#spent a good time in a room hyperventilating and nearly crying | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ponyosmom35 · 1 year ago

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you're alive?

Simon ghost Riley x reader

Synopsis: reader and Simon were engaged, planning their wedding when he was KIA. four months later she is nearly taken hostage by Makrov and saved by his team. She sees him for the first time and passes out. The next day she wakes up in Simon’s room with bandages on her.

Warnings: angstttttt, mentions of death, mentions of body image issues, panic attack

She wakes up in a cold sweat, her mind racing as she looks around the room. After several seconds she recognizes Simon’s body armor hanging up on the door and gasps in shock. It was real, he wasn’t dead. She sits up, cringing at the pain in her shoulder and leg. Ignoring the pain she gets out of the bed, she needed to see him. She needed to see his eyes. Her mind refused to admit that this was real, her Simon wasn’t gone. She takes a deep breath and walks into the bathroom, she stares at herself.

She had a bruise on her cheek and her eyes were puffy and red with fresh tears threatening to escape. Her hair had been brushed through and the blood on her face was cleaned up. She shivers knowing who would’ve done that. She notices the bandage on her shoulder and the other on her thigh. She’d been in her underwear and a tank top. She searches around, finding a pair of his boxers and her shirt she’d been wearing. She notices that it had been washed and shakes her head. Simon’s love language was acts of service. She sniffles as she picks up one of the shirts from the closet, she smells it, inhaling his scent. Tears stream down her face as she crumbles to the floor. Why would he do this? Why would he lie.

She was furious. After going through four months of agony he shows up out of nowhere to ‘save her’. She stands to her feet and walks out of the door. She could hear voices coming from the kitchen and she walks in. Her breath leaves her body as she sees his frame, back facing her. She recognized it in an instant. Soaps eyes catch her own and he cuts himself off mid sentence.

“Goodmorning sunshine, how ya feelin?” he tries

All of the men turn to look at her their eyes widening. Simon hesitates before turning to face her, his mask concealing his beautiful face. As he stares at her her mind spins. She’s hit with intense relif and fury. She was so fucking happy to see him. All of those nights she spent crying herself to sleep, all of the breakdowns all fade away. He was here, her Simon was alive! Tears fill her eyes as she stares at him, unable to move.

“We’ll give you guys a second” Price says, as they all walk out of the room, leaving the couple alone.

“love”

“You’re alive” she says

“I have so much I need to say to you” he says stepping forward, she takes two steps back holding her arm up. He stops instantly, his heart screaming in pain at the rejection. Though he understood it.

“I don’t want to hear another goddamn word out of your mouth you fucking asshole!” she yells.

She walks over to him and shoves him as hard as she could, he steps back in surprise as she does it again and again. “I thought you were dead! I mourned you!” she yells

“I’m sorry” he says softly

“Your words mean nothing to me anymore Simon!” she says pushing him again. He catches her hands and holds them gently as she begins to hyperventilate. “Take a deep breath for me”

“No fuck you! Keep your fucking hands off of me!” she says pushing him back once more.

Unable to hold herself together any longer she lets out a sob as she hurries back to the room she’d woken up in. She collapses against the door and crumbles. Sobs wrack through her body uncontrollably. The one person she trusted enough to work her through this was the one who broke her heart. Was she not good enough? Did he fall out of love? Was she too boring? Not skinny enough, pretty enough? She’d never been enough for anyone, not her own parents. They’d always preferred Emma, the star athlete, the one who signed up to serve the country. She never excelled in school or sports. She was always overweight.

Until Simon. He changed everything. She’d never felt so seen, so admired, so loved. Though he didn’t say it often, he showed it every single day. He breathed for her and she knew that. Yet her mind coudn’t comprehend any other reason he might have faked his death. It had to have been something she did.

Her eyes were nearly swollen shut after several hours of crying. She’d sat in the bed staring at the ceiling all night long. Occasional tears dripping down her cheeks. Her body ached and she was exhausted. Her anxiety was at an all time high and she wanted to know what was going on, why was she here? Why was she taken? Why did Simon fake his death? Yet she coudn’t bring herself to face him once more.

He’d dropped off breakfast outside of her door this morning, but she hadn’t been able to force herself out of bed to get it. She was not hungry, she felt sick to her stomach. Her heart torn in two as she wanted nothing more than to go to him. Knowing that he was the only person in the world that could sooth her mind.

Simon walks to her door carefully holding a plate of food for her. He sighs noticing the other plate he left in the same spot, uneaten. His heart beats wildly as he knocks on the door, opening it slightly.

“love?” he asks

“Go away” she snaps

“You need to eat”

“I’m not hungry”

Simon enters the room anyways, setting the plate on the tabel. He finds her sitting on the bed with her back pressed into the wall. It was obvious that she had not slept, and spent most of the night crying. He felt sick knowing that he put her in this position. The last thing he’d ever want to do is hurt her.

“Get out” she responds, staring at him in anger

“I need to check on your wounds” he says walking over to her. “They’re fine”

“please” he mutters, she stares at him and her heartbreaks. “Okay, but I wanna see Simon, not ghost” she says

He nods and takes the mask off, setting it off to the side. She inahels sharply seeing his full face again. He had a few cuts healing on his skin but he looked perfect. She lays her leg on the bed, outstretched. Simon gently picks up her leg and throws it over his lap. He peels off the wrap and looks at the angry wound. He sighs and pours some disinfectant on a towel. “This is gonna hurt” he warns

She nods and Simon places it against her wound, she tenses up instantly and bites her lip to refrain from making any sound. The feeling of his hands on her skin made tears fill her eyes. He was so gentle, like this was hurting him more than her. He works quickly and wraps it up. He looks into her eyes, seeing the tears. “Im sorry, but I gotta do the next one too”

She crosses her legs and allows him to move closer to her. He carefully moves her hair behind her back and pushes her shirt to the side. She shutters at how close he was, hating how her body yearned for him.

“Why did you do this?” she asks

He looks up at her in surprise, his continues to clean her wound “we started a new mission, got intel that he knew about my past, he knew about you. He had addresses and photos. I knew that someone would connect you to me at some point so I had to take myself out of the situation. He woudln’t come after you if he knew I was dead. You would be safe.”

“You didn’t once stop to think I should know that you weren’t dead?”

“It needed to be real, he needed to be convinced”

“I’m glad my grief was convinving” she snaps

“I know it doens’t make sense, but I did this to keep you safe”

“They found me anyways, how does that keep me safe?” she asks

“They went after you because I killed one the leaders son, he saw me”

“Fuck Si” she responds

“I never wanted this, I fucking hate how much I’ve hurt you. But I needed to make sure you were safe. That is my priority. I had no other option. I’m so fucking sorry that you’ve been hurt once again because of me. You deserve so much more”

“I understand why you did this, but I’m still furious” she admits

“I don’t blame you. Once this is over and I know that you’re safe, you’ll never have to see me again. Just let me fix this”

“What?!” she snaps, she stands looking at him. His height nearly matching her’s as he sat on the bed staring at her. “How dare you Simon!”

“Wha-”

“So you think that after this is over you just disappear again? Over my fucking dead body, you don’t get to leave again! We started a life together! I will never be ready to give that up! I thought you were dead for four months Simon, I wanted to die without you. Now that by some fucking mircle I have you back, you think that I’m gonna let you leave? You don’t get to make that choice for us, because I will always choose you!”

“love”

“If you don’t love me anymore then by all means leave!” she yells, he stands to his feet staring down at her as he grips her arm “but don’t use my safety as an excuse”

“I love you more than anything in this world, you are everything to me” he responds. His words were simple, yet there was so much meaning behind them. Simon had never been known to speak more than he had to. He had a hard time admitting his feelings, he preferred to show how much he cared through acts of service and gift giving. Words were never his strength. But she didn’t need a long monologue about how much he loved her, how much he needed her. She just had to what those simple three words.

she surprises him by wrapping her arms around his torso. She buries her head in his chest as she tries to stifle her sobbing. Simon holds onto her tightly, hand burrowed in her hair. He backs up to the bed and sits, pulling her into him once more. She wraps her arms around his neck.

“Fuck I missed you” he says into her shoulder

“If you ever do that to me again I will cut your dick off” she warns

“Yes ma’am” he responds kissing her head.

ghost master list:

https://www.tumblr.com/ponyosmom35/733401347573088256/simon-ghost-riley?source=share

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the-davos-den · 2 years ago

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January 13th, 2023 was possibly one of the worst days of my life. I had, maybe for the first time ever, a full blown panic attack at work.

A bit of background. I live with my parents, and I’m nearly 30 years old. I have a job that I reasonably like. Short version is that I do engineering work. About a month and a half or so ago a new girl started working at my job. For the sake of anonymity, let’s call her Diane. Over the course of her starting out here I have gotten to know Diane a bit better and better, and I’m fairly certain that I have officially developed some kind of crush on her. We have some similar interests, and I don’t think she hates being around me yet, so good things all around lol.

Friday the 13th. I was having lunch in the lunch room, while Diane, another person, and a different engineer (let’s call him Jack). This other person was talking to Diane about her apartment, and so they and Jack were all talking about apartment stuff. I had nothing to add because I don’t live in an apartment. Eventually, the another person left and it was just Jack and Diane talking about their apartment struggles. To anyone else, this was innocent conversation. To me, it was some bizarro mirror/window. Because what I saw was a guy who is basically me but better in every conceivable manner (also likes relatively similar stuff to Diane, but is smarter, more attractive, living on his own, more physically fit, and on and on). All he would have to do is pursue her and I would be out. I don’t know the sexual orientations of either so it’s just as possible that neither of us have a chance or that I don’t actually have a competitor. This whole conversation lasted no more than like, 2-3 minutes, but it infected my head and wouldn’t leave. My lunch break was over so I had left and they were chatting still, but all of my shortcomings and insecurities were screaming in my head. I couldn’t stop it. I tried playing music through my headset and it wouldn’t stop.

I literally left my desk and walked to a relatively secluded room and hyperventilated. Probably not the best room to do that in with all of the wood and metal shavings from the various drill presses and laser cutters and whatnot lmao, but still. When I got back to my desk, I tried listening to the music again, I tried distracting myself with my phone, I even tried talking to people INCLUDING (separately) Jack and Diane, and none of it helped. Finally, the work day ended and I was able to go home. After having dinner with my parents and putting the dishes away, I went to my room.

I have this song that I listen to when I need to relax, Untitled by The Green Kingdom. I grabbed my gaming headset, and plugged in my new 3.5mm to Lightning converter, and my phone all together. I had gotten that converter because with my old one I was hearing this weird clicking sound in my headset in this configuration. When I went to play my song, I heard the clicking again (implying that it wasn’t that converter), and I completely lost it.

I started basically bawling in my room, saying “I just want to listen to my song” while I tried to find my earbuds. I got them and just started rocking in my chair. I tried holding onto my phone, but the screen kept turning on. I then grabbed my controller, but the plastic felt too hard. I finally grabbed my Metroid plushie, and held it tight. I spent the next like 20 or so minutes just crying, rocking in my chair, holding that plushie, and listening to my song on repeat. I couldn’t stop. I had to try to be quiet because I didn’t want my parents to see me like that. Eventually I got a bit calmer, and put on some tv that I knew I would enjoy. Then I was able to get into the scheduled video gaming that I had for that night, and things were getting a bit better. Despite feeling a bit better, I went to bed that night thinking that that was one of the worst days I have ever had.

Today, Saturday the 14th, I woke up to my alarm (I changed my alarm to wake me up every day so that I could try to maintain a better sleep cycle), and was still feeling bad from the day before. I was taking my morning shower, and the bad thoughts creeped in again. Telling me that I am worthless, telling me that I could never get a girl like Diane, telling me that I would legitimately benefit the world by just discontinuing my existence. But then, I got mad. I got furious. How dare I. “What right do I have to say I don’t deserve to continue living”. I thought about how I am in control. My will is iron. I will not let some chickenshit partition of my subconscious tell me that I am anything less than. I told myself that I will make it right. I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I deserve to live and that I WILL earn the right to be happy.

As of today, I am on mission. I have but one goal; to be the best possible me that I can achieve. Maybe that means I have to bury my old self six feet under, but I will not let these bad thoughts win. My will is iron. This blog will serve as my journal; a diary logging my journey to becoming who I need to be. Maybe it is too late for me to do that, but I have to try. I will survive. I will win.

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moonlightsapphic · 2 years ago

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Y'all aren't ready for this storytime.

So in 9th grade, one of the loudest girls in our class fixated on making me her latest project. At the time, I was still learning to cope with (undiagnosed) selective mutism and was the weirdo in the class. S thought I was chill, and I just needed to socialise a little more: interact, take pictures with people, wear makeup.

As the months passed, we became really close. S was a bit of a disaster: Her family wasn't the most stable, and neither was her mental health. She was conventionally very pretty—curvy with silky waves dyed caramel, sharp facial features and confident poisture. She was a bit outspoken and active for the liking of most guys in our conservative south Asian small town, but just pretty and charismatic and elusive and ✨ deep ✨ enough (even as a teen) for men to overlook that and try to slide into her dms and such. S spent her teen years jumping from toxic relationship to toxic relationship—fortunately with people our own age only.

She was just the type to reel in my chronic empath, neurodivergent ass as well. I loved pleasing S, impressing her, hanging out with her, being vulnerable together, comforting her. She was one of the only people that could keep up with my hyperactive texting, and despite our big differences, we had enough common interests to have something to talk about nearly 24/7.

(Looking back, I can definitely see some neurodivergent traits in her as well.)

When I was deeply crushing on this dumb dude that I thought was the coolest because he played guitar, was good at math and expressed feelings™️ well, I was pretty private about it. S literally emotionally coaxed me into telling her the truth. We were up late texting; she was—unsurprisingly—pretty down and I was keeping her company. She asked, “You know, I consider you to be my closest friend, though I don‘t say it a lot ... Will you tell me the truth? Do you like him?” If I‘d read that in a book, I'd be sure there was some romantic tension between these two characters.

When I had my first weirdly-sexual gay dream at seventeen, I was alone in her room with S later that day and hyperventilating. I was already in a very monogamous (and boring, in restrospect) relationship with that same dude and very happy about it, but that moment truly was the first step in my bi awakening. (It was probably inspired by some of my favourite public figures of the time, like dodie, coming out and talking extensively about it.)

I distinctly remember this one night when my boyfriend (spoiler alert: he’s trash) had been mean and made me cry. I was scared he would break up with me in the morning over this one tiny little mistake I’d made. S stayed up with me all night, and by daybreak I felt a flicker of feelings deep inside, of possibilities.

Unfortunately, as we neared 12th grade graduation, S began to get more conservative. She started to put her religious beliefs above any and all personal principles she once had. Ergo, queer people are sinners and also women should cover up and listen to men plus the country should become a fully "Islamic state" and get rid of all other religious minorities to achieve doubtless true utopia.

Uhhh … yeah.

Incidentally, she seemed unworried about following the same rules herself—her “faith” really shone when she was telling other people what to do, or being bigoted against a certain (religious, racial, ethnic, queer, et cetera) minority group she herself didn’t identify with. It was really just an excuse to feed her ego, perhaps a coping mechanism even, and it was hypocritical.

Let me make it clear here that the beliefs she kept citing are mainly a very specific set of interpretations of Islamic scripture that’ve come to be widely taught in our region at this moment in time. They by no means reflect the beliefs of all Muslims (and, in this case, were very informed by the bigotry of the cis-heterosexual, perverted, greedy old men who historically created these rules to maintain their power). S here absolutely is not a representation of the lifestyle and disposition of every practicing Muslim person.

ANYWAY, she began to make remarks about me posting LGBTQ+ positivity content on my social media, or feminism of the brand she didn't like. In my conflicts with shitty dudes from school, she would only support me if her ~ beliefs ~ allowed it. Additionally, she’d always been pretty emotionally volatile, but it had gotten worse since graduating school—She would get mad or upset with me now for being absent, insensitive, et cetera, asking for reassurance but in intense defensive attack mode. It was behaviour I never encountered from any other platonic friend.

As you can see, S wasn't very good at maintaining boundaries, or being open to other points of view. Her negative approach to many things in life often rubbed off on me as well.

With time and growth I found more friends who were like-minded to myself, whom I didn't have to tiptoe around lest I offend them or set them off, who were far more loyal to me. I’m a sensitive person—and I found a warmer community, much better for my mental health. So in our twenties, S and I organically drifted apart.

When I (finally!) dumped my shitty boyfriend (he’d turned extremely sour over time because he hated that I’d grown a backbone), and began happily dating a woman that I was very much in love with at the end of the year, I realised that having friends who support my queer identity is non-negotiable to me now. Just interacting with the queerphobes from grade school hugely triggered me, and I decided I no longer needed to carefully maintain niceties with them.

And it would all have ended there, except S wasn’t having it. We had drifted apart a while ago, but as soon as she saw that I was posting a bunch of pictures with my girlfriend, she began spreading rumours trying to out the both of us.

(Mind you, we weren’t out to anyone yet at the time. S was purely speculating, but she was spot on—I just couldn’t really figure out why this was the thing she decided to fixate on.)

And then, as if she thought I would forgive her straightaway for attempting to out me, she started hitting me up in my dms every few months demanding I give her an explanation for why I abandoned her. Each time, I patiently told S it wasn’t intentional and I had had mental health troubles. (Namely, ADHD, which she herself had once convinced me was impossible.) If she truly wanted us to keep up with each other, she could just reply to my stories in good humour and ask me how I’m doing instead of repeatedly villainizing me out of the blue. (I never brought up the outing thing, or anything queer-related at all. I didn’t want to give her any more leverage than the bits and pieces of evidence she had dug up herself, conspiracy-style.) However, that would only keep her away temporarily.

Not going to lie, the way she kept coming back to gaslight me into taking her back was an exact copy of what my ex-boyfriend had done for months. It was hilarious, and tragic.

… And (I realised later) kind of gay??

She’s been in a relationship with a really docile (*cough* ball-less) dude who agrees with all her conservative principles since 12th grade. (Honestly, good for them, they deserve each other.) I don’t think S has ever had feelings for me as much as she simply felt possessive of me. She regards it as betrayal that I am happily out and queer, and she can’t tolerate that some other girl has replaced her as my one true ✨ gal pal ✨. She's jealous, but it's hard for me to believe her jealousy is purely platonic. It's like she wanted us to be a pair of suffering queers-in-denial sacrificing ourselves for neurotypical comphet society together, hand in hand, forever. For the greater good.

How romantic.

I noticed a few weeks ago that she's finally removed me from all her social media—around the same exact time that my ex-boyfriend (whom I haven’t spoken to in years) blocked me.

Ah, two breakups that I initiated years ago coming back uninvited, for attention that I literally have zero interest in providing.

So bringing back this post:

Reading this was like a major brain go brrr moment to me, because I was like ??? That’s a queer thing??? No way???

And then I read through the comments and saw that every single sapphic person was like “uhhh yep we never dated though good riddance,” or “ugh yes and we ended up dating and it was so toxic we broke up soon after good riddance”.

For the first time in my life, I actually considered that S might not have been a straight queerphobe, but an incredibly suppressed dumpster fire of a queer person with extreme internalized homophobia.

And … it all fits.

She's always been sultry and glamorous in a distinctly sapphic way; I just never was able to exactly put my finger on it. (In high school, sometimes I'd look her up and down and go whoa.) I can totally imagine a parallel universe in which we forget men and attempt to date each other instead. After the first few months of euphoria, she’d probably get us into an anxious-avoidant trap the same way my ex did. She’d cheat on me with a man because of her internalised homophobia, then dump me and come back crying to gaslight me a dozen times. It would take me much longer to get rid of her than it did to get rid of my dumb man ex—because ✨ shared queer trauma ✨.

I really, really dodged a bullet with that one. My girlfriend is the most wonderful, soft, and nurturing person I know, and she is my soulmate in more ways than one. I am very happy, and this is your PSA to not just date the one other queer person in your vicinity when you know you aren't good for each other. Be like me—run.

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earlgreydream · 4 years ago

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return.

| bucky x reader | angst | fluff |

bucky drabbles 🥺❤️

anon requested. y/n learning she’s pregnant and girly was pretty excited and counting the days until Bucky comes home... only to learn that 40s Bucky is now “dead” after falling off the train

cw: mentions of death (Bucky’s, but like, he obviously didn’t actually die)

1940’s:

“We’re going to have a little girl, and she’s going to know that her daddy is a soldier and a hero,” you kissed your husband, and his hands rested on your round belly.

“I wish I wasn’t leaving you alone, pregnant.”

“It’s okay, baby. You’re going to fight the good fight,” you smiled, trying not to cry.

“I’ll be home soon.”

“I know.”

present day:

Nothing prepared you for hearing that Bucky died in a train accident. Nothing prepared you for waking up with Steve, decades later, still pregnant. And certainly nothing prepared you for seeing your husband that you thought was dead, killing people on the news.

Now your daughter, Rebecca, was five, and the two of you lived at Stark’s home in upstate New York. You were a single mom, but Steve was hugely supportive, and around as often as possible. You loved Rebecca with everything inside of you, and it broke your heart that she was growing up without a father.

Seeing the havoc that Bucky wreaked on the news absolutely broke your heart. You wondered if he knew you were alive. It was unlikely, Stark had done a good job of helping you hide. The man who was once your husband was gone, and now you were a potential target of his violence.

“Rebecca, baby, you look so beautiful!” You giggled, braiding flowers into her brown curls.

“Thanks, mama,” she hugged you before running out to the porch. You followed, and you nearly collapsed when you saw the man walking up your lawn.

“Rebecca! Come here, love!” You cried, pulling her behind you. Her tiny hands gripped your skirt, hiding in the fabric. Panic shot through your chest, and you felt like you were being torn apart. You wanted to run to James, and risk it being the last thing you ever did, and wanting to run with your daughter.

“Mama, who’s that?!” Rebecca asked, frightened by James in heavy black tactical gear, a metal arm, and an automatic slung over his back. The war criminal, assassin, and international terrorist.

“Go inside baby, go to your bedroom and shut the door. Go!” You pushed her away and she ran.

“James...?” You called, your chest heaving as you hyperventilated.

“Y/N, my love...” he spoke, silver eyes full of pain. He looked genuinely frightened, and you nearly screamed as his hand touched yours.

“Mama!”

“No, go inside, Rebecca!” you started to sob, tearing away from Bucky and running to her as she peeked out of the door. You were terrified, and so was she. Bucky’s words had sent you right back to the 1940s, but your daughter’s cry had jerked you back to reality.

You held the child to your body, standing with your arms around her. Your back was against the wall, and you were shaking as tears rolled down your face. Bucky looked startled, and his eyes were massive as he stared at the two of you.

“Y/N, I’m not going to hurt you,” James said quietly, and you shook your head violently.

“I don’t believe you!”

“You know I would never hurt you. I was being controlled and held captive, but I escaped, I’m free. I promise I will not hurt you,” he took the gun off of his back and set it down on the other side of the porch. He dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Please, can I come inside? SWAT will gun me down if they see me outside.”

“I can’t-”

“Please, Y/N.”

Rebecca was safely asleep in your bedroom with the door shut, and you and James stood in the kitchen. He’d spent hours telling you about Hydra, and everything that had happened. You had his gun, though somehow you doubted if you could stop him, even with it, if he meant to hurt you.

“I’m so sorry. I’m begging you to believe me.”

“I have to. The alternative... I’d rather die,” you whispered, covering your face with your hands.

“Is she mine? Rebecca?”

“Rebecca is my baby,” your head jerked up.

James was silent, and you bit your lip, trying to stop the millionth round of tears.

“I want to believe you, I do, but if you’re lying, it’s not just me. It’s my kid too.”

“You have no reason to trust me, but I promise you I am telling the truth. I want to meet her, Y/N.”

“Sleep on the couch. If we’re all still alive in the morning, I’ll let you meet her. Steve has some normal clothes here you can change into.”

He nodded, and his hand wrapped around your wrist as you went to leave the kitchen. You turned to him, your other hand going to his chest. His dog tags were cold under your fingertips, and you gazed up at him.

“I’ve loved you this whole time. You’ve kept me alive,” he whispered in the dark.

“I love you, god, I love you more than life,” your voice trembled.

He leaned in and kissed you, hesitant at first. You let yourself kiss him back, tangling your fingers into dark brown hair and kissing the love of your life for the first time in decades.

You didn’t sleep that night, Rebecca tightly snuggled in your arms. Your eyes were still open when the sun broke over the horizon, hours of tears staining your cheeks. Rebecca stirred in your arms, and you cleaned your face before helping her get up.

You kissed her head and took her into the living room, carrying her in your arms. You sighed when you saw Bucky was gone but you heard a noise from around the wall. You walked to the kitchen, and saw Bucky well into making pancakes, fresh coffee filling the room with the smell of espresso.

“I hope it’s alright,” he said quietly, turning off the stove, and you nodded.

“It’s okay,” you answered, carefully setting down your daughter.

“This is Rebecca. My love, this is James. Your father.”

“Dad? From the pictures? That Uncle Stevie tells me about?” Her small voice asked.

“That’s me. You’re so pretty, Rebecca.”

Bucky knelt down in front of her, and she blushed, shy around new people. Like her father.

“Do you like pancakes? I made some for you.”

You watched carefully, but you were impressed with how good he was, putting her immediately at ease. You relaxed a bit, even more so when Steve showed up.

“Uncle Stevie!” Rebecca ran to him when he came in through the door, and he stopped short at the sight of Bucky. You’d warned him, but it didn’t prepare him for the shock of actually seeing him.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

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sleeplessinspace · 2 years ago

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to the end of the line - engineer/space!mark x afab!reader

for @creat0r-cat

i'll be honest, this was a bit of a challenge but not for the reasons you probably think 😅 but i love a good challenge and it helped snap me out of a block i was in, so thank you! i hope i got the tone you were going for uwu

warning(s): sfw, implied past abuse, slight violence (reader is grabbed)

You don’t take any time to think about it—this is the only option, you refuse to let him go—you yank the warp crystal out of the base of the core and chuck it beyond Mark's head into the yawning chasm above. There’s a beat of silence before the two of you are thrown to the ground from the force of the explosion.

It nearly knocks you unconscious but ever since the loops began, you’ve gotten incredibly resist to such trauma. Instead, you’re more than a little winded, coughing slightly as you start to push yourself up from the floor when a strong hand yanks you to your feet by your elbow and shoves you against the wall.

“What have you done?” The sheer vehemence in your head engineer’s voice scares you a little but you didn’t get this far as a captain by buckling under pressure. You swallow the lump of discomfort in your throat and lift your chin, looking Mark in the eye.

“You don’t understand, Mark, I—” you start to say and flinch back when he slams his palm into the wall beside your head.

“No, Captain, you don’t understand. That was our last chance to fix things and now it’s gone. You ruined everything!”

“I—!”

He grabs your arm and you let out a noise of fear that he ignores as painful memories start to make their presence known in the back of your mind. “Do you have any idea how much time I spent working to build this thing, Captain? An eternity! Hundreds of thousands of years of progress fucking ruined because of you!”

“M-Mark, please…”

You’re not fully aware of it—and neither is he in the midst of his anger—but you’ve started to cry beneath your helmet, your breathing starting to pick up as you shove your shoulders as far back into the wall as you can manage.

“I need to get back and fix it, because if I'm not back there to do it then—then…”

Mark shakes you once at the start of his rant and the motion is enough to remind of you of a memory you’d wished stayed buried—the yelling would follow you into your sleep, curled up in a ball on the couch because he’s locked you out of your shared bedroom again, your body stinging from pains you’d have to hide before you left for training in the morning—and you end up choking out a cry, recoiling away from him. You’d been there before, by the void, were you uncomfortably familiar with it and you just didn’t want to end up hurt again. You don’t see Mark falter at this reaction, but you do see his feet take a step away from you, his hold loosening in his confusion and you take that moment to get away.

“Captain, what…?”

You don’t hear it. You don't hear Mark's slow realization that they must be safe now, that you did the right thing by throwing the crystal into the warp core. The only focus on your mind is getting to a spot that’s safe and that ends with you tucked into a corner of the room, hugging your knees to your chest as you sit half hidden behind a small panel of servers. You focus on trying to calm your breathing, heart pounding heavy in your ears and after failing to do that for a minute, you reach up and rip your helmet off, your tears dripping down onto the dark fabric of your flight suit. All you can think about is his hands on you, the way he ignored your pleas and you’re almost hyperventilating when there’s the shift of boots against the floor.

When you gasp in fear, Mark makes a low shushing noise, taking a step back where you can see it before crouching down and reaching for you. “Pl-please don't,” and you whimper out your ex’s name and suddenly the pieces are clicking together for him now.

What’s worse is that he recognizes the name, a member from the training committee from the Invincible II’s ground control back home on Earth and Mark isn’t ashamed of the anger he feels on your behalf, ten times the level he felt before—before he thought you had betrayed him and knowingly damned the universe, but he’s over it now knowing that they’re relatively safe.

“Can you take a few deep breaths for me, Captain?” Mark instructs softly and feels a flicker of happiness when you comply, if a bit slowly. “That’s good… do you remember where we are?”

You frown a little before it all comes back to you in a rush, your mind cleared up by taking a moment to breathe.

“The Invincible II, I—Mark, gods, I'm—!” It comes back to you in a rush and you go to apologize but he shakes his head, scooting a little closer.

There’s a noise both of you are ignoring in the distance—it almost sounds like glass s̶h̷a̸t̷t̵e̴r̷i̵n̸g̴.

“No, Captain. I was… I was wrong, alright? It’s not your fault. It was never your fault, okay?” He looks you in your eyes then, desperate for you to understand he means what he's saying and you nod slowly. He holds out a hand and you hesitate to take it, but Mark’s learned a little something about patience in this whole thing—he wishes he could say that the eternity thing was an exaggeration, but the sheer fatigue in his bones, the memories of millions of loops burned into his brain, tells him otherwise. Once you take his hand, his fingers curling around your own, you start to breathe a little easier.

The noise is getting l̴͍̈́o̶̙͌ũ̸͙d̷̙͝ė̷̫r̵̺̄...

C̵̟̱̈l̵͚̇̌ö̷͖͙́s̸͈̯̅ė̴̡̺̳̾̽ŕ̵̗̻̔͂…

“I'm s-sorry, anyway,” you say, staring down at your linked hands as the universe begins to c̷͙̒r̶͇̓ả̵ͅč̶̭k̷̖̏ into pieces around you. “For leaving you to do it alone.”

Mark gives you a wry smile and squeezes your hand softly.

“You were by my side nearly every time, Cap. If I was alone, it was because of my own stupid choices. But I won’t let it happen again. I'm sticking by your side until the end of it all.”

And he does.

As the universe stutters to a halt, as billions of timelines and dimensions are rewritten and the Invincible II breaks into dust around the two of you, Mark stays by your side.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

#interstellar stunner ☆#ask.txt #request.txt #mine.txt #milk.txt #woops this got away from me a bit

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kywaslost · 4 years ago

Text

Levi Comforts You After a Nightmare

Warnings: nightmares

Levi always seemed cold and heartless, but there was a side of him no one really got to see. The only time anyone got to see this side of him was when they were balancing on the line of life and death.

Levi never liked it when people saw him so vulnerable and caring because he always thought it would ruin his reputation and people would stop respecting him. But there are very very rare occasions when Levi pulls out his caring and compassionate side to a cadet who was not dying. Tonight just so happened to be one of those nights.

The short corporal noticed her absence almost immediately. It wasn’t because he saw that Y/N’s seat was empty at the table her friends sat at. It wasn’t even because he asked around for her. It was simple, really. On his way to the mess hall he heard Mikasa, Eren, and Armin talking about her condition.

“She hasn’t left her room since chores,” Armin said to his friends. “I’m really worried about her.”

“Do you know what’s wrong Mikasa?” Eren asked the female. It made sense; Mikasa did share a cabin with the girl in question. Mikasa looked between her two friends before answering.

“She’s just overworking herself,” Mikasa answered. “More than she should, if I’m honest. But I haven’t seen her any more today than the both of you have. She won’t let us anywhere near her and when we try to talk to her, she doesn’t answer.” Levi had heard enough. Once he was done eating, he would go make sure Y/N wasn’t dead.

She didn’t come to dinner and the more Levi thought about it, she hadn’t come down for lunch either. He made his way to the female cabin, a small piece of bread tucked away in his hand. He knocked on the door loudly.

“Cadet L/N,” he called through the door. “May I come in?” There was no response. Frustrated, Levi threw open the door. “When I call for you Cadet you better---” Levi started to scold before he cut himself off. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t finish his sentence. Y/N lay on the bed in the corner of the room, whimpering softly. As he got closer, Levi could see tear stains across her face. “Cadet?” He gently placed the piece of bread on the small rotting bookshelf beside the bed before pulling a chair away from a nearby desk. Levi sat down in the chair beside Y/N’s bed, watching her carefully. He knew that you should never wake someone from a nightmare because that could do more harm than good. So instead of waking the girl up he took her hand and held it gently.

As Levi waited for Y/N’s nightmare to pass, it only grew worse. She started to mumble inaudible words and move around. She started to cry harder and her breathing began to go irregular. Out of nowhere Y/N screamed, high pitched voice piercing the silence of the night. Levi jumped out of his seat at the noise then tried to get the girl to calm down. He pinned down the wrist of the hand he had been holding. She had started to thrash around, posing as a threat to both herself and Levi.

“Cadet!” Levi said sternly. He climbed onto the bed, trying to get over Y/N’s legs. “Wake up!” He managed to straddle her, pinning her wrists down with his hands and keeping her legs still with his knees, digging them into her thighs. “Y/N!”

With a gasp Y/N’s eyes snapped open, fear evident in her eyes. She made eye contact with Levi almost immediately.

“C-C-Captain,” she choked through her tears. Levi’s eyes softened as he moved off of her legs but he kept his grip on her wrists.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “It’s me, I’m here now.” He slowly released Y/N and she quickly wrapped her arms around his neck, sobbing into his chest. It took him by surprise at first, then he also wrapped his arms around her, holding her steady. He rested his chin on her shoulder. “Breathe Cadet.” Levi ran one hand up and down her back as the other combed through her hair. “You are going to hyperventilate if we don’t get your breathing under control.” Nothing you were trying was able to calm you down. If anything, it made matters worse.

“W-Where’s Petra?” she choked again. “A-And the squad?” Levi’s breath hitched as he very quickly realized what was going on. Levi gripped you tight and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh Cadet,” he breathed quietly. “Breathe. You need to breathe.” His attempts failed at calming down Y/N, so Levi gently pulled her head to rest right above his heart, taking large and exaggerated deep breaths. “Breathe with me.”

It took a few moments for Levi to give up, smashing his lips against hers. Breathing out, he forced air into Y/N’s lungs. She gasped before coughing and breathing on her own.

“Captain?!” she exclaimed. Levi wiped the tears from her face with his thumbs, sighing.

“There you are,” he smiled softly. “You were stuck in a nightmare for a moment. You’re alright now.”

“W-What?” she muttered, confused, Levi pulled her back into a tight hug. She stayed still for a moment before hugging Levi loosely. Silence sat between the two of them for a moment. “Captain?” she questioned quietly into his shoulder. “Why are you here?”

“I overheard your friends talking about how they were worried about you before dinner,” Levi answered. “And then I noticed that you weren’t at dinner or lunch.” He suddenly remembered the piece of bread sitting next to the bed. He slowly leaned forward as not to startle Y/N, gently picking up the piece of bread. “Here.”

She lifted her head to see what was in his hand as he gave the bread to her. “What’s this for?”

“To eat, brat,” he said quietly. He didn’t mean it as an insult and she knew that. “Did you not hear what I just said?” She took the bread and took small bites of it.

“Thank you,” she whispered once she was finished. Levi noticed the confused look on her face and he furrowed his brows.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Why am I so shaky?” she questioned, lifting a hand to show Levi how bad it was shakin. He took her hand in his.

“You had a nightmare,” he said softly. “Do you remember what it was about?” She shook her head slowly, looking into Levi’s eyes. He sighed, tightening his grip on her hand. “It was of the night our squad died.” Y/N’s eyes filled with tears almost immediately. “No, no, don’t cry,” Levi rushed. “There’s no need to cry.”

“How did you know?” she whispered. “About my dream?”

“For a moment after I woke you up you were still out of it. You were asking where Petra and the squad was.” Y/N lowered her head.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Causing you all of this trouble,” she whispered again. Levi placed a hand under her chin, lifting her face. He could see tears making their way down her face again.

“Don’t ever apologize for something you didn’t have a say in,” he said sternly. “That’s an order, understand?”

“Yes sir.” Levi nodded in approval.

“Good, now come here.” Levi pulled Y/N yet again into another hug. He lifted her up as he adjusted himself, leaning against the wall at the head of the bed. Levi gently placed Y/N on his lap and held her.

“Captain?” she called quietly.

“Levi.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Call me Levi,” the man corrected.

“Levi,” the word felt foriegn coming from her mouth, “why are you doing this for me? If it were anyone else you would leave them be.”

Levi sighed. “When you are a part of a squadron, you become family. We’ve spent so much time with each other and the rest of the squad that we’ve become a family. Now, it’s just us and family has to stick together.”

Y/N had never heard her corporal be so open with his emotions and thoughts before. It was almost as if she didn’t hear him speak in the first place she was so shocked.

“Get some rest. I’ll leave you be.” Y/N quickly latched on to Levi’s arm as he tried to lace her on the bed. Levi looked at her, confused. “What is it Y/N?”

She looked away. “Please don’t leave.” Her words were nearly inaudible. “I don’t want to sleep alone.” The man’s eyes softened. He knew it would be wrong sleeping with one of his cadets, even if nothing was going on. But the way Y/N looked so distressed, he couldn’t say no.

Levi sighed, “Can you walk?” Y/N stood up slowly, nodding. “Come with me then.” The girl grabbed her green cloak, wrapping it around her body as she followed Levi into the hallway.

“Where are we going?” she asked quietly, jogging to catch up with her captain, now walking beside him.

“To my quarters,” he answered. The two walked in silence until they reached the man’s office. Levi led Y/N through his office into his bedroom. She looked around, taking in her surroundings. The room smelled of lemons and was unbelievably clean. As she looked around the room Levi pulled off his jacket and straps. He then walked over to his dresser and pulled out a pair of grey sweatpants and a tank top. Levi quickly changed as Y/N looked at the books on Levi’s bookshelf.

“Do you like to read, Captain?” Y/N asked quietly, turning to the man.

“I try to read when I have time,” he answered. “Now, lay down.” Levi pulled back the blankets on his bed as she slowly walked over to the bed. Levi got in and pulled her down beside him. “Now go back to bed. You’re going to need your rest for tomorrow's training.” Y/N pulled the covers up to her chin, looking into Levi’s eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered, eyes starting to slip shut. Levi smiled softly, pulling the hood off of her head. He also removed the cloak from her and hung it on the bedpost. Sitting up, Levi leaned against the headboard and picked up a book from his nightstand.

After reading for almost an hour Levi decided to try to get some sleep. He preferred to sleep in a chair but for the sake of Y/N he stayed in the bed. He laid flat on his back, closing his eyes. He stayed like that for a few minutes before he felt a weight on his chest. Eyes shooting open, Levi looked down to see a H/C head resting on his chest. He huffed, wrapping his arms around the figure.

“Sleep well, Cadet.”

#aot comfort #aot x reader #aot #levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman #levi attack on titan #levi

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river--ghost · 3 years ago

Text

Parent Guidance Recommended

word count: 3,281

focus characters: Pacifica Northwest, Fiddleford H. McGucket

warnings: child neglect, implications of alcoholism, implications of infidelity, mugging, knives, threatening, generally awful people

summary: On the worst birthday she’s ever had, Pacifica finds herself seeking support from a source she’d least expect; the new owner of the once-Northwest Manor, her own former home.

Pacifica was turning fourteen on the Fourth of July. A perfect birthday. Perfect girl. Perfect family.

Her parents would throw a party. Like any Northwest party, with gorgeous, itchy lace ball gowns and impeccable etiquette, each word in every conversation spoken with flawless flow, with purposeful posture and respect-demanding mannerisms. A perfect party for perfect people, with perfect food prepared.

After claiming her designated ruby-studded chair at the dinner table, she would be shocked when her plate was revealed to her. Deep-fried Roareos. Stacked in a small sweet-powdered delicious heap in front of her, chocolately, cream-filled cookies, dipped in batter and deep-fried to perfection. Sugary. Messy. Pacifica had never had it before. How did her parents know she wanted to try it?

She turned her head to cast a quizzical look to her parents, who’d been watching her, holding each other with loving smiles directed at her. A warm feeling spread inside her like warm butter. She reached for a fork.. but hesitated, and hovered her hand over the plate instead. She casted another glance at her parents to see their reaction. No cold response was elicited so far. In fact, she could have sworn her father nodded in approval.

She delicately picked one of the cookies up with her thumb and forefinger, and raised it to her lips to nibble at it. Her senses were flooded with warm, sweet goodness. Just as amazing as she imagined. She stuffed the rest in her mouth, going so far as to lick her fingers. Her lips were coated with melted cream. She neglected the napkins beside her plate to instead lick the sugar mixture from her lips. Barbaric. But her parents didn’t seem to mind either of the actions. She thought she even heard an amused giggle from her mother.

“Sweetie, would you like your presents now or after you’re finished?” Priscilla— no, this was Mom— asked. Pacifica paused. She had a say? Were they not on a schedule? She supposed if she was given the option, she would love to open gifts while she snacked on the rest of the Roareos.

“Now, please,” the young blond girl responded. On cue, one of the butlers was beside her, placing a neatly-packaged gift box on her lap. A beautiful purple silk ribbon sat on top, holding it together. She couldn’t recall the last time she felt so eager to reveal its contents.

What was inside? Some comfy clothes? Paint, perhaps? A cute animal plush that would contrast the creepy porcelain dolls in her room? The possibilities were endless.

Delightfully, she tugged at it. The box opened. As she peered inside, her excitement dissolved. The warm feeling turned to ice.

The bell. The one her father carried on his person at all times. The one that willed his command in the mansion. The one Pacifica hated. Suddenly Preston was standing over her, slowly picking the bronze item up.

Loving smile gone, replaced with a disapproving, even disgusted scowl. She shrank in her seat.

“Pacifica Elise Northwest,” he boomed. “So it’s true. You’re mingling with the common, ignoble crowds these days.”

“No!” she found herself crying out. “It’s not like that! I have to!”

“Have to what? Work a lowly job as a waitress in that slobbish cesspit? At that- that disgusting, sorry excuse for a dining destination? THAT’S NOT ACCEPTABLE EVER. How can you call yourself a Northwest? How can you call yourself our daughter?”

The very first thought she woke up to was that it was too good to be real.

Tangled in her sheets, warm tears trickling down her cheeks. She sniffled and quickly wiped them away before slipping out of bed.

The house was dark. Silent. The clock on the wall read 7:52. Her parents’ bedroom was empty as she passed. It smelled of wine. They would not be back for a while. Pacifica found herself releasing a sigh, her tension easing a little, even if that meant she’d be spending her birthday alone for the very first time. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes, trying to recall the good part of the dream, trying to revive the taste of the sugary treat, but it was gone. Soured by the unreality of it. All it was doing was making her hungry belly ache.

When checking the refrigerator, cabinets and pantry and coming to the realization that all that was left was a loaf of bread, a half-empty tube of Bringles and a couple dinner kits. No breakfast food. Not even a single egg. Not even leftovers. Something like despair and disappointment blossomed inside her. She would have to eat at the diner again…

She snagged her wallet from the counter only to find her twenty had disappeared, leaving only a couple measly ones and fives and whatever coins were loose inside. She felt the tears building a little again and slapped the wallet shut to try to stifle them. There was a time she had nearly everything, but now after Weirdmaggedon, she couldn’t even trust that her own hard-earned cash wouldn’t be snagged if left around her own greedy birthgivers. Her strength was being sapped by the will not to burst into a sobbing fit. There was enough in there to cover breakfast at work when she got to Greasy’s, at least.

With her belly still growling, she changed out of her nightwear, threw on her apron and a pair of aviators and began the walk to work.

The day was a bright one, sunny and a little breezy. A pleasant temperature. It did not reflect how Pacifica felt. Despite the summer weather, she pulled her scarf over her head, casting shade over her face. The neighborhood streets were mostly void of people, every house gated off. Just because they lost the mansion did not mean the Northwests were living in squalor, but her spending money was strictly monitored. Her parents now enforced that any money she spent, she’d have to earn. A fourteen year old. A child. Just so her birthgivers could ensure a few extra dollars in their account.

Pacifica couldn’t help but feel the fanciness of the neighborhood was almost deceitful. Her own household was a prime example. Her own rumbling tummy was a prime example. She wondered if there were others who lived in these houses that had similar problems as hers. Unlikely here.. however there were definitely others, people who’d been pushed to extremes just to get by.

Whether that was the reason behind why Pacifica soon found herself being followed halfway through the trip, she didn’t know. The feeling of being watched intensified by the minute, and glances into the reflections of shop windows told her there was a person. They refused to let up for at least a couple of blocks, the likelihood that they were just going the same direction by chance was steadily decreasing. They probably saw her leaving the wealthier neighborhood. The young girl picked up her pace. It did her no good.

The next moments were a blur. Her arm was snatched. When she struggled, a slice put a stop to it. Her arm began to bleed. Something sharp pressed to her throat, stiffening every muscle in her body. Vulgar language was hurled at her, demanding cooperation before her purse was yanked from her shoulder, and she was thrown to the curb. She was left winded, bruised, panicked and hyperventilating. She struggled for her breath back.

Mugged. She’d been mugged for the few measly dollars she had on her. And the fact that her first thought after all that was concern for what her parents would think that she let those precious dollars be nicked in the first place.. it only increased her distraught. Her breaths hastened more and more, and she didn’t realize her tears had finally started to flow until she was already sprinting down the street, her vision muddled. Every step felt like thunder to her ears. Home. She just wanted to go home. Maybe she couldn’t be herself as much, and maybe she was always busy, under constant supervision. But at least there was stability. At least there was certainty of the future. At least it was comfortable, at least there was always food on the table, breakfast, lunch and dinner. At least her father never stumbled around reeking of alcohol while only Lord knew where her mother was. Maybe her parents weren’t the best to other people but at least she could be certain they were true to each other. At least she could pretend everything was fine.

Pacifica wasn’t sure how far she’d gone. She was sweaty, she felt gross and sticky. Her legs were sore, threatening to give out if she went any further. She was still bleeding. She ached everywhere. But she’d reached her destination. She stood at the bottom of a familiar, long driveway, and at the top, sitting on a large hill, towering over the town stood the proud family mansion. Waves of nostalgia and sorrow crashed over her. Everything felt so gross. Every memory tainted by the knowledge of her parents’ true nature. She couldn’t even speak to anyone, not even her parents. Who would listen to a rich brat whine about how she used to be richer? Certainly not any of the townsfolk.

She found herself staring at the manor for a while, not entirely sure what to do.

“...What am I doing here…?” Pacifica whispered, sniffling and reaching for the tissues she kept in her purse, only to be hit with the whirlwind of events that had just happened again. Her arm stung. She could barely hold herself upright. She felt so… so tired. She meekly wiped her nose on her sleeve, and started to turn around when suddenly she bumped into someone.

“Wo-ah there, kiddo, careful, better watch where ya—” a cheerful voice piped, before cutting itself off when the sight of Pacifica in her disheveled state registered. “Huh? Hey.. Ah’ know you.”

Color drained from Pacifica’s cheeks. This guy again.. Why was he here? She quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks as she tried a witty remark, but — “Y-y-ea-h, well-, wh-o w-ou-uldn’-t-” — ultimately failing when her quivering body wouldn’t stop heaving sobs. Again she sniffled. Disgusting. In front of the hillbilly too.

McGucket’s face morphed into something like sympathy. He kneeled down to her height. “Ah- hey, what’s goin’ on kiddo? Are ya alright?”

Pacifica parted her lips. She wanted to say yes. Her instincts screamed at her to say yes. She could practically hear her birthgivers demanding her to say yes. She had to be perfect. She had to be flawless. She had to be stoic, proud, happy, for her family.

But that’s not what came out.

“n-NO!” she cried, her knees finally buckling as if the years of abuse weighing down on her shoulders finally came crashing down on top of her. Her face buried in her hands, sobbing violently into them. She wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay, she wasn’t okay. Wails and cries escaped. She couldn’t stop the tears anymore. She was in so much pain, she was so alone. The sobs wouldn’t stop. The raging storm of emotion only continued to demolish her walls, clawing at her pride and self esteem. Everything she pretended to be crashed and burned at that moment.

Fiddleford had been a little stunned by the sudden breakdown, but he started to piece the situation together from the bits and pieces the poor girl was babbling. He didn’t get up and walk away like Pacifica was expecting him to. He stayed put, even placed his hand on her shoulder to try to console her. When she didn’t flinch away from him, the old man started rubbing circles on her back as she cried and cried. Fiddleford never was the best at comfort.. though he could only imagine how long this outburst had been bottled up, and he thought it best that Pacifica let it all out before trying to say anything.

It was a while before Pacifica’s sobs began to calm enough to allow her to speak in more coherent sentences. The story became clearer. She spoke about how her parents had mistreated her, like she was an accessory rather than a human being, a literal child. How things had been getting worse this past year since they were forced to move due to her father’s irresponsible stock market decisions during Weirdmaggedon, to preserve what fortune they had left. How she felt more at home at the diner than she ever did at her own residence. How she hardly saw her parents anymore. How everything had changed for the worst. The way her parents had become about money, even how they scolded her for ‘nagging’ about her birthday the previous day, when it had been the first time she brought it up in half a year. It all hurt terribly to speak of but Pacifica couldn’t help but notice the sudden weightless feeling after getting everything out. She was surprised to find Old Man McGucket was still listening.

“Y’know,” he spoke finally, “Ah knew a fella once who thought ‘e had everythin’ before ‘e lost it all too. ‘Should’a been there for ‘im like he needed.”

Pacifica was quiet for a moment. “..W..ho was he?”

Fiddleford only waved his hand. “Ol’ college buddy. Doin’ mighty fine these days. Now whaddya say we get off’a the street an’ patch up that lil’ ol’ scratch a’ yours inside?”

It tooka moment to register the question through his southern accent, but when she did, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “..I- inside..?”

Inside the mansion. Pacifica almost couldn’t believe it. Old Man McGucket was the one that bought the Northwest Manor. She wondered how on earth a former homeless man was possibly able to afford such a grand purchase, until peeks into a couple rooms along the hallway that had been filled with computers and strange machinery told her she didn’t know nearly as much about McGucket as she previously thought.

It was so strange walking through the hallways again. Everything was the same, but different. Was the grand rustic architecture and furniture always so beautiful? And… were those.. raccoons she was spotting out of the corner of her eyes?

McGucket led her to a room with a couch- a familiar silver-themed room with a certain carpet pattern. It looked nearly the same, except for the banjo leaning against the couch’s armrest, and maybe a few more stains than its previous flawless condition “for guests- that is, for guests to look at”. Despite her emotional state, she found herself smiling at the memory of her adventures with Dipper Pines, trying to bust that ghost… until she recalled the punishment her parents had made for her after that was all over. She began to feel a little sick. Her gaze dropped to the floor as McGucket trudged into the room, plopped onto the couch and patted the cushions beside him. Hesitantly, she followed him and did as gestured. It was.. weird to be back. She wiped her eyes again.

“How’d that’a happen?”

“..What?” the question hit her like a slap.

“The cut.” He gestured to the bleeding injury with a bandaged hand.

“...Oh.” Again, her gaze dropped. Her eyes began to mist again before she shut them. “..I-I.. I was.. um.. mugged on the way here… They stole my favorite purse…” Shame burned at her belly. She didn’t see any sign of judgement in McGucket’s reaction, though. He didn’t ask why she let that happen, or why she wasn’t responsible enough to bring someone with her. There was only concern for her.

“Oh.. ‘Ahm sorry that’a happened. Gravity Falls’s usually safe.. er- ah..” The old man scratched the back of his head. “‘least, it’s not the people ya gotta usually worry ‘bout.”

“Heh.. yeah..” Shrugging, the old man pulled out a full-blown first aid kid, temporarily baffling Pacifica for a moment. “Wai- were you just carrying that—?”

The question went without a response as McGucket went straight to disinfecting the cut. “‘Doesn’t look terri-bubly deep,” he piped. “Should’a stopped bleeding by now but we’ll patch it up ta’ keep it safe while it’s a-healin’.”

“Wait.. how do you know how to do this..?” Pacifica asked, furrowing her eyebrows a little. The old man gave her a cheery grin.

“Well, ‘gotta pick up somethin’ ‘bout it after livin’ in the dump buildin’ evil whatsits and thingamajigs outta rusty metal for a couple’a decades.”

..Oh. Well, that would make sense, she supposed.. Briefly, the question as to why he was being so nice to her after the way she and her family treated him crossed her mind. She wondered if that friend he mentioned had something to do with it… Suddenly she found herself wishing she’d paid closer attention to the details of the relationships between the other people involved in the zodiac. She guessed it could be that hotter Mr. Pines (or.. Dr. Pines?), she recalled seeing some kind of emotional exchange between him and McGucket during Weirdmaggedon.

Occupied with her thoughts, she hardly realized McGucket had completely finished with the bandage until he announced it.

“Done!” he cheered, stuffing the first aid kit back into the oblivion from which it came. Weird. More Gravity Falls weirdness. “...Thanks.”

“Anytime, sweetie. Y’always got’a listenin’ ear right here if ya’ need it.”

Pacifica gave him a small, grateful smile. The old man would never know what that meant to her.

“I.. I don’t know..” she sighed softly. “Today was just… awful… It’s the first birthday I’ll be spending alone, and I guess it’s… getting to me…”

“Yer birthday’s today?? Ah, Ah’m sorry, sugerbun,” McGucket spoke. “Awful break, goin’ through somethin’ like a’this on’a birthday mornin’. Say, ya always got a place right ‘ere if ya need. Plenty a’ empty bedrooms.”

Pacifica raised her head. “...R...Really..?”

McGucket beamed. “Why sure! Ya remind me a’ my lil’ Tator Tot, Ah’ miss ‘em somethin’ terrible. It gets a lil’ lonely in this ‘ere big ol’ mansion sometimes and ah wouldn’t mind a visit from some young folk from a’time ta’ time.”

She could… she could visit. Whenever she wanted? Her old home, without her parents around. McGucket was that okay with her? Even going so far as to compare her to (presumably) his own kid? That was… incredible. Before thinking it through, she threw her arms around the old man, chorusing her ‘thank you’s with a bubble of laughter. Though startled, Fiddleford slowly returned the hug with a warm smile.

He stank quite a bit. Pacifica recoiled a little at the realization of what she was doing. Ew. What would people think of her if they caught her doing something so unthinkable? Willingly embracing this stinky old man who…. gave incredible hugs.. Her concern suddenly dissolved. In its stead, a certain safety appeared, and she melted into it a little more. It was the same feeling she craved in her dreams. Dirt didn’t matter at all anymore. The feeling of a parental embrace shielding her from the unpleasantness of the world was all she could bring herself to care about at that moment. It felt so warm… Before she knew it, she was tearing up again.

“...Thank you, McGucket..”

“Heheh, anytime, sugarbun. Say, since it is yer birthday, whaddya say we hit th’ town an’ find somethin’ ta’ cheer ya up?”

Pacifica wiped her eyes with her palm. What an offer... To think a year ago she would never had even considered walking around with the old kook as a possible option, but.. She found herself looking forward to it. “I… I would love that.”

[Part 1 of ??? possibly 2??]

#this totally isn’t a vent piece for the nightmares i keep waking up from skdhkdbd #i’ll prolly write the second part. soon #my writing #gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls fic #pacifica northwest #gravity falls pacifica #fiddleford mcgucket #gravity falls mcgucket #found family #angst with a happy ending #comfort

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dingdongitsbees · 4 years ago

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BLACK-EYED SUSAN | LEVI X READER HUNGER GAMES AU

Chapter 13: Rinse and Repeat

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Tw: PTSD, implied suicidal ideation, alcoholism

WC: 5.4k Ao3 link Ask to be added to the taglist! It will be updated weekly on Saturdays

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“Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful, it was always just red.” – Kait Rokowski

It had been a few years since your world had gotten simultaneously a million times better and also gone to shit. It hadn’t really hit you two until you had spent a few days back in the homes that had been provided for you. You each had your own house as per usual for victors, but you didn’t need a second. You had spent your life together in a borderline shack, it would feel weird to have the other sleep across the street. But it had been in that gifted house that it finally came crashing down.

All you could see was their faces, all you could feel was that knife in your hand, all you could hear was that goddamn canon. You were sitting on a velvet couch paid for in blood. Now having more than enough food on the table was exchanged for lives. Being able to still exist in the world meant twenty-two people had been ripped from the world.

Levi had been next to you, so he just held you, his shoulders shuddering just as bad as yours, and you cried. You just cried. There’s nothing you can do or say or think to make anything like that better. Only time can help, and to be honest it isn’t very good at its job.

The trip to each district took what was left out of you two. Combined you had killed tributes of five districts out of the other eleven. Almost fucking half. Most of their families just glared at you on their platforms as their child’s face was displayed behind them as you recited propaganda scripts.

District Ten was hard for you. They had surprised you to be honest, neither of Sasha’s nor Connie’s family looked at you with any disdain. All you could feel was pity radiating off of them, especially from Sasha’s father. She told you how he had taught her how to shoot, you almost deviated off script to say how you learnt vicariously through his daughter, how kind she and funny she was.

Connie’s siblings hurt to look at. They looked at you with such big eyes. They should have hated you, they really fucking should have. Their brother died in one of the most horrific ways possible yet they stared at you as if you were one of their sisters. The normal people in front of the stage only copied their looks, none of them hated you for taking away two souls. It didn’t make any fucking sense. It would have been better if they had just heckled you. Just yelled at you and screamed at you, taking the brunt of their words was the least you could do for exchanging your life for one their own.

District Eleven wasn’t so kind to Levi. Kaya’s family looked like they were two seconds from breaking on to the main stage and choking him to death right there. He might have let them. Niccolo’s family was confusing. There was obviously no forgiveness for how Levi killed their son, a wild animal in a spree of rage, but they didn’t look angry. Levi had told you he had just said a few words over Niccolo before coming back, maybe those words were enough remorse for them to not want his head on a spike.

However, the civilians in the crowd didn’t agree. They had to be restrained from climbing up, yelling threats and taunts, about how he could kill a little girl without a second glance, how he took pleasure in killing Niccolo. Levi kept his head down, his undercut blinding his view, but his hand shook in yours. You did the speech on behalf of the both of you.

The districts from Nine to Five didn’t give two shits about you, maybe only some had mild curiosity. Their glazed-over eyes just stared, clearly bored as you were from the fuckery spilling from your lips. Some of the families glared only because their child wasn’t standing up there instead of you, but you couldn’t blame them for that.

One was…weird to say the least. Neither of you had many interactions with either Annie or Bertolt, but you two lead them to their deaths. Levi may have killed Annie directly but Bertolt’s murder was just cruel, you knew that, but you had thrown that rock anyway. Both of their families just looked devoid of any emotion, the crowd didn’t seem to care, that’s One for you, but their parents just looked empty. The speech went smoothly.

Three was strange as well, you never met nor saw their girl, but Falco you certainly had, but you also hadn’t killed him, in reality your relationship him was positive. They didn’t seem to hate you, quite the opposite really, they seemed to be happy you were there. Three was no stranger to careers betraying and killing their tributes so they were probably just happy Reiner didn’t win and it had been because of your own hands. Still, it was strange. Falco’s older brother, the one you had seen in the reaping recording, had looked on the brink of tears but he stayed strong, his back straight and head up high. They probably wouldn’t have looked at you the same if Falco had gone with you. Someone would have needed to kill him at some point anyway, it just so happened it wasn’t you.

Two was painful. Instead of two separate families standing on their respective platforms it was just one. There was confliction in their eyes for sure, you were surprised they could even stand to be around each other, their sister or bother’s son killing their child. But they stood together. Staring at you with a mix of hate and affection. Levi had to do the speech that time.

Four was hard once again, but only because of one person, specifically Marcel’s younger brother. He flew daggers from his eyes, pure fury ran through his veins. He probably would have killed you both if he had the chance, probably would have been good at it too. You could only begin to imagine the anger he had stored up since you had sliced his brother’s throat.

You recognised him in the reaping for the next game.

He used his anger well.

At the end of the trip you had to go to the Capitol once again for the Presidents party. You nearly preferred the arena.

Floch was sweating buckets under Zeke’s gaze the entire time and drank himself into a stupor, avoiding you both at every turn which you were glad for. People reached for you like you were statues, brushing your hair and clothes and bodies like you were pets. Nick was the only thing stopping you from cursing everyone in the vicinity, Levi came close. Zeke watched from his balcony, eyes narrowed and sipping on champagne waiting for one of you to misstep so he could order a bullet into your heads.

When you got home you two didn’t know what to do. You both fucked around for a year, bought anything that caught your eyes at the hub no matter if it was an ugly piece of pottery or a toy. You bought a lot of liquor too and drank most in one go. The burning in your throats let you forget the inferno in your brains. A small price to pay for some peace and quiet between neurons.

You two were rarely sober for the first few months. You’d wake up and have whiskey for breakfast, you’d walk around town, maybe sneak through the fence, and have some gin, and if it was a particularly bad day you’d opt for tequila as your bedtime stories.

People in the streets knew to leave you alone, just to let you wallow a bit, they hadn’t seen many victors, but they could guess that starting up conversations with people on the knife’s edge was a good way to get punched. Hannes talked to you two occasionally, usually at the hub, cheering your bottles with his flask. He didn’t ask about the game, he saw enough anyway, he just pretended you were those troublemaker kids you had been when you left.

It was Hanji of all people that got you out of it, though she wasn’t one to talk when it came to the number of empty bottles in your living room, but she at least cut the number down a bit or swapped out the drinks for something weaker much to your slurred complaints.

The months after that were hard, letting the built-up trauma hit you like a train. You both started getting nightmares.

One of you would wake up already screaming or crying or be entirely frozen still and unable to move as their body quaked. The other would hold on to them until their tremors ceased and their breath evened again. Then you’d just rinse and repeat the next night.

Rinse and repeat.

Flinch at a raised voice, go numb at the sight of blood, start hyperventilating when you were sure you had seen another tribute in the crowd.

Try not to let yourself die.

Rinse and repeat.

Then the next game came around. You both offered to go as mentors, to let Hanji take a backseat from the role after her isolating years, she came to make sure you didn’t say something stupid, but she just got to hang around without much of a care.

The two kids that you got weren’t good. You knew the second that their names were called that they were goners. Wouldn’t make it in the bloodbath, and even if they ran, they probably wouldn’t live past the first day. You learnt to push their names away. It didn’t help any to hang on to them.

The kids weren’t dumb, they knew that too.

There was a little bit of hope when they looked at you however, a hope that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Porco had sliced both of their throats open within the first minute. Porco won the title of victor in only three days with a kill count of eight. They never had a chance.

You think that was the last time you cried.

When mentors go to the Capitol and watch the feed, they sit in a room together connected to an ongoing party that never stops until the games do, infested with sponsors and government officials. Only mentors are allowed in that room, not even titan servants. You just needed a room to be in to be able to grieve only with people that understood.

They always looked after the new mentors, it didn’t matter the districts or even if their tribute killed yours, they’d hold you, get you a glass of water or usually something stronger, just let you get everything out and topped up makeup on your red rimmed eyes before you got ambushed by press outside the door. Sometimes the career districts were prickly, but only the ones that truly cared about the kids became mentors anyway, so they weren’t ones to give you shit.

It just sort of numbed you after that. You’re not sure if you could even remember all the kids you sent to their deaths. No, you definitely couldn’t, and you didn’t plan to.

Without fail every year they always got killed in the bloodbath, and every year without fail you’d drill into them to just run away, but they just wouldn’t listen, or the careers just didn’t let them leave. You both spent most of your time in the Capitol just flicking off the tops of third bottles and taking quiet bets on who was going to win or who’d kill who. Levi was always right.

It was actually Erwin’s idea to do something back at Twelve, to find something to pour yourselves into. So, after the 70th Hunger Games you went back and pushed your ludicrous amount of money to builders to create an orphanage. The one on your side of Twelve was shit and didn’t have the funding nor space, it was the reason you two had never gone to it yourselves, so you gave them some of your load too so they could get food on the table for once.

Kids started trickling in, you didn’t run the place yourselves, you didn’t have the emotional range to do something like that anymore and you’d probably do more harm than good as their caretakers, they didn’t need a pair of fucked up twenty-year-olds to lead them through life. But you visited, making sure everything was up to scratch and there was no complaints or concerns from the kids about the people you had employed or the quality of their beds and food or if they needed some more toys to play with.

Levi always made sure the place was meticulous, and it was kinda funny how he used cleaning as his way to bond with the kids. They always complained but they never said no when he asked for their help. You helped kids with schoolwork and funded whatever type of skill they wanted to learn.

“You wanna paint? Here’s an easel and some paints from the Capitol that my designer friend sent over.”

It was hard to smile but at least you could help them to.

One day, when you two had dropped in to visit before you went to stock up on vodka, a boy came up to you with big emerald eyes, with a black-haired girl trailing after him. He asked a question that got everyone surrounding you looking up from their sandwiches.

“Can you teach us how to fight?”

And so you did. Twelve had always been at a disadvantage, nothing in your district aided you for the Games, the closet you’d had was learning about mines and explosions or having the physical strength to lift a pickaxe but that was only available when you worked in the mineshafts at eighteen, the last year qualifying for the reaping, and eighteen-years-olds were never picked.

So usually any kid that went in was utterly fucked.

Unless you tried changing that.

You started small. Learning how to throw a proper punch or kick, things you had learnt on the streets stirring up trouble. How to balance yourself in a proper stance so a gust of wind or a shove from a career wouldn’t send you stumbling.

You taught them the things you learnt in the Capitol and in the training room; what foods were safe, how to set a trap, how to treat a wound, how to conduct an interview, how to form an alliance, who to avoid.

It was a long time before you held a blade again.

They had begged you for months to just teach them how to knife fight, but the idea still shook you. You hadn’t held a throwing knife in your hand for years, but it still melded uncomfortably comfortable into your palm. You could still throw it and hit it dead on centre. You knew if the throw was hard enough to go through someone’s skull. You knew how long it would take for their body to hit the ground if it were a clean shot, and how long it would take if it wasn’t. You knew how many milliseconds it would take for the canon to fire.

Picking up a knife again, only if to teach, was a torturous process, but you didn’t let them know that. You would just drink a little more that night.

“Eren keep your arms up! Try and copy Mikasa’s form!” you barked.

They all stood in a line, throwing knives into hay bales, some making it, most missing. Mikasa was unsurprisingly the former, Eren was unsurprisingly the latter. The two were always the hardest at work though it seemed it was usually driven by Eren’s ambition. The kid wasn’t gifted with natural talent but he was stubborn enough to try and make up for it. They had come to the orphanage after Mikasa’s parents were murdered over some debt they couldn’t pay and Eren lost his mum to a mine explosion and then his father caught something bad from his own patient.

It was always them begging you (well Eren at least, Mikasa would just ask nicely) for more lessons and whatever advice they could squeeze out of you. It frightened you a little, Eren’s enthusiasm, you had seen that face before.

It was an unspoken truth that they were your favourites of the bunch, the others didn’t take offence to it, it was just those two were always coming up to you two whenever they got the chance, though you were scared it was because they reminded you of an overconfident kid and the one trying to take care of them. You tried to pretend you didn’t see Gabi and Falco when you looked at them.

“I’m trying but my arm’s starting to feel heavy!” Eren said, not even bothering to turn his head.

“You brats don’t have time to get tired when you’re in there so just get used to it,” Levi replied.

He walked behind them, arms crossed as he analysed each of them, you tried not to make a joke that Eren and Mikasa were taller than him now. He muttered out tips to those who needed it, and compliments to those who deserved it, you had tried to get him to coddle them just a little bit but then he said overestimating yourself just gets your killed and you couldn’t say anything to that. When he got to the end of the line of kids, he wandered back over to you and you gave a crooked smile.

He bumped his shoulder into yours before turning around and standing next to you, you both falling into your usual silence as you just watched.

“There’s more of them than usual,” Levi noted and you nodded absentmindedly.

“It’s today, it makes them nervous.”

“Zeke never picks them though.”

That was true, when you had first started up the orphanage, you had expected Zeke to jump at the opportunity, there was no way he wasn’t privy to your every movement let alone something that required legal documents to be signed, so how he hadn’t rigged the reaping to pull one of your kids was honestly getting a little unnerving.

But each year a pair of kids were picked that you didn’t recognise, and you’d breathe a sigh of relief; it’s much easier to forget strangers.

You realised that the games were rigged at the 71st games, you had noticed that all the slips of paper you could see, even though they were folded in half, would all start with the same letter, it peeking out, and then the name called out would match. You asked Hanji afterwards, cause there was no way she hadn’t noticed, and she just laughed in your face.

“It’s a show, of course they choose their cast.”

You leant your head on his shoulder as you watched, he leant his head too. His arms untangled themselves from each other and he let one fall, letting his pinkie interlock with your waiting one. You both still being there was a constant surprise and an unspoken threat, because someday, when Zeke got tired, or you did something to piss him off, that fact might not be so true anymore.

But Levi’s there now, maybe not tomorrow, but today at least, and you could only hope that the trend remained.

“Cut it out dude!”

You both whipped your heads around, finding two kids wrestling on the ground. They panted as they tried to get the advantage, dust billowing around them as the other kids stared. Neither of you could be bothered to move. Eventually one straddled the other, pinning him to the dirt.

Levi’s pinkie tightened.

The boy on the ground whined while the other grinned in victory before joining his empty hands together and sending them down onto the boy’s chest.

Levi stiffened beneath you and alarm bells blared in your head.

The boy started pretending to stab him.

“Die! Die! Die!”

The kids around them laughed.

The boy beneath told him to stop.

Levi’s breath shortened.

You were at the kids in a second, pulling them off one another.

“That’s enough.”

They went silent, the boys looking down to the ground in shame, though they didn’t know why you were trying so hard not to glare.

“Time to pack up anyway, you guys need to get ready for the reaping,” you said, you were just greeted with whinges, “Put the knives in the tub you lot. Now.”

They instantly shut up, knowing that tone of yours was not to be messed with under any circumstances. They all shuffled off, throwing the knives in, you always counted them all in case one of them took one, but they were good kids.

Levi nodded at them as they filed back inside the building, jaw still tight. As soon as they were all gone, Eren and Mikasa waving goodbye at the end of the line, you sprinted back over, running your hands through his hair as you brought his face to your shoulder.

“Shh it’s okay it’s okay.”

A shudder whipped through him.

You kissed his temple. “You’re not in the arena, you’re in Twelve. I’m not about to die and neither are you. No one is dying and no one is going to. Just breathe, just focus on my voice and breathe.”

Eventually he stilled again, air flowing through his lungs like normal. It didn’t happen as much anymore, but it still happened. It probably didn’t help that he was about to meet two dead kids.

“Let’s go home, yeah?”

He nodded into your shoulder before finally raising his head, sliding over his façade again. You two of all people had to be the strong ones today, you couldn’t show fear, you weren’t allowed to anymore.

The walk home was silent, most people were inside or rushing home to get ready. You dropped past the hub quickly and you bought some bottles from your usual, Levi didn’t say a word, just stared into space. You passed the town square, the camera crews were nearly all set up, the barriers were getting placed. Hannes was testing the mic on the stage, he sent you a nod that you sent back.

The Victor’s village was always weird to see, after passing smog polluted houses with windows that are barely transparent anymore with walls that are starting to tilt, you come to a pristine gate. The separation pissed you off like it was saying you were better than them, but Nick would have your head if you even suggested taking it down. The houses were beautiful too. Maybe it was just an average house for a Capitol citizen, maybe a little nicer, but it looked like a goddamn king’s estate compared to everywhere else in Twelve.

People would say you deserved it, to have a nice home. It made you want to puke.

You could see Hanji through her window, lounging on a couch, bottle of whiskey in hand. Seemed like a plan.

You squeezed Levi’s hand as you unlocked the door and led him inside. You shed your jackets and shoes and put away your bottles, leaving one out. You glanced to him, he was still sort of out of it, he needed quietness, maybe a bath. Yeah a bath would do, those always calmed him down.

You trekked up the stairs, on the landing you let yourself take a little run up and slide across the wooden floorboards on your socks towards the bathroom door. Silly shit helped sometimes.

You reached out and grabbed the handle and turned it, pushing forward on the door. It let out an ungodly and far too familiar screech.

You gasped and slammed your back into the wall.

Fuck.

Your breath was getting quicker, not letting your lungs get enough oxygen before taking another gulp.

Fuck fuck fuck.

You crouched down, elbows on your knees as you pressed your palms into your eyes at a sad attempt to get your brain to stop.

You could only see him, or in more exact terms, you could only see his melted remains.

Fuck.

Rapid thumps came from the stairwell, you didn’t look up as arms enveloped you.

You let out a shaky breath. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t say anything, just kissed your head before holding you tighter. Your need to talk to communicate was even less than it used to be ever since the Games. There were things you two didn’t need to speak about, you just acted on, knowing exactly what to do.

Though there were moments you didn’t want to talk about, and you didn’t plan to talk about them either. He didn’t mention finding you sobbing on the bathroom floor surrounded by spilled sleeping pills and you didn’t mention waking up alone in bed and finding him completely out of it on the roof of the orphanage. You didn’t talk about it, but you held each other a little tighter just as you did both of those nights.

“I’ll get some oil for it when we get back,” Levi whispered.

You nodded into his chest.

“Bath?” he asked.

You nodded again.

Warm water has magical powers you swore, it really shouldn’t be able to make someone feel so good, to be able to relax and almost drift away forgetting about the possibility of drowning. What a lame way to go out, though it was much nicer than the ways you’d seen.

You laid on Levi’s chest as the water rippled around your little movements. He played with your pruned fingers, touching the fingertips with his own like it was an interactive museum exhibit. You watched, fascinated by his fascination, blinking slowly as the bath bled out all of your stress.

Moments like that were nice, but it had to be broken today. You couldn’t stay in that warm heaven forever, though it was quite tempting, you wouldn’t exactly be missing out on the adventure of a lifetime.

You ruffled the towel through your hair as you sipped the vodka. The burn and taste were barely noticeable, even the effect had begun to wear off or maybe you had just gotten better at being under the influence.

“Catch.”

You threw the bottle to Levi on the couch who caught it without a second glance, immediately taking a few gulps of it himself.

“Hello you two.”

You both looked to the door, sending tight smiles to your usual guest, though to be honest your home was hers and hers was yours at that point.

She walked behind Levi’s couch and took the bottle that he already had extended to her, taking a gulp before placing it on a side table.

“Ready to send children to die?”

The reaping went as usual. Hanji welcomed everyone to the 74th Hunger Games, two kids got reaped, one fifteen-year-old and one thirteen-year-old, you couldn’t remember which was which. You waited in the train, neither of them came up to talk to you and just ate up all the food they could before passing out on the nicest bed they would ever sleep in. You didn’t bother them, one look and you knew they were a lost cause.

The process went on.

Neither were that charismatic, they were only memorable because they were last and that was pushing it as is. They both got low scores, a four and a six. The thirteen-year-old cried himself to sleep the night before, or he might have, you wouldn’t know, you slept through it.

That morning you went up to the roof with them, got in the mentor’s hovercraft and just twiddled your thumbs, wondering who was going to win that year or what the arena was going to look like. You went in, sitting in the back of a cart, going through the maze of corridors beneath the grand stage, not bothering to focus in your eyes to see your surroundings. It was just grey walls anyway.

You yawned when you got to the centre, scratching the back of your neck as you tried to find your tributes amongst all of the shaking teenagers.

A finger tapped you on the shoulder. You spun around to see the girl from…Seven? She grinned, her eyes crinkling.

“I just wanted to say I think you’re really cool, I really admire what you and Levi did in your games.”

You blinked.

“Oh, is that so? Good luck then I guess.”

She smiled even wider before running off with a wave. You dragged a hand over your face before heading over to your tribute waiting for you.

It was a forest arena, nothing too special.

The games had long since started when you got back to main city of the Capitol and went into the sponsor party, both of you immediately beelined for the mentor room. You watched as replays showed one getting killed in the bloodbath the other getting hunted down by none other than the careers. You just stared at their slow-mo screaming faces and sighed.

You didn’t cry, you didn’t even blink. You did the first time but after that it’s just been shut away. Thankfully there was no new mentors that year, you didn’t have to deal with sobbing messes. You were too exhausted to care for someone anymore. Compassion doesn’t come cheap.

The mentor room was filled with pain as always, most were just trying to unlearn two names as quickly as possible, drowning their neurons in liquor so they could pretend that two faces weren’t burnt into their brains. It won’t be enough, it never is. You knew that too now.

Some of the others in the room weren’t mentors but they were victors all the same, having just grabbed a free trip to the Capitol so they could bum off some high-class booze. Couldn’t blame them. They were lucky though, the other districts, having more than three victors meant they had the option of just staying home and just ignoring the screen. They didn’t have to know the kids.

You two spent the rest of your time in silence, going back up to the penthouse to sleep before coming back, hoping the whole ordeal would be over soon.

The girl that talked to you before it started, a girl from Eight you had learned, was still alive though, and you couldn’t help but cheer for her a little bit. She started an alliance with a girl from Six, both doing well against the attempted threats on their lives by the careers. Soon they had made it to the last few with only a few scratches to show the world, much better than your leg to say the least. It still ached every once in a while.

But you were still surprised when her little duo alliance were the last ones left. Their mentors were on the edges of their seats, hands covering their noses and mouths like a prayer, eyes glued to the screen.

Then the girl from Eight did something fucking stupid, something that made everyone’s breath hitch around the country.

She brought out some poisonous berries. They had killed a career with them, not needing to get into a fight, but then they held grenades in the form of blueberries in their blood-stained hands.

They brought it to their mouths as the room cursed in unison, people rose from their seats, you could hear people yelling outside the door. They both hesitated for a second as they counted down but plopped them in their mouths anyway.

Two canons fired in quick succession.

The transmission was as silent as the room. No one knew what to do. You stared at the screen with two dead kids. There wasn’t going to be a victor. There wasn’t going to be a victor because they copied you.

“I really admire what you and Levi did in your games.”

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

The room slowly turned to you two as your heart hammered in your chest, Levi’s hand fumbled for yours.

You were fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

a/n: sorry this chapter was late! this was mainly just summary but we’ll really get into it next chapter

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pedro-pascal-love · 4 years ago

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The Ex

Chapter Six of Well, This is Awkward

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ Join My Taglist

Rating: 18+, NSFW

Word Count: 3k+

Summary: An old flame reappears and some things start to come to light about Dave.

Warnings: Language, angst, *SMUT*, daddy kink, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, light choking, unprotected sex (WRAP IT UP), cheating/infidelity, abuse, violence, forced abortion/miscarriage, MAJOR TRAUMA

A/N: I’m putting a trigger warning for the second flashback. If you’d like to skip it you can, the end of the second flashback is the end of that scene.

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Ever since you and Dave had found out about Carol’s extramarital activities, you both had jumped headfirst into whatever it was that this was. You’d spent nearly every night in his bed with him once the girls were asleep, not to mention your shared activities throughout the day while the girls were away. The first night you’d spent in Dave’s bed with phenomenal, to say the least.

—FLASHBACK—

"I expect you to be naked and waiting,” Dave instructed sternly. You’d clenched your thighs together in anticipation as you nodded and made your way to his bedroom. Once there, you stripped all your clothes off and crawled up onto the bed and laid down, back against the headboard, and waited. You grew anxious at Dave took his sweet time coming in, so you began to touch yourself while you waited. You trailed your fingers down your torso and between your thighs, dipping them into your heat. You were slick with want for Dave, mixed with your combined juices from earlier. You began to pump your fingers into your soaked cunt and moaned out, leaning your head back against the wall.

“Now what do we have here?” you heard a voice, opening your eyes and smiling at Dave as you saw him with his pants already undone and his cock in his hand. “Did I say you could start playing with yourself?” You gulped, shaking your head no as you took your fingers out.

Busted.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you innocently said as you crawled over to the foot of the bed to grasp his hard cock in your hand and lick it. Dave threw his head back as he felt your tongue lap on the underside of his cock. Groaning as you fully enveloped him in your mouth with a slurp.

“Oh fuck, baby girl, you keep that up, and you’ll be forgiven,” he managed to croak out as you worked your way up and down his length, taking his balls into your hand that wasn’t wrapped around his cock. You felt him stop you partway through and turn you around.

“Get on all fours for me, sweetheart,” Dave said as he parted your legs. “Yeah, just like that. That’s a good girl.” His praises went straight to your pussy, and you felt yourself leaking out onto the bed. Dave groaned as he watched a droplet of your juices drip out of you, and he took the opportunity to lunge forward and devour you. He uses two fingers to spread your lips apart so he can quickly flick his tongue against your clit while his other hand is on your ass, holding you steady. You whimper with want at the feel of his tongue against your clit and then move down to your folds.

“Oh fuck, Daddy, please,” you whine out, rocking back against his tongue as it dips into your folds. You hear Dave groan out at the taste of your combined juices from earlier in the evening, and he laps at you more. He flattens his tongue as he licks from your entrance to your clit and then takes your clit into his mouth and sucks. You have to bury your face into the bed to stifle your moans as he assaults your pussy like a man starved. You feel your legs start to quiver as you grow closer to the brink. Dave takes the opportunity to plunge three fingers straight into your cunt, and you feel him hit your g-spot. You explode with a loud moan of ecstasy, feeling your walls clench around his fingers and your cum drip out as he laps it all up.

“You taste so good, baby girl,” Dave praises as he turns you over onto your back and brings his lips to meet yours. You taste yourself on his lips and moan as your tongue battles him for dominance. You feel him slide into your drenched pussy and wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him right where you wanted him.

“Ohhh Dave,” you moaned out. You felt him grip your neck as he lightly squeezed.

“What was that?” he said, licking up the side of your neck and biting your earlobe. “What’d you call me?”

“Ughh, Daddy. I’m sorry. Daddy, please,” you begged in desperation as you felt Dave slide out of you slowly. Dave smirked against your skin as he bit down hard on your shoulder and slammed himself back into you with so much force that it made the headboard bang against the wall.

“So fucking tight and wet for me,” he said as he plowed himself into you with more enthusiasm. “Such a good girl, taking my cock so fucking well.” The more Dave praised you, the more soaked you got, and the more he pounded into you. You felt his thrusts start to get a little more off rhythm and suddenly felt him slam into you and shoot hot beads of his cum into your walls. This triggered your orgasm, and you felt yourself cry out as he covered your mouth with his in a passionate kiss.

“You’re not going to be sleeping tonight, baby girl,” Dave said as he started pumping into yet again, still hard as a rock.

Well, fuck me.

—END FLASHBACK—

The two weeks had been pure bliss, and you were not looking forward to Carol’s inevitable return in a few days. The girls had been pretty sullen since finding out their mother would be gone longer, and you could tell that it was taking a toll on them. Alice had even asked if you could stay and be their new mom two days ago since she doubted that Carol would come home.

“Does this happen often?” you’d asked Alice on your way to drop them off for school that morning.

“Yeah, last time she was gone for three weeks,” Alice said with a sigh as she looked out the window.

“Oh wow,” you breathed out in disbelief. You thought that Carol didn’t make a habit of doing this, but you were proven wrong. Now you understood more about Dave’s anger at Carol. You understood how much more work Dave had to fill the void that Carol left with their daughters. Your thoughts were further soured when you thought about how Carol had only hired you for her to go on vacation with her assistant.

Fucking bitch, you thought. You proceeded to drop off the girls and head to your apartment. You needed to water your plants and get more clothes. You hadn’t foreseen not going home for nearly a month and especially hadn’t expected Dave to rip early half your wardrobe that you’d brought over the first day. He’d told you to go out and buy more with the black card you’d gotten, but you said to him that you felt dirty using the money that Carol was giving you.

“Technically, I’m the one giving you the money,” he’d retorted back with a snort as he’d slid a finger into you three days ago in the living room while the girls were at school. Your heart raced, thinking back to that day and how hot it had been to have sex in the backyard where the neighbors could’ve seen and heard. You shook your head with a smile as you neared your apartment and made your way inside. You gathered up some more of your belongings, making sure to grab extra underwear before watering your orchids and succulents. Suddenly you heard a knock at the door. You grew uneasy because you weren’t expecting anyone, and your senses were swiftly on overdrive. You made your way to the door and looked through the peephole. Your unease grew as you saw a figure with their back turned to the door. You recognized that stance anywhere. Tom.

“Knock knock,” You heard him say. “I know you’re in there, baby.” Your throat grew tight with fear.

“Tom, what the fuck are you doing here?!” you managed to squeeze out, making sure to sound as tough as possible while nearly shaking on the other side of the door.

“I came back for you, babe. They let me out early on good behavior. Can you believe that?” Tom taunted. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and open the door.” You looked at the locks and were relieved to see that they were indeed still secure, with the chain also locked in place. Tom knocked again, harder than before.

“Open the door right now,” he shouted, pounding his fist against it. You ran back to the kitchen and grabbed your phone, sending off a text to your friends Mel and Jesse.

You: Guys, Tom is here.

Mel: Where?!

You: Here outside my apartment! He said they let him out early for good behavior!

Your phone began to ring. Mel was calling you.

“Fuck dude, barricade the door and call 911,” she calmly said as you began to hyperventilate.

This was not happening.

“Listen to me! Call 911!” Mel shouted into the phone, and you nodded.

“Ok, I’m calling them right now. Can you please drive this way?” You asked, panicking as your hands shook, trying to unlock your phone.

“Yeah, I’m already on the way, and so is Jesse. Hang in there, sweetie,” Mel said as you ended the call. You quickly dialed 911 and waited.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher said into the phone. You struggled to breathe. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

“…H...Hello. Um…My ex-boyfriend is outside my apartment trying to get in,” you managed to say, tears forming in your eyes.

“Ma’am, are you in a safe place? We can dispatch someone out momentarily,” she said. You nodded and then realized she couldn’t see you.

“Ye – yes, I’m hiding in my bedroom now,” you replied.

“Ok, good. Can you give me your address, please, and we’ll get a squad car out.” You rattled off your address to her, and she replied, saying that someone would be there in a few minutes.

“Please hurry,” you pleaded, as you could hear Tom pounding harder on the front door and him jiggle the knob. In your fear, you hit END on the call, and you looked at the door in horror, listening to any sign that he may have left.

“FUCKING BITCH!!!! OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!” Tom shouted again as the banging continued. You decided to shoot Dave a quick text to let him know why you weren’t back at the house yet.

You: Dave, please help me. My ex is at my apartment.

Dave: I’m on my way.

You gripped the phone tightly as you closed your eyes, and tears dripped out. You were sure that he’d be locked up for a long time after what happened. More tears streamed down your face as you recalled the events of that fateful night.

—FLASHBACK—

❗️TRIGGER WARNING❗

“You whore, what the fuck is wrong with you?!” Tom shouted as he grabbed your arm forcefully. You knew a bruise would be there tomorrow.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry,” you pleaded, tears running down your face as he slapped you.

“Sorry, isn’t good enough, goddammit! I told you I wanted dinner ready as soon as I got home! Not fifteen minutes after. Not fucking thirty minutes after!” he yelled over you. You recoiled in fear as Tom cocked his fist back to hit you again. Instead, he threw you onto the ground and proceeded to kick you in the stomach.

“No, Tom! Please stop!” you begged, trying to protect your middle. He kicked you again, and you cried out.

“Shut the fuck up!” He yelled as he grabbed your hair and lifted your head.

“Please, Tom. Please stop. Don’t hurt the baby,” you implored. Tom stopped his actions and looked at you in anger.

“Are you fucking serious right now?!” he raged, rearing back as he slammed your head down onto the floor. “You got fucking knocked up, you whore!?” You cried even more as you watched him walk away from you and into the kitchen.

“Please, Tom. You’re drunk, baby. Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You watched as Tom came back into the kitchen and your body froze in fear at the glistening blade in his hand.

“You fucking bitch. I’m going to cut that baby right out of you,” Tom said as he drew closer. You crawled backward away from him until your back hit the wall.

Oh god, please no.

You prayed as he crouched down in front of you, and you cowered in fear.

“I’m so sick of your shit. Why I put up with you all this time, I have no idea,” Tom said as he spat into your face and gripped your head. You thought to fight back, claw at his arms, at his face, anything. But you were paralyzed with fear. You watched in slow motion as Tom plunged the blade into your body. You watched as blood began to pool around it and seep into your shirt.

“No,” you managed to breathe out before you lost consciousness.

You’d woken up at the hospital two weeks later, unsure of how you’d gotten there. You were convinced that Tom had killed you, but here you were. Connected to all these machines that beeped and whirred. You sat up in bed and winced as you felt a pain in your abdomen.

The baby!

You looked down at your bandaged middle and instantly knew. Tom had killed your baby and almost killed you. You’d been discharged two days after you woke into your sister’s care, and you felt like a shell of yourself. You’d almost died and had also lost your baby. The night Tom had tried to kill you, a neighbor had decided to call the cops, and they’d arrived shortly after Tom had stabbed you. Tom was convicted for one count of attempted manslaughter, one count of fetal homicide, six counts of domestic violence, one count of assault with a deadly weapon, and two counts of aggravated assault. All counts should have put him away for life, but the judge pitied Tom and had only given him ten years. Thankfully, you’d moved to a different city and even state and had put it all behind you.

—END FLASHBACK—

It turns out that Tom was resourceful and had found you. With tears streaming down your face at the painful memories, you looked down at your phone. Only three minutes had passed since you’d texted Dave and called the police, and there was no sign of either of them yet. You knew that it would take Dave about fifteen minutes to get from his house to your apartment, and you could only guess how long it would take the police. Tom’s constant banging on the door had you quaking, and you sent Dave another text.

You: Please hurry.

As soon as you hadn’t been right after dropping off the girls at school, Dave had checked your location on his phone. He saw that you were at your apartment and let out a sigh. Resnik had alerted him two days ago that Tom had left his home and was headed towards you. The bastard had been resourceful and pulled a piece of mail you’d sent your sister that had your address on it. Dave was angry, to say the least. Not only did he have to deal with Carol and her shit when she got home in a few days, but now he had to deal with your ex potentially being in town. Dave checked the cameras he’d planted in your apartment and clenched his jaw when he saw your ex was already in town—standing outside your apartment door.

“Fuck!” he shouted as he got up and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a Glock and its magazine, inserting the magazine into the base and cocking the pistol. He then grabbed the suppressor and attached it to the muzzle. He tucked it into the waistband on the back of his pants and made his way out the door, shooting the boys a quick text to meet him at your apartment, but stay hidden. As Dave made his way to your apartment, he got your text and seethed. Tom was trying to break in, and from the looks of the camera feed in your room, he was giving you quite a scare. Dave’s anger flared up as he watched the tears streaming down your face.

This bastard was going to pay.

Dave’s phone buzzed in his hand, and he glanced down at it.

Resnik: She called the cops a minute ago. They’re on the way.

Dave: Stay out of sight but keep an eye on things. I should beat the cops there.

Resnik: Roger that.

Dave pressed the gas pedal down, speeding up to get to you sooner. Luckily, when you’d texted him, he was already on his way, so he wasn’t far. Dave pulled into the apartment complex and saw Tom at your doorstep howling to let him in. Dave swiftly got out of his SUV and put his hand on the back of his pants, ready to grab his gun should he need to.

Thank god people are at work at this time of day.

I don’t have the patience to try and explain that one, Dave thought.

“Open this fucking door up, you stupid bitch!” Dave heard Tom yell as he kicked the door and jiggled the handle some more. Tom caught Dave’s movement out of the corner of his eye and looked over at Dave, sizing him up.

“What the fuck do you want?” Tom shouted, trying to make himself look intimidating.

“I want you to go,” Dave calmly said, his hand gripping the handle of the gun.

“Fuck you. Who do you think you are? Huh?” Tom yelled as he stepped towards Dave, pulling out a knife.

“That doesn’t concern you,” Dave said as he drew his gun and aimed it at Tom. At the sight of the pistol, Tom halted his steps, weighing his options.

Never bring a knife to a gunfight, Dave thought.

“Fuck this. Fuck you and this bitch,” Tom said as he spat towards Dave. “I’ll be back.” Tom began to walk backward, and Dave watched as he got into a car and drove off, fuming. Dave lowered the gun and walked over to your door, and knocked.

“Hello?” he said. He didn’t hear a sound from inside and opened up his phone to look at the feed. You were still cowering in your room. Dave decided to send you a text that he was outside and Tom was gone, and he watched through the phone screen as you read his text and buried your head in your knees and cried. Dave grabbed the spare key to your apartment and let himself in, making sure to lock the door behind him in case Tom decided to come back. He tucked his gun into the back of his pants again as he neared your room and heard your cries.

“Hey, it’s me. Dave,” he announced as he walked in. You looked up at him, eyes red and puffy, tears streaming down your face, and a little snot coming out of your left nostril. You cried harder as you got up and stumbled over to Dave, into his waiting arms as he shushed you and stroked your hair.

“Shhhh. He’s gone. I got rid of him,” he said into your hair, trying to calm you down. You held onto his shirt and cried some more. You slipped your arms around him and held onto him, and he breathed in your scent, not wanting to let go. Dave continued to stroke your hair as you began to calm down, and your arms slipped from the middle of his back to the bottom and came in contact with the butt of the gun. You both froze as you looked up at him, fear evident in your eyes.

Fuck, Dave thought.

“Dave,” you slowly said as you let go of him and took a step back. “Why do you have a gun?” There was a pregnant pause before you spoke again.

“And how did you get into my apartment?

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#dave york x nanny!reader #suburban murder dad #dave york x reader #dave york #Dave York #the equalizer 2 #well this is awkward series #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #dave york fanfic

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electronicgrowth · 3 years ago

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Can’t Get Enough Part 5

Billie has lost her virginity! Where is this relationship headed?

This has just been chilling in drafts... I forgot I was a person there for a moment. I apologize.

Summary: The two most stubborn people in Knockemstiff, Ohio have eyes for only each other. Lee Bodecker is determined to become the town’s next sheriff. He knows that image is everything. Billie Dechswaan doesn’t care about her image at all. All she wants is to leave Knockemstiff and never come back. But Lee has other plans for her. Both are far too stubborn to give up their own plans. What happens when they can’t get enough of each other?

Word Count: 2.3k

After losing her virginity, Billie can’t get enough of Lee. When he’s inside her, she promises him all the things he wants. But they fight about her wanting leave. She’s still adamant about moving away, despite her attack. Lee tries desperately to reason with her. But she won’t hear it. Lee feels his time running out as the days in June and July come and go. He makes the decision for them one day. He pokes holes in every single condom. He feels slightly guilty, but Bille needs to realizes how much she needs him.

All the arguing comes to a head one night in mid-August. Billie snuck out like she did most nights and met up with Lee. She quickly slide into the car and kissed him. It was a Wednesday night and they hadn’t seen each other since the church service on Sunday. Billie had spent most of the time between services chatting with Lee, instead of helping to serve luncheon, and this behavior was not missed by the church ladies.

Rumors were flying. Everyone was wondering when Lee would finally make Billie his wife. Many were saying that it was bound to happen before the next election. She’d be sherif’s wife by Christmas, the gossip said. Edna, the police station secretary made the mistake of asking Lee and relaying all the gossip. It got him thinking. He was going to broach the idea with Billie. He had to. He already had a ring anyway.

Before Lee could even start the car and drive away. Billie was kissing his neck.

“Did you miss me, baby?” He teased. Pulling her closer to him.

“I always miss you,” she scoffed, straddling his hips.

“I missed you too,” he murmured against her lips. She ran her tongue against his.

“You know,” he began, pulling back from the kiss, “You don’t have to miss me.”

“What do you mean?” Billie giggled, staring at him, “I always miss you when you’re not around.”

“I mean, you could miss me less,” Lee said. Billie’s smile dropped a bit.

“What are talking about, honey?” She asked.

“If we live together, we would see each other everyday. Wake up together, go to bed together,” he hummed, kissing her neck between each phrase.

“Lee,” she scolded, pulling away from him.

“Come on baby,” he huffed, “Be mine. Be mine forever. And don’t give me that whole song and dance about leaving. You want to be with me and I want to be with you. I could give you everything. Just let me.”

“We’ve talked about this, I want to be independent for a while,” Billie grumbled.

“Billie, come on. We’ve been together practically everyday for months. Why do you have to independent? You want to get married and have kids right?” He asked.

“Of course, I do. But—“

“No. No buts. If you’re planning to have kids, you won’t be working that long anyway. So, pick the right man to have kids with. Pick me, baby,” Lee implored. Billie stared at him and slipped off his lap.

“I was up front with you Lee. I told you I was going to leave and go to college. You knew that going in. I should go,” she whispered. Climbing out of the car. Lee ground his teeth before he got out of the car.

“Billie,” he yelled, “get back here.” He stalked after her angrily.

“Lee,” she sighed, turning to face him, “I can’t do this tonight. I can’t have this argument again.”

He gripped the tops of her arms, “What is it? Why won’t you marry me? Is there something I’m not doing? Are you embarrassed of me?”

“What?” She spat, “Of course not. You’re everything I want—“

“Then what is it? I love you, dammit,” he shouted.

“Look, let’s just take a pause. We can talk tomorrow. We’re both upset,” she placated.

“Fine,” he huffed, stalking back to his car and driving off before Billie had even reached the woods. Wheels spitting gravel, engine revving loudly as he drove away. Billie felt empty. What had she done?

The next day the county fair started. It was the event of the summer. Everyone was there. And Billie was avoiding Lee after their fight the day before. But he spots her. She evades him all night. He finally corners her outside one of the livestock barns.

“What is with you? You said we’d talk today and you’re fucking ignoring me,” He spat, shoving her against the barn and caging her in. Billie refuses to meet his gaze. Tears quickly well up and spill down her cheeks.

“Baby,” he hums gently, “What’s wrong.” His hands move up to cup her face and his thumbs wipe the tears away.

“Not here,” she shakes her head, “Let’s go for a drive.”

“Alright,” Lee murmured. They walk silently to the cruiser and Lee drove a couple of miles down the road before he pulls off onto a side road. It’s not really a road, more like a trail in the woods that farmers use in the spring and summer as a short cut.

Billie has tears running down her face.

“Talk to me,” he begged.

“I’m late,” she sobbed. It took Lee a few moments to catch on.

“Your period?”

“Yeah, I’m three weeks late. I thought it was just stress or something,” she cried, her voice breaking.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” he soothed, “I’ll take care of ya.” Lee’s heart is beating out of his chest with excitement, but he schools his features and voice to one of concern and anxiousness in order not to tip Billie off.

“What are we gonna do?” She’s fully panicked now. Lee can hear that she’s nearly hyperventilating.

“Shh, baby. You need to breathe, okay?” He said as he grabbed her face and forced her to look at him. She nodded slowly, breathing in and out steadily before Lee spoke again.

“We have to tell your parents,” he began. Billie’s eyes grew comically large, she started to protest but Lee cut her off.

“We’ll tell your parents. We’ll get married and no one will be the wiser. It’s okay,” he soothed, “I’ll be with you when you tell your parents. I promise I’ll take care of you.” His eyes shone with sincerity.

“What… what if I’m not ready?”

“You are. You’re perfect. Gonna take such good care of me and our baby,” Lee hummed as he kissed her.

“Lee,” she protested.

“Come on, sugar. You’ll be my good little housewife. I can’t wait to see you get round with my baby. You’re gonna look so sexy,” Lee groaned, he kissed from her lips to her neck as he spoke, “You’re all mine.”

“Did you— did you plan this?” Billie asked, shoving him away. Lee narrowed his eyes at her.

“It doesn’t matter how it happened. What’s done is done and you need me Billie,” he growled. Billie opened her mouth but no words came out. She was stunned. She shook her head back and forth, as she searched for the words.

“You’re a bastard, Lee.” His jaw clicked from side to side when she said that. Without saying anything he started the car and drove. Billie didn’t question him on where they’re going. She knew she was in deep shit. It’s only when she sees the farmhouse come into view that she starts to panic.

“No.”

“We’re telling your parents tonight.”

“Lee, please don’t do this,” she begged. But he didn’t listen.

“I wanted to be nice. I wanted to wait until after we got married. But you. You just couldn’t accept the nice future I had planned out for ya. So, if you want me to be the bastard, I will be. I’ll get you pregnant. Make you marry me.” He cut the engine and walked up to the house. Billie trudged behind him, she had no other choice.

Lee knocked at the before Billie even reached him. Joy answered.

“Deputy Bodecker,” she smiled, “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Billie and I have something to tell you,” he said happily. What a master of disguise he was. He made Billie believe, really believe that he loved her and cared for her. But he showed his true colors the second she stopped listening to him. And now he’s wooing her mother. Making her believe he’s a nice, stand-up guy. Joy’s smile faltered when she realized the Billie was with Lee, but she let them both in all the same. Lee marched to the living room as if he owned the place.

“John,” Joy called, “Lee and Billie want to talk to us.” John huffed, but turned the tv off. He gestured for Lee to sit.

“Clara, why don’t you go upstairs,” Joy suggested. Clara was the only one of the children home. All the others were still at the fair. She nodded and walked away. Joy sat down, but Billie didn’t.

“Honey,” Lee chuckled, “Come sit down.” She slowly went and sat by Lee. He was quick to wrap an arm around her.

“She’s nervous,” he said, smile glued to his handsome face.

“What’s going on?” John growled at Lee.

“Billie is pregnant,” Lee responded. Joy gasped. John looked like a deer caught in headlights. Billie started crying again, and leaned forward to hide her face in her hands. Lee patted her back.

“But, I don’t want ya’ll to worry,” Lee continued, “I’ll do right by her. I care for your daughter very much. We’re going to get married.”

John harrumphed, “You can take her down to the courthouse tomorrow for all I care. I thought you knew better than to open your legs, girl. I know you’re mama taught you better than that.”

“John,” Joy attempted to placate, “Let’s not be unkind. Lee is going to make this right.”

“I don’t care if he can make it right. Your daughter is out there acting like a whore,” John roared standing up from his armchair. He crossed the room and slapped Billie across the face.

“You have one week to get her out of my house,” John said to Lee, who looked up John and scowled. Billie couldn’t take one more minute, she jumped up and ran upstairs just as Sylvia walked through the door. If Sylvia was one thing, it was perceptive. She took one look at her father and Lee and chased after her sister.

“Now get out of my house, Bodecker,” Lee narrowed his eyes, but obliged. He would make John pay for hitting Billie.

Sylvia found Billie crying in a little ball on the floor.

“What happened?” She asked her sister.

“Lee g-got me pregnant and n-now I have to get married and I’m going to be stuck here in this stupid town forever,” Billie sobbed.

“Shit,” Sylvia sighed. Clara crawled off of her bed to join her sisters on the floor, she squeezed Billie’s hand. She wasn’t one for talking, she wasn’t good at it.

“I thought he loved me. But he manipulated me. I think he did it on purpose,” Billie choked through tears.

Sylvia stood up and started pacing.

“How much money you got?” She asked.

“About $250,” Billie answered.

“I got about $50 left over from babysitting. And I want you to take that,” Sylvia ordered.

“I can’t take your money, Sylvie.”

“Yes you can. Take it. Run away. Start over.”

“I—I—I h—have t-t-ten dollars for you, Billie,” Clara spoke.

“Take our money and go,” Sylvia said, “Consider it a thank you for all the years you took care of us.”

“Are you sure?” Billie looked between her two sisters. Both nodded.

“You have to go tonight. Go to the bus station and get out now,” Sylvia started to scheme. The girls helped Billie pack two bags that night. They rounded up and pooled their money. And at eleven that night, Billie snuck out and walked the three miles to the bus station. She waited until five in the morning and bought the first bus out to Cincinnati. But she didn’t stop there. From there she took another bus to New York. She figured she could disappear into the crowd there. She could say that her husband died and that she had no family left. She could get a job waitressing. Or maybe she could train as a secretary. It didn’t matter because she felt free.

After two weeks in the city, she wrote her family and Lee a letter. She claimed that she wasn’t pregnant. That the stress from telling them and leaving town caused her to miscarry. She said that she couldn’t face any of them now. But that it didn’t diminish her love. She refused to come home. Billie did not include a return of address. She secretly sent Sylvia another letter at her boyfriends house. It included her phone number. Sylvia would call her once a month from a payphone and then from the phone at the local grocery store she worked at. The girls stayed in touch that way. Sylvia secretly relayed the information to Clara and when Joy got suspicious, to her too.

Lee was distraught. He’d lost the love of his life and his baby in a matter of moments. He shouldn’t have made her tell her parents like that. But he couldn’t focus on it too long, because he was soon elected sheriff. He was married to the job. Then he started getting into business with the wrong people. Those terrible men he worked with gave him an idea. An awful idea. He wanted revenge against John and he would get it.

@greeneyedblondie44

@bxnnywriting

#lee bodecker #lee bodecker x female reader #lee bodecker x y/n #lee bodecker x reader #lee bodecker x ofc #lee bodecker smut

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hale-13 · 3 years ago

Text

Caliber

By Hale13

For the Summer of Whump Day 12 - Death

Peter grew up like most American kids running active shooter drills thinking (hoping) it would never happen to him.

Words: 2338, Chapters: 1/1 (Complete), Language: English

Fandoms: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)

Rating: Teen

Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark

Characters: Peter Parker, Ned Leeds, Michelle Jones, Tony Stark, Various Midtown Students and Faculty

TW: TW: Gun Violence, Blood, Major Character Injury, Possible MCD (if you choose to interpret it that way)

Read on AO3 or below the line break.

Growing up, Peter spent his early childhood in lower level genetics labs with his parents. Part of this was simply because they worked some weird hours at OsCorp but the other part was definitely because they recognized his intelligence and talent early and would give him easy experiments to run while they worked. Safe? Eh, maybe not but Peter had fun.

Well, until they died that is.

After that Peter would spend his time in the hospital daycare or nurse’s break room or sitting at Ben’s desk in the bullpen at the precinct where he worked. Daycare and babysitters were expensive and Peter was having a little separation anxiety from becoming an orphan at six. Peter accredits this formative time in his life to why he has a healthy respect of first responders, why he goes out every night in spandex to help his neighborhood (even if the cops hate him).

After the funeral, after May and Ben went back to work and started taking Peter with them, Ben sat Peter down to go over basic gun safety with him. He can remember that initial conversation pretty vividly: Ben had sat Peter down on the couch and had pulled out his unloaded side arm and the small safe he stored it in. He told Peter just how dangerous weapons could be in untrained hands, how Peter could easily hurt himself or others if he ever touched it, how Ben would always have it locked up but, on the off chance it wasn’t, Peter was to never touch it.

Peter had readily agreed and had steered clear of Ben’s belt and the gun safe next to his side of the bed his whole childhood.

The officers that Ben worked with were, for the most part, super nice to Peter and always took time out of their days to talk to him, bring him snacks and (attempt) to help him with his homework and Peter grew to be the most comfortable in the loud bullpen or the adjacent break room. The summer before he started his freshman year at Midtown, Ben and some of the other officers had given Peter a crash course in gun safety – how to clean, care and shoot a weapon – and it only took one trip to dash Peter’s dreams of working in law enforcement; he never wanted to handle a gun again.

Holding his uncle’s body as he bled out a few months later from the massive hole left in his back by the .45 caliber handgun only solidified that decision.

Luckily, in his tenure as Spider-Man, Peter tended to run into more sub-Ultron and Chitauri fare than the classic handguns and rifles he was familiar with which suited him just fine. When he did come across a run of the mill mugger or rapist who was using a pistol or something similar, Peter took great pleasure in using his super strength to rip it into tiny pieces – destroyed beyond repair and off the streets for good.

This had resulted in some unfortunate bullet grazes and full-on holes in his body that had prompted his helicopter mentor (under the order of Aunt May of course) to force him through another gun safety lecture, complete with a practical portion where Colonel Rhodes assisted in teaching Peter how to properly disarm and disassemble a variety of different sidearms. It was definitely cool to spend time with Actual War Machine but Peter rushed through it as quickly and throughly as possible. He never wanted to have the easy comfort with weapons that Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes had – he preferred non-lethal disarmament when patrolling.

All this said – Peter probably had more experience and knowledge with various weapons (human and otherwise) than he had any right to.

All of this experience, all of his time as Spider-Man, everything he had been through did nothing to help keep him calm and collected when his principal came over the intercom while Peter was in gym class to announce a code red shelter in place order. Like most high schoolers in America, Peter had gone through numerous school safety drills so he, in theory, knew what to do in a emergency.

In practice? Not so much.

Coach Wilson had looked just as pale and stunned as the class but had recovered quickly enough to rush the doors. A few other students had also started moving to gather some of the wrestling mats to roll in front of the doors once Coach Wilson had gotten them closed and locked.

He, unfortunately, wasn’t quick enough.

Brian Anderson, a sophomore Peter recognized from the debate team, forced the door open, brandishing the small revolver in a shaky hand. His face was pale, eyes red rimmed with tears with such a desolate look it made Peter’s own heart clench in sympathy despite his rapid heart-rate.

“Back up,” he whispered, using the gun to gesture for the coach to step away and the man obliged; holding his hands up in surrender and slowly backing away from the door. Some of Peter’s classmates, including Ned who, for once, wasn’t right at Peter’s side in class but across the room from him, had started to cry. Michelle, looking stony faced but terrified underneath it all, was trying to shush Betty Brant who was in the middle of a full blown panic attack and trying not to draw attention to herself.

“Okay,” Coach Wilson said, motioning the class members closest to him to back up with one raised hand, his eyes never leaving the weapon. “You’re calling the shots here Brian.”

Brian sniffled, fresh tears spilling over his eyes and hand trembling as he surveyed the room, eventually moving the barrel to point at Mark Conley, one of Flash’s friends and a notorious online bully. Both boys had gone nearly ghost white and the class seemed to be holding its collective breath.

“Sorry Ben,” Peter thought. “Sorry Mr. Stark.”

“Brian,” he called out, voice sounding much more steady than he predicted it would since he was just Peter Parker right now and not Spider-Man. “You don’t want to do this man.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Brian spit out, anger over-ruling all of his other feelings and his eyes landing on Peter. “You don’t know what I want to do!”

“I promise you don’t want to do this,” Peter said calmly. “I know what they’re like. You think they treat me any better than you? You’ll regret this if you do it.”

Brian snorted out a dry laugh, not looking like he found anything remotely funny. “Then you should want me to do this.” He said, cherry picking Peter’s words.

“But I don’t,” Peter told him, edging closer to the other boy, making sure to put his body in front of Mark as he moved closer. “Do you know how my uncle died?” Brian, eyes locked with Peter’s, shook his head nearly imperceptibly. “He was shot by some guy robbing a bodega. He bled out in my arms before emergency services could arrive.” Peter said bluntly, doing the best to ignore how his heart clenched and his eyes burned.

The barrel of Brian’s gun dipped down to point more toward the floor and Peter took a few cautious steps forward, stopping when he was only about five feet away. “They won’t stop,” Brian whispered, the tears flowing heavier but his finger still in place over the trigger. “It just keeps getting worse and I can’t take it. I can’t do this anymore!”

“I know,” Peter said, voice soft, dropping his hands down to rest loosely at his sides. He really wishes he had his web-shooters, secret identity be damned. He was never taking them off again, no matter what May tried to tell him about work/life balance. “I know what its like and it sucks but they aren’t worth throwing your whole life away. It’s not worth hurting all the innocent people you’ll hurt. You don’t want to do that to your friends and family.”

“I don’t have any friends!” Brian said loudly, raising the gun back up to point at Peter but Peter didn’t move from his relaxed position even though he felt his heart speed up to a gallop. He faced possible injury and death at least once a week but that was always as Spider-Man… never as Peter Parker.

“I’m your friend,” Peter told him, a little desperate but honest. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” Brian gasped and let the pistol drop to his side in a loose grip. “Just hand me the gun Brian okay? And then we can talk about it, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Brian sniffed and rubbed his free hand over his face to wipe away the tears rolling down his cheeks. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Peter confirmed, holding out his hand. Brian nodded and lifted his hand to pass Peter the gun when everything went wrong. Betty, who had been hyperventilating through the entire exchange, finally passed out. MJ tried to catch her but the two of them hit the floor with a echoing bang that startled the whole class. Brian, gun lifted and finger still on the trigger, flinched and jerked to aim back at Mark, shooting.

Everything happened in slow motion for Peter and he grimaced at what he was about to do, saying mental apologies and throwing his body in the path of the bullet, jerking back at the feeling of it hitting him in the chest.

His breath knocked out and his consciousness already becoming more nebulous from the pain that was blooming in his lungs, Peter stumbled forward to yank the gun from Brian’s limp grasp, deftly unloading it with the last of his strength and with shaking hands before throwing the rounds to the opposite side of the gym; collapsing at the other boys feet.

“Oh god,” Brian whispered in horror. “Oh god Peter. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He tried to bend down next to Peter but was swiftly tackled by Abe and Jason where he was wrestled onto his front with them restraining his hands without a fight beyond his gulping sobs.

“You’re alright Parker,” Coach Wilson said soothingly as he rolled Peter onto his back and used his own hastily shed jacket to apply pressure to the steadily bleeding hole in Peter’s chest, causing him to grunt and squeeze his eyes shut in pain. “Thompson! Call 911 and tell them we have the shooter and we need emergency services in the gym. Conley run up to the office and tell Morita what happened!” Both boys jumped into action but Peter ignored it in favor of unsteadily pulling his own phone out of his pocket and sliding it to Ned who had joined the group along with a pale and teary Michelle.

“Call Tony,” Peter coughed out, blood staining his lips and leaked down the side of his face. “No hospital.”

Ned, shaking and crying worse than Peter had ever seen fumbled the phone with numb hands before giving up and pressing the panic button on the side of the phone. Feeling relieved that his mentor was on the way, Peter let his tired eyes close only to rip them open at the flick on his nose.

“It’s not nap time Tiger,” MJ told him, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t want to get detention again.”

“I think…” Peter gasped out, his lungs aching with the strain. “Think this… get me… a permanent… ‘get out of detention’… free card.”

Michelle ran soft fingers through his hair, helping him relax his clenching muscles. He could tell that Ned was on the phone and speaking in rapid, broken sentences. He could kind of hear the sirens approaching, the sound of the building evacuating, crying students. But nothing mattered as much as Michelle. “You just couldn’t help yourself huh?”

“You know… me,” Peter grunted, trying for a grin that didn’t show the tacky blood he was sure was staining his teeth. “No guts… no glory.”

“God you’re a disaster,” MJ said with a watery laugh, a single tear escaping to race down her cheek. Peter wanted nothing more than to reach out and wipe it away but his arms were made of lead.

Before Peter could work up the energy to respond, the doors of the gym were blown off the hinges by repulsers as Tony rushed the room, suited up in his full armor and clearly panicked. “Peter!” He shouted as he stumbled out of the suit, falling to his knees next to Peter and hastily began applying his prototype nanotech bandage to the hole in Peter’s chest before rolling him on his side to repeat the process with his back.

Peter gagged at the change in position, his eyesight fading out to a pinprick of light and his hearing glitching out. The voices around him became ever more harried but Peter couldn’t make out what they were trying to say – all he knew was he was really tired. More tired than he had ever been maybe. Surely no one would mind if he took a little nap?

“Stay with me buddy,” he heard Mr. Stark say as cold, hard arms gripped under his back and knees, lifting him and causing him to nearly black out again. “Just a quick little flight to the Tower Petey,” Tony said, voice wavering and not its usual strong timbre. “Just hang with me for a few more minutes and then you can nap okay kiddo?”

“Tired,” Peter gasped out, chest seizing. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!” Tony ordered, frantic and yelling over the wind buffeting them. When had they started flying? “Just stay awake.”

“Love May,” Peter whispered, his vision a kaleidoscope of shapes and colors that were rapidly fading. “Love you.”

“Peter!” Tony sounded so far away, Peter thought as his eyes closed against the colors and shapes and lights that were making him feel dizzy and sick.

Just a little nap.

No one would notice.

#summerofwhump #summerofwhump12 #Prompt: Death #irondad #spider man #Summer of Whump

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tchallasbabymama · 4 years ago

Text

Potential Breakup Fic

Yes, this is inspired by the re-release of the classic “Potential Breakup Song” by legends Aly & AJ. Check out the rest of my Masterlist HERE. Enjoy!

Word count: 2223

CW: Niggas aint shit. Kiana sat on her couch and tried not to cry into her glass of merlot. She took off her heels and got up to unzip her dress and take off her bra since she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere tonight. She checked her phone again and was met with an empty screen. No notifications, no missed calls. She threw her phone down in anger, and was thankful when she noticed the screen didn’t crack.

“I can't believe this nigga.”

She looked at the clock and shook her head. It was 12:07am, and her 25th birthday was officially over without so much as a word from her boyfriend. Just last night he had told her to be ready by 7, and she hadn't heard from him since.

They had been together, on and off, for three years. They met their junior year at Howard, but didn’t hit it off right away. He was too slick for her liking, but over time he eventually weaseled his way into her heart. His smile lit up the whole room and his big brown eyes could seduce anyone just like that. And he did, constantly. T’Challa was a huge flirt, and it was cute when they were still single and just getting to know each other, but even now T’Challa turns his charm on for every pretty face he sees. Kiana had brought it up to him many times, letting him know how disrespected she felt. He would always say the same thing.

“But entle, I’m just being nice. You know I only have eyes for you.”

She did know that once, but that ended about a year and a half ago when she was casually scrolling through twitter on his phone and caught him cheating.

“T’Challa!”

“Yes, my love?”

“What the fuck is this?!”

“Why are you on my phone?!”

“Don't fucking raise your voice at me, I’m not in the wrong here. I saw a funny tweet and started scrolling when YOU got a text from some bitch named Jasmine talking bout ‘I miss you daddy’ and sending you pictures of her pussy. Care to explain?”

He reached for the phone and she pulled it away from him.

“Nah-uh, talk.”

He sighed in exasperation.

“If you give me the phone I can explain, sithan-”

“Don’t you fucking ‘sweetheart’ me, answer the goddamn question. How long, T’Challa?!”

“Just once. Eh, one and a half maybe-”

He was interrupted by a throw pillow to the head.

“How the fuck do you halfway cheat nigga?!”

“She just gave me head the first ti-”

“That’s still cheating!”

“Will you lower your voice? You have neighbors.”

“Fuck! Them! Did you even use a condom?”

“Yes, Kiana I’m not-”

“Stupid? You’re not stupid?” Kiana laughed. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“My love, I-”

“Oh now I’m your love? Where the fuck was that energy when you were balls deep in this other bitch?!”

T’Challa stood there dumbstruck. He had never seen Kiana get this angry and didn’t know what to say. He knew he was wrong when he did it, but seeing the tears streaming down her face made him truly regret what he’d done. She had been so busy with school and work that she barely had time for him anymore. He had needs and just so happened to stumble upon someone more than willing to fulfil them.

He cursed himself for not locking his phone or at the very least, turning it over.

“How many, T’Challa...” Kiana sniffled.

“I told you, it was only twice-”

“How many women?!”

He froze, not knowing if he should mention Lisa since that was so much earlier in their relationship.

“Oh my god...oh my god...oh my- are you fucking serious?! I-I have to...I have to go get tested, I-”

“Kia-”

“What?!”

She looked at him with such fierceness that he shrunk under her gaze.

“I-I am sorry, I didn’t do it to hurt you, I was-”

He was stopped by a heavy-handed slap across his cheek that nearly knocked him over.

“Get the fuck out.” She said, barely above a whisper.

Six months later they ran into each other in the grocery store and decided to catch up over a cup of coffee. Kiana had healed and moved on, but T’Challa was still stuck on her. They had spent almost two good years together before he ruined what they had, and he just couldn’t let it go. He loved her, and he was determined to make it work this time.

Or so he really, truly thought before he met Marci...and Tanisha...

T’Challa knew he wasn’t a one-woman man, but he just couldn’t let Kiana go. His dalliances were never serious, just enough to scratch his constant itching. Sometimes they were a one-time thing, but others stuck around if they were good enough and knew how to be discreet. No matter what though, he always came back home to Kiana because despite his trash behavior, he really did love her in his own toxic way.

However, he didn’t love her enough to double check his calendar before leaving work on her birthday, or any day leading up to it. He had forgotten what day it was, and when he told Kiana to be ready at 7 he just meant for a regular date night.

It had been a long day at the Wakandan Embassy and Kiana’s Prince Charming needed a drink more than anything. He stopped at the first bar he came across that looked halfway decent. T’Challa walked up to the bar and caught the eye of the beautiful barkeep.

“Hiya, what can I do for you?”

T’Challa smiled his panty-dropping smile and she smiled back, revealing her perfect, white teeth. There was nothing he loved more than a pretty smile.

“Well, miss…”

“Tanisha,” she responded while using both arms to mix a shaker full of liquid courage and ice. His eyes avoided her chest, slyly watching in the periphery only.

“Well, Miss Tanisha, I had a horrible day at work and I am in need of a whiskey on the rocks. Preferably Jack, but truly anything will do.”

“We all have those days honey. Here’s a double on the house,” she said as she slid the drink to him across the bar top with a wink.

T’Challa licked his lips and lifted his glass to her before taking a sip of the warm amber liquid. He let out a sigh and his day seemed to melt away.

Tanisha kept coming back to check on him and they would chat when the crowd died down. T’Challa was on his third double when she came over with a plate of wings.

“You’re an angel.” He dug into the wings and made a complete mess on his shirt, so he went to the bathroom to try to wash the stain out. On his way back to the bar he noticed a very tall and sweaty man leaning over the bar trying to talk to Tanisha. From what he could see, she wasn’t feeling the conversation, but he kept approaching her anyway. When T’Challa returned to his seat she immediately gravitated towards him. This angered Mr. Tall and Sweaty, who drunkenly attempted to punch T’Challa in the face. T’Challa dodged the lazy punch and knocked him out cold with one hit. Security saw the whole thing go down, and removed Tall and Sweaty from the building once he came to.

“What you got planned for the night, handsome?”

“Nothing at all, why do you ask?”

“I get off at 9, wanna hang out?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good, now here’s a water.”

“Thank you, angel.”

By 10pm he was already halfway inside her, and when his phone started vibrating he was too wrapped up in her to think anything of it. Without looking he quieted the annoying sound and turned the phone off so he could focus on the task at hand.

Two and a half hours later, T’Challa was creeping out of Tanisha’s bed right as Kiana was sliding into hers. She had washed off all her makeup, but she didn’t have the emotional energy to tie up her hair. Normally she would wear one of T’Challa’s t-shirts, but she was too angry with him so she slept in a cute nighty she never wore. She admired herself in the mirror for half a second before bursting into tears and pulling the covers up to her head. She tried to stop crying, but the tears kept coming and she eventually gave herself a headache. How could he miss her birthday?

Kiana got up and threw on her plush maroon robe before she padded to the bathroom to grab some Advil. On the way she noticed her phone getting multiple notifications, the first of which was from her best friend Bebe.

“Have u seen this?! Sis, I’m so sorry. When we slashing his tires? Just 3 tho, this nigga needs to pay $$$.”

“What the fuck is she talking about?”

Kiana clicked the link and saw that it was Bebe’s cousin Darrell’s Instagram Story. Apparently there was a fight at the bar where he was celebrating a coworker’s promotion and he had filmed it for all of Instagram to see. Kayla stared at her phone in shock. There was her aint-shit boyfriend at a goddamn bar on her fucking birthday. She watched him punch a guy in the face on her birthday. At a bar. Without her.

She thought the kicker came when she saw him turn around and flirt with the bartender, but the story after that just about killed her. There he was, leading her out the back door with his hand too far down on her lower back to be simply platonic. Even the caption read “Ooooh someone’s about to get some ‘thank you’ pussy. That damsel in distress pussy hit different!”

Kiana saw red and almost cracked her phone for a second time tonight.

She grabbed the remaining merlot and downed it before throwing the bottle at the picture of them on the fridge. She watched the glass shatter and cut their faces while the trace bit of deep red wine seeped down the picture like blood. She wanted to trash the whole place, but remembered she would have to clean it later. Kiana started to hyperventilate and felt like she needed to get some air when she heard the lock turn.

“Kiki, what are you doin- are you ok? What happened here?”

Kiana ignored him as she walked towards where she threw her phone, silently pulling up the story and handing it to him. She watched his face go from confused, to shocked, to fearful. No regret, though.

“Ki-”

“Give me your key.”

“Kiana, please let me-”

“The key. Now,” she said with her voice completely devoid of any emotion.

T’Challa assumed she would be angry and yell or throw things, but this quiet storm terrified him. To him, it felt like she didn’t even care anymore. He was right.

He slowly reached his hand out and she snatched the key ring, removing hers and tossing the rest back to him.

“I’ll have your stuff packed by the morning. It’ll be outside my door by 8am. If it’s still there when I get back from work it’s going in the trash.”

T’Challa couldn’t bear the coldness in her voice. Tears rolled down his face and his knees buckled.

“Kiana, please. I can explain, I didn-”

“I don't give a fuck what you did or didnt do. You know why?”

“W-why?”

“Because it was my birthday, T’Challa. MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY and YOU forgot it. Not only did you forget it, my gift was you fucking some other bitch and leaving me lonely yet again. So no, I don't care if you fucked her or not even though I know your sorry ass did. I know she’s probably not the only one because I saw how easily you slid on in there in that video. You were way too comfortable, so I don't even want to ask you how many because it doesnt fucking matter anymore. Now you can stick your dick in every fine ass Black girl you see without remorse, oh wait...you were already doing that. So fuck you, get out my apartment before I call my brothers.”

“Kiana…”

“5, 4, 3,...” Kiana counted as she dialed her eldest brother Trey’s number, ignoring T'Challa's pathetic excuses. “2, 1… Hey Trey, I’m sorry did I wake you up?...Yeah I have a situat- oh look at that, his bitch ass is leaving-”

“I am sorry, Kiana,” T’Challa said one last time before she slammed the door in his face. He could hear her on the other side of the door explaining the situation to her brother, and when she started to cry it finally hit him. Her wails broke his spirit and more tears fell from his eyes.

He knew Trey would be over soon to comfort his baby sister and he needed to get the hell out of dodge, so T’Challa left Kiana’s apartment and never came back. Not even for his things, which turned out to be the best thing for Kiana because she and her girls got to burn it all up in Trey’s backyard fire pit and finally release that toxic man from her life.

#cecewritessometimes #black panther fic #tchalla fic #tchalla x oc #angst #niggas aint shit #aly & aj #potential breakup song

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luverofralts · 3 years ago

Text

Post Arkhelios

Adam stayed by his nephew’s side as long as he was allowed. He hadn’t been allowed in the operating room, but there was no removing him from the recovery area.

The bullet had gone clean through Roman’s chest, so fortunately there was nothing to remove, and once the bullet was found, it could easily be compared to the one that had killed Abraham Helios. Roman had lost a lot of blood, and there was still considerable damage caused by the bullet, but everyone agreed that he’d likely recover from this attack. Malika had stumbled upon him in just enough time to save him.

Malika had been equally difficult to remove from the recovery area. Adam at least had staff privileges, while Malika was in the recovery area by sheer force of will. No one dared escort her out when she was that intense about staying. The hospital hadn’t really hired any security in the past decade since their previous most serious case had been Zane Hydes eating fifty grilled cheese sandwiches in one night and becoming quite ill from it. They’d never needed security to take on family members overstepping proper procedures before. At least both Wanda and Salem were directly impacted by Roman’s shooting, and probably would approve any budget increase the hospital asked for.

There had been another positive change caused by the shooting. Malika had actually embraced her son Adam, and he may have been hallucinating it, but he thought he may have heard her whisper that she was proud of him. After years of her being indifferent at best towards him, Adam wasn’t sure he knew how to process this sudden display of maternal praise.

Omar and Kamalani were so beside themselves with worry, they didn’t even bicker with each other as they sat next to their unconscious son. Omar left his spouses and kids at home for obvious reasons, but Wbuna had sent along homemade muffins to supplement the horrible cafeteria food in support of the family. Salem had eaten a few before Malika’s arm had “slipped” and dropped them in the trash.

“I should have had him living with me,” Omar groaned finally. “This would never have happened if I-”

“If what?” Kamalani snapped. “What would you have done? What have you ever done?”

“What have I done? I didn’t abandon him for months without any explanation or even a goodbye.”

“No, you just let your incompetent parents raise him for you, until he let a Helios seduce him into breaking-”

“Kamalani!” Malika’s voice cut across the room sharply and her ex-daughter in law’s mouth snapped closed immediately. The two women shared a knowing stare that Omar couldn’t interpret.

“Well, I’ll be fighting to get custody of him again. He’s going to need his father more than ever after this,” he declared and nearly everyone in the room tried to stifle a laugh.

“Oh honey, we all appreciate you trying to lighten the mood, but now isn’t the time for joking,” Malika chided, tousling his hair like he was still ten years old.

Someone needed to hold down the fort at the Bellamy home, and Wanda and Hunter volunteered. They chased off some reporters, and checked in every hour with the hospital, but were otherwise left alone with their thoughts.

“This is all so crazy,” Wanda said. “Nothing makes sense.”

“I know, who would want to shoot Roman? He’s just a kid.”

Wanda wasn’t entirely sure about how to broach the subject of motive with her husband. She’d been having doubts for weeks now about anything concerning Roman’s recent troubles. Kamalani was as rude to her as the blood related Bellamys, and it was no surprise that Malika had Kamalani around more than her actual son. The two of them were both vipers hiding behind a deception of sincerity. But what were their real motives? Wanda got to be included in simple things like summoning Roman, but was left out of their private tea times, and whispered conversations in the yard.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that the person who killed Abraham shot to kill him, and then shot Roman clear of any major arteries or organs?”

Hunter frowned.

“Maybe they were a lousy shot,” he replied. “It doesn’t matter, I’m just thankful that he’s going to pull through this. He could have just as easily bled out.”

Wanda picked at the corner of one of her nails absently. This needed to be said in the right way.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that your mother was walking in Factory Park so late at night, just in time to find Roman?”

Hunter’s frown grew deeper.

“No, she got a text message from the killer. That’s why Roman went too. She’s lucky to not have been a victim as well.”

“I know, but she...” Wanda paused and changed tactics. “Have you noticed anything strange happening lately? Especially around Roman? I saw him throwing chairs at his bedroom window the other day, trying to break the glass.”

Hunter shrugged.

“He’s a troubled kid,” he replied. “A lot’s changing in his life and he’s acting out.”

Wanda shook her head adamantly.

“No, it’s more than that. Kamalani and your mother talk about him all the time, but stop talking the instant I get close to them. He’s been cooped up in this house for several weeks, and never once left to see Abe who lives basically down the street. You’re telling me that Roman, the boy who runs away from everything, stayed voluntarily in this house when he could be sneaking out to see his boyfriend?”

Hunter’s shoulders stiffened, and Wanda knew she’d pushed a bit too hard, too quickly.

“What are you saying? That Roman should have died because Abraham died? That my nephew is usually out roaming the streets looking to impregnate other teens and him trying to spend a time of crisis with our family for support is suspicious?”

“Yes!” Wanda blurted out, too frustrated to care anymore. “Yes, he should have died! Just like my brother died! Your mother had no time to see and react to the text and still make it to that park in time to save him.” Her hands clenched into fists. “This family is insane, and it would be insane to expect support from them! Your brothers are thrown out of your family now, but they were never really included in the family before! Who lets their son’s ex-wife stay in their house, while shunning their son? Omar’s a bit dull, but he’s way better than Kamalani! And Roman has been a budding sociopath as long as he’s lived with your parents. He has no friends his age, and keeps condoms that he uses with someone in his wallet. For god’s sake, you could tell me that he shot Abraham and I would believe it. I try and I try with that kid, and nothing outside of being with Abe seems to get through to him. No wonder both of his parents abandoned him here!”

Wanda was practically hyperventilating. All of her frustrations, all the little micro aggressions she’d had to endure while living here spilled out of her, and for the first time in months, her chest didn’t feel burdened down by the Bellamy family.

Hunter said nothing, but Wanda could see the anger burning in his eyes. He stood up slowly and headed for the hall.

“It’s been a very stressful night, and tensions are running high,” he stated with the same bitter edge to his voice as his mother. “I think that maybe it would be for the best if you spent the night with Melvin. To clear your head.”

Wanda rested her head against the smooth wall outside of the hospital main entrance. She and Hunter had never really fought before, and she didn’t like feeling out of sync with him. There was so much adding up that she didn’t understand about the Bellamys, and about Arkhelios itself. Maybe a night apart would help give Hunter some perspective on his family. Maybe it would help her decide if she truly wanted to be a part of the Bellamy family at all. She would go spend the night on Melvin’s couch, and they would put their heads together and solve this nightmare once and for all. The constant stream of funerals had to end before the entire population of Arkhelios was buried in the church yard.

Still, she felt bad about what she’d said about Roman, especially since he was still in such bad shape. Could she be wrong about having suspicions about his injuries? Maybe he had just been luckier than Abraham and she was forcing connections to help her cope with how her brother had not been quite so lucky. She decided to pop in to see Roman quickly before she headed to Melvin’s just to ease her guilt. Maybe supporting the Bellamys when their guard was down was the key to winning them over. If they endured this all together, they would have some common ground to work with.

The hospital wasn’t very big, and had a limited amount of rooms for Roman to be in. She found Salem and Omar napping on couches in a waiting area, with several empty styrofoam cups of hospital coffee strewn across a nearby table.

Well if they’re able to sleep, that probably means Roman is doing okay.

She peeked into the first room on the left. Nope. Empty.

She wandered to the next room down the hall. No, no Roman. She was about to continue her search when she heard familiar voices echo down the hall. Malika was crying to the point of actual sobs, which made Wanda extremely uncomfortable. Malika never broke down and showed her feelings, especially if they made her look vulnerable. It felt like an intrusion to hear her in this state, but this brief glimpse into Malika’s actual feelings may be the only chance Wanda ever got to understand her bewildering mother in law. She hid in the room she’d entered behind the door, and strained to hear what was being said just up the hall. Thank god the hospital walls were poorly made and exceptionally thin.

“I...I can’t get the blood out of my coat,” Malika sobbed, and Wanda could hear Kamalani make comforting shushing sounds.

“It’s okay, we did what we had to. Things will be better now. You can buy a new coat.”

What they had to do? That probably just means the CPR.

“And my hands, under my nails...there’s a gaping hole in my grandson’s chest, I saw it! I practically raised him! I kissed him good night every time you gave him to us.” The sobs increased until Wanda could barely understand what she was saying. “And now I’ve watched him slowly start to die! People cut him open right in front of me! His shirt...bleeding...and pieces of bone....”

Malika was barely making sense and Wanda felt shame wash over her, listening to a grandmother grieve this horrible trauma. Maybe Hunter was right, and there wasn’t anything deeper to Roman’s shooting. Malika had been lucky to find Roman when she did. The stars had just aligned correctly to save Roman. He had beat the odds, and Zane simply didn’t. Just random chance.

“Shhh,” Kamalani whispered. It sounded like Malika was calming down. “’Screw your courage to the sticking place’, remember? You know what’s at stake here, and our plan is working. That Helios boy almost came here once already. With Roman immobile, he’ll be drawn here eventually. Arkhelios can be saved. Roman will be saved.”

A chill ran down Wanda’s spine and she pressed harder against the wall instinctively. She definitely didn’t want to be discovered now.

This had been the wrong thing to say, and Malika started sobbing once more.

“His-His eyes though! I saw him look at me when he fell. When he struggled to breathe! I thought when we started this it would be easy, but I can't forget the look on his face. The smell of his blood! I can only pretend that I don't know for so long. How do I tell him when he wakes up? How can I make him understand?”

Kamalani sighed heavily, clearly growing impatient with her ex-mother in law.

“Tell him that you weren’t involved. That you found him after I left. You’re not the one who pulled the trigger after all. He may not even remember seeing you there, or confuse it for when you called Adam." A long pause and more sobbing carried over the air to Wanda. "If it makes you feel less guilty, I can shoot you too. That will throw suspicion off of you.”

Wanda had to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep from reacting.

Kamalani shot her own son? Why? And does this mean she killed Abraham too?

“You had one job this entire time,” Kamalani hissed as Malika’s sobs grew louder. “All you had to do was put him on a plane and keep writing checks until some duke or prince caught his interest and you couldn’t even manage that. Now how do you think he'll feel when Abe turns up dead? You could have spared him that pain if you'd only stopped this when I warned you."

Complete silence fell in the hospital. The only sound was the faint hum of the lights, and an occasional beep from down the hall. Wanda looked through the crack of the door hinges, and saw Malika poke her head out of the room they were in, looking for any sign of eavesdroppers. Salem and Omar were still sleeping and the woman at the front desk far down the hall seemed to be busy typing. Wanda held her breath, trying to remain as still as possible. Satisfied that they were alone, Malika ducked back into the room.

“What do you mean?” she hissed, shock replacing her tears. “Killing Abe was never part of the plan. We only need to prevent the child-”

“It’s been too long, that child could be born any day now and survive. Our only chance is to act swiftly, and end the threat immediately. You must realize how close to ruin Arkhelios is. A lot more people will die if Abe doesn’t. You know this, Malika! You were the one who chose this to begin with."

Malika sighed and seemed to be gathering her composure again. The cold mask she presented to the world (and especially to Wanda) was slipping back into place.

"You're right," she admitted. "I don't have the stomach for the act itself, but it's necessary. We've been too subtle, too timid hoping that this will resolve itself. Roman will understand one day, and if he doesn't, then maybe he'll feel pushed to leave Arkhelios on his own."

#sims 2 #ts2 #arkhelios #post arkhelios #vague spoilers of the Arkhelios mystery that are incorrect #sorry for the novel

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pregnant-javert · 3 years ago

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Since there are none I was wondering if you could do a mel/ruth smut fic around 1000 words?😭

Yoooooo...it’s a little less smut than I was anticipating...kind of focused more on the leadup than the actual thing, lol. Idk where it ended up going, but I hope y'all like it! Pre-canon comfort sex. Will post on AO3 as well. Under the cut ❤️

Ruth can sense something’s going on as soon as Melanie comes home. If slamming doors was possible on Snowpiercer, Ruth has no doubt she’d have done that—she stalks inside, throws her bag on the couch, changes out of her teals as if she can’t wait to get them off. Melanie’s not said anything, but Ruth can see the stress and despair clinging to her, refusing to go away. Ruth’s always been good at reading people and gauging their emotions. It was part of what made her so good at Hospitality. Melanie both loved and hated this quality, and she let Ruth know it. It’s as if a dark cloud is following her around—she keeps her head down, barely speaking beyond yes or no. Ruth wishes she could drag whatever was causing this distress out of Melanie, but she’d get there in her own time. No sense in forcing the matter. Ruth makes them dinner—it’s just goat butter on toast, but she’s tired from work, and Melanie doesn’t look interested in eating much anyway. They have it on the couch; Melanie curled up in the corner, wordlessly crunching through the toast. “I know you’re waiting,” she says sullenly once she’s finished, putting the plate on the coffee table. “For me to talk.”

Melanie’s right, but Ruth won’t say so. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” she says lightly, eating the last bite of toast. Really she wants Melanie to spill all her thoughts out, just so she could fix them, but that will never happen.

“I know, I know. You keep saying that. But I still feel bad not telling you.” Melanie sighs, cards her fingers roughly through her long black hair. She’s got dark circles under her eyes and her skin is more pallid than usual. Melanie often came home tired and stressed from work, but to Ruth this sounds like something more. “Did something happen?” Ruth asks.

“No, it’s just…everything is so fragile. Everyone is at each others’ throats, and it feels like Hospitality is the only thing holding things together.” Melanie brings her knees up to her chest, not meeting Ruth’s eye. She lets out a few tense breaths before continuing: “I go to the engine and think about the train derailing, then go to First Class and listen to them say I should disconnect the Tail. It could happen anytime. Order breaks down and we can’t bring it back.”

Ruth can barely give this hypothetical situation any thought. It scares her far too much; not just losing the train, but losing Melanie as well. With an effort, she keeps her voice steady. “Are you really worried about it?”

“Yeah,” Melanie says, then she dissolves into tears: huge choking sobs that sound like she’s been holding them back for a while. Ruth immediately gathers her up—Melanie struggles for a second, then she sags into her embrace. They stay like that for a while; Melanie crying, Ruth whispering reassurances to her. Eventually Melanie catches her breath and curls up against Ruth, seemingly spent. She’s still breathing raggedly, shaking a little. “I’m sorry,” she says in a small voice.

“Don’t. Nothing to be sorry for.”

“I wish I didn’t have to feel anything,” Melanie says, even quieter. “I wish I could just…turn my mind off for a while. Or forever.”

“Well…I can make you feel better,” Ruth says softly, her hand straying down. “Only if you want.”

“You don’t have to,” Melanie says dejectedly, wriggling a little away from Ruth. “You don’t have to step into this mire with me.”

“I want to help you,” Ruth says seriously. “If you want this, I’ll do it.” I’ll do anything for you, she nearly says, but it sounds way too intense, so she doesn’t. Melanie gives a sob, then she says, “Ruth, I…I just…go slow, okay?”

Ruth pushes her hand under Melanie’s sweatpants, feels the other woman shudder at the touch. She feels the warmth, the wetness. Ruth isn’t used to going slowly—all her other times were quick, discreet, snatches of pleasure caught in supply closets or a room in her motel. Melanie moans, her hips pressing up against Ruth’s hand. Everything’s heightened and drawn out with the slow pace. Ruth stays alert, ready to stop at any sign of unease from Melanie. She slows down even more, and Melanie whines. “I don’t have to keep going,” Ruth says quickly, her hand stilling, “if it’s not doing anythi—“

“No,” Melanie breathes. “No, don’t stop.”

“Okay. Okay.” Ruth goes back to it, working Melanie towards the point of release. Melanie’s breathing speeds up: she’s practically hyperventilating. She shifts on Ruth’s hand as if to keep her in place. Ruth feels her fingers getting slick—Melanie’s close. It will take virtually nothing for her to clear the gap.

“I don’t want this to end,” Melanie says roughly.

“Neither do I,” Ruth responds, “but you’re pretty close.” She flicks her fingernail—that’s all it takes—and Melanie’s back arches as she lets out a shuddering moan. All the tension melts away, and her body relaxes against Ruth’s. Ruth withdraws her hand, wipes it on her pants. Melanie’s giving off that warm exhausted glow. “Thanks,” she says sleepily. “It worked.”

“That’s good.” Ruth gets up, helps Melanie off the couch. “I’m sorry if it was a bit…unorthodox.”

“Ruth, the things I did…” Melanie gives a weak laugh as they climb into Ruth’s bed. “Makes this whole thing look positively tame in comparison.”

“Do I want to know what those things were?” Ruth asks, pulling the blankets up over them both.

“No, probably not,” Melanie says self-deprecatingly. “I’m serious. It didn’t solve all my problems, but…I feel a tiny bit better about it now.”

Ruth smiles mischievously. “Oh, really?”

“Sure. I know I can always come back here at the end of the day and be with you.” Melanie snuggles up to her, burying her face in Ruth’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Ruth presses a kiss to Melanie’s hair, breathing in the smell of lemongrass and engine oil. It smells like home.

#snowpiercer #snowpiercer tnt #snowpiercer netflix #melanie cavill #ruth wardell #ask #fic by gohoubi

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blossom-hwa · 4 years ago

Text

Fall [Rise] - MARK |Swing!|

No more spoilers for MCU movies, I believe :) Enjoy your spoiler-free but angst-filled chapter! Once again, thank you @deathbykpopboys for inspiring this series :)

Pairing: Mark x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, Spiderman!au

Triggers: a lot of cursing, violence, PANIC ATTACKS IN THIS CHAPTER (I in no way meant to romanticize these triggers. If you feel I did, please let me know and I will fix it.)

Word Count: 7.5k

Somewhere, somehow, amidst the chaos of existence, you and Mark remember that you’re not alone.

Arc { 1 - Drifting Apart | 2 - Coming Home } >> Fall { 1 - Spiral | 2 - Rise } >> Release

NCT Masterlist | Swing!

Mark knows you aren’t okay. He can see it in the bags under your eyes (which are somehow worse than his), the tired, slightly haunted way you look at everything, and how you’re speaking less. And when you do talk, it’s a lot quieter than before.

He just doesn’t know how to broach the topic. Every time he asks if you’re all right, you just smile and say you’re fine.

So you keep going on patrols with him, even though he knows you shouldn’t. Mark feels guilty, knowing that his increased patrol time is probably part of why you look so terrible, but he can’t stop. And if he doesn’t stop, you won’t either.

Because who’s going to help the little guy if he isn’t there? If you aren’t there?

He still reads the articles. He’s just gotten better at hiding it. He knows what people say about you two – the Daily Bugle, the New York Times, sometimes even the Wall Street Journal. And the articles just keep coming as the two of you stay out longer and longer to fight crime. No matter how many criminals you help put behind bars, people just want you to keep doing more and more and more.

Mark is exhausted the night he gets shot. A physics test earlier in the day took a lot out of him mentally, while he spent a good part of the afternoon hauling supplies from Professor Tuan’s truck to the lab. By the time he climbs onto the roof to meet you, his brain feels a little mushy.

You don’t look much better. Your voice is slightly hoarse – not in a sick way, but in a way that tells him you’ve been crying – but you deny everything he throws at you and just start swinging away.

(He’s a hypocrite. He keeps telling you to knock off patrolling if you’re feeling bad, but he won’t take nights off for himself. He wants to take care of you, but he won’t take care of himself.)

The gunmen you two fight tonight are trained, much better shots than most of the amateur muggers and criminals you’ve fought before. It takes a long time to subdue all of them.

Well, you and Mark think it’s all of them. In the space of his muddled brain, Mark thinks there were only five when you started.

Apparently, there were six.

In the darkness of night, Mark sees the outline of the bullet hurtling toward your exposed back. Your danger sense kicks in, he can tell by your widened eyes and your beginning attempt to dodge, but he’s already there before he knows it, shoving you away and taking the bullet into his shoulder.

Fuck. He didn’t mean for that to happen. He meant to push you away and get himself away, too, but he was too unprepared. Too tired.

Too slow.

Mark doesn’t remember much of what happens immediately after. There’s pain, a lot of it. He remembers you calling someone – probably Mr. Stark, now that he thinks of it – and cleaning the wound as best as you can. There’s something gold and red that carries him off, which, in hindsight, was also probably Mr. Stark in his Iron Man suit.

It’s the last Sunday before winter break ends. Mark wakes up groggy and confused in a bed at Stark Tower with Mr. Stark bending over him and cleaning the wound on his shoulder. Then he passes out again.

Later, Mr. Stark will tell Mark that he’s lucky that a) the bullet flew right through his shoulder, b) the wound isn’t as serious as others he’s seen, and c) you used to read a lot of crime novels and therefore know more or less how to clean a bullet wound.

Mark feels lucky for the third part. He’s always been lucky to have you there.

The first and second parts? Not so much. This thing hurts.

He spends most of the day in Stark Tower, with Mr. Stark fussing around bandages and giving Mark really strong painkillers that knock him out. You appear at some point but disappear sometime before he falls unconscious again, which isn’t nice. He wants you here. He wants to hold your hand.

When he wakes up again, he gets his wish. It’s four in the afternoon and the pain in his shoulder has dwindled significantly. You’re passed out on a chair next to his bed, his hand limply held in yours.

Bright afternoon light streams in from the window, illuminating your sleeping face. Mark sits up in bed, pleasantly surprised that his shoulder barely hurts even when he moves it. Perks of speedy healing. For a moment, he just drinks in the sight of your face, for once calm.

He took a bullet for you, he thinks. Still, though, he didn’t mean to take the bullet at all.

Would he have pushed you away, even if he knew he was going to get shot? Would he have pushed you away, even if he knew the bullet was going to hit someplace more lethal?

Mark’s heart thumps as his fingers curl around yours protectively.

Yes, he thinks. He still would have. He wouldn’t have changed a thing he did.

You begin to stir, probably from the added pressure of his hand in yours. As your eyes flutter open, still glazed over with sleep, Mark realizes.

He likes you. Much more than he ever liked Lia. He’s liked you for a long time, he just never realized it.

Maybe he even loves you.

It explains why he didn’t like thinking about you and Lia together. It wasn’t because you were his best friend and she was his crush. It was because while he liked Lia, he loved you much more. But because he’d felt that way towards you for so long, he just thought it was because you were his best friend.

He never loved Lia, though. Not the way he thinks he loves you.

When you realize where you are, you immediately sit up straight on the chair and fix him with a glare. “Don’t ever do that again!” you snap, and for a second, Mark gets a glimpse of your old, fiery self.

And then because he’s still as awkward and stupid as before, all he says is, “What?”

“Don’t fucking get shot!” you yell. “Don’t jump in front of bullets for me! Just –” you sigh, pulling at your hair with trembling hands – “Don’t scare me like that ever again!”

Mark just smiles as you continue yelling, berating him for being stupid and getting injured and freaking you out and all. After so many weeks of watching you fade into silence, it’s refreshing to see you so worked up and snappy again.

Call him a masochist. But he loves it.

Just as he loves you.

. . . . .

Mark took a bullet for you, and you honestly don’t know what to do with yourself. You have never, not once in your life, wanted your best friend to get injured and nearly die for you.

Okay, maybe you’re exaggerating. According to Mr. Stark, Mark probably wasn’t going to die from the wound in his shoulder. But what if the bullet had hit somewhere else? What if Mei and Johnny had found out? Well, they didn’t because you and Mark usually leave the house before they even wake up on Sunday Stark days, but still.

Thoughts like these are the reason why the second you get home, you walk into your room and start hyperventilating.

You’re tired of the panic attacks. You hate them. They’re terrifying, they hurt, and they exhaust you to the point that you can barely get out of bed after one of them. You would definitely try avoiding things that caused them if you even knew what was causing them.

Some triggers are easy to pinpoint. Loud noises. Small, confined spaces. Avoiding them is the problem. You can maybe stay away from claustrophobic areas, but loud noises could be anywhere. A locker slammed too loudly. A textbook dropped on the floor. Explosions in the lab.

But then there are the times when you’re not doing anything at all and your chest closes up. Maybe you’re lying on your bed. Maybe you’re studying at your desk. The shortness of breath comes up quickly and without warning, and then you’re hugging your knees to your chest on the floor.

Mark has had three obvious brushes with death – the confrontation at the university, the abandoned industrial park, and now the bullet. He seems to be doing fine.

Meanwhile, you startle at loud noises and feel like death half the time.

Deep inside of the depths of your mind, you want someone for comfort. Johnny or Mark, preferably, or Mei or Mr. Stark, even. But Mark’s got the same workload as you on his plate. Mei’s always working at the hospital. Mr. Stark’s too important to deal with your shit. Johnny works day and night just to take care of you. He dropped out of university for you. Also, you’re still not talking.

All of them are so strong and confident and brave all the time – how can you even think of burdening them with your stupid baggage?

Thoughts swirl around your mind as you take off your suit. All you really want to do at the moment is curl up under your blanket and close your eyes for several years.

That’s a coma, your brain helpfully supplies.

Yeah. That’s the point.

But you have a calculus test, a French quiz, and an English paper to turn in tomorrow. Professor Wang thinks he’s on the verge of a breakthrough with one of his experiments, so he wants you in the lab as well. You need to edit your research paper for a competition to submit by Friday, there’s an AcaDec regional competition on Sunday, and you have to patrol.

You don’t notice the tears have started slipping down your face until one of them drops onto the calculus textbook in front of you. With a firm sigh and a deep breath, you force the remaining tears away, settling your eyes on the page.

There’s no time for crying. You have to study.

That’s how Johnny finds you later, hunched over at three a.m., nearly falling asleep over of your old laptop. He literally picks you up and carries you two feet to your bed before tucking you in and kissing your forehead like Mom used to when you were five.

You start crying, mumbling incoherent apologies and swearing you never thought of Stark as a replacement for him or Dad or Mom, that nothing can ever replace the three of them. Between tears, you beg for his forgiveness, promising you’ll tell the truth sometime soon, you swear.

Johnny shakes slightly as he holds you close, his own tears dripping onto your shoulder as he gives his own apologies for being pig-headed and rude, for feeling insecure and upset that you can’t trust him. He promises to wait, to just trust in you until you can tell him everything.

Everyone’s always taking care of you, you think when Johnny leaves. Everyone’s always helping you, giving you support, giving up things to care for you.

What have you ever done for them besides cause more problems?

With that happy thought, your brain shuts down and you fall asleep.

. . . . .

Mark doesn’t know how you do it. He doesn’t know how you take everything the world throws at you and still come out at the top with perfect grades.

Of course, he knows that grades aren’t the most important thing in life. But in this moment, as he stares at the bright red F circled at the top of his Spanish worksheet, it feels like they are.

There’s no scribbled “see me!” below the large letter grade he doesn’t want to look at, which Mark is thankful for. This is the first time he’s gotten such a low grade in this class. It’s just that he didn’t pay much attention to the lesson, too tired from patrolling late into the night (or was it the morning?).

Priorities are the problem. Mark has a lot of things going on in his life and he’s always been bad at prioritizing because he always wants to do everything perfectly and right. AcaDec? He always tries hard to be the top physics guy. School? He’s competing with you for valedictorian. Lab? He’s leading multiple projects, several of which have won prizes at research competitions. Patrolling? What more can he do with that other than swing around Queens even later into the night?

Mark doesn’t know what to prioritize first.

But clearly, school has unconsciously taken a backseat to everything else. Now that he thinks about it, he’s been taking less time to study for certain classes, like Spanish and English. He could justify it with the fact that he plans to be a STEM major and those subjects won’t be of as much use to him as calculus and physics and biology, but he feels like nothing can justify the red F staring up at him.

It’s just a worksheet. Mark knows it isn’t worth a large part of his grade – barely anything, in fact. But it’s a wakeup call.

I have to do better.

How, though? Everything academia-related takes up most of his normal waking hours. Patrolling takes up his ungodly waking hours.

The obvious answer is to cut back on patrol time. But how can he do that? How can he possibly value his grades over someone’s life?

Mark sighs, putting the worksheet into his Spanish folder. He’ll just have to add some more ungodly waking hours to his study schedule.

“You good?” you ask later that day. The two of you are on the train back home after AcaDec practice, and he guesses the dejection from earlier is still showing on his face. You lean carefully against side, careful not to disturb his wound, and squeeze his hand.

Fuck. It’s in moments like this where it hits Mark just how far he’s fallen for you. Your confidence, your kindness, your bravery, your unwillingness to settle for life’s shit. Everything about you, Mark thinks, even your quick temper and sharp tongue and your countless other flaws, is something beautiful to him.

How did he never realize it before?

“I’m fine,” he replies, trying for a smile. Then, because he can’t lie to you: “Just got an F on a Spanish worksheet.”

He tries to laugh it off in the moment, but you don’t smile or even make a joke. “We can cut down patrol time if you need to study,” you say seriously.

Mark wants to say yes. He really does. It’s like he’s a candle, and fire is burning at him from both ends. He doesn’t know if he can keep this up.

But if you can deal with it, why can’t he? He shakes his head. “I’m fine, honestly.” He squeezes your hand. “I promise.”

It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie and he does too. But it’s one of those lies that’s just too difficult to call out, so you just lean into his shoulder as the subway lurches, letting him feel your warmth by his side.

“You can tell me anything, you know?” you say over the clatter of the train car.

Mark’s heart clenches. “I know.”

. . . . .

There’s another brand of article that’s really pissing you off. It’s the kind that praises Spiderman while pointing out all the flaws in Silk.

You don’t remember exactly when you find the first one. You’re just kind of scrolling through an op-ed in the Daily Bugle that’s describing the disturbingly positive correlation between Spiderman and Silk’s appearances and the crime rate, and the link pops up as something suggested.

Well, you’re already in a shitty mood, you think. Might as well take it a bit further.

It’s laughable, most of it. There’s a lot of blatant sexism that you can brush away quickly. But one thing that hits you really hard is the fact that you like to talk shit during your fights.

While the article lauds Mark for being silent and serious during fights, it bashes your inability to shut up as you throw punches. It then goes into detail about how you clearly don’t take crime-fighting seriously, that you’re just like a stupid little kid (well, not in those words, but pretty much the same thing), and that “Silk should leave the handling of criminals to good, upstanding citizens who won’t embarrass Queens as much as her loud mouth does.”

The first thought that pops into your mind is, which fucking assholes are the ones blabbing about me cursing all the time? You didn’t know criminals were such tattletales.

Then you remember several of your recent, more public fights with the weirdest people ever (seriously? Doc Ock? What even was that?), and you remember the spitfire that your mouth was in those moments.

Do I really curse too much?

It makes you self-conscious. You know there are several teachers and students at school who dislike you for your loud mouth (cough, Ms. Wilson), but you never really took them seriously.

But now that people online are noticing it too…

For the first few days, you try to ignore the article. But every time you open your mouth to snap back something funny or curse someone out, it’s like the article just slams into your mind with full force and you snap your mouth shut.

God, it’s something like having a parent next to you while you’re trying to talk with your friends. Just as a curse builds up on your tongue, the article comes to mind and you shut up.

And then when you start falling silent, it becomes apparent just how much you really curse. It honestly surprises you a little bit – you didn’t realize that “fuck” was such a huge part of your vocabulary until now.

So, slowly, bit by bit, you stop talking as much. If you don’t talk, you won’t curse. You won’t bother anyone. Because if a few fucks and shits are that annoying to people on the Internet, who knows how much they annoy people in real life?

No one really notices, you think. People just carry on the conversation like you’re not even there, only turning around when they want to ask something specifically to you. You won’t lie – it hurts a little. It makes you realize just how easily replaceable you are in some people’s lives.

A couple of people do notice. You’ll always be thankful for your immediate friend group, you think. Haechan and Mark deliberately engage you in conversation when you fall silent. Jihyo often comes over then too, and sometimes Yeri.

But only one actually reaches out to you, asks why you aren’t talking so much.

Mark startles you a bit when he asks. He’s often asked if you’re all right, if you’re feeling fine because you look a little tired, but this time, he pinpoints it exactly. “Why don’t you talk anymore?” he asks as the two of you walk from the university labs to the train station.

“I’m talking right now, Mark,” you reply quickly, though you feel slightly off kilter.

“You know what I mean.” He stops walking. “You’re not as… loud? You don’t talk unless someone else explicitly talks to you, and even then, you don’t, like, curse. Or laugh. Or anything.” He pauses. “You don’t yell when we patrol, either.”

Silence falls between the two of you as you try to digest his words. A huge wave of emotion that you can’t even begin to decipher makes tears prick at your eyes, but you will them away. “Do you…” You chew your lip, then decide to just go for it. “Do you think it’s annoying when I curse? Or that it pisses people off?”

“What?” Now Mark looks confused. “Where did you get that from?” His eyes narrow. “Was it another article?”

Your wince tells him everything. “Y/N,” he groans, slapping his face. “I thought you stopped reading those!”

“Well, it’s not like you stopped either!” you snap defensively.

Mark’s shoulders sag. “Fair. But… Jesus.” He shakes his head. “Whatever article even mentioned that is stupid as fuck.”

“A lot of things are stupid,” you mumble. “Doesn’t stop them from getting at us.”

A short silence follows.

“Let me see the article,” Mark says.

It doesn’t take long for you to bring it up on your phone. As he scrolls through, his eyebrows rise higher and higher on his forehead until he’s finished. There’s a disgusted, yet slightly amused look on his face as he hands the phone back to you. “You know this is, like, blatantly sexist, right?” he says.

“Yeah, I know.” You shove the phone into your pocket. “But it’s just… after I read that, I realized just how much I do curse every day. And if people online were getting annoyed by it, why wouldn’t people in real life be annoyed too?”

Mark just gathers you into a hug, crushing you against his chest. You relax into his warmth. “Don’t listen to them,” he murmurs into your ear. “I think you’re hilarious. Your cursing is funny as fuck. I always wish I had your ability to come up with insults on the fly. Remember Doc Ock?”

You snort, voice muffled against his shirt. “How could I forget?”

“Yeah, and do you think I’m ever going to forget you calling him a ‘fucking nightmare straight out of a tentacle porn horror flick’?” Mark pulls back a little to look you in the face. He’s smiling broadly. “The only reason I’m quiet during fights is because I can’t think of anything worth saying that’s funny. That’s your job, and I won’t let you quit.”

A short laugh bubbles out of your chest. “Fine.”

“Now can we both make a pact to stop reading those stupid articles?” Mark asks, fully letting you go. You miss the warmth of his touch around your shoulders. “They’re shortening my lifespan, but the only way I’ll be able to stop reading them is if you promise not to read them either.”

“You make it sound like we’re going cold turkey from drugs,” you retort. “But fine. I do need to stop.”

“Pinky promise?” Mark holds out his pinky like the two of you are six again, promising not to tell each other’s guardians that you played in the dirt again (like they couldn’t already tell from the brown spots all over your clothes). His eyes sparkle.

An unknown emotion builds in your chest, so strong and powerful it almost knocks you over. You link your pinky with his and press your thumbs together, smiling widely for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

“Pinky promise.”

. . . . .

Mark has had panic attacks before. He used to have them several times a month after Uncle Ben died, but after almost ten years, they haven’t resurfaced.

Then one day, several months after Germany, he’s walking through the university halls to Tuan’s lab when he feels the familiar, yet unfamiliar sensation of choking on his own breath.

It’s never been like this before, he thinks after he’s pulled himself out of that dizzying haze of pain. There always used to be a cause that he could pinpoint. Something black that looked like a gun. A man’s bald head that looked like the murderer’s. A spot of blood on a white sidewalk.

This time, he’s just walking down a hall. There’s nothing he can really see that would trigger an attack. Hell, nothing in the university even really reminds him of his uncle’s death. Guns stopped triggering him a while ago (thank God, or he couldn’t be fighting crime at night). He hasn’t been fazed by blood in several years.

So what’s wrong with him?

Maybe it’s just stress, he postulates, standing up on shaky legs. He’s got a lot to deal with this year, what with preparing for competitions and college applications and all. It’ll get better soon. This is probably just a one-time thing.

Except it isn’t.

He has another panic attack at home as he’s lying in bed, then another while he’s trying to cook something in the kitchen. After almost burning himself while turning off the stove, he just lies down on the kitchen floor, not caring how gross this position is, and starts reevaluating his life.

God, he’d forgotten how much these things hurt.

His old therapist told him a lot about panic attacks, how they could be brought on by many things like trauma and stress. Mark knows his trauma isn’t fully gone, but most of his triggers have faded. It’s probably stress, and now that he thinks of it, he has a lot to be stressed about.

So he knows what’s going on. Telling someone would probably help, but it’s not like Aunt Mei could afford a therapist again, so what’s the point? His only option is to keep going.

So he forges on through life. The fear of another attack keeps him on edge, but he’s learned from his younger years that he can’t really avoid them. He just has to keep going. Keep living. There’s no point in telling anyone.

Until he walks into you suffering an attack of your own.

He literally almost walks into you. He’s just opened the door to your apartment – he has a spare key, and you weren’t letting him in – and you’re crouched just inside the door, trembling and sweating, breathing far too quickly and shallowly to be normal.

Mark’s heart seizes. A sort of sick sense of relief floods his mind when he realizes what’s going on – he isn’t alone.

Then he feels totally, utterly ashamed. Under no circumstance would he ever want someone to undergo a panic attack like him.

He racks his mind for the tips his doctor gave Mei to help get him through his own episodes. Keep calm. Short, simple sentences. Avoid surprises. Slow their breathing.

“Y/N, I’m here,” Mark hears himself say. He sits down a short distance away, keeping a steady countenance even though he’s freaking out on the inside. “Can I hold your hand?”

You don’t say anything, just weakly raise an arm. Your breath is just as fast as before.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking it. His thumb starts soothing patterns over your palm. “Okay. I’m going to start tracing squares onto your hand. If you can, follow my tracing with your breath. Each corner is one breath, okay?”

There’s the slightest nod. He starts tracing.

Mark doesn’t know how long he sits there, helping calm you down from your panic. Aunt Mei told him his panic attacks would last around fifteen minutes, but they never felt that short. He just keeps tracing your palm, offering small encouragements every now and then, and eventually, your breathing starts to slow until it’s back to normal.

He scoots closer, bringing your head to his chest. You just lean against him limply, like a rag doll, breathing heavily.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mark finally murmurs, all thoughts of your group project gone. The only thing he’s focused on right now is making sure you’re okay. “Actually, are you tired? We don’t have to talk right now.”

“It’s fine. Not too exhausted. Just… didn’t want to worry anyone,” you mumble into his shirt. Another heavy breath. “Weak. You didn’t look like you were having problems, but –” you gasp – “stupid stuff. Kept setting me off. Loud noises, small spaces…”

Mark’s heart sinks. “How long?” he asks.

“First one was the day Mr. Stark came over,” you answer.

Jesus Christ. You’ve been having these panic attacks for months already, and you never told anyone. Mark feels a little like crying. “What happened then?”

“Explosion in the lab,” you gasp. “Wang messed something up, it exploded. I started hyperventilating but Yuta pulled me out before I spiraled.”

A memory surfaces in Mark’s mind. “So that day you ran to the bathroom at school…” he trails off, feeling sick.

How did he not notice before?

“Someone banged a locker too loudly,” you mumble. “Sounded like an explosion. Something crashing.”

Trauma. There’s no doubt about it. “Were you remembering… homecoming? When the building got dropped on us?” Mark presses gently.

You nod against his chest.

Oh, God. “I wish you’d told somebody,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

“I wanted to.” Your breath is back, but you sound close to tears. “It just felt like you were handling it so much better than I was. You were going through school fine, but I was panicking over just fucking loud noises, and then I also started panicking over nothing at all.” You heave a deep breath. “I thought I was dying.”

Mark shifts you in his arms into a more comfortable position. “I used to have panic attacks after Uncle Ben died,” he states.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Anything that looked remotely like a gun used to set me off. Black staplers, hole punchers, stuff like that. Blood, too. Once, a bald man sent me spiraling. This was mostly before we met, so I didn’t think you’d know.”

“I didn’t,” you say, lifting your head to stare up at him. “Mark…”

“I started having panic attacks again about a month ago.” He brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “The first once just came out of nowhere. I was walking down one of the halls to the lab. My old therapist told me attacks can come randomly, just out of stress. So, nothing to be ashamed about there.”

You sit up, though you still hold Mark’s hand for strength. “If you say so, how come you didn’t tell me?”

He laughs slightly. You’re feeling better, if you can be as snappy as this. “Same reason as you, I guess.” Mark smiles ruefully. “I thought you were handling things really well. You looked like you were sailing through school, even when I got that F in Spanish. So… I don’t know. I didn’t want to burden you.”

“Burden me?” You scoff. “Shut up. You’re never a burden. Not to me.”

Something in Mark’s heart blossoms. “Y/N,” he starts, but he can’t say anything more.

“Am I a burden to you?” you ask, voice smaller. It’s almost as if you’re scared of the answer, but it’s already on the tip of Mark’s tongue before you even finish the question.

“Of course not!” he snaps. “Never,” he adds, more gently.

“Good.” You smile. It’s wobbly and a little forced, but it’s a real smile. “If I’m not a burden to you, you’re not a burden to me. Tell me things, all right? And I’ll tell you.” You squeeze his chest between your arms.

Mark breathes a soft sigh as you close your eyes, pressing your head against his chest again. “All right,” he murmurs. “Are you going to tell Johnny?”

At that, you freeze. “N… no,” you finally reply, sounding choked. “Not… not yet.”

“You should,” Mark reprimands slightly.

“Then you should tell Mei,” you retort.

Stalemate. Mark sighs. “All right. At least I know now. But if it gets worse, I’ll tell him myself,” Mark warns.

“Fine. Same goes for you,” you say.

“Fine.” He pats your head and you wrinkle your nose like a bunny. Mark almost coos at the sight. “Let’s rest. Group project can get done later.”

“I like the way you think,” you say, stumbling on your way up.

Mark catches you, puts you upright, and smiles. “I’m glad you do.”

. . . . .

It’s one of those unusually slow days where you just want the day to end. The snow outside isn’t exciting anymore – in fact, it’s more slush than snow, which is gross – school is boring, and Wang isn’t in the lab today. Mark still has stuff to do for Tuan, though, so you end up walking home from the train station alone. You’re not patrolling today because neither Mei nor Johnny have late shifts tonight. Also, you’re really tired.

All of this gives you too much time to think, especially about the person who should be walking home right next to you.

Mark has always been someone easy to figure out, at least for you. He doesn’t talk as much as you, but when he does, he’s very sweet. He wears his emotions on his sleeve but in a subtler way than most. A lot of people can detect a change in his mood, but they can’t exactly pinpoint what mood he’s in.

You can, though. On day one, when the two of you met, you just clicked. You immediately understood each other. After almost ten years, none of that has changed.

Until now.

You sigh, taking your shoes off at the door. Johnny isn’t home yet, but he will be soon. You walk into your room and throw yourself on the bed to wait, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It’s totally Mark’s fault, you think wryly. He’s become confusing. How are you supposed to comprehend the swells of emotion you feel when he does something kind, or sweet, or just plain comforting?

Well, that doesn’t make sense. Mark’s been doing those things ever since you two were children in elementary school. So maybe not understanding him isn’t his fault. Maybe it’s yours.

Your thoughts turn to the time he found you during a panic attack, the comfort of his fingers tracing simple squares into the palm of your hand. It could have been a lot worse, you think, if he hadn’t been there. If he hadn’t held your hand and helped you through.

A rush of emotion fills your throat. You’re too tired to fight it, so you just let it wash through your mind. It feels… confusing, yes, because there’s too many strands of feelings to pick out of the wave, but it also feels nice. Gentle. Caressing, soft.

It feels like how Mark’s hand felt, loosely gripping yours.

That was just the last time you felt like this, you remember. There were other times, too. As you run through the memories, you realize those moments aren’t as few and far between as you originally thought. Laughing as you walk home from the train station. Awkwardly stuttering while stealing Captain America’s shield in Germany. The hug and the pinky promise from a few weeks ago.

Maybe this is just what best friends do. Maybe this is just what happens when you’ve known someone for so long they’re basically a part of you.

But the title “best friend” doesn’t feel like it’s enough anymore. Yeah, Mark is your best friend and he’ll always have that title in his arsenal. It doesn’t encompass everything, though.

No, best friend is far from covering it all.

You like him. You like Mark.

As something much more than a best friend.

Your throat constricts as your mind races. For so long, you’ve ignored every sign that your feelings towards Mark might be something more than platonic.

Then you remember the night you thought Mark died underneath the abandoned building. The half-finished, panicky thoughts from that terrifying moment rush back so quickly you feel like you’re having vertigo.

Please, please help me find my best friend, I can’t live without him, I’m sorry for everything I said to him these past few weeks, I love him and I want him back, please –

You sit up straight with the realization, trying to breathe.

I love him.

You love Mark. You’ve probably loved him for a long time, you just didn’t realize it. Or maybe you just didn’t want to, because what if he doesn’t feel the same way?

Mark took a bullet for you, your brain whispers. Then the last conversation you had with Lia comes to mind.

“I thought he might’ve actually liked me, but… it’s pretty clear who he really does.”

“Lia, I promise you that he really did like you.”

“Maybe. Just not as much as he or I thought he did. Take care of him.”

“I will.”

Maybe he does.

Your throat constricts again. You feel the (now familiar) sensation of your chest closing up as thoughts and memories rattle around your mind.

Am I seriously going to have a panic attack over Mark liking or not liking me? is your last coherent thought.

You almost don’t hear Johnny calling your name as he walks through the door. Even when you do, you can’t respond. His voice gets more worried as he gets closer, and you see his eyes widen when he opens the door to your room.

It’s like you blink, and then he’s next to you. Vaguely, you hear him ask if he can hold your hand. When you nod briefly, he doesn’t trace patterns into your palm, but he holds it gently, quietly talking you through the episode until your gasping turns to heaving that turns to normal breath.

For a long time, you just lie on your bed, feeling Johnny’s hand ground you to the earth. “How did you know what to do?” you finally ask, voice slightly raspy.

“One of my roommates at university used to have panic attacks,” your brother replies quietly. “He taught us what to do in case we ever had one or encountered someone having one.” He sucks in a breath. “How long have you been having these?”

Well, there’s no point in hiding it. “A few months,” you admit.

Johnny sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” You try to keep your voice flat, but it trembles anyway. “You already have to work just to let the two of us survive, while I’m just going around and doing things that don’t matter. I don’t make money. I just take up space. I don’t help. You had enough to deal with.”

Your bed dips and then Johnny’s putting you into a very light chokehold. “Excuse me?” he says teasingly, though you can hear an undercurrent of sadness in his voice. “Did you just say that you don’t matter? Because you do. Very much.”

“But –”

“Nope, my turn.” He lets you out of the chokehold but keeps a gentle hand on your arm. “I will tell you something right now. If you weren’t here, I would no longer have anything to live for.”

You shut up.

“I make enough for us to live, don’t I?” Johnny looks down at you. “And don’t you technically make a lot of money for us each year, keeping your academic scholarship?”

“Well…” You swallow. “I mean, I guess?”

“So you’re not allowed to say you’re a waste of space.” Johnny turns you around to look right into his eyes. “You’re my younger sister. I love you far more than you can imagine, and I want to worry about you. It’s my duty as your older brother. I want you to be able to talk to me. Trust me, you not telling me things stresses me out more than you telling me everything.”

A ping of regret hits your heart. There’s so much more you haven’t told him, so much more that you can’t tell him just yet.

Well, he knows this now, at least.

“What causes your panic attacks?” Johnny asks gently, rubbing soothing circles onto the top of your hand.

You can’t tell him about the loud noises, but small spaces is reasonable. So is stress. “I’m not completely sure,” you begin slowly, “but I think it’s stress. Small spaces, too. Most of the time, they happen out of nowhere.”

Johnny sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You look up at him, confused.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier.” He hangs his head.

“Oh, no. No.” You punch his shoulder. “If I can’t blame myself, you can’t blame yourself.”

“Caught by my own logic,” Johnny groans, rubbing the spot you hit. “Fine. What caused this one?”

Man, you just promised yourself you’d start telling Johnny things, and then he goes asking something like this. You swallow. “Stress,” you say truthfully. Your voice gets smaller. “I also think I’m… I think I like Mark.”

Whatever you thought was going to happen, you didn’t expect him to laugh. “Johnny?”

Your brother thankfully calms down, though a smile stays on his face. “Congratulations, you’re officially the last one to know.”

“… What.”

“Y/N. My oblivious younger sister. Listen to me.” Johnny stares you straight in the eye. “There are many cases where best friends just remain best friends forever. However, you and Mark definitely do not fall in that category. Anyone who’s seen you two interact can tell.”

You have no clue to what to say to that.

“It’s obvious you two like each other,” your brother finally says, smiling even wider. “I’m just happy you figured it out.”

“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter, pulling away to flop onto your bed. “You think he likes me back?”

Johnny snorts. “I know he likes you back.”

Silence falls in the darkening room. “Go for it, Y/N,” Johnny finally says. “You’re brave. You can do it.”

Lia’s words come to mind again. “I thought he might’ve actually liked me, but… it’s pretty clear who he really does.”

“Maybe,” you say, even though you think you already know what you’ll do. “Maybe I will.”

. . . . .

Mark doesn’t live in Florida. Nor does he live in Texas. No, he lives in New York, where the weather can still be shitty, but it’s more or less predictable.

He didn’t sign up for this.

The day starts out nice enough. Gray light streaks through the sky as the two of you start out for Stark Tower, suits in hand. The sun is fully up in the sky by the time the you reach the tower, and it only shines brighter as Mr. Stark teaches the two of you to fix up more of the nanotech.

Somehow, the two of you hadn’t managed to fuck up your suits that badly that week, so Mr. Stark lets you go early. The sun is still shining brightly at that point – it’s probably two or three in the afternoon – so you suggest going to Central Park to work on your research papers in the shade.

One hour passes in quiet bliss, then two. You ask him to read over a paragraph and he asks you to check over the diagrams in his appendix. All the while you two are working, the sun is shining brightly, making you thankful for the shade the trees provide.

Then the clouds start coming in.

Mark doesn’t react to it at first, just welcomes the extra cover from the intense sun. It’s only just started getting warmer so there’s still a cool breeze, but after months of freezing snow, the heat isn’t entirely welcome yet.

But the clouds keep coming to the point where they’ve all but blocked the sun. You look up with a frown. “We should go,” you say, shutting your laptop. “I think it might rain.”

“Really?” Mark can see why you’d think that, given the heavy clouds, but the sun was shining so brightly just an hour ago. The weather probably wouldn’t change that fast.

You shrug. “Better safe than sorry. Plus, it’s already five. We’d be going soon, anyway.”

You turn out to be right. It starts drizzling by the time you reach the subway station, and he can hear the rain start pouring as the train takes them back home.

“This isn’t Florida,” he complains. “I thought it wouldn’t start raining until, like, next month.”

“We love our favorite global issue, climate change!” You make jazz hands while rolling your eyes. Mark laughs.

He’s so in love with you it doesn’t even make sense to him anymore. Is this how Mei and Ben felt? Is this how his parents felt? If so, how did he not realize it earlier, if you make him feel like this all the time?

The rain is still pouring down in sheets by the time you two emerge from the subway station. “Let’s wait for a bit,” Mark says, unwilling to get soaked to the bone. The apartment isn’t too far away, but in this weather, it might as well be a mile.

However, the minutes pass, and the rain doesn’t seem to be letting up at all. In the end, you just put your jackets on and run for it.

Mark hasn’t run through the rain in a long time. Physically, it isn’t pleasant. Water soaks his hair and his clothes, and he can only hope that it won’t ruin his laptop, too.

But a smile still blooms on his face as you run next to him, eyes squeezed almost shut to block out the rain, water running through your hair, mouth open in a laugh that sounds like music to his ears. Somewhere along the way, you grab his hand, pulling him along faster as your shoes squelch through puddles.

You drag him under a shop awning about halfway back to the apartment to catch your breath. Despite the cold rain, your cheeks are glowing with contagious warmth and excitement that makes Mark let out a breathless laugh.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, gasping for breath, listening to the sheets of rain pouring onto the awning. Water drips down your faces and into puddles on the ground, and Mark privately thinks you shouldn’t look this beautiful, but you do.

“Hey, Mark?” Your voice jerks him out of a rose-colored daze.

“Mhm?” he replies.

A flash of uncertainty passes through your eyes, but steely fire quickly replaces it. “Can I kiss you?”

The world comes to a standstill. It’s like he’s frozen in time, listening to those four simple words play over and over in his ears.

Can I kiss you?

“Mark?” Your voice is smaller this time, but you still gaze at him with a look that he recognizes – not just from your face, but from his aunt’s, too, when she looked at Uncle Ben. It’s a look that must be mirrored on his face right now.

It’s love.

He nods once, twice, then breathes out a little “yes” that even he can barely hear through the crashing rain, but he knows you heard it when your smile turns blindingly bright and you loop your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss.

It’s messy, a bit cold, and your noses bump into each other the first time your lips press together, but Mark just laughs and you just smile and then he’s leaning in for a second one, a bit more practiced this time, cold lips turning warm as Mark holds you close, hands encircling your waist, just reveling in the feeling of your body pressed against his.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time you two break apart, skin chilled but faces warm, smiling shyly but broadly, eyes sparkling. “You’re beautiful,” Mark breathes, then immediately goes tomato red.

You laugh, loudly but – you’re so cute – shyly as well. “So are you,” you reply.

The two of you race home after that, laughter unaffected by the gray clouds and pouring rain. And as Mark stands, kissing you in the apartment lobby as water drips off of him into puddles on the floor, he feels nothing but bliss.

His life’s been flipped upside down, ever since that spider bite. So many things have gone wrong.

But this?

Mark smiles against your lips.

This is one thing that’s gone right.

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