at the floor with his back turned to Dee.

"I'll go to a kitchen for a few things, you stay here, okay?"

It seemed like Logan nodded.

Dee shut the door after him, walking through the darkscape, stopping when he arrived in the kitchen. First, he poured Logan a glass of water, which he set on the counter. He took the kitchen towel in his hands and placed it below the ice machine in the fridge. He hoped the sound didn't wake the others up. He returned back to his room to see Logan, who had his back still turned to him, looking out the big window on his wall, watching the thunder. He smirked, "Lovely, isn't it?"

Logan jumped when he spoke, "Uh, yes."

Dee was silent for a while, "...So, will you show me your face? I am sure there's something wrong with it if you're so reluctant to look at me."

After a few silent seconds, maybe even a minute, Logan finally turned around. Now, Deceit wouldn't say it was the worst he'd ever seen, but it wasn't the best either. There, around Logan's left eye, was a large bruise, already turning purple.

"Oh, Logan..." Deceit walked up to the smaller man, a troubled look on his face. This was the first time anything like this happened. The core sides never hit anyone, they never did anything physical despite the threats, even to Remus or Dee, and doing it one of them...Deceit couldn't help but feel disgusted.

He took the ice wrapped in the towel and put it over the bruise, covering the entire eye. Logan flinched in pain. Eventually, Dee coaxed Logan into sitting down on his bed and taking the ibuprofen to stop the pain.

"C'mon, what happened? Did Patton do this? I bet it was Patton, that son of a-"

"To be fair, I deserved it."

Dee furrowed his eyebrows in worry, "Logan, no one deserves that. Please, just...tell me what happened?"

Logan looked away but started talking nonetheless, "I confronted Patton about our behaviour towards you, and he shut me down, telling me you deserve it. We got into a fight about morals and...it somehow escalated to Virgil..." a single tear fell from his eye, which Logan didn't acknowledge, "It was after I proposed the idea of destroying the idea of Light and Dark sides that Patton snapped. I...can't go to my room anymore, whenever I try there's just...bricks behind the door. I have no idea why, but I suspect it has something to do with Roman."

Deceit let Logan take hold of the ice bag while he disinfected and cleaned the scratches Patton left on his arms and a few on his neck, "I don't think Virgil can forgive you just yet. After all, he experienced way more than we ever did. I still have this feeling in the back of my brain that I shouldn't be helping you, but here I am..." Dee looked Logan in the eye, "The point is, it's not safe for you here, or the mindscape. I don't know where you'll go, but if you need anything, just come to my room at night. Only late at night, or the others might still be up."

Logan nodded, "...Can I...ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

He hesitated for a second, "Why...Why are you doing this? You admitted that you don't want to help."

"No, I said that a part of me feel's like I shouldn't be helping you, that's kinda expected considering you and your friend group hated my fucking guts for as long as I can remember."

They both widened their eyes when they heard a sound coming from one of the other rooms. They were quiet for a while before Deceit spoke up, "I think you should go."

Logan got up, "Agreed," he quickly walked towards the door.

"And Logan..."

The shorter man turned around hesitantly, "Yes?"

Dee opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, before smirking subtly and saying, "Make sure to ice it."

[jaxl-road]

Scar Tissue, chapter 11

Things get worse- a lot worse- before they get better.

Pairings: Slash/Duff, side Steven/Vince, side Axl/Izzy, side Nikki/Tommy

Warnings: Discussed/implied past abuse (non-explicit)

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

It felt like the longest show they’d ever done.

Steven shot Slash a concerned look on the ride to the venue as his leg bounced uncontrollably. Duff stared out the window, chewing on his fingers while Axl ranted in the front seat about their set list in an attempt to ease some of the tension but not really succeeding. By some miracle the show still managed to go well. Duff was obviously already tipsy when they arrived from whatever he’d been drinking before he got home, and they all shared looks of concern when he actually brought a drink with him onstage. Still, they were able to get lost in the music and performance enough to keep themselves together and wow the audience.

They all heaved a sigh of relief when their set ended with no mishaps, and underneath Slash’s tension and worry, he felt a swell of pride at how the band’s success was steadily growing. Still, he was impatient to whisk Duff away. They needed more time to work through everything Duff had told him.

In the dressing room, Axl, Izzy, and Steven chatted easily about the show and possibly tracking down the venue owner to snag some more dates while Slash hurried to put his guitar away so he and Duff could leave. Right as he was about to turn to the bassist, a knock on the door had Slash huffing in frustration. Before any of them could answer it though, the members of Motley Crue burst in, Vince in front as he sauntered over to Steven.

“Heya babe,” he grinned, sliding an arm around the drummer’s waist, “Great show!”

“Thanks!” Steven smiled brightly.

Slash felt like he was gonna crawl out of his skin, but he was once more interrupted before he could escape with Duff, this time by Tommy. The Crue drummer turned towards the blonde and spoke casually as he jerked his thumb towards the door, “Hey, Duff, some dude, said he was a friend of yours, was looking for you out in the hallway.”

Frowning, Duff furrowed his brows in confusion, “Oh, uh, thanks.”

Sighing, Slash couldn’t help but find it fitting that Duff would have some other kind of reunion this weekend. Sending him a tired shrug, Duff stepped over to the door, opening it to lean out into the hallway.

He had barely stuck his head out before he was reeling back, slamming the door loudly before backing away from it rapidly.

“Duff?” Slash was by his side in an instant, the rest of the room immediately on high alert as the bassist slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispered through his fingers, eyes clenched shut.

“What’s going on?” Nikki looked between Duff and the door suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

A humorless laugh, high pitched and hysterical escaped from the tall blonde. He took a deep breath, and then his eyes flickered to Slash, his voice heavy with resignation, “It’s my ex. My ex is out there.”

For a moment, everything feels frozen. Like time has stopped as his head echoes back everything Duff had said that evening, replaying the night in the alley when he found out about his ex the first time, going through a slideshow of every flinch and flash of fear he’s ever seen cross Duff’s face.

Then everything tinges red.

“What??” Multiple voices shout, the entire room suddenly buzzing with energy. Somewhere in the back of Slash’s mind he finds it odd that everyone seems to know that Duff’s ex is bad news, but he can barely form coherent thoughts at the moment, head snapping to look at the door to the dressing room.

Little things filter through- Izzy’s soft voice, “Axl, no-”, Steven guiding Duff to sit on the couch in the corner, Vince and Mick standing awkwardly to the side while still trying to be supportive.

“Maybe I should go talk to him,” Duff mutters, no emotion, just exhaustion, “I should-”

“Absolutely not!” Axl snaps, as Nikki storms over to the other bassist’s side, kneeling next to him and whispering furiously.

Slash isn’t sure what he says though. Because by that point he’s throwing the door open and bursting into the hallway, feeling fury in his veins and wanting nothing more than to feel that fucking bastard bleed under his hands. He can hear the music of the venue pulsing softly down the long hallway to where it opens up into the main floor. And there, leaning against the wall at the end of the hallway, is the same man Slash remembers from all those weeks ago, arms crossed and facing away from him.

Stalking away from the dressing room, Slash is ready to absolutely destroy this man- destroy him like he tried to destroy Duff. But he’s barely gotten three steps when a firm hand wraps around his bicep and jerks him back harshly.

“Slash,” Izzy’s voice is stern. Tommy stands a few steps behind him, eyes wide and jaw clenching as he watches the two guitarists carefully.

He tries to pull his arm back, but Izzy holds tight, and Slash finds himself snarling, “Get the fuck off me, Izzy!”

“No,” Izzy whole body is coiled tight like a spring, “Slash, listen to me-”

“You don’t know what he did!” Slash snaps, teeth bared as he gestures violently towards the club, “That fucking bastard- Just fucking let me go! You don’t understand-!”

“Yes I fucking do!”

Slash feels his teeth click shut. He’s never heard Izzy’s voice so cold, or seen his eyes so dark. He feels his fingers tighten around Slash’s arm, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way Izzy’s swallows thickly, pushing back the storm of emotions in his stomach. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Gentler.

“I do. I get it, Slash.”

“We both do,” Tommy admits, stepping forward to stand next to them.

Looking back and forth between them, Slash thinks about the bits and pieces he knows about Axl’s past, about all the seemingly small things that set him off as if he’d been attacked, the way he was always ready to defend himself. He thinks about Nikki’s simmering rage, the way he would light himself on fire and greet pain like an old friend, the long, deep scar on his forearm that he never talks about.

And he thinks of Izzy and Tommy, pillars and bodyguards and safety and comfort and a fierce, hair-trigger protectiveness that Slash had always felt was over the top. Until now.

“I get wanting to fucking tear apart the person who hurt the guy you love,” Tommy said soothingly, “And you deserve it, trust me, in any other situation we’d let you at him.”

“But do not,” Izzy spoke firmly and honestly, “choose that asshole over Duff.”

Slash felt his blood run cold, “I-I’m not-”

“Are you sure?” Tommy cut in, “Because one of them needs you right now, and it’s not the one you’re running towards.”

He wants to cry. Shaking hands run through his hair as Izzy finally releases his grip, resting his hand on his shoulder comfortingly, “Fuck,” his voice cracks. He hates this. He hates this so much. “Fuck, you’re right, I-... I gotta get back to him-”

“Better move quick, then,” Nikki strides up to them, fists clenched at his side, “Your boy just took off out the back exit.”

“Shit!” His fury takes the back burner as the anxiety of Duff being on his own right now overrides it.

“Go,” Nikki jerks his head in the other direction, “We’ll take care of things here,” he turns to Tommy with a predatory grin, “Won't we, T-Bone?”

“It would be our pleasure,” the drummer cracks his knuckles eagerly, and as Slash takes off towards the back door, he figures that if he can’t tear Duff’s ex apart with his own two hands, the Terror Twins are not a bad second option.

Sprinting as fast as he can, he bursts out the back of the venue, head snapping around to try to find Duff. Luckily, the bassist hasn’t gone far. Duff’s strides are long and fast, but he’s not running, so he’s still easily visible down the block.

“Duff!” Slash calls out, running after him. He shouts his name again as he gets closer, but the only response is the blonde’s shoulders hitching up before he takes a sharp turn and ducks into the first bar he sees. Following him into the dimly lit building, Slash finally catches up just as Duff is frantically waving down the bartender.

“Hi, vodka cranberry, please,” his voice is stuttery, and he gives a shaky smile in an attempt to be polite. He practically collapses onto a stool, and Slash is quick to sit next to him.

“Hey, babe,” he speaks quietly, trying to be soothing, “are you alright?”

The bartender brings him his drink, and Duff snatches it from his hand before he can set it on the bar. Downing the drink in barely a second, he sets the glass down and smiles at the bartender again, “One more, less cranberry please.”

Raising an eyebrow, the man goes to make the second drink as Duff finally turns to Slash, pale and eyes already glassy from all the alcohol he’d been drinking all night, “Yeah, I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

When the next drink arrives, Duff drinks it slightly slower, giving the bartender a chance to escape. Slash eyes him with concern, “Um… well, tonight was-... I mean, honestly the last couple days have been, uh… intense?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he polishes off his drink, staring down at the empty glass, “It’s fine. I probably had it coming anyway,” he laughed humorlessly before bringing a hand up to bite at his nails, “I should have stayed and talked to him. I mean, I owe him that much-”

“Bullshit!” Slash snaps out. He feels a swell of guilt when Duff flinches, so when he continues he lowers his voice, “You don’t owe that asshole a fucking thing.”

Duff hummed noncommittally, “I don’t know. Maybe…” He turned his head and flagged down the bartender again and ordered another drink.

“We’ll close the tab now, please,” Slash cut in while Duff was busy chugging, quickly pulling out a wad of bills to pay for the drinks.

“I’m fine,” Duff mumbled, hand trembling slightly as he set down the empty glass.

Slash hesitantly reached out to rub his back, “I think it’s time to go home, babe.” He has no idea how much Duff had to drink before he got home that night, or when he’s last eaten, but even just the drinks he’s seen the bassist inhale were going to be enough to mess him up in no time at all.

His point was proven when Duff stood and immediately swayed dramatically, Slash rushing to wrap an arm around his waist to steady him, “Yeah, it’s definitely time to go home.” The second they got outside he managed to snag a cab- there was no way he was going to be able to support the six foot blonde the entire way home. He kept his arm around Duff, whispering soothing nonsense and trying to be comforting.

“Y’know,” Duff slurred, blinking slowly as he gazed at Slash, “It wasn’t all… I learned a lot from Scott. Like, like how t’ be a better boyfriend, y’know?” He smiled shakily, too drunk to notice the way Slash’s face hardened at his words, “I haven’t been v’ry good for you though,” he leaned his head against the guitarist’s shoulder, “’ll try harder. Promise.”

“You’re fine, man,” Slash brought his hand up to stroke his hair softly, “You’re doing just fine.”

By the time they reached the Hell House, Duff’s most recent drinks had definitely hit him. Slash struggled to get him inside without dropping him as the bassist leaned most of his weight against him, weaving and swaying as they made their way towards their room. When he dropped Duff as gently as he could onto his mattress, he thought the man had passed out, his head turning back and forth slowly with his eyes closed and his limbs sprawled out. Slash was quick to tug off both of their boots and jackets, more than ready to settle down and just sleep after the tension of the last few days.

But when got into the bed himself, Duff’s eyes suddenly snapped open, wide and glassy, and with quick, jerky movements, he rolled over and threw a leg over Slash’s waist, straddling the guitarist. He was swaying back and forth, and despite his surprise at the sudden movement Slash managed to sit up and place his hands on his shoulders to steady him.

“Woah, hey, Duff,” he stuttered, “Easy there, why don’t you-”

Before he could finish his sentence, Duff pitched forward, landing a clumsy but firm kiss on his lips. Slash let out a muffled noise of surprise, Duff tangling shaking fingers into his hair and pulling him closer. All he could taste was vodka.

“Duff-” he tries to push him back gently, but he gets more firm when he feels a hand start to fumble with the button of his jeans, “Duff!” He shoves him back, holding him at arms length.

“I t’ld you I’d try harder,” the bassist mumbled, trying to lean in again but too uncoordinated to push through Slash’s hold.

There are so many alarm bells going off in his head that Slash can hardly think, but he manages to grind out, “Hey, we are not doing this tonight.”

“Why?” Duff slurred, tilting his head, “You’ve been so patient, you don’t have to… you want me, right?”

“Of course I do,” Slash sighed in frustration, “but I’m not going to fuck you when you’re two sips away from blacking out!”

Duff’s whole body freezes under his hands, blinking slowly and something like shock filtering across his face. There is a long moment of silence, the two of them just looking at each other. Slash doesn’t know what response he’s expecting. But he knows it’s not for Duff to swallow thickly, drop his gaze, and whisper shakily.

“But I’m too scared when I’m sober.”

Slash swears he feels his heart stop. He thinks of Duff’s hesitance whenever their makeout sessions got a little too heavy. He thinks about how he had told Steven that Duff was always wasted by the time he got them alone, and he suddenly realizes that that was no accident. It was intentional. Taking a deep breath, he just wants this to stop getting worse. He wonders suddenly if this is what Axl feels like when he destroys entire rooms, because right now he wants to put his fists through the wall. Or maybe cry.

Or maybe both.

The silence stretches on for just a moment too long, and so Duff looks back up, giving a weak smile that doesn’t reach his eyes as he puts his hands on Slash’s chest, sliding them down towards his stomach. “It’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s fine. It’s better this way, r'lly. You can… I w'n’t…" his eyes flutter closed for a moment. When he opens them, he stares blankly somewhere over Saul's shoulder as he breathes out, "It’s okay.”

As gently as he can, soft and slow, Slash covers Duff’s hands with his own, pulling them away from his body. When he speaks, his voice is quiet, and sad, “Telling me that you can only handle sex when you’re wasted is not okay.” He hates the look of surprise on Duff’s face. The disbelief, the confusion, the pain. He runs his thumbs over the back of the bassist’s hands, trying to soothe him, “It’s okay if you’re not ready. This isn’t something you have to give me.”

Duff let out a watery huff, something between a laugh and a sob, “I don’t have 'nything else t' give.”

Slash clenches his teeth so hard it feels like they might crack. Why does it keep getting worse? He has to take a few deep breaths to swallow back the rage that crawls up his throat. Not at Duff, never at Duff, but at the person who made him think this way. The person he could hear Duff quoting back at him now. His chest is full of anger and heartbreak when Duff sucks in a breath as he rests his hand against his cheek. Tilting his head, the guitarist looked up at him, a searching look in his eyes as he speaks softly.

“And who told you that?”

Something like surprise crosses Duff's face, a slow realization, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before finally managing to choke out a soft, "Oh," just as the first tear rolls down his cheek.

Pulling him forward gently, Slash gathered the bassist in his arms, stroking his back soothingly. Duff curled into the embrace, folding himself practically in half in an attempt to hide his face in the guitarist's chest.

It’s a few minutes before the silence is broken. Duff’s voice cracks when he speaks, his voice is so small that Slash nearly misses it, "I'm so tired, Saul."

Swallowing thickly, he nodded, "I know. I know you are, sweetheart." Shifting carefully, he rearranged the two of them, keeping Duff in his arms even if it made it a little more awkward. Soon enough, he managed to get them both laying down on their sides, allowing the taller man to stretch out while still hiding in Slash's body.

"You can rest now," Slash whispered, holding on a little tighter as Duff began to shake, "It's okay. I've got you. Just rest. Just rest now."

It doesn’t take long for the alcohol to finally pull the bassist under, his body going limp under Slash’s hands. He feels tired too, and his heart is heavy, and it feels like he’s aged two years in two days. He knows that Duff will need much more rest than this one night can give him.

Slash doesn’t rest at all.

[acefrogmonarch]

My Turn :) Pt.3

(❁´◡`❁) (❤´艸｀❤)(✿◠‿◠)(✿◕‿◕✿)~(￣▽￣)~*(❤ ω ❤)

Tags @vivilakitty @mystery-5-5 @northernbluetongue @thatrandomfandomsgirl @vixen-uchiha

I hope that’s all of you guys in the tags if not then eh.

Tell me

1 | 2 | 3 (You’re here) | 4 - ao3

Uh heavy warning.

‼❌‼  WARNING ‼❌‼ WARNING ‼❌‼ WARNING  ‼❌‼ WARNING  ‼❌‼ WARNING  ‼❌‼ WARNING   ‼❌‼ WARNING  ‼❌‼ WARNING  ‼❌‼

A COUPLE OF DAYS BEFORE

Diana had just landed her invisible plane on the outskirts of Paris and makes her way to the inner workings of the city.

Bruce had called her to notify her of the situation in Paris. She, herself, had never been present when an Akuma was and always missed the chance to fight one.

Every time she was either off-world or on a mission. Finally, after ranting to Bruce about it, he seemed to inform her that he was taking the initiative within the following week. "Finally some good news after all this time!" Stretching out her limbs, Diana wasted no time in arriving in Paris.

Diana went to her boutique first, she trusted the girl that ran it when Diana left for her 'business trips'. リリーパッド regularly left her school books in the back of the storage. Scribbled post-it notes on her desk as she checked out every few months. A mess within the mess but always order within that chaos.

リリーパッド was, already is, family and often asked if she could help lighten the load of Diana's work or hide from her friends and family at her store.

'From embarrassment.' Is Lily Pad's excuse but Diana still teased her, she wasn't safe anywhere. Diana had sent a message an hour ago when she passed the Atlantic ocean but had yet to receive a text.

It was well past bedtime and Diana couldn't get mad at her little helper's very wise decision to sleep on a weekday. Taking out her keys, Diana opened the door to her boutique to find her helper there. "Marinette!" The girl jumped, started awake and focused her eyes at the door. "Mademoiselle Prince!"

Wiping her mouth, in case she drooled, Marinette checked around the surroundings on her desk. "Mari, it's 22 at night why-" Diana didn't bother to check the time, striding to Marinette's table, beginning to scold her. Marinette bites her lip, hesitant to speak up, but does so anyway.

"Uh, Actually, it's 21:57." Diana looked at Marinette with an unapproved stare and a hand on her hip. "You are not sassing me out リリーパッド." Marinette smiled at the small nickname. She rubbed the back of her head. "I hope you're not mad, I stayed without your permission."

Diana smiled at her helper and went to drop her purse in her office. "Not at all, what's happened since I last left?" Marinette fumbled with her collar and shrugged, looking away.

At the lack of response, Diana looked through the doorway. "Marinette?"

Marinette had taken off her turtleneck and revealed her fading light purple, gruesome green, and yellow hue of a healing bruise crawling on her neck.

From the doorway, Diana froze at the sight of the small women in front of her. "リリーパッド, Who did this to you." Marinette walked over and held her hand, slightly smiling.

"It was the most recent Akumatized victim." Quickly recovering at the memory, Marinette smiled at her. "But don't worry! I won't let that stop me from work!"

Marinette loosely wrapped her scarf around her neck. Marinette wanted to change the subject and noticed the texts from her boss. "Why, are you back so early mademoiselle?" Diana turned to look back at her desk.

"I have something that's caught my attention." Crumbling an old piece of paper, Diana controlled her growing anger. "Marinette, stay away from here."

Marinette in the meantime slipped on a jacket and entered Diana's office. "But Madam. What about work?" Diana shakes her head 'No'. 

"You were already caught up in this. I don't get caught up again." Marinette gave a small smile and walked up to Diana. "It's very hard to do that when your classmates are shit."

Diana smiled back and hugged her. "Maybe, but if you see one. Run away." 

.

.

Marinette had tried, really she did. But she couldn't stop helping people even if she didn't want to.

'Thank god, Royal is alright.' The white noise dimmed around her and she regained consciousness. In a colder place, good. From experience, Marinette could tell this grogginess is from blood loss. Looking down at her stomach she saw the torn clothing and Chat Noir's arm.

'Never again, screw this." Blinking at her surroundings, Marinette grabbed onto the arm that's wrapped around her. "How long was I out?" A little louder than her normal tone. She was right to panic a little, they were in the middle of an Akuma attack! "Not long."

Both Chat Noir and her aren't there to take care of it and Mademoiselle Prince! Struggling to move away from Chat Noir's, Ladybug instead leans into her partner. "I don't know who is Mdm. Prince but she doesn't matter right now, the Akuma has been dealt with, those two strangers helped me deal with it."

Chat Noir placed Ladybug on a chair and went to go get supplies. "You know the drill, don't move." Ladybug waved her arm in his general direction. "Whatever you say. Cat boy."

Ladybug held her stomach, in her hand was her yo-yo. "Lucky charm." Weakly throwing it up the air, Ladybug caught the polka-dotted burner that fell back down.

Marinette laughs at the situation. "Not even right now? Really" Sighing as she waited for Adrien. She needed it anyway and she was already guessing that Adrien did too. "Thank god this doesn't happen often."

Adrien enters the lobby, his hands full of items. A pot, a sewing kit, Alcohol and a couple of water bottles. "I got everything." Marinette nodded and sat up to ease her head.

"In a pot?" Adrien briskly walked back to her. "Y-yeah." Adrien was stopped to stare at her open wound. "Hey." Marinette smiled weakly and held out her hand.

"I'm going to be okay." Adrien grabbed it and fell to his knees again. "How come the Miraculous could cure me but not you." Gripping her hand and quietly letting his tears flow.

"Easy there, I won't be back up to my usual self if I don't hurry." Sniffling, Adrien nodded and took the burner and turned it on. Adrien gives her the cold water bottle and alcohol.

Wordlessly he moves to help Marinette. Adrien boiled another water bottle and took the sewing kit he found and waited for the water to boil. Once it's boiled, Adrien takes the thread and washes it in the hot water, the same with the needle.

Marinette in the meantime detransformed. Tikki went off to guard the place, She couldn't bear to see her companion hurt. Marinette lifted her shirt to lather the areas around the slashes with-- Marinette checked the bottle. "Bourbon?" Adrien didn't reply to her, too busy watching water boil. Marinette shrugged and took a sip.

"Better than last time." Grabbing a few tissues, Marinette covered the gaps and applied pressure. Dousing the outside of her stomach with bourbon she continued. Adrien stood up from the pot delivering the disinfected needle and thread to Mari with a pair of pliers and eyebrow pluckers.

Marinette takes them into her hand, she bends the needle into a hook. Pausing to look up to her partner, he hasn't expressed disconcert since he gathered the supplies. "You don't have to look, you know." Marinette tied the knot on the needle.

Adrien shook his head. "I passed out last time, I have to look." Marinette stared at him. "Don't push yourself 纯儿." Adrien grimaced and breathed out slowly. "G-got it."

Marinette took the plier in one hand and the bottle of bourbon in another. Taking a big gulp of the bourbon and steadying her hand, she slowly worked to tie the first throw together.

After successfully getting the first know she continued on the smaller parts of the claw marks. Catching her breathe, Marinette stops and takes a sip of the water and bourbon. "The pot."

Wordlessly Adrien hands the hot item to her. Adrien gags and covers his mouth with his hand. Marinette pulls the two strips of skin together and presses the hot iron on it.

Melting the skin together and the agonizing burn makes it difficult for her to be awake. Adrien stands up abruptly and runs out, covering his nose and moth with the palm of his hand. The smell of burnt skin and seeing his friend in pain makes him puke.

His lunch comes up as Marinette finishes her first claw mark. "A" Marinette bites back her cries and throws the pot away. "Ah, Merde." Adrien cleans up his puke and makes his way back to the Marinette.

"Looks like I can't wear a two-piece bathing suit anymore." Marinette lightly jokes, Adrien doesn't smile at her attempt to lighten the mood. His somber state brings Marinette worry, a silent beat passes.

"You looked better in a one-piece any way." Marinette snorts but quickly develops into pain. "Ow." Adrien detransforms and looks at Plagg. He floats closer to Marinette's face and nuzzles her cheek.

"Mari-bug, get some rest. I can handle it from here." Marinette giggles at his whiskers, lightly grazing her cheek. "Got it Plagg." Grinning softly at Plagg and Adrien; Adrien held her hand and rubbed the back of it. Marinette closed her eyes, letting the pain and sorrow consume her body.

"Adrien, get the pot and reheat it." Plagg barked orders at Adrien's inability to move. He nods and scurries off to fetch the pot. "Sorry about this baby bug." Repeating the procedure for the claw mark above the first one, Adrien and Plagg worked tirelessly to ensure the rest of the injury closed.

.

.

After finishing and closing the wounds, Adrien went to Marinette's side. "We're are ready to finish the Purification of  the Akuma." Plagg went off to find Tikki at Adrien's words.

When Plagg found her, she was looking onto the city, sitting in the gutter. "Sugarcube." Turning to find her partner, Tikki doesn't cheer up. Plagg spins around her and grabs ahold of her paws.

"She's all patched up!" Plagg strived to match Tikki's endless cheery euphemism. It didn't work and it got out a sad smile from her. "You should leave the optimism to me, sock." 

Plagg nudges her, leads her back to Marinette. Tikki hovers at Marinette sides, Plagg drifts from afar. Leaving enough space for Tikki to take in the sight of her little ladybird. "When knowledge when is used to help others and not yourself, then is it a gift."

Tikki wasn't wise, that belonged to Wayzz for a reason. But by any means is she naive. Tikki dreaded the injuries she couldn't heal and how restricted her powers were without a proper vessel.

"Don't be so tough on yourself love." Plagg grabs a paw from Tikki and floats around her. Almost like dancing, Adrien couldn't help but stare at the little gods dance. "Oh no, you are not calling me those nicknames again." Tikki took back her paw and crossed her arms.

Plagg nudges her again and holds her. "Come one sweets, how long are you going to be mad at me." Tikki flies off and goes to Marinette. "I will stop being mad when you give me a reason too." Adrien catches Plagg with his hands.

"Maybe we should leave the girls to themselves." Plagg stares at Tikki from a distance and sighs. Then flips the switch from crushed to apathy in an instant. "Gender is a fake construct and time isn't relevant."

"Uhh" Leaving Adrien in a dazed and confused state. Plagg floats off for some food. "Okay?" Adrien trails after Plagg into the kitchen.

Tikki glides down to Marinette's sleeping form and proceeds to nest on her hair. "Everything is going to get better, I promise Крошечный жук" Tikki pets her hair slowly.