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peachdues · 9 months ago

Text

TOXIC

LEVI X READER

A/N: a combination of the horny angst that’s been swirling in my head for a few days.

Listen. Do I condone what’s about to happen in this? No. Was it fun to write? Absolutely.

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content below • toxic fucking • unprotected/raw sex • creampie • breeding kink • fucking does not solve problems • neither do babies • toxic Levi and toxic Reader tbh

This was a bad idea. Terrible; one of your worst to date.

And yet, as Levi spread you out across his kitchen counter — the counter that, until two weeks ago, had also been yours — you couldn’t for the life of you remember why every alarm bell in your head was sounding off, begging your body stiffen, to reject the man lowering himself between your thighs, his gray eyes glowing nearly silver with desire.

“Just can’t stay away, can you?” His lips are hot and silky as they slope messily across your thighs, and his fingers push aside the hem of your sundress to make way for him. “Because try as you might, you know no one will ever be able to fuck you like I can.”

Ah. That was why.

Because you and Levi had broken up. You were no more; a past concept, a memory.

In the end, your three-year relationship died not in a fiery blaze of glory, but in cold resignation. He’d sat stoically at the kitchen table as you’d confessed that you could no longer stomach being second or third or whatever place behind his true passion — work — and that it was time for you to put yourself first, for once, since he wouldn’t.

The only sign of his emotion has been his fists — clenched so tight that the skin of his knuckles had gone white.

I’m done. I have nothing left to give you, Levi. Not when you only ever take and offer nothing in return.

He’d tried to argue once you announced your intention to move out that night. He’d fought to convince you to wait until morning, to put away the small suitcase you’d packed with your most essential belongings, to sleep on it — on the decision overall. But you’d known that if you’d stayed, you would have changed your mind — would’ve let him change your mind, and he’d known that, too. So you’d held firm, turned your back on him and forced yourself to walk out of the door to your apartment, suitcase in hand.

You hadn’t intended to return, and it seemed like he’d accepted it. He’d even gone so far as to mail whatever of your belongings you hadn’t managed to pack to your parents’ address. So though you spent your nights staining your pillow with bitter tears, your heart feeling like little more than a misshapen lump of meat barely beating in your chest, you’d at least gotten what you thought you’d wanted: a clean break.

Until he’d texted you that all of your mail was still being sent to your — his — address. He’d offered to pay to have it forwarded to you, but when you saw how much that would have put you in his debt, you’d begrudgingly told him you’d stop by on your way home from work and pick it up.

Really, you knew better; should have known better, at least.

And perhaps your logic would have won over your desire, but then Levi’s fingers tug your underwear to the side and his mouth latches to your core, and all the chatter that constitutes your higher reasoning fades to an indiscernible buzz in the back of your skull. The moment you feel something hot and wet prodding your entrance, your mind whites out without the hope of coherency returning any time soon, as Levi begins to fuck you with his tongue.

With a keening cry, your legs seize around his head, trapping him between your thighs. Your hands shoot to grip his hair, desperate to find purchase; to find anything to help keep you tethered here, to reality, rather than risk floating away in clouded bliss.

But Levi is too committed to tearing down the wall you’d carefully spent the last two weeks building, brick by brick. So as his tongue pumps steadily into your core, he shifts, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he presses you harder against his face. His jaw works furiously and when his teeth graze against your clit, you lose whatever last vestige of control you’d clung onto.

You’re sobbing through clenched teeth but utterly helpless to stop your hips as they begin churning and grinding against his mouth. Levi hums in approval, and throw your eyelashes, you spot the way his pupils dilate, chasing away the cool silver of his irises and replacing them with something black and hungry.

“Atta girl,” he praises between his thrusts, and the vibrations of his mouth against your heated, sensitive flesh nearly makes you drool. “For once in your life, stop fuckin’ thinking.”

He swirls his tongue around you entrance one more time before he replaces it with his fingers, plunging two into your cunt and curling them. He finds that rough patch on your innermost wall with a near frustrating ease.

It’s infuriating to know that the person you know can’t give you what you really need is somehow the only person who knows exactly how to give you what you want. And, judging by the faint smirk pulling at Levi’s lips they latch around that bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs, you know he can see your resolve crumbling under his feverish mouth.

“You don’t even remember why we were arguing, do you?” He jeers between harsh sucks at your clit as you continue to writhe and cry out for more. “You just wanted to cause a scene; make me sweat a little.”

You want to fight back; you want to tell him that he’s wrong, that you’d meant it when you’d said your relationship had run its course, but he won’t give you the space to do so. Not when he presses his face firm against your center and rocks his head side to side, reducing any protestations you might have had to pitiful whimpers.

“You’ve got my attention, sweetheart. Let’s see if you know what to do with it.”

Levi slips a third finger into your core and you come undone. With his teeth grazing your clit in time with each measured thrust of his fingers into your heat, you shatter against the kitchen counter, hard enough that stars dance in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s my girl,” Levi groans as he continues to lap at your sensitive and overstimulated flesh. “You’re always so fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”

His praise, coupled with the way his mouth continues to work at your cunt prolongs the waves of your release, until your legs are trembling against the smooth granite of the countertop, and tears are gathered in your eyes. Your walls spasm weakly one final time and then it’s over, your limbs limp and your brain little more than a puddle of liquid between your ears.

Levi steps back and the heat in his eyes is unmistakable; you know, by the way his eyes turn from steel to molten ore that he wants more; wants to take and take and make you bend to him.

You shouldn’t do it; you know you shouldn’t. You know that what’s happening between you is a manifestation of everything that was toxic about your relationship. Levi, always needing to be in control, who only listened when you were at your breaking point, but could never fully give you what you needed. You, who made far too many excuses, who let him dictate the norms of your relationship because it was easy; being with him was easy, until it wasn’t.

So no, you shouldn’t give in; you should stand firm.

You reach for him anyways. “Levi,”

That’s all it takes; a pleading whimper of his name, your hands outstretched toward him, and Levi pounces. His mouth crashes against yours, and his kiss makes you feel whole even though you know he’s tearing your resolve apart.

And you let him; you let him, because you’d sworn you were going to spend your life with him. You believed, without a moment’s hesitation, that Levi was the one for you — the one you’d share the remainder of your days with, the one with whom you’d create and share a family. It was all you’d wanted, and Levi, to his credit, had assured you it was what he’d wanted, too. At least, he did; once.

And, as Levi’s hands slide under you to peel you off the counter, your legs locking around his waist with practiced ease, you know it’s what you still want; he’s what you want.

For all your desperation to have him, Levi is just as eager for you. He pivots you away from the counter, lips still moving heatedly against yours, only to drop you both to the cold tile floor, spreading you out beneath him as his lips begin trailing down your jaw, your neck. He’s too impatient to carry you to the bedroom, his hands fumbling with the buckle on his belt so he can have you then, now, on the kitchen floor.

“‘S been too long,” he pushes the straps of your sundress from your shoulders, yanking the bodice down to expose your. He groans at the sight of your bare breasts, and idly you wonder whether you made the subconscious decision to forgo your bra when you dressed that morning, in the event you’d end up here, under him.

His mouth closes around one pert nipple and you think it was the best decision you could have made; for nothing could possibly feel as right as the sensation of his hot mouth and silken tongue swirling around your soft flesh, nipping and sucking his devotion into your skin.

Your chest is heaving as his hands stroke down your body, pushing and pulling the skirt of your dress up, exposing the lower half of your body. Your legs are still little more than jelly thanks to the intensity of your previous climax, but you manage to wrap them around his hips all the same, clenching in an effort to bring him closer.

“Fuck,” he growls, and he imparts one final nip at your breast before he pulls back, his hands hurriedly shoving the waistband of his trousers and briefs down his hips, just far enough that he can pull his cock free. Your stomach flutters at the sight of him, ramrod hard, his tip already leaking with his desire.

He’s just as desperate for you as you are hopelessly in need of him.

Your eyes trace back up from where his length stands hard against his belly back to his face. A pretty pink blush has flushed his cheeks, spreading down his neck and chest, and his eyes are glassy with want.

“Levi,” you plead with a soft moan. “Baby, please —“

Baby. You hadn’t called him that often while you were together, but when you had, it was because you’d been so filled with affection — with love — that his name hadn’t been enough.

It was a slip, but it doesn’t go unnoticed by your ex. In an instant his body is covering yours, and he’s moaning into your mouth as one hand ensnares itself in your hair. Between quick kisses, you swear you hear him whisper your name against your lips, before his tongue swipes back in and steals your breath away.

He breaks your kiss to shove a hand between your bodies, gripping himself at his base and giving his length one, solid pump. You shift, spreading your thighs wider, ready to take him and feel whole once more.

He lines the tip of his cock up with your entrance and pauses. Impatiently, you buck your hips forward, trying to take him in, but he twists back just far enough that your wetness can only brush against him, a mockery of how you truly need him.

Levi ignores your howl of frustration. “If you want it, then tell me you’ll come home.”

Your teeth clench hard enough to crack, but you won’t give in; not yet, at least.

He’d been right; you wanted him to sweat a little, and damn if you weren’t going to try and bring him to his knees, if only for a bit. At least until he had you back in the palm of his hand, begging for a crumb of his attention.

So with a gritty determination that borders spite, you lock your ankles against his backside and haul him into you with all your might.

“Jesus — fuck!” His yell echoes off the gleaming stainless steel appliances as you force him fully inside you, unwilling to let him win this battle so soon. He falls forward, an arm flinging out beside your head to catch himself.

Your boldness pays off, for Levi is forced remain still, panting hard and his eyes screwed shut as he adjusts to the sensation of being fully buried in your warmth after so long. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the way the muscles in the arm needed by your head ripples under the force of his restraint. Slowly, his eyes open and the darkness in them makes you pulse and contract around his length, your stomach fluttering in anticipation.

Your mouth falls into a perfect “o” as he begins to move once more. He sits back on his knees, back straight, and his hands come to rest on your hips. He tugs you up just enough that your backside rests against the tops of his thighs, your back forced into an arch away from the floor. His gaze drops to where you’re connected, your base pressed flush against his, and the sight of himself embedded so deeply inside you makes the fingers on your hips tighten.

Slowly, and with careful precision, he withdraws his cock from your heat until only his tip remains lodged in your entrance. His eyes flick to yours and then he slams back into you, forcing your breath from your lungs. He repeats the movement again and again, until your lower lip is wobbling and your fingers are sinking into the corded muscles of his forearms, unable to do anything but cling on as he hammers into you.

The stillness of the kitchen is soon disrupted by the telltale sounds of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by your breathy moans and Levi’s pants. Between the sharpness of his hips and the cold tile of the kitchen floor, you know you’re likely to walk away from this with bruises, but you can’t find it within yourself to care. Especially not when Levi is moving like this, each of his thrusts as punishing as they are calculated.

“What’d I say, huh? No one can fuck you like I can.”

Levi more often than not was a soft lover. Kind; generous; prone to taking his time with you, so much so that it was nearly painful, usually leaving you in a tearful puddle on your mattress, begging him for more.

But now, he’s trying to remind you of what you’re leaving behind by leaving him; he’s punishing you as much as he’s begging you to stay.

The thought makes you moan out, wanton and desperate, and the walls of your cunt clench harder around him.

His hips snap harshly against yours, choking off the sound in your throat. “So come back home,” and though you know he means for it to sound like an order, his eyes betray his urgency, his desperation to confirm that you hadn’t really meant it; that you’d given up on him in a moment of stress and exhaustion. “Quit being a brat and come home.”

You want to tell him you can’t — that the door had closed on your relationship the moment you’d pulled it shut behind you that day, but try as you might, the words will not form. All that spills from your mouth are broken utterances of his name, and even those flatten out into pathetic whines as Levi’s callused thumb finds your clit and begins to work, determined to haul you to the edge of your sanity and shove you over.

Your legs spasm around his waist as you begin your ascent to that sacred precipice. Your eyes are rolled back, your head thrashing from side to side as the pleasure, white hot and searing, mounts within you, that coil in your belly winding tight with every impassioned movement of his body against yours.

Distantly, you feel his hold on your hips tighten, and you can feel his thrusts growing sloppy. You know it’s only a matter of time before one of you succumbs to your release.

He growls your name, the last syllable tapering off in a small whine. “T-tell me — fuck — tell me where.”

Your eyes fly open and meet his, sobering awareness washing over you like a tidal wave.

Only once in the entire course of your relationship, did Levi ask where he was allowed to cum: the beginning. He’d asked the very first time you’d slept with him, legs in the air and over his shoulders, and once you’d made it clear you were on birth control, that had been the end of the discussion. You’d known that if you’d changed your mind, all you’d needed to do was tell him, and he’d adjust. Truthfully, however, you’d not minded the possibility of your birth control failing; you’d been content to let whatever happen, happen.

You’d told him as much, and he’d told you he shared the sentiment.

But that was then; this time, he’s giving you an out. A way to make sure this remains a one-time thing, a moment of weakness between two people too lost and broken to want anything different.

Levi’s eyes widen as the silence stretches between you, and his hips slow until he stops moving all together. The friction mounting where you’re connected is nearly unbearable, and you know the only way to relieve it is to give him an answer — whatever it may be.

This was it; the decision that will make or break you both. For once, he’s out the ball entirely in your court, and whatever comes after this moment of bliss — or frality — ends depends entirely upon you.

“Inside,” you barely manage to squeak, eyes wide and locked unwaveringly with his.

Even Levi hesitates. “Y/N —“

“Inside,” you repeat with slightly more conviction. “Cum inside me, Levi.”

“Your pill?” His hips have already resumed their pace, and you can feel how he’s grown harder at your insistence. But though his body is already moving in accord with your demand, his eyes look ready to bulge out of his skull when you manage the smallest shake your head.

“Inside.” You beg again, and you dig your heel harder into the steely muscle of his backside, limiting how far he’s able to pull his hips back; to pull out at all.

Because damn if he isn’t the only person in the world with whom you could fathom facing the consequences of fucking raw without even the safety net of the tiny blue pills still sitting at your pharmacy, waiting.

“Fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth, a tendon in his neck throbbing. “Fuck, you want me to give you a baby? So fuckin’ be it. As long as you’ll stay.”

He shifts over you, planting one foot on the ground so he can use his thigh to pin one of your legs back and to the side. His hand shoves under your other thigh, mimicking the position of your other leg as he mounts you, his full weight pressing you harder into the floor and keeping you spread wide for him.

Gone was the calculated precision of his earlier thrusts; now, Levi only presses his groin firmly against yours as he begins to rut, each rock of his hips pushing his length impossibly deeper into your slick warmth.

A cracked moan of his name signals that the blunt tip of his cock has brushed up against that spot within you that Levi knows will have you coming apart in minutes. And so, with a feral gleam sparking to life in his eyes, he shifts himself to press the head of his cock firmly against it, his hips rolling hard enough into you that you begin moving in time with him, your hips lifting up from the floor only to be pushed back by him as he works.

His balls are heavy against the underside of your ass as he continues to rut into you. You know he’s close when you feel him begin to twitch inside you, and the anticipation of being filled by him — so hot and sweet — makes the walls of your cunt clench harder around him.

If you thought you were a mess before, the way Levi mounts you on the floor has you nearly screaming with pleasure, so electric and blinding that all sights of the kitchen fade to white, and your eyes flutter shut.

But Levi won’t allow you to check out; not now, not ever.

“Look at me.” His free hand grabs your jaw in an attempt to force you to meet his eyes. You want to give him what he wants, but it’s far too difficult, what with the way yours are glued to the back of your skull, a thin line of drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“L-Levi,” you try and plead, to explain. But he has always demanded more of you than you knew how to give.

“Look at me.” His fingers squeeze your cheeks, insistent. “If you want my baby, then you’re gonna look at me while you cum.”

He’s doing it to prove a point — to prove that he still has control over you, over whatever it is that remains between you. And you, helpless against the whims of your heart, let him have it, because you love him.

Fuck. You love him.

You force your eyelids open to meet his punishing stare, and then his lips are crashing down against yours in a fiery clash of lips and teeth as both of you fight to consume the other. But you lose first, breaking your kiss to cry out as your climax slams into you with the force of a freight train, knocking your breath clean from your lungs.

It’s powerful; the most powerful orgasm you’ve had in memory, one that sends your back arching sharply up from the cool kitchen tile below, and pulls a howl of Levi’s name from your mouth.

You’re still straddled among the clouds of your pleasure when Levi succumbs to his own. His body tenses for a moment and then he’s coming undone, his hips giving one last, mighty push before he explodes.

He cums with a strangled groan that he silences by searing his mouth against your neck, his teeth sinking into your skin as he pulses within you.

You don’t try to stop the pleasured grin that forms on your mouth, nor the contented hums which vibrate in your chest as you hold him close to you, savoring the feeling of being warm and full of him.

You know you might regret the decision later; but there, spread out across his — your — kitchen floor, Levi’s full weight bearing down upon you as he continues to flood you with his release, you can’t help but feel that maybe this wasn’t the toxic choice at all. Perhaps this is simply a manifestation of everything that is good in your life.

Good. That’s what you decide to tell yourself as you feel Levi’s lips press sleepily against your neck. This is good; this is right.

Because this — he — is your home.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman #aot #aot x reader #aot fanfiction #aot smut #levi x reader #levi aot #snk levi #captain levi #levi x you #attack on titan fanfiction

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whateveriwant · 1 year ago

Text

Beside

Simon was the perfect boyfriend, until he wasn't.

~1.2k words. Angst, mention of alcohol, mention of sex/18+. This is just a little something that was plunking around my mind.

Simon Riley, who met his younger, civilian girlfriend at a rundown pub one night.

You noticed him the moment you entered your local dive, not just because he was a new, handsome face in the crowd, but because of an inherent magnetism that seemed to pull your gaze to him. Though he was a bit older than you were used to chatting with, that didn't stop you from accepting his offer of drinks when he approached you at the bar. And after sharing a few friendly pints and a few more-than-friendly touches, he ended up heading back with you to yours for the evening, and the rest, well, was history.

Now, it's been over eight months since you first got together, and you couldn't be happier. Simon is probably the best guy you've ever been with. He's kind, smart, funny as hell, and fucks you like no man ever has before. He really is the perfect guy for you, just with one small caveat: how rarely you get to see him.

Because of his job in the military, he's gone more often than he's in town. When he's not jetting off to God knows where, on average, you spend about a week with him each month; maybe a week and a half if you're lucky, though you rarely are. Hell, he's away so much that he doesn't even bother holding a permanent residence anywhere. His home is his little corner bunk on the base across town – the one you've still yet to visit, despite your asking.

Naturally, you've tried floating the idea of having him move in with you permanently, but he's always assured you that he's content as is, that it'd be more stress than sense to relocate so far away from his work.

And you understand, or at least, you try to see it from his point of view. Simon's always been a private guy – a man with no family or friends to speak of, apart from a few colleagues he's forced to interact with semi-regularly. His choice to not want to cohabitate is not an indicator of his feelings towards you. He simply likes having a little space purely to himself, that's all it is.

But even knowing that doesn't make it any easier of a pill for you to swallow. There's only so much that late night calls from private numbers can do or so many pretty gifts in the post that can fill the void Simon leaves whenever he's not around. He's there for you as much as he can be, you know that he is, but you just can't help that you still want more.

It's one night, about five weeks since you've last seen your boyfriend, that you decide to treat yourself to a little pick-me-up. You're at a store that's a bit out of the way compared to where you normally shop, but they have that cheese spread you really like, so it's worth the drive.

As you're mindlessly perusing the shelves, looking at everything and nothing in particular, a noise coming from the aisle over has your ears instantly perking up. That sound. You know that sound. The deep, rumbling timbre that almost has your knees buckling in the middle of the shop.

You follow the noise, sure your ears are mistaking you, but pause mid-step the moment you round the corner. There he is. Your boyfriend. In all his tall, strapping glory. You'd thought that was his voice seeping through the cracks between the shelves, but couldn't quite believe it since you didn't think he'd returned home yet.

You grin, overjoyed to see him, and take a step forward to approach. But just as soon as you move, you stop dead in your tracks, suddenly confused as you take in the scene ahead.

Simon's standing directly beside an overflowing trolley. But not just any trolley. One that holds two little boys, both looking not even old enough to attend school yet.

The sight has you stunned, the smile on your face faltering. Who are these children? And why is your boyfriend watching so closely over them?

You're trying to decipher the situation from afar when another figure quickly grabs your attention. A woman, a few years older than yourself, walks up beside the trolley your boyfriend guards. Simon turns to look at the woman as she places something in the cart, a warm smile curving her mouth when he notices her. The children seem happy to see her return, and upon inspection, they appear to be her sons – the same hair, same eyes, same smile as they gaze up at her.

But the boys’ reaction is not what concerns you, what has your stomach twisting itself in tight knots. It's the way Simon reacts that leaves you stunned, that has you dumbstruck beyond all hope for redemption.

Simon, your boyfriend, smiles just as happily back at this woman. Simon, your boyfriend, gives her that look you’d only ever seen reserved for you. Simon, your boyfriend, reaches out to softly caress her cheek. And Simon, your boyfriend, leans forward, closing his eyes, until he's connecting his lips with hers.

A second passes, maybe five or six, where you just stand there, watching, unable to comprehend what you're seeing. Your mind feels like it’s firing at a million miles an hour, but it has nothing on how fast your heart is beating, threatening to bruise against your ribcage.

After a moment, the two of them pull back, looking like a picture ripped right out of a catalog. The woman reaches up to brush some hair off Simon's forehead, a ring glinting on her fourth finger catching your eye with the movement. The oval cut diamond is especially blinding as she then drops her hand down to her middle. Your pupils pinpoint as she rubs her swollen belly, which can't be more than four months along, you'd wager.

As you look between them – the woman, the children, the man you've been with for months – slowly, so slowly you think your brain is made of wet cement, the pieces of the puzzle finally click together in your mind.

The realization makes you feel instantly lightheaded, thinking you're seconds away from emptying your stomach all over the shop’s freshly swept floor. Your throat slowly constricts, your hands beginning to shake, and before you can register what's happening, your basket of groceries falls to the ground with a clatter.

The resounding noise draws the attention of all the nearby shoppers, including a pair of familiar brown eyes that immediately snap to yours. You lock eyes with Simon for just a second, before you're turning on your heel, abandoning your supplies in a scattered mess.

Tears flood your vision as you flee the store, your body on autopilot as all you can think about is getting out of there. You're trembling as you fumble with your keys, dropping them twice as you bolt through the car park. When you finally reverse out of the lot, you don't even notice how a car or two honks their horn in warning. You hear nothing but the blood rushing through your ears, the static buzzing loudly around your skull. The voice in your head is shouting, absolutely screaming at the top of its lungs.

My God. My God. What have you done?

__________

A/N: Just so we’re clear, Simon Riley would never ever cheat. But for angsty fanfiction purposes, let’s pretend like he would, okay? Okay, cool. Anyway, I’d love to know what you thought! Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley angst #simon ghost riley angst #simon riley fanfiction #simon riley fanfic #cod x reader #cod mw2 #ghost mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #female reader

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ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey · 1 year ago

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Scent

@hinnymicrofic

“When did you finally figure it out?” Ginny asks. Her hair is fanned out around her, the red a shocking contrast to the green of the Quidditch pitch.

They’d been mucking about - flying, tossing a Quaffle, racing, perhaps brushing up against each other in the sky more than was strictly necessary for a casual scrimmage. They had finally headed for the ground as the sun made its lazy descent below the line of trees. Ginny had flopped down on the grass to watch it and Harry had joined her, the thrill of flying still singing in his chest. Or maybe that was just Ginny.

“Hmm?” Harry hums contentedly, watching the sky transition to a brilliant orange.

“When did you finally figure out that you fancied me?” Ginny asks, trailing her fingers through the grass.

The question startles him, because it seems to him now that he must’ve always fancied her, at least a bit, even if he was too thick to realize or too wrapped up in other things to notice. He’s still thinking when he answers, “When I wanted to throttle Dean.”

She laughs, which was what he’d intended. “Jealous, were you?”

“Mm,” he agrees, still mulling the question over.

Looking back on it, there are a great many glaring signals that Harry hadn’t recognized for what they were at the time. The way he’d longed for his summer with her to stretch on, the twinge of regret as she walked away on the train…

“That first Potions lesson, you were what I smelled in the Amortentia,” he muses. “That probably should’ve been a clue…”

He’d been thinking out loud, and only after he’s said it does he realize that was perhaps a more vulnerable confession than he’d intended to make. That’s a bit much, probably, when they’ve only been together a week.

“What?” Ginny says, and Harry wishes he could snatch the words back, wishes he could chew them up and swallow them to be buried somewhere deep in his gut where they belong.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant.

Ginny rolls over and props herself up on her elbows, her expression a mixture of incredulity and mischievousness. “Did you really? What did it smell like?”

“A few things,” he says, unable to look at her and instead pretending to be utterly entranced with the sunset. “Treacle tart. Something that smelled like my Firebolt. And…”

He finally looks at her, and finds that her eyes are glowing brighter than the sun ever could. “You.”

She seems to be struck uncharacteristically speechless, and the moment hangs for several panicked heartbeats. Then, she shuffles closer and presses her sweet lips down to his urgently, and Harry reckons he can’t have mucked it up too badly, as she runs her fingers through his hair and presses herself against him.

She pulls away suddenly and stares down at him, her eyes pressing him down into the earth, and then she lets out a bark of laughter.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

“You–” she cuts herself off, rolling back over and letting out a loud breath that floats up into the darkening sky. “You can’t say shite like that to me.”

He has no idea what to say to that, but luckily she spares him by continuing. “You can’t, it isn’t fair. I already like you too much.”

Harry wonders whether the sun has set directly into his chest. “Well, me too. Clearly.”

Ginny snorts, and Harry reaches for her hand. He breathes in deeply, wanting to drink in the moment, and he thinks he catches the faint flowery scent of her lingering traitorously in the air.

#hinny microfic #hinny #hbp missing moment #hinny fluff #canon compliant

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cwritesforfun · 10 months ago

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Regina George x Fem!Reader: Girl Crush

Regina George thinks a lot about Y/N. Like a lot and she talks about her a lot. After a talk with her new friends and her former girl squad, she realizes she is bisexual and that she likes Y/N!

I'm loosely incorporating lyrics from Girl Crush by Little Big Town and they will be in italics! Also - I know the song is about wanting another girl's man, but I used it differently.

** I don't own any of the characters, except for Y/N and Regina's jock friend, Sally** this is from my Wattpad but I added more here!!!!

Y/N = Your Name **

Regina's POV- Saturday Afternoon

I'm on my way to see Y/N. She invited me for a sleepover. We only see each other on weekends because she goes to a different school and it's at least a 30 minute drive away. My mom and her mom don't want either of us driving on week nights. If she ever needed me on a week night though, I would go in a heartbeat.

Recently I found out I was bisexual. I used Aaron back in junior year for power and because I was a b****!!!! I can admit that to myself now. I say now as if it has been so long since it happened. It's only spring of my senior year, so like half a year.

I arrive and knock on the door. Y/N’s mom opens the door and exclaims, "Ah Regina! Good to see you, sweetheart. Y/N is in the backyard already. I can bring your bag to her room if you want to go straight out there." I reply, "Thank you. That's perfect! I'll go out back! Thanks for having me." She replies, "No problem sweetie. You girls have fun." I nod and smile.

I walk through the house, go outside to the chairs next to the pool, and sit next to Y/N, who is lost reading. She's beautiful.

I ask, "Aren't you gonna say hi to your guest?" Y/N looks up, smiles, jumps up, and hugs me. I hug her back and smile. Wow, can we hug forever? Maybe? Pls. She says, "Omg Regina! I'm so sorry! I was just so lost in my book and I lost track of time." Old me would have made fun of her for being such a nerd. New me doesn't do that. That is personal growth.

After we release from the hug, I smile at her. She smiles back and asks, "Sooo... did you wear your swimsuit and want to swim?" I answer, "Yes, and yes!" She then takes off her sundress and she's left in her bikini. My jaw drops. She's wow. Stunning, beautiful, pretty, and perfect. Y/N laughs and replies, "Regina, are you okay over there? Did my bikini leave you speechless?" Oh, she has no idea. I reply, "I ... It is actually very flattering. You look really good." Was it too obvious that I like her? She answers, "Thank you so much." I take off my dress and she says "I love your bathing suit too. Everything is better in pink." She's so sweet! Wow:) I reply, "True."

We both swim and eventually she brings two floats over, so we can both lay on them. We float around the pool and we talk about our life recently.

I get out the pool to grab some water and Y/N swims a little more.

I lie back on the pool chair and Y/N pulls herself out of the pool. Ahhh you know how people do! She places her hands on the side of the pool and pulls herself up and out of the pool letting the water fall down her body. If I didn't already have a crush on her, I would now. That song by Little Big Town goes through my head ... I got a girl crush Hate to admit it but I got a heart rush It ain't slowing down...

She walks over to the chair area and smirks at me. I want to taste her lips ...

I ask, "So what's for lunch?" ... You? She answers, "My mom's making lunch. We found this yummy summer salad recipe and we decided to have smoothies since we will need something to cool us down. Tonight's dinner is going to be so good though because it is pasta and I made dessert." I smile and reply, "Good! I look forward to it!"

Her younger brother walks outside and hands Y/N a tray of two salads + two smoothies. We thank him and he walks off.

She hands me my food and we eat together.

I ask, "Can I ask you something kind of personal?" She answers, "Go ahead." I ask, "This is just something I've been thinking about recently. How do you feel about having friends that are LGBTQ? And what is your sexual orientation?" Yeah I didn't go the subtle route. She answers, "I think everyone deserves to be with whoever they love, so I'm cool with having friends who have different preferences than me. I think it's great to surround yourself with all kinds of different people. I am bisexual actually. What about you?" I answer, "I'm bisexual or I think I am. I only just kind of discovered it, but my friends at my new school said it was obvious. I didn't know it was obvious, but I guess it was." She laughs and smiles.

We continue talking outside until we decide to shower. I take a shower in her bathroom first and when I walk in, I see her perfume. I take off the lid off, smell it, and I smile. This smell is Y/N and it's wonderful. I want to drown myself... In a bottle of her perfume...

After my shower, I throw on my matching pink pajama set and I take a teeny bit of her perfume and put it on me. I then leave the bathroom.

Y/N goes in and showers.

As she's in the bathroom, I call my friend from lacrosse named Sally.

((Start of conversation)) R- Regina S- Sally S - Hey Regina. I thought you were with you know who. What happened with that? Is it not going well? R - Hi Sally. She's in the shower right now. I don't know what to do. S - Join her. R - I already took a shower and no I'm not doing that just yet. I haven't even told her that I like her. S - OK fine. What has happened so far?" R - We hugged, swam, sunbathed, ate lunch, and each took showers. I ... I also dropped my jaw seeing her bikini and just complimented her. It was a close call. Then I asked her what her sexual orientation is and she told me that she is bisexual. I told her I was too. She smiled about it. I just don't know if I want to tell her now or later or ever. S - I ship you two. You're so into her that I'm surprised it took you forever to realize it. What else is planned for the day? R - Dinner with the family and usually we watch a movie plus Y/N made a dessert for tonight, why? S- Wow, you're already meeting the family. I'm so proud of you. R - Omg geez Sally! Not like that! Haha! S - Fine fine whatever you say. Just tell her you like her. She knows you're bi and you know she's bi. That means you have a sliver of a chance. Take that leap. R - A sliver of a chance means I could still get rejected. Okay, I'm gonna go. Thanks, Sally. S - No problem Regina. Go get your girl. ((End of conversation))

I hang up laughing.

Y/N walked back into the room near the end. I notice her outfit and it's identical pajamas to mine just in a different color. I exclaim, "Omg I love your outfit. Wow, I always forget we have matching ones and then this happens." She replies, "Goals right?!" I laugh and nod. Y/N asks, "So, who were you talking to?" I answer, "My friend, Sally." Y/N asks, "Isn't Sally your lacrosse friend?" I answer, "Yeah, she's really cool and friendly. You'd like her." She replies, "I'll have to go to one of your games this semester to meet her and of course, to support you." I ask, "Wait you'll come to my soccer games to support me?" She answers, "Of course Regina. I'm so proud of how far you've come in both soccer and personal growth this year. I have to support you! And, at least this isn't the dance you did for the talent show." I laugh and ask, "Wait you didn't like it?" She laughs, smirks, and answers, "I liked it when you were dancing and center stage, you were really good." Did she just say I was a good dancer?! I was dating Aaron Samuels at the time, but I really wanted Y/N's opinion. So she liked my dance?! She might actually like me.

Her brother knocks and lets us know dinner is ready.

We go downstairs and eat dinner with her family. It's so good!!

After dinner, we eat dessert and Y/N asks, "How do you like the dessert?" I answer, "It's literally so delicious." She replies, "Thanks. I'm glad you liked it."

After dessert, we go to Y/N's bathroom to brush our teeth. I glance over at Y/N brushing her teeth and smirk causing toothpaste to slip out of my mouth. It's like we're an old married couple in a movie. Imagine me living with Y/N forever and always being her person. That would be the life. I really like her.

We both spit our toothpaste out and Y/N asks, "What made you laugh?" I answer, "Oh nothing. It's a silly idea." I then walk out and to my bag.

When I'm done, I get on her bed and she sits down next to me. She faces me and rests her hand on my hand. Y/N exclaims, "Regina, whatever you have to say, just say it. It made you smile. I want to know what made you smile. I care. I won't call it silly. I promise." I nod and say, "As we brushed our teeth, it just reminded me of old romantic movies where married couples brush their teeth together. That's all." I glance over at her and she replies, "I think that's a cute idea, Regina." Awww. Well, do I take that sliver of a chance? I think I will.

I exclaim, "Y/N, I like you. I've liked you for a while and I just didn't realize that I liked girls until recently. And when I realized it, it all clicked and I've just had a crush on you forever. I know that makes us hanging out awkward depending on what you say back, but I really like you. I just think you're perfect and I'd love to take you out on a date." She smiles and says, "I would love to go on that date with you. I like you too." I smile and ask, "May I kiss you?" She nods and we kiss.

THANKS FOR READING!!! I LOVE YOU ALL :)

#Spotify #regina george #mean girls movie #regina george x reader #regina george x you #wlw #gxg imagine #gxg #wlw imagine #mean girls #mean girls musical

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thewrothode-if · 5 months ago

Note

Has this been abandoned?

Short answer: No!

Long answer: My relationship with this IF resembles that of a toxic ex-partner. I've been on and off with my baby girl (the IF) for the past few months. There have been moments where I ended up writing more than I planned to, and then the next day, I lose that motivation to keep going. So, I simply stop writing for a week until I find that passion again.

However, it's not abandoned! I just suck at keeping that consistency. I tried to stay off Tumblr because, honestly, it contributes to my lack of focus. When I use Tumblr, I become fixated on the idea of my IF, my characters, my story, rather than the actual act of writing.

But I feel so crappy for keeping you all in the dark. So, I apologize for that! I wanted to post this when I was actually finished with the first chapter, so you guys actually had something to look forward to. But MAN, this is taking so much longer than I thought. I really never imagined just how much 1,000 words is to write.

I have planned a few new things for the prologue as well. I plan on editing that after I finish the first chapter (or going back and forth between the two until both are finished, hehe). As of now, the first chapter sits at around 49k, the prologue at around 19k. In total, around 68k.

But trust me when I say this: it is not yet finished and I have so many other variations to add, so much flavor text to include.

Pray for me, ya'll.

Edit: I forgot to mention that I actually added a minor RO.

He is a male. I apologize to the ones who wanted more female RO's. Right now, I have a minor female RO that I have floating around in my head, and that I actually need to think about before adding her in.

Anyway, you will meet the minor RO in the first chapter, but never see him again (since you go to England, poo), at least, not until the second book. He will be A LOT more present there.

The reason he is a minor RO is because he will only have two endings, and for another reason I feel like might be a spoiler.

So get ready for that!!

#im sorry that its taking so long #it must be so annoying to wait #thewrothode #progress #personal #/#interactive-if #interactive if #interactive game #interactive novel #interactive fiction #dashingdon

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ishanijasmin · 4 months ago

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alive alive

contemplating the living forces of nature, thinking about life beyond biology (the layperson's perspective)

i have been thinking a lot about how the earth is alive. maybe even how the world is alive. like, alive alive. the all-singing, all-dancing, moving, caressing, feeling, vibing atmosphere that we have all found ourselves in. the twinkle of the stars, the erosion of a cliff face, the coming and going of the seasons, the whip of the wind, the rise and fall of the sea, the trickle of a stream. so much of the earth is not what we regard as being alive, and i find it fundamentally unusual that we reserve the idea of life for things that manifest in a specific way. i’m not a biologist, and the science of the universe baffles me. but i don’t know how to stand at the edge of an ocean, my feet slowly being consumed by the waves, wet silt building slowly around my ankles to stabilise me, without thinking, ‘what is this, if not alive?’ what does the ocean do if not soothe? what do the cliffs do if not hold?

last week i took a boat trip to berlenga island, just off the coast of lisbon. i am always humbled by the ocean—by its vastness, and as someone for whom the titanic is always in mind, by its mercy. on the journey back to the hotel, i sat on the floating front of the prow of our little boat for a while and let my legs dangle, watching the waves, and it was as close as you can probably be to riding the sea.

as i got progressively more queasy, i followed the patterns for a long time, and i couldn’t really figure out which direction anything moved in, including myself. lost at sea, immeasurably. so later, i looked it up. did you know waves move in circles? you probably did. i didn’t. i have absolutely no idea how these natural processes work. if i were in an ancient civilisation, i would get hit by wind exactly one time before being like, ‘wow, this is witchcraft, i’m doomed.’ wind: caused by the varying pressures in the atmosphere? hot air rises and cold air rushes in? a mystery! feels plenty alive to me! why does it hit my face the way it does—why some days the gentle stroke of a breeze on my sweaty back in the summer, and others a force big enough to move oceans? why at the same time? lisbon is a particularly significant place to be thinking about this: a city plighted by earthquake, great fire, and tsunami in a matter of hours, and left to rebuild from the wreckage.

i’ve had this in over my head experience with windsurfing and paragliding, as well. the wind, never tamed, but understood by people who’ve been observing it for a lifetime and who still prefer to use modern technology to double check their voyages are safe. a respect and a fear instilled by regarding these changes around us as almost alive. almost.

it’s not that i don’t trust scientists when they explain simple geological concepts to me—i suppose it’s like intellectually knowing something rather than intrinsically knowing it deep, deep in your bones. how can you demystify that? how can the winds—the oceans, the lakes, the tectonic plates, the rock formations and volcanoes—how can they not be alive? they are growing, shrinking, subsisting and existing like all of us, not just to hold life as an ecosystem, but as motion in themselves—erosion, weathering, death and becoming.

i have been reading braiding sweetgrass of late, which is where a good deal of thinking about this comes from. in the book (at least the half of it i’ve read so far), kimmerer talks a lot about the reciprocity between people and land, and the idea that we are all alive and that the earth, the sky, the land and its processes are not a dead ‘it’ while we are an alive ‘they’. the earth is being all the time and so am i and so are we all, and it’s kind of hard to think about and also to not think about.

where am i with all this? breathing through the crushing feeling in my chest that has kept me company every day since i can remember; thinking about doing laundry, about growing a flower trail up the side of my apartment that the kids next door won’t prick themselves on, on getting rid of the fungus gnats that are plaguing a couple of my plants, about my husband who has a headache and is squinting, about recharging. the ecology and community of self is as alive as anything else. dwelling on the world and where we all fit into it and how to preserve ourselves and each other—the human each other, the animal each other, the plant each other, the tectonic plate rock formation beach gravestone church road brick wall limestone cliff fossilised shell firewood smelted and mined ring earthquake each other.

#long reads #spilled ink #writing #rejects corner #nature #essay

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true-blue-sonic · 1 month ago

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Espilver Week day 1: Invisible

"The Wisps are truly remarkable creatures, are they not?” the chameleon muses one warm afternoon.

With a smile Silver nods at Espio’s question, studying their strange companions fluttering and cooing around in the distance. The two of them had been exploring around following a tip Sonic had provided them with, and Silver has to admit: the Lost Hex is nothing to sneeze at. Windy Hill could not be better to just wander through with his beloved at his side, his quills fluttering and Espio humming contently at the breeze. But the fact Wisps had come rushing right over with coos galore means that the place isn’t as alone and deserted for lovebirds to spend their dates at as Sonic had proclaimed, even if Silver doesn’t mind it. There’s worse companions to have than a bunch of curious aliens.

“They always look so funny. And they’re so nice to us too,” the hedgehog answers, giving the Red Wisp that had snuggled itself into his hands and refused to remove itself from the decadent affection elicited on it since yet another caress over its head. Espio has found himself a similar object of the Wisps’ interest, with how a Magenta one is doing its very best to stay balanced on top of his crest where many of its siblings have fallen off already. The antics make Silver laugh, which makes the Wisps laugh and Espio too, and that is the sweetest reward of all.

The Red Wisp’s tentacles twitch and curl like the flame of a fire, Silver studying it curiously. “I wonder where they get their special powers from. What creates Hyper-go-on,” he brings up. It's question he’s wondered before, but during wars and racing events there’s not much time to ponder those things over. The Wisps seem to know, though; or at least, they respond with a whole bunch of chatters that Silver can’t follow in the slightest. “Sorry, we don’t have any communicators,” he apologises.

“We’ll have to make do the old-fashioned way. Guess-work. Let us see… It is either something very special or very mundane,” Espio nods from where he grabs and scrutinises the Magenta Wisp so closely Silver can only presume his look of seriousness is tremendously exaggerated, though it wavers at the response of cries the hedgehog swears are disappointed. At least that means he kind of has an idea what’s going on!

Wriggling a finger onto the body of the Red Wisp and grinning at the giggling squeal it elicits Silver hums. “I guess it doesn’t matter so much. But it’s nice the Wisps have managed to make their home here. It’s a great place to live,” he muses, more to himself than to Espio; but Windy Hill is gorgeous and just ambling through it with Espio as the sun shines on his face and the trees sway in the breeze gives plenty of room for happy thoughts. No wonder the Wisps so delightfully chase each other around and draw Silver and Espio’s attention towards flowers and critters scampering around without a care in the world. And even Espio looks carefree, the other drawing a deep breath of the fresh air with a smile on his face.

“Indeed. I can imagine it gives them plenty of space to use those powers of theirs.”

“Certainly,” Silver agrees, a Blue Wisp squeaking loudly and immediately transforming in a cube the moment he and Espio look over. “Very impressive,” the hedgehog encourages their new friends. “What’s your favourite power, Espio?”

“Psychokinesis,” the dry retort comes… as does many an adorably angry leer from the Wisps cluttering around them. “Okay, okay,” the chameleon relents with a chuckle. “I like… Crimson Eagle best.”

Silver’s lips twitch up in a grin. “Because it allows you to fly?”

“Shush, you,” Espio chastises him fondly as Silver very elaborately takes to floating in the air. The hedgehog can see some reasons why his beloved would like the ability to fly best… “Which one do you enjoy?” the other adds, Silver’s ears shooting right up.

“Jade Ghost!”

“…Because it allows you to turn invisible?”

“No, because it allows me to focus on my missions without everyone constantly getting in my way-” Silver falls right into explaining… before blinking. “Oh. Because I’m invisible and they can’t see me.”

That elicits a snort from Espio’s side and a delighted coo from a Jade Wisp in the distance. "But I'm not playing favourites," Silver assures the Red Wisp he's holding still, that's quite promptly taken to pouting- and shrieking, as its Jade companion comes rushing right over and bonks it right out of Silver's arms.

The hedgehog gasps by instinct, as his hold promptly houses a completely different Wisp that expectantly chirps at him and tugs at his fingers. Beside him Espio laughs, as does the Magenta Wisp smugly sprawled out in Espio's grasp with an air that it would not be removed so easily. “Eager, aren’t you?” the chameleon smiles at the Jade Wisp, that coos in approval with its little mouth forming a grin. Its red companion has taken the change less well: mad squeaks and growls fill the air around Silver and Espio, three eyes narrowed angrily and a tendril shaken as if it’s a fist. Adorable, Silver stops himself from cooing out loud. Espio clearly thinks the same, a fond golden gaze meeting Silver’s. “Both of you, pipe down," the chameleon soothes. "You’re reminding me quite a bit of a certain someone when you act like this, heh.”

“That’s not true! I also like Jade Ghost because it means I don’t need to constantly attack people which costs way too much time," Silver huffs back, Espio laughing most teasingly from where he gets shoved by psychokinesis. Incorrigible, that beloved of his, the hedgehog decreed with a shake of his head; even if hearing Espio laugh like that always makes him flutter on the inside. "But I guess you are not bothered much by that, are you, little one? You did just push your friend right away to get some attention. I would never do such a thing myself," he adds to the Jade Wisp he's holding, Espio taking the angrily-jabbering Red Wisp to soothe and cuddle instead while the hedgehog shoots a teasing little grin to his own charge. It promptly makes a similar peeved noise as its friend, Silver muffling a laugh as it bonks its head against his stomach…

And a zap of energy going through him makes the fur on his spine rise, though as Silver looks down at the Wisp he can look quite a bit through himself, too.

“Huh,” Espio remarks over the giggles and squeals from their various companions. “Your friend there didn’t like to hear that, tenshi.”

With a curious hum Silver sticks out his hand: he’s very much still here, but also very much translucent, a green aura radiating from his body and the Wisp flying right out of his grasp through his arm with plenty of cheeky coos. “Jade Ghost,” the hedgehog easily determines. Not as complete as he’s used to, but pushing a hand through his stomach is easy as can be.

“That’s creepy,” Espio’s teasing judgement comes.

Laughing at the Jade Wisp fluttering around his head with scolding chirps Silver shakes out his glowing quills. “Aw, come on. Can’t handle a bit of see-through-ness?”

“Excuse me? I am the expert at see-through-ness,” the chameleon retorts; and quite suddenly it looks as if the Red Wisp is floating into nothingness, the creature squeaking in alarm as Espio disappears with a gale and some leaves fluttering around him. “I am still here, my friend. You would not be held up if I was not,” the ninja’s disembodied voice assures it, Silver’s ears twitching in amusement. Yes, Espio does not become intangible when invisible…

“That’s true! He’s right here,” he smirks, and Espio’s noise of warning does not deter him from pushing his translucent hand right into where the other’s body must be.

A full yell and a startle follow, Espio’s purple colours rushing right back from where he jumps away. “Silver!” the chameleon huffs at him. “That’s cold!”

“Heh. Sorry,” Silver retorts, not at all apologetic.

“Incorrigible,” he gets scolded... though Espio’s attempt to grab twitching grey ears and give them a tug promptly finds itself foiled as his hand goes through Silver’s head instead. It leaves the two of them laughing, as does the Jade Wisp prodding away at Silver’s body. “Alas, I have been defeated by the power of the Wisps. I guess I’ll just have to get used to my beloved always being half there,” the chameleon bemoans playfully. “I would give you a kiss… but it cannot be achieved. You are intangible.”

:"...Oh. Heck." With his quills shooting right up in horror Silver blinks, staring at himself and his see-through body: that is quite a good point, actually. But not one that is irreversible! After all, Wisp powers always run out right when he doesn't want them to; surely this half-formed Jade Ghost has only been kept active because its responsible Wisp has been battering at Silver relentlessly this whole time. “Hey,” he pipes up to their Jade companion, who has crossed two of its tentacles to pout at him. “Sorry for painting you as a Wisp-bonking menace. It was a compliment.”

Jabbering something back the Jade Wisp rubs its little face, or at least Silver figures; but with a final bonk and mad cackles it flies off, the hedgehog chuckling as well. Before he knows it the usual grey of his pelt as returned, his hand pushing into his stomach instead of through. “Well! Now you can kiss me,” he grins at Espio, eager as can be-

Before squealing in disdain as the other shoots over and tugs at his ears after all.

“There. My revenge has been had,” the chameleon smirks, Silver wriggling in his grasp and laughing at the flailing of the Red Wisp finding itself rather stuck between their two bodies. Eventually it breaks free with similar peeved jabbers, though Silver is a bit too preoccupied to really pay attention to that: Espio's hands run over his back and his quills, their faces so tantalisingly close a kiss is mere seconds away after all.

Huffing a breath into Espio neck first, just to make a statement, Silver snuggles even closer. “Rude,” his protest comes; but so does his coveted kiss, his arms wrapping around Espio’s body and purrs rumbling in his chest from where he gets petted so lavishly.

That is, until he gets rammed in the back by a madly-cackling Wisp and the zap of energy makes him stumble; through Espio, who altogether shrieks at the sensation, and after that they spend a lot of the afternoon chasing after their mischievous Jade friend and trading pecks once Silver has become tangible again.

Next time they’re getting a Crimson Wisp to play with because at least those don’t make Espio become translucent, Silver determines, but for now he’s perfectly happy to snuggle with his beloved into the grass from Windy Hills, content as can be.

@espilver-week 🍀

#silver the hedgehog #espio the chameleon #espilver #Espilver Week 2024 #blue's writing #I am EXHAUSTED so bear with me when it comes to more extensive tags and summaries and what-not XD

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rambleonwaywardson · 3 months ago

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Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 15

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: We may have been shorter last week, but we are longer this week. Good news is, the boys are heading home! Heads up, I am looking at probably two more chapters after this one(?) Who knows, but that's my current idea.

---

Is it possible to be nowhere and everywhere at the same time?

You’re driving on the flat open road of the west, not a single car in sight, nothing but nowhere spread across the Earth on all sides. Or you’re on a boat in the middle of the ocean, calm waves rocking you up and down, knowing that the world is at your fingertips even though you can’t see a single thing other than the water meeting the sky. You’re in a plane, soaring through the clouds, no worries, no pain, almost everyone who ever lived below you and endless possibilities ahead. Or you’re in a space capsule above the Earth, and you look into the star-spotted blackness out your window and you know. It looks like nothing, but in reality, there’s nothing but everything. An infinity that rests just beyond your reach.

There’s something about being adrift in the great wide open that makes you throw your arms out to the wind, yell into the universe to let them know you’re there, you’re not afraid. Way out in the middle of nowhere, the great wide everywhere that you can’t see but you can feel in your heart.

John has spent his whole life chasing that feeling, grin on his face, cheeks reddened by the wind. His feet could never settle on the ground, always trying to reach the sky above, the moon, the stars, the infinity that dared him to hold on for the ride. Wild child, they called him. He wanted to find the top of the world, see it all stretched out before him.

The king of nowhere and everywhere all at once.

—

November 23 Somewhere between Earth and the Moon Or… somewhere between nowhere and everywhere

“Hey astrofag, welcome back.”

Bucky’s eyes open slowly, as if his eyelids don’t remember what their job is. Everything is blurry and unfocused, watercolor grays and whites. His body doesn’t feel right, adrift in a sea of nothing. Everything feels wrong wrong wrong, and his head feels tight and heavy, his eyes irritated, his face stuffy and sore.

Everything hurts. He blinks, and his vision assembles into something semi-coherent, shapes and lines that don’t make sense but at least are staying still for once. Someone is standing over him, a grin across their face.

Not standing. Floating.

Alex. Alex wasn’t here before. Bucky hasn’t seen Alex in…

When? When did he last see Alex?

Bucky’s eyes dart around the small crew cabin, but it sends a sharp pain through his head like needles poking at his brain, carving into his skull. He can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Getting faster, too fast. Nausea is rolling through him. Panic.

“Hey, take it easy.” Rosie’s voice.

Bucky can’t breathe. Or is he breathing too fast? His lungs burn.

He gags on the air that tastes like metal in his mouth, feeling that sour acid creeping up his throat as his stomach tries to flip inside out. He tries to turn over, but he’s stuck. Something is holding him in place, and he doesn’t understand how that can be possible when it feels like all the pieces of his body have been disassembled. Weakly, he tries to break away from the restraint. Need out need out need out.

But he can’t. He doesn’t understand how to move his body when his body is nothing. He is nothing.

He wonders, if he believes hard enough that none of this is real, will he wake up whole again?

He might scream in pain when he tries to move his leg, but that might only be in his head. It’s hard to tell, when he woke up with a head-splitting ringing in his ears.

“Get him up, get him up,” Rosie is saying. The panic in his voice sticks in Bucky’s mind. Two of a kind.

Alex leans over Bucky, working to free him. He and Rosie pull him upright just before he spits the bile out of his mouth. It floats in front of his face, making him feel sick again as he stares at it, wondering why it’s doing that. He doesn’t know where he is. Or why. Or how.

He wants to go home now.

“Curt?” He whimpers.

“He’s sleeping, bud.”

Bucky doesn’t like that. Curt has been the only constant in this painful, pieced together existence he’s been living. He blinks, and everything goes all blurry again.

The last thing he hears before he passes out is someone saying Gale’s name.

—

“Gale isn’t here,” Rosie tells him.

He was. I heard you talking to him.

“You wanna talk to Helen about something?”

Bucky shakes his head. That movement alone sends everything spinning around him. His nose is all stopped up and his throat feels tight and sore. His stomach feels like it’s twisted all in knots. Rosie keeps trying to give him water, but he’s having a hard time swallowing, more often than not choking or spitting it back out, and he feels tears leaking onto his hot cheeks. He groans and curls in on himself, hoping that maybe if he closes his eyes, all of this will just go away.

“Hold on,” Rosie says, his voice muffled as he leaves Bucky’s side.

He mourns the loss of company, and he pulls his shaking left hand up to his mouth, pressing his wedding ring to his lips for comfort. Everything feels funny. There’s too much pressure in his head, and he doesn’t know why.

His limbs won’t listen to his brain, and he feels like he’s floating in the worst way. And he doesn’t know why.

Everything hurts so bad. And he doesn’t know why.

He feels like he’s gonna throw up. And he doesn’t know why.

Gale isn’t here. And he doesn’t fucking know why.

His whole body feels like it’s buzzing, like an electric current gone haywire. One wrong move and he might go up in flames. His heart is beating too fast and it won’t slow down. He can’t breathe. “Hey, hey, it’s alright.” Rosie’s voice is back. A warm hand rests on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re fine. I’m right here.”

He really wishes it was Gale, but he just doesn’t want to be alone. He’s scared that if he falls asleep alone, he might not wake up. Somewhere deep in a memory he can’t trust anymore, something tells him that someone out there doesn’t want him to wake up. Would that be better?

Something soft is touching his hand, rubbing across his knuckles. Rosie gently pulls Bucky’s fingers away from his mouth, helping him stretch them open and close them again around the object.

“Open your eyes, John. Take a look.”

Bucky does as he’s told, even though it makes him feel sick, and he lifts his head as much as he can to look down at his chest. There’s a small stuffed bear with soft brown fur gripped in his fingers, pressed against his heart. It’s wearing a NASA shirt and a name tag that says “Beary Egan” in a messy scrawl that Bucky would know anywhere. His heart jumps.

“Gale,” he whispers.

Rosie strokes his hair back soothingly, and Bucky falls asleep without feeling panic in his chest for the first time since he woke up on the moon.

—

“Gale isn’t here.” Curt strokes a strand of hair away from Bucky’s face.

Bring him back, Bucky thinks desperately. Tell him I need him.

He picks at the needle in his arm, but Curt swats his hand away. Get it out of me. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn’t want it there anymore. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to go home.

“Quit that,” Curt says, grasping Bucky’s fingers in his own to keep them still. Bucky struggles, but eventually goes lax when it takes too much energy that he doesn’t have. “It’s already all red, John. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“Buck,” Bucky whispers insistently.

He searches Curt’s face, and all he sees is sadness as the other man sighs deeply and squeezes his fingers. “He’ll be back tomorrow,” he says, letting go of Bucky’s hand.

Bucky hugs Beary Egan tight to his chest and imagines Gale’s arms wrapped around him. He imagines the heat of his body protecting Bucky from the world, the strong set of his shoulders ready to take on anything that threatens to hurt him. He imagines his smile and his laugh and the fierceness and love in his eyes. He imagines his voice in his ear, the warmth of his breath, the feeling of his lips kissing the top of his head.

If Gale were here, he’d make all of Bucky’s pain go away. If Gale were here, Bucky wouldn’t have to worry about anything at all.

—

“... Vertigo… TBI… bad combination.”

“What do we do?”

“... keep him comfortable… hope…”

“...ain’t happening.”

Bucky’s head hurts too much to even open his eyes. When he tries, pain rings in his ears like a physical thing hunting him down in this never-ending nightmare. He has nowhere to turn, no way to escape it. It’s already got him in its teeth.

Voices drift in and out, but he doesn’t know who they are or where they’re coming from.

“Gale,” he tries to whisper, but his lips are dry and his throat is dry and his brain won’t form the word – the only word he knows. Gale. No one can hear him. Beary Egan has drifted away, somewhere he can’t reach, leaving him all alone in the darkness of this place he doesn’t know. He tries to reach his hand out, tries to open his eyes to look, but it all makes him feel sick.

Come back. Please.

Bucky turns his head to the side and coughs out the burning acid forcefully ejecting itself from his body. Somewhere, distantly, he’s aware of someone wiping his face. “Here,” they say. “We don’t wanna lose this guy do we?”

His fingers are being pried open, and he closes them around something soft. Something safe. He pulls the bear back to his chest, and he sniffs against the stuffiness clouding his head. He imagines the unknown voice belongs to Gale, even though it’s not even close.

—

Rosie feels a deep pain in his chest every time Bucky wakes up and asks for Buck. Every time, Rosie has to tell him “Gale’s not here right now, John. He’ll be back in the morning.” And every time, Bucky frowns, and he disappears again. Like Gale is the only reason he’s stayed alive this long and there’s no reason to exist if he isn’t here.

Rosie is a medical professional. And yet even he doesn’t wholly understand the role that love plays in an intensive care patient drawing in the next breath, and the next, and the next. In a matter of life or death, Rosie used to be inclined to say that, no, love doesn’t keep patients alive. The heart is no more than a muscle that pumps blood through your body, and your body is no more than a vessel for your brain. Your brain is no more than a collection of neurons that, through some miracle of life, let you think and interact with a complex world. Love is not a direct power source.

That’s not to say that the existence of human life isn’t beautiful. And that’s not to say that the existence of love isn’t worth living for. It’s just to say that the human body is going to do what it’s going to do, that intense feelings of love pulling a coma patient back to the surface is something straight out of a cheesy romance movie.

But it’s possible that John Egan alone will change Rosie’s mind.

“He’s regressed since docking,” he tells Helen. It’s late on November 23rd, nearing midnight for the crew – 8pm in Houston – and they are well on their way back to Earth. It’s been 24 hours since Starship rendezvoused with Orion and Rosie and Alex had to pull John’s unconscious body through the hatch. He only woke up once Gale’s entire shift, which Rosie knows tore Gale up inside even if he won’t admit it to anyone. Bucky has woken a few times in the four hours since. Every single time he asks for Gale.

“Buck said he’s been unconscious much of the day?” Helen asks.

Rosie rubs a hand over his eyes. He’s floating in the middle of the cabin next to John’s hammock, where he’s been stationed basically since they got the commander settled there in the first place. As he talks, he’s adjusting Bucky’s IV fluid. NASA asked him to ration it, but Rosie is terrified that decreasing the amount of fluid Bucky receives will mean he won’t regain enough strength. He’s become more and more concerned throughout the day, as the Earth becomes larger and larger through their window. Atmospheric re-entry and splashdown will be harder on Bucky’s body than even the Starship launch was.

Rosie’s worried that Bucky’s heart, his brain, his body won’t be able to handle the stress. If they can’t get some of his strength back, the intensity of their return to Earth might crush the life right out of him like a shoe to a bug. So how in this godforsaken universe is Rosie supposed to tell Gale that, even though they’ve gotten his husband this far, there’s still a chance he dies during re-entry?

“Rosie?” Helen says. Rosie squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head to re-center himself.

“He asks for Gale a lot,” he recounts. “He expresses pain – and as far as we can tell, he’s in a lot of pain. He only seems partially aware of what’s happening to him at any given time, but he won’t stay awake long enough for us to tell.”

“What changed?”

Rosie scoffs, even though he doesn’t mean to. It’s just that this whole situation is basically their worst case scenario – the kind of thing that they don’t even plan for much less practice coping with. They’re all just trying their goddamn best up here even though their best means subjecting their commander to baseline torture.

“His body is having a really hard time adjusting to zero gravity.”

It’s funny, actually, because Major John Egan has never had a single problem with space sickness before. Even when the majority of astronauts experience symptoms of Space Adaptation Syndrome when first exposed to zero gravity, Bucky has never reported more than some congestion from the headward shift of fluids that they all experience. He’s never experienced nausea or vomiting, malaise, or loss of appetite. Hardly even a headache. Many of the other astronauts were jealous of him for that.

“My best guess is the extra pressure in his head after a TBI is causing more problems than we can really anticipate,” Rosie explains as he tries to massage the tension out of his brow. He hasn’t slept in over 24 hours now, and it’s starting to get to him. “He’s extremely congested. Seems to be experiencing vertigo, headaches, confusion, a lot of nausea. His motor control has regressed. His ability to communicate has regressed.”

He can hear Helen typing away on her computer, recording this information for their records. “What are the odds it corrects itself the longer he’s on Orion?”

Rosie shrugs as he double checks that the IV is still properly inserted into Bucky’s arm. It made him feel like an absolute monster, but he had to restrain Bucky’s hands an hour or so ago because he kept pulling at it, obsessively trying to remove it. The only reason he hasn’t succeeded is because he can’t get enough control over his own fingers to grip something so small as the butterfly needle. Bucky tried to fight the restraints, and Rosie was impressed with the strength he exhibited for having almost no nutrients for days on end, but he was still too weak and gave up after half a minute. Rosie tucked Beary Egan into the sleeping bag with him, right over his heart, to keep the bear from flying away.

“I’m hopeful,” Rosie admits hesitantly. “Usually SAS goes away within a day or two. But as I said, this is… a unique case.”

He floats his way over to where his laptop is stored by the main console so he can update the log he’s been keeping on Bucky’s condition. Things like Asks for and accepts water; Asks for Curt and Gale; Responds to pain stimuli; Complains about head and leg pain; 0800 - vomited bile; 1100 - vomited bile; 11:30 - Trouble swallowing water; 1300 - vomited bile; 14:30 - vomited bile; 1600 - scratching at head wound; Keeps trying to remove IV; 22:30 - restrained hands.

23:45 - decreased IVF.

Early this morning, Rosie was able to use their X-ray machine to check Bucky’s leg. He was happy to report that Curt managed to set it properly, and it should hopefully heal well enough once they make it back home. If they can keep Bucky from messing with it and potentially re-injuring himself.

Silver linings.

“I’m worried about the IV fluid.”

“I know,” Helen says.

“I was hoping I’d be able to get him eating solid food once he was back on Orion, but at this rate, I’m lucky if I can get him to swallow water without coughing it back up.”

There’s a brief silence before Helen comes back. “We think you should try giving him something easy tomorrow. Cereal or soup. You should have enough food rations to sacrifice some, if he can’t keep it down.”

Rosie watches the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest. Even in sleep, he looks pained. “I can try.”

—

Nassau Bay, TX

Gale has given up even considering sleeping in his bedroom. He spent last night tossing and turning on the couch, even though he knew he’d wake up with all sorts of pain in his neck and back. He has to admit, he isn’t twenty-two anymore. But the thought of sleeping in that too-big bed without John’s arms around him is too much. He’s forcing himself to stay in the living room, even though he’s terrified to be alone. Even though the darkness closes in on him, making him feel like that lonely child afraid of the night. He doesn’t want to bother Marge again; she’s spent too much time trying to hold him together.

John’s pillow smells less and less like John. When Gale woke up far too early this morning, the creeping fear from a forgotten nightmare crawling over his mind, he cried into the pillow, mourning something that he nearly lost but hasn’t yet found again. Mostly, he shoves his nose against the pillowcase and tries to find the last remnants of that smoky-sweet scent that he would give anything to smell again. Counting the minutes, the seconds, until John comes home.

Before and during rendezvous, Alex and Rosie adjusted Orion’s course to drop from NRHO into LLO, so that they would dock with Starship and remain in low lunar orbit rather than continuing on into the much longer near-rectilinear halo orbit. The original flight plan called for continuing in NRHO for a few days before performing a burn that would essentially slingshot the crew around the moon and back towards Earth. But with Bucky still in critical condition, they simply don’t have that kind of time.

Early this morning, Benny walked Curt through a trans-Earth injection burn, kicking the crew out of LLO. If all goes to plan, the new flight path will bring them home in 3.5 days rather than the roughly week-long journey that NRHO would have necessitated.

All that to say, Gale will be with his husband again in T-3 days. 72 hours. 4,320 minutes.

259,200 seconds.

About 260,000 heartbeats.

One. Two. Three. Four…..

He’s given up trying to look through the wedding pictures. Sometimes he opens the tab on his phone and simply stares at that first look photo, the one of John seeing him in his wedding suit for the very first time. He imagines Bucky’s hands on his waist, the softness of Bucky’s hair beneath his fingers, that wayward curl over his head. He thinks about Bucky’s smile – perfect, carefree, beautiful, something sent by the angels.

Sometimes it hurts too much, and all Gale can do is try not to chuck his phone at the wall. He actually did once, when he stupidly gave in to the urge to go on social media. He had to relocate one of the framed photographs on their living room wall to hide the dent he made.

“Fag’s coming home,” people on social media say.

“I vote we leave him up there.”

Gale wonders how people can be so cruel to a man that has given everything for his country time and time again.

During Gale’s shift today, Bucky only woke up once. For eight hours, Gale stood or sat at his desk, wedding ring pressed to his lips, coffee clutched in a death grip, guiding the crew through cabin checks and correctional burns. And Bucky only woke one time, screaming in pain. Rosie and Dr. Huston both tell Gale that the Starship launch was a lot for John’s brain and body to handle, and they aren’t surprised he needs time to recover. They tell him that it isn’t really a step back, that it isn’t anything to worry about. But Gale knows they aren’t telling him the whole story.

What if they ruined his chances, strapping him into that rocket? What if it was too much for him to handle? What if he doesn’t recover? What if he’s made it this far, and he’s not strong enough to finish the journey home? And now, when they’re running out of IV fluid…

Gale’s whole life feels like a what if. He’s so, so close to having his husband back, safe in his arms. And yet they have so terribly far to go.

Minimal consciousness. Minimal consciousness. Minimal consciousness. That’s what everyone keeps calling it. That’s the official statement that Marge gave in the press conference that aired this afternoon. “Major Egan remains in a state of minimal consciousness… Hard time remaining aware… basic communication… vertigo… brain fog… confusion… pain…”

That’s the purgatory that Bucky is in.

“We’re hopeful he will continue to improve… we are doing everything we can to bring our boys home.”

The TV clicks off. Gale looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor, alone, holding the pillow in his lap. He changed out of his work clothes when he came home and is wearing the Yankees sweatshirt and a pair of black joggers, his socked feet tucked beneath his crossed legs. Marge sighs deeply as she looks at him, remote in hand. “You’re just torturing yourself.”

“You’re the one who did the press conference,” Gale mutters.

“It’s my job, Gale.” She frowns as she sets the remote on the coffee table. “Go get your dogs. It’s a nice day, and you need fresh air. I can come if you want company.” She’s slowly starting to trust him again.

Gale shakes his head and gets to his feet, carefully placing the pillow back on the couch. “I’ll go.”

Marge is right, it is a nice day. Cool, but not cold. The bite in the air makes Gale pull the sleeves of the sweatshirt over his hands, and he thinks about walking through the neighborhood with John when they first moved here, almost exactly four years ago. He thinks about Bucky’s warm hand in his, his wild grin as he pointed this direction and that, pretending to be a tour guide of this place that he’d never so much as visited before. “To your left, you’ll see a wild seagull in its natural habitat…”

Benny answers the knock on his door faster than Gale expected him to, and when he meets Gale’s eyes, his face is filled with a worry that punches Gale right in the gut, a worry that Gale is simply not equipped to handle right now.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

Benny runs a hand through his hair and motions behind him, where the dogs lay on the hardwood instead of greeting Gale, tails wagging, like they normally do. “Pepper won’t eat. Did she eat breakfast?”

Gale feels his heart drop. The happy memory of John is replaced by dread washing over him. Suddenly, it feels far too cold outside after all. He rubs a sleeve-covered hand over his eyes. “I… I can’t remember,” he realizes. He bites at his lip, furrowing his brow. “Marge fed her. I can’t remember.”

He vaguely remembers Marge saying something about Pepper this morning. She looked concerned. He was so exhausted though, so drained. He remembers tightening his tie around his neck, feeling it choke the air from his lungs, adjusting the collar of his shirt as he nodded. He muttered something along the lines of “I’m sure she’s fine.”

How could he have neglected his baby girl? How could he have ignored something that was so obviously unlike her? How terrible of a pet parent is he?

He rubs his hand over his mouth, and Benny must see the distress clear as day all over his face, because he puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes. “It’s okay.”

“Why can’t I remember?” Gale whispers.

Benny chuckles softly and pulls him into a hug. It makes Gale feel pathetic, the way tears well up in his eyes so easily, and he holds his breath to stop them from spilling over. “If those bags under your eyes are anything to go by, you’re not sleeping,” Benny points out. “And Marge says you’re barely eating.” He sighs, holding Gale tighter. “Breathe, Buck.”

Gale struggles to draw air in through his nose, and Benny rubs his back. “What are we gonna do with you?”

“Send me to the moon, apparently,” Gale mutters. “Didn’t you hear, that’s where America wants to send us fags to die.”

He feels Benny go stiff, tensing at his cruel words. “Buck,” he breathes out, his voice full of sorrow.

“It’s fine,” Gale insists. He wriggles out of Benny’s hold and wipes his eyes. “I’m fine. I-I’ll take her to the vet tomorrow, if she doesn’t eat by the time my shift ends.”

He walks past Benny into the house, kneels down next to Pepper as she lays on the floor. She whines and presses her cold nose against his arm, and he smiles sadly as he strokes her ears. “Pep, don’t do this to me, sweetie. I can’t…”

He sighs and closes his eyes. It doesn’t matter if he can or not; he has to do it all anyway. He has to keep them all afloat. Absently, he rubs his thumb over his wedding ring.

“That’s it,” Benny says. “Have you eaten dinner?”

Gale shakes his head. Marge made pasta, but he could only stomach a few bites. She told him he’d have to try again later. “You’re supposed to be sleeping before Blue Shift,” he reminds Benny.

Benny motions to the door, referencing how quickly he opened it. “Does it look like I was sleeping? Now come on. I’m gonna heat up some soup and you’re not leaving until you eat it.”

—

November 24

Sometime in the middle of the night, Rosie wakes up to Bucky making panicked noises somewhere along the lines of “Uh??? Uh? Uhm…” his voice pitching higher and higher. Despite getting basically no sleep at all, Rosie scrambles at top speed to disentangle himself from his sleeping bag of a hammock, which is strapped vertically to the wall of Orion, and he fumbles with the switches by the main console to get the overhead cabin lights turned on. Curt, in the horizontally strung up hammock beside Bucky, mumbles in displeasure as he wakes and has to squint against the fluorescent brightness assaulting his eyes from above. Alex does the same from his sleeping bag, also secured to the wall, on the other side of the cabin.

Rosie rubs at his own eyes as he pulls himself down to Bucky’s level.

“What’s wrong with him this time?” Curt asks through a yawn. Rosie knows it isn’t meant to come out as annoyed as it sounds. Curt, after all, has been the one dealing with every bullshit twist of fate the universe has thrown Bucky’s way this entire time.

Bucky’s eyes are wide as he looks up at Rosie, then down at his hand, which he’s holding in front of his face. Rosie doesn’t know how the hell he managed to break free of the restraints, but on some level he’s actually relieved. Because that means there’s no point in restraining him again. His breathing isn’t well controlled, shifting from quick gasps to hardly breathing at all and back. Rosie takes his shaking fingers gently and tries not to wince when he feels something wet against his skin.

Red.

“He’s got blood on his hand,” Rosie tells Curt.

“The fuck?” Curt sits up and looks at Bucky. “What did you do?”

Bucky just keeps staring at his hand. He rubs his thumb over his forefinger, watching the red smear across his pale skin. He scrunches his nose.

“Bucky? Where did that come from?” Rosie asks. “I need to know.”

Nothing.

“John, can you look at me?”

Bucky looks back up at him, his eyes unfocused. “Huh?”

“The blood. Where did the blood come from?”

Bucky frowns and seems to notice the blood on his hand all over again. He grimaces and gags a little bit, making another kind of “uh” sound. Rosie braces himself, waiting for Bucky to throw up again, but he doesn’t.

Rosie tries asking, “John, what hurts?” Since asking where the blood came from didn’t work.

Bucky tries to rub his eyes with his bloody hand, and Rosie has to catch his wrist to stop him from smearing it all over himself. “All’ve it,” he slurs.

Rosie nods and takes a deep breath. He should’ve expected as much. “Okay, come on, let’s sit up.”

Bucky doesn’t protest when Rosie unzips the side of his hammock halfway and helps him sit up, but he does whine when the movement jostles his leg. His non-bloody hand tries to grab onto Beary Egan as he floats away, released from the sleeping bag, but he doesn’t have the coordination. Rosie plucks the bear out of the air and tucks him down into Bucky’s lap.

“I know, I know,” he mutters as Bucky tries to reach towards his broken leg. He secures both of Bucky’s hands in his own to hold him upright and keep him from messing with anything else. “Curt, help me out here.”

Curt crawls the rest of the way out of his own hammock so he can hover beside Bucky.

“I’m gonna sit with him like this,” Rosie explains. “Can you check the back of his head?”

Curt nods and puts both hands on Bucky’s shoulders, using them as leverage to pull himself closer to his commander’s backside. Gently, he brushes aside the short strands of hair that are slowly growing back after Curt had to shave off the patch around the head wound.

“Bingo.” His own fingers come away bloody, and he shows Rosie. “He broke open the stitches.”

Rosie frowns and looks pointedly at Bucky. “You’re not supposed to bother those.”

He can’t stay mad, though, when Bucky mutters a quiet but intelligible “Sorry,” even as his eyes are so unfocused that Rosie has no faith he knows what he’s apologizing for.

“I’m gonna have to wrap it all up again, you know.” Rosie tries to catch Bucky’s eye, but the other astronaut won’t look at him. Whatever thoughts are floating around his addled brain are somewhere far away from here.

Rosie asks Curt to update Houston. Then he tells him, “Get me some disinfectant, a rag, a water bottle, and some gauze.”

“Hold on,” Curt calls back as he floats towards the console. “Gotta change our wake-up song first.”

—

“As the sun comes up shining down on the ten, I did too much living and I’m dying again…”

Bucky wakes groggily to the sound of a tired, monotone chorus of his crewmates’ voices, a song blasting in the background. He feels hot and cold at the same time, and a shiver racks his bones, sending pain coursing through his leg. Nausea rolls throw him, and he bites his tongue to hold it back. Slowly, his eyelids peel open. They feel all sticky and wet, like when he wakes up with a fever in the middle of winter and Gale brushes his hair off his forehead with gentle, soothing fingers.

Gale isn’t here, though. They keep telling him that.

He squints through the bright lights of the cabin, despite the heavy ache in his head and sinuses. He can see the others starting to stow their sleeping bags around him, going about their morning. They all look as exhausted as he feels, and they’re all quietly mumbling along to the lyrics of a song he doesn’t recognize.

“I guess I lost my head at the Holiday Inn, but my blood run red, my blood run red.”

“What the fuck,” Bucky mumbles.

Curt’s face appears in his field of view, making Bucky flinch. “Hey! Astrofag!”

Bucky blinks slowly up at him and raises a hand to the side of his head. It’s all bandaged up again. He remembers the blood on his skin. Thought it was a dream. His fingers trail towards the back of his head, and he scrunches his nose at the sharp, stinging pain on his scalp, the pounding that intensifies as he touches the wound through the gauze.

Curt smacks his hand away. “Leave it alone, dude.”

“Shaved my hair,” Bucky mutters. He raises his hand in front of his face, studying the little bit of dried blood still stuck under his nails.

Curt chokes on a laugh. “You almost died. I think you can deal with a little hair loss, my guy.” He cocks his head. “Wait, did you fuck up the stitches cause you were mad about me shaving your hair?”

Bucky frowns. “Dunno.” He doesn’t even remember messing with the wound.

Curt pokes him lightly on the cheek. “I didn’t bring you all this way for you to get your scalp all infected, so leave it the fuck alone, yeah?”

Bucky sticks his tongue out, and Curt rolls his eyes with a fond but annoyed smile that can only be accomplished by someone who knows you like the back of their hand, a sibling or best friend who you’ve been with through everything. Bucky, through the haze of his memory, remembers Curt starting to crumble in the lander. It feels good to see him smile like that again.

Curt pats Bucky on the shoulder and floats away, leaving him alone as life goes on around him. His head spins, and he finds Beary Egan tucked back into the sleeping bag against his chest. He holds on tight to the bear as he tries to look out the window on the side of the capsule, his eyes struggling to focus. Earth is visible, an unassuming blue sphere rising out of the black nothing.

Alex appears next to him, and they meet each other’s gaze. “Want a better look?”

Bucky takes a few seconds to process that question, but his eyes flick back to the planet out their window, and Alex pats him on the shoulder. “Come on,” he says. He unzips Bucky’s sleeping bag as far as it’ll go, and he gently eases Bucky out of it, which is made easier by the zero-g. “Leg feel okay?”

“No,” Bucky grits out.

“Stupid question,” Alex agrees. “Good enough, though? I’m gonna take you to the window. Is that okay?”

Bucky nods, his eyes already locked on the window with a strong determination to orient himself in their solar system, see the view he’s been longing for, feel something other than half dead despite the pounding in his head. Alex grabs Beary Egan and helps Bucky wrap his fingers around him. “Hold on tight to this guy, alright?” Then he gently guides Bucky across the cabin to the little window that they’ve been using as a secondary position indicator. Curt follows with Bucky’s IV in tow.

“Would you look at that,” Alex breathes as they stand by the window. Bucky grins at him, and Alex grins back. He points. “Look at all those clouds.”

Bucky clutches Beary Egan to his chest with his left hand, so hard he feels his wedding band digging into his finger. And he presses his right to the cool glass of the window. It's even more beautiful than he remembers. “Home,” he whispers. “Goin’ home.”

He hears the click of a camera shutter behind him. But all he’s thinking about is Gale, asleep in their bed. Bucky wants to wrap his hands around his husband’s waist, bury his nose in his hair, inhale the scent of him. Sweet and earthy, like sandalwood and salt water. He wants to rest his head against Gale’s chest and hear the beating of his heart.

He wants to go home.

Once the cabin has been swapped from strange dystopian slumber party to astronomical work environment, Rosie helps Bucky complete any necessary sanitary tasks – a process which results in a lot of swearing, angry grumbling, pointed silence, and, eventually, a total loss of consciousness.

Once Bucky comes to again, he refuses to return to his hammock, which they kept set up in the middle of the cabin, even though he’s so exhausted he can barely comprehend anything anyone says to him. Rosie sets him up next to the window again so he can stare out at the stars while they prepare to follow NASA’s orders.

Food. Attempt number 1.

Curt hands over what Rosie can only describe as “goop” – rehydrated milk and wheat chex.

“There’s no way he’s gonna eat that,” Alex says.

They all turn to look at Bucky. His eyes are open, alert, but glassy. His cheeks are flushed in a way that Rosie is concerned about. He’s less lucid than he was an hour ago, when he first woke up, but Rosie isn’t surprised. His body doesn’t have enough energy to keep him going, especially with the lower amount of IV fluid. Bucky turns his head and raises an eyebrow when he realizes they’re all staring at him,

“We’re gonna try some food, okay?” Rosie holds up the package of soggy wheat chex. Bucky used to snack on it dry, but it’ll be too hard to swallow that way.

Bucky frowns. Shakes his head. “No.”

“We gotta get something into you, John.”

“No.”

“Can we try?”

Bucky looks back out the window, honest to God pouting. He crosses his arms protectively over his chest, the bear still clutched in his hand. He protested when Rosie tried to take it away to make their morning tasks easier.

“Please?” Rosie adds.

Bucky looks back at him, then holds his hand out, a scowl still on his face. Rosie nods and moves towards him. “Just nice and slow,” he says. “You wanna try holding the spoon?”

Bucky reaches up to take the little metal spoon from Rosie, but his fingers are too clumsy to hold the handle, sending a clump of cereal drifting into the air. Rosie takes it back, and it takes another minute of convincing for Bucky to recover from that embarrassment. “You’ll be able to do that in no time,” Rosie reassures him. “But only if you eat something.”

Bucky takes a long-suffering breath, but he lets Rosie feed him like a toddler, slipping a small spoonful of soggy cereal between his lips as Alex and Curt watch. He immediately starts gagging at the taste and the cereal pops back out in a glob that floats in front of his face. Rosie re-captures it inside the wheat chex package.

Bucky glares at him, and Rosie wants to laugh at the same time he wants to swear.

“Benny, wheat chex are a no go,” Curt informs Houston.

Bucky turns away and leans his head against the window, staring out into the darkness until his eyes drift closed, a frown on his face. “... and he’s out,” Curt reports. Alex and Rosie gently guide Bucky back to his hammock and get him settled into it. Bucky opens his eyes once and makes a confused, startled sort of noise. He asks for Gale.

Rosie tells him Gale isn’t here yet, and Bucky drifts away again. Rosie presses the back of his hand to Bucky’s forehead, and frowns when he realizes it’s starting to feel too warm.

—

Gale is going to need a hell of a lot more coffee if he has any hope of getting through today. It’s 8am, he’s just taken over the console from Benny, and his first cup is already empty.

Reportedly, Bucky has woken up periodically since his last shift. Sometimes he seems aware of his surroundings, and sometimes he doesn’t. Sometimes he just stares at nothing, won’t talk, won’t move. Sometimes he asks for Gale and goes quiet when Gale isn’t there. Sometimes he’s almost capable of conversation.

Most often, he complains about pain and nausea, and he keeps coughing up bile. Rosie is able to administer some pain medication through the IV, but the only anti-nausea meds they have need to be taken orally, and Bucky either won’t or can’t swallow them.

He broke his head wound open, but he didn’t seem to remember doing it or really understand that he did it at all. That’s what Gale hates to think about most: John, unaware and disconnected. Just floating in space, not comprehending or understanding anything that’s happening around him, because that state of nothing is the perfect antithesis of Gale’s energetic, carefree, competent husband.

On top of that, they’re concerned that Bucky is developing a fever. In space. After the whole crew quarantined for days before launch, and they’ve been staying in crew capsules assembled in clean rooms. There is no reason John should be getting sick now, three weeks into the mission. The flight surgeons all agree: there’s only two possibilities. On one hand, it may just be psychogenic, a spike in his temperature due to extreme stress. On the other, it could be neurogenic, resulting from the TBI, which can easily be fatal if not treated properly. Gale tries to take deep breaths and not think too much about that.

Bucky won’t eat either. Just like Pepper won’t eat. Just like Gale himself can barely eat. Together, spread across 230,000 miles, they’re just a dysfunctional little family trying to survive to the next day.

“Get any sleep?” Croz asks him.

Gale shrugs.

“Bags under your eyes are lookin’ lighter today.”

Gale rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Croz. I’m flattered.”

He’s starting to review the course correction burns that Curt and Alex need to perform today when a muffin and a cup of coffee land on his desk.

“Eat,” Marge instructs him. When they arrived at JSC this morning, she headed off to yell at more media outlets to leave Gale the fuck alone after a reporter accosted them on their way in. He gave a brief comment, mostly because he was too tired to run away, but Marge took it upon herself to continue waging war. Apparently, yelling at the media to get a goddamn grip and chill out is a major part of her job right now. And apparently, yelling at the media includes getting coffee and pastries.

Gale reaches for the cup of coffee in relief, but Marge smacks his hand. “No. Not until I watch you take at least four bites of that muffin.”

He glares at her. “What if I don’t want a muffin?”

“It’s chocolate chip.”

He looks at it skeptically. But he picks it up, aggressively peels the wrapper away from one side, and shoves a bite into his mouth. “Where’d this come from?”

“The cafe, where else? You’ve had them like a hundred times.”

Gale stares at the muffin. “I don’t remember them being this good.”

“That’s just ‘cause you haven’t eaten anything in three days.” She flicks him on the arm. “Now finish that. And don’t drink your coffee too fast, okay?”

Croz scoffs, and Gale and Marge both look at him with an unamused scowl. He puts his hands up in surrender. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. We all know the coffee’ll be gone in 15 minutes.”

Marge flicks him on the shoulder and walks away, standing tall in her heels, chin held high. The only thing to give away her own exhaustion is the way she can’t stop tapping her fingers nervously against her arm.

Gale shakes his head as he watches her go, takes a long sip of his coffee as Croz stifles a laugh beside him, and he turns on his coms. “Good morning Orion crew…”

—

“Operation get John to fuckin’ eat something, take four.” Curt makes a motion with his hands like he’s closing a film clapboard.

They tried more food about an hour after the wheat chex failure, but Bucky promptly threw up the first bite of soup he took. After that, he adamantly refused to let any of them get anything remotely close to his mouth that wasn’t water. Every time Rosie tried, Bucky would shake his head and close his eyes, wrapping an arm across his stomach.

“Think he’s still feelin’ sick,” Rosie told Benny.

This time, Bucky’s cheeks are still red, but his eyes are brighter. “Fuck off,” he tells them, in a voice that has a vague semblance of its old strength back.

Rosie’s been trying to talk him into at least trying the chicken noodle soup for about five minutes now. Just the two of them in the middle of the crew cabin while Alex and Curt try to ignore them, going about everyday Orion tasks. Alex is using their little exercise box to do some rowing, while Curt checks the calculations for their next burn.

“Bucky, I really need you to at least try.” Rosie mixes the soup around in its container to keep it from settling. “I promise, this is better than the cereal.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No chex. No soup. No.”

Rosie is, at the very least, proud of the longer sentences Bucky is starting to manage during his more lucid periods.

“Ok, hold on,” Rosie says, pointing at Bucky as he floats away towards the console. He returns with Bucky’s coms, which they’ve kept off of him since he’s been back on Orion. They were just another thing that Bucky kept messing with, and they don’t fit quite right over the bandage around his head.

Rosie situates the headset over Bucky’s head anyway, pushing up the gauze to make sure the earpiece sits right. Bucky raises a hand to adjust the headset himself. Another silver lining Rosie has noticed: although it took longer for Bucky to adapt to being in zero gravity again, as he gets used to it, zero G makes it a bit easier for him to move.

Rosie: “Buck, I’ve got Bucky on coms here.”

Gale: “... John? Can you hear me?”

Rosie watches Bucky carefully, watches his lips move, his eyes go wide, his breathing pick up.

Bucky: “Gale?” His voice sounds soft and strangled all at once. It tugs at Rosie’s heart as he sees Bucky’s reaction to finally hearing his husband’s voice after asking for him over and over again.

Gale: “I’m here, John.”

Rosie: “He doesn’t even wanna try eating the soup I made for him. How rude is that?”

He watches Bucky roll his eyes, the hint of a smile teasing at his lips.

Gale: “John, can you at least try to eat a little?”

Bucky: “No.”

Gale: “Why?”

Bucky: “Bad.”

Gale sighs. Bucky looks at Rosie petulantly with his arms crossed over his chest and a look of disgust on his face. Rosie glares right back. A battle of wills.

Gale: “John, I really need you to eat something. Please, darlin’.”

Rosie can hear the tired pleading in Gale’s voice, and he knows Bucky can, too. He watches Bucky’s expression of contempt falter, melting away as it’s replaced with worry for his husband.

Gale: “If you eat, Rosie might be able to get rid of that IV soon. I know how much you hate that thing.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, but he uncrosses his arms and looks skeptically at the soup. Major Beary Egan drifts away from his hand, and Rosie catches him, returning him to Bucky.

Rosie: “I think we’re getting somewhere, Gale.”

Gale: “John, can you eat for me, honey? Please?”

That does it. Bucky looks up at Rosie expectantly and says “Fine.” He lets Rosie spoon some of the lukewarm soup into his mouth, and he swallows it this time.

Rosie: “Good. That’s good, Bucky.”

Bucky manages a few spoonfuls, grimacing when he feels the chunks of chicken and carrot sliding down his throat.

Bucky: “Yuck.”

Gale: “You’re doin’ alright. I’m proud of you, John.”

They get about halfway through the pouch of soup when Bucky pulls away and shakes his head in refusal, his brow furrowed. He lifts a hand to press against his stomach as he closes his eyes and scrunches his nose.

Rosie: “Shit.”

Gale: “He okay, Rosie?”

Bucky tries to cover his mouth with the hand holding Beary Egan, and Rosie lunges forward to grab the bear just in time. Much of the soup comes right back up, making even Rosie grimace with a heavy sigh.

Rosie: “Couldn’t keep it down, Buck.”

Bucky: “Bad.”

“Gotta say,” Alex mutters from behind them. “I preferred it when all he was coughing up was bile.”

—

That evening, Gale sits in the back seat of his own car outside the vet’s office, Pepper curled up tight as can be beside him, her nose pressed into his thigh. They’re waiting for Marge to finish with a phone call, and he watches her pace around in the parking lot outside. He feels bad that she had to chauffeur them here just because she doesn’t trust him on his own.

He doesn’t trust himself either, really. His head feels too muddled, his lungs too overtaxed, his body just dragging through the motions with no real life in it.

There’s nothing wrong with Pepper. A perfectly healthy one year old husky, the vet said.

“Her other daddy’s in space, isn’t he?” she asked. Gale nodded tiredly – because of course she knows what’s going on, just like everyone else on this planet – and he tried not to show contempt when the look on her face turned to sympathy. He doesn’t want sympathy. He’s tired of everyone looking at him with sympathy. Or disgust. Or like he’s a good story that’ll get viewers.

Then the vet said, “Sometimes dogs get depressed when their people leave for a long time. It’s a common reason for them to refuse their food.” He had to fight to hide the way those words dug into him, adding to the pit of fear and exhaustion deep in his soul that only grows by the day.

She told him to try giving Pepper a lot of attention and encouragement when he’s home. Make sure she knows she isn’t alone. As if Gale doesn’t feel like he’s drowning, too. As if Gale is even capable of taking care of himself.

He gently strokes the dog’s head as they sit in the car. “I really need you to eat something, baby girl,” he says, just like he said to John earlier today. “Please.”

He rests his head against the seat and closes his eyes. John’s temperature is too high, and it isn’t responding to medication. It plateaued around 100 degrees, though, and he continued improving overall in spite of it. By the end of Gale’s shift, John finally managed to keep down a packet of chicken noodle soup. Mission control celebrated that victory with no less enthusiasm than they would a successful launch, getting to their feet and clapping and cheering, high-fiving each other. Croz patted Gale on the shoulder with an ecstatic grin.

All Gale could do was tilt his head back in relief. “Good job, darling,” he said to his husband.

“Happy?” Bucky’s voice came back.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

While he and Marge sat in the waiting room with Pepper, Benny texted him. J wants you to know he drank orange juice. No vomit.

Gale allowed himself a small smile and texted back, Tell him I’m proud of him.

The response was, He said “fuckin’ better be.” And Gale burst out laughing in the middle of the veterinary office. He had to apologize to the old lady sitting across from them, holding an ancient-looking terrier on her lap. “My husband might not die,” he explained, and the lady stared at him like he was insane.

His phone buzzes again just as Marge opens the car door and slips into the driver’s seat. “Ready?” she asks. When he doesn’t respond, she looks over her shoulder at him. “Gale?”

Gale’s eyes are wet, and he rubs at them, but it doesn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Marge asks.

He shakes his head with a small smile as he turns his phone to show her. It’s a picture of Bucky that Curt took this morning and managed to send through to Mission Control. Bucky, looking out the window of Orion at the beautiful Earth in the distance. His head is all wrapped up, but he’s holding Beary Egan tight to his chest, and he’s grinning from ear to ear as he presses his other hand to the glass. On top of the world.

The accompanying text reads: “‘Goin’ home’ -John”

—

November 25

Curt is worried that Bucky is having another seizure when he first notices the way his body is trembling in his sleeping bag. “Rosie?” he calls out as he gets himself out of his own hammock. He doesn’t know what time it is, but their morning alarm hasn’t gone off yet. His mind flashes back to being on the lander, his heart pounding in his chest as he remembers pinning Bucky’s unconscious body to the cot, not knowing if or when the violent jerking would stop.

In a panic, he pulls himself over to Bucky’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Rosie?” he says again, fear rising up in his voice as his throat goes tight and his lungs struggle to take in air.

“I’m coming,” Rosie replies. The lights flick on. “What’s wrong?”

He reaches them before Curt can find the words. Bucky is shivering uncontrollably, but it’s different. Not like the seizures Curt had to hold him through on Starship. The tension doesn’t leave Curt’s body, but he feels the nightmare memory slowly recede.

Rosie presses the back of his hand to Bucky’s sweaty forehead. “He’s burning up.”

Bucky’s eyes open, glassy and dazed. “Rosie?” he whispers. “C-cold.”

Rosie strokes his hair back gently. “You’re burning up, John,” he repeats. Curt hands Rosie a headset as he pulls his own over his ear.

Rosie: “Benny, do you copy?”

Benny: “Loud and clear, Rosie. It’s too early for you to be up.”

Rosie: “Do the bio-sensors have a good read on John’s temp? He’s running pretty hot up here.” They wait for Benny to check with Smokey.

Benny: “Still hovering around 100.5.” High, but manageable. And most importantly, stable.

Curt: “He’s shakin’ real bad, Benny.”

“P-please?” Bucky whimpers. His hand weakly grabs at Curt’s arm, and Curt searches his face for any sign of a way to make this better. He puts his hand over Bucky’s and squeezes gently.

“We’re right here with you,” Rosie soothes, putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be alright, John.”

“‘M cold,” Bucky mutters again, pulling Beary Egan close so his nose is buried in the soft fur.

“I know,” Rosie says. But Bucky’s eyes are already closed again. All Curt and Rosie can do is sit there and reassure themselves that Bucky is, at least, still breathing, still talking, still fighting to get home.

—

Later in the morning, while Rosie gets in his mandatory workout for the day, Curt and Alex review the flight plan for the remainder of the mission. They’ll have to perform another mid-course correction burn in the afternoon as they approach Earth, and they’ll enter Earth orbit overnight to prepare for atmospheric re-entry bright and early tomorrow morning.

“These numbers look right to you?” Curt asks as he chews on a mouthful of dry wheat chex.

Alex glances over at the telemetry data on the console, which Curt is comparing to the burn they have planned. “You’re the pilot,” Alex reminds him, shrugging even though he’s the one who’s been doing the Orion orbit calculations since Curt abandoned them for the lunar surface.

“Sorry, why are you on this mission again?” Curt shoots back with a teasing smirk. Alex flips him off and pushes him away from the console so he can review the data.

“Curt?”

They both turn around at the sound of Bucky’s gravelly voice, and they see the commander watching them. “What’s up astrofag?” Curt asks as he pops another piece of cereal into his mouth.

Bucky sticks out his tongue at the name and Curt does it back to him, making Alex laugh. They’ve collectively determined that, while Bucky’s hands are still shaky, sticking out his tongue is his new equivalent of flipping them off. He and Curt do it to each other constantly when Bucky is awake.

“More orange juice?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, bud. I’ve got more orange juice.” Curt motions to Alex to go retrieve it while he helps Bucky to sit up. “How ya feelin’?”

“Like shit,” Bucky mutters. Curt double checks that the IV is still in place. Bucky hasn’t been able to eat reliably enough to have it removed yet, but they’ve lessened the amount of nutrients he receives through it. His temperature hasn’t changed, and he’s drenched in sweat no matter how much they try to cool him off. But he’s become far more coherent, even if it isn't consistent.

Alex returns with a pouch of orange juice, and Curt holds onto Beary Egan so Bucky can reach for it. He manages to hold onto it with both hands, his fingers shaking, but he can’t keep it steady enough to get it to his mouth. Alex helps him hold it, letting Bucky sip at the juice.

Curt watches Bucky’s eyes widen as he pulls away from the straw, staring in alarm at his own hand. “You good?” Curt asks.

Bucky rubs his thumb over his wedding ring, trying to tug it upwards on his finger even though he can’t accomplish that any better than he could accomplish holding the juice pouch. “Gonna lose it,” he mumbles. “I-I want this… I…” He squints as he loses his train of thought, staring dumbly at the ring.

“Want me to get that on a chain for you?” Curt asks him. Bucky nods, still looking confused and startled. Curt hands the stuffed bear to Alex and heads off to find Bucky’s PPK kit, where he put the chain after the initial accident. When he returns, he feels stupidly proud to see that Bucky is managing to hold the juice pouch on his own, sucking on the straw. His face is flushed, and he looks like shit, but for a second, Curt can almost believe that everything is normal. That Bucky’s just a little sick, nothing to worry about. That the danger of getting him through re-entry isn’t looming over them all like an incoming storm.

“Here, give it to me,” Curt instructs, pointing to the ring. Bucky holds out his left hand but has to stop drinking the juice when his right isn’t controlled enough to hold the pouch on its own. Alex reaches forward to catch it when it slips out of Bucky’s grip. Curt slides the silver band off Bucky’s finger and onto the chain. Then he secures it around Bucky’s neck. “There you go.”

Bucky reaches a hand up to clutch at the ring. “Better.” Then he looks at Alex and demands, “Bear.”

Alex obliges and hands the bear back, then offers the juice again. Bucky shakes his head in refusal, and Curt decides that they shouldn’t push their luck. From across the cabin, Rosie, ever the doctor, calls out, “Those are some good words, John! Gale’ll be proud.”

—

“Good morning, Artemis 3, how do you read?”

Gale settles in his chair and sips his coffee as he waits for a reply. When there isn’t one, he frowns and sets the cup down. “Come in Artemis 3, how do you read?”

“Loud and clear, angel.”

Gale freezes, his lips parting as he tries to process the beautiful sound of that voice, strong and intentional. “Come again, Orion?”

“Y-you heard me…” Bucky coughs a little as he stutters through the words. “The first time, Gale.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” Gale says, and he can’t stop the smile that breaks out over his face. Beside him, Croz is grinning at him. Everyone in mission control has stopped what they’re doing, and for the first time, they’re staring at him not out of pity, not out of fear, but out of hope.

“Ready to come home, John?” Gale asks.

“Eh, think I might just s-stay out here. G-good amenities.”

Gale laughs and hides his smile with his hand as he stares at his computer. Bucky’s vitals are displayed on one side of the screen. He’s running hot, but his heart is strong.

He only stays conscious for about twenty minutes after that, and speaking soon becomes too tiring for his fever-addled, space-sickened, TBI brain. But hearing his voice, those words, made Gale feel like he could take on anything for the rest of the day.

About halfway through his shift, he thanks Croz when he hands him another cup of coffee, and he flips through the notes he’s been given.

Gale: “Alright Orion, we’ve got a minor change here on your flight plan whenever you’re ready.”

Curt: “... Thought the numbers looked a little fucked here this morning. Glad to hear your people caught on, Buck.”

Gale rolls his eyes and he and Croz share a look. It’s good to hear Curt getting back to normal, rather than being angry and anxious all the time. Gale gave up pointing out foul language around the time his husband almost died, and even after returning to Orion, Curt has taken full advantage of his moral leniency.

Gale: “Sure, Curt. Croz has new numbers for you.”

Curt: “Alex I fuckin’ told you.”

Alex: “Hey man, I agreed.”

Gale: “Whenever you’re ready boys.”

Curt: “... Hold on Buck… John, fuckin’ quit pickin’ at that. No. I know you don’t like it but I’d rather you stay alive, okay?”

Gale: “Okay, Curt?”

Curt: “Your husband’s new favorite pastime is trying to tear out his IV.”

Gale takes a deep breath and sips his coffee. He asks Curt if he wants him to talk to Bucky.

Curt: “…He’s passed out again, little asshole. Ready for the new numbers whenever you are.”

Gale: “Okay, we’re lookin’ at changes to your final mid-course correctional burn. The NRHO abort is causing you to come in too high.”

Curt: “Copy. Let’s make sure we don’t burn up on re-entry.”

Gale gives them new positional targets and a longer burn duration.

Alex: “And are we still on time for that burn?”

Gale: “Affirmative, Orion. Coming up in… 52 minutes.”

An hour later, when the burn is complete, Croz informs Mission Control that the crew capsule is perfectly on target for re-entry, and Gale grins as he sips his coffee. It’s the end of his shift, and Helen is standing by to take over the console.

Gale: “Orion, you are on target now. Trajectory nominal. Systems nominal.”

Curt: “Good to hear, Buck. Wouldn’t wanna come this far to fuck ourselves now.”

Gale: “We’re gonna get y’all home.”

Just as he’s about to inform the boys of the CAPCOM switch, Curt says, “Got someone who wants to talk to ya, Major. He’s been all antsy about it this entire burn.” Gale blinks and a smile lifts the corner of his mouth, but it runs away again when he hears the nervous tone of Bucky’s voice.

Bucky: “Gale?”

Gale: “I’m still here, darlin’.”

Bucky: “You married me…”

Gale quirks an eyebrow, a huff of a laugh passing between his lips at the out-of-the-blue statement of fact. But before he can say anything, Bucky is pushing through.

Bucky: “I-I know…” Bucky takes a deep, shaky breath. “Was ‘cause you were worried somethin’d happen.”

Gale: “Don’t strain yourself, John.”

Bucky’s barely said a word since he greeted Gale this morning. It takes too much out of him. Orange juice and half portions of soup can only go so far, and they don’t do much of anything for the brain fog or TBI symptoms. Bucky ignores him, though. His breathing sounds distressed, and his voice is quiet and mumbled. Gale can see his heartrate on his monitor, beating too fast, but John gets the words out.

Bucky: “Was it ‘cause y-you loved me, too?”

The question slams right into Gale’s chest, knocking the breath out of him. He feels the eyes of every single person in Mission Control shift his way, and he forces himself not to pay them any mind. He doesn’t want to see the looks on their faces. He doesn’t want to know if it’s pity or echoes of John’s question or incredulity at the mere concept of Buck not loving Bucky so much he thought he might vanish from this existence the moment his husband did.

Sure, the reason he finally popped the question after months, even years, of thinking about it was because he was worried his worst nightmare would come true. And, well, here he is. But how is it possible that Bucky can sit there and think even for a second that Gale didn’t also do it because he loved him?

He tries to tell himself that Bucky is all sorts of mixed up right now. That he’s been passing through intense stages of fear and pain and confusion. That he’s not thinking straight. Random things have been popping out of his mouth all day, and he hardly seems aware of what he’s saying. Gale thinks about Helen and Benny telling him how much Bucky would ask for him when he wasn’t on shift, and Gale wasn’t there. He wasn’t there for his husband when he needed him.

Sure, giving Gale 24/7 access to the console would be a one way ticket to actual psychosis. Chick denied his attempts to sleep on a cot at JSC after Bucky first got hurt, and Gale is honestly glad for it now. But to Bucky, who has been in and out of consciousness with little sense of time or continuity?

Did he think Gale abandoned him?

“John,” Gale says, his voice thick. He flexes the hand he tore up on the mirror, what feels like forever ago now. There’s hardly any scabs left to pull at the skin, and he’s surprised at the lack of pain. He presses his wedding ring to his lips instead, and he takes a breath to pull himself together. “Of course I married you because I loved you. I love you so much, sweetheart. Couldn’t stand not bein’ married for one more second.” He rubs his hand through his hair and tries to steady his heart. “I did love you. I do love you. I will love you. Okay?”

Bucky makes a noise that sounds like something between an okay and a satisfied hum. Like this question that just sent Gale into a tailspin wasn’t monumental in any way. Like he got the answer he wanted and now, as far as John’s concerned, everything is okay.

Gale: “To the moon and back, John. I can’t wait for you to come home to me tomorrow.”

Bucky: “Tomorrow.”

Gale nods, blinking back the wetness in his eyes. He smiles again.

One day. 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. Only 100,000 heartbeats. He pretends he can feel John’s heart beating in time with his own, and he watches on the monitor as it starts to slow.

Gale: “Yeah, John. Tomorrow.”

---

Part 16

Big thank you to everyone who has been reading this AU for a while and also everyone who has picked it up in recent days. People telling me you read it all in one sitting, y'all are crazy and I love you ❤

28 notes · View notes

pray4saint · 1 year ago

Note

hihi i'm here to pick that massive brain of yours 😼

can we have some headcanons (or anything really) of george having a crush on a popular streamer!reader and maybe all his friends tease him about it bc he's just so smitten and has negative rizz around them? (sorry if this is basic but I can't get the idea out of my mind)

smitten

masterlist & descrip. pg. 13+. popular streamer!reader. fluff. george pining after reader. bsf!larray bc i felt like it. use of 'y/n'. swearing.

a/n. this has been rotting in my inbox for almost 3 weeks soooo here we are lmaoo. started writing 8/26/23, finished writing 8/29/23. crazy right??

”heeyy guys– oh fuck.” those were the first words george ever heard you say.

george had heard your twitch handle – your username – float around twitter for awhile since you had another big project coming up. but the first time he saw you was in larray's newest youtube video. you'd opened the door to the room larray was pacing around in, talking into this phone's microphone, and you had two coffees in hand. ”heeyy guys– oh fuck.” the cut off was when one of the coffees spilled a little bit out of the lid and onto the floor. larray let his jaw fall slack, looking between the camera and the floor by the entrance. ”oh bitch how did that happen?”

”shut up.” you start, stepping over the spill to put the coffees down on his desk. ”do you have paper towels?” and then the video cut to him driving alone in his car, singing along to another song as he did almost ritualistically during these cuts.

it was that video that sent george down the rabbit hole. it started with your youtube channels, your main which was mostly your shortened streams and those very rare vlogs you did with friends. almost two hours had gone by when he realised just how long he'd been watching your videos and laughing every few minutes because you had said something funny, or you added to a joke someone else had started.

then there was your twitch, which had him travelling over to your twitter, and after reading like ten of your tweets, he followed you. after shaking his head and closing twitter, he found himself scrolling through your instagram. starting with the most recent, which he liked, that was safe enough, and he just kept going, at least until one of his roommates knocked on his door, and he accidentally liked a really old post. it was late and he didn't understand what could possibly be so important.

.⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆.⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆. ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶ .⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆.⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆.

george didn't bother telling any of his friends about you as he didn't feel it was necessary. ping. that was weird. george could've sworn he'd silenced his phone. then again, this wasn't his stream and he could afford to check it right then.

twitter – 1 new notification @ yourusername followed you back!

his lips parted, a heavy exhale leaving him. it was weird, but he smiled at it. ”ooooh george, what's, or who's got you smilin' over there?” sapnap half-turned around in his chair, wiggling his eyebrows at his roommate. george's eyes snap up to his friend. ”uh, what?” sapnap just sort of laughs it off and goes back what he was doing prior.

.⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆.⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆. ︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶ .⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆.⋆｡⋆˚｡⋆｡˚｡⋆.

”hi george, i'm y/n.” you extended a hand out to the brit and after what felt like forever, he put his hand in yours and shook. ”hi.” was the only word he could manage out. as much as he wanted to make a good first impression, the only thing he could do when he looked at you was smile. it was something easily picked up by the rest of the group; sapnap, dream and larri. there were shared looks between the three, ones neither you or george saw.

you'd of course heard of the dream team, they were popular streamers, but you'd also heard about them from larri, who knew them a quite a bit better than the internet did.

larri was the first to speak up to get everyone back on track, to record the video. ”anyways so–”

god, george was a goner for you, and he didn't even really know you. at least not yet.

#saint's inbox !!#s.george #georgenotfound #gnf #georgenotfound x reader #gnf x reader #georgenotfound fluff #gnf fluff #dteam #dream team #mcyt #mcyt x reader #mcyt x reader fluff #mcyt fluff

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nadianova · 3 months ago

Note

How much time do you spend planning some of your visual novels? At least going by some of them being jam submissions, it feels like you go from pre-production to a finished build very quickly, and it's amazing how you can manage that while still having an awesome story and so many assets.

Also, what is like, the process of planning a story out for you, if there's any vague or concrete similarities that you've noticed?

i think the important context here is that if i get bored/have nothing to do i jhust immediately get really suicidal its like ridiculous how bad it gets(ITS FINE DONT WORRY ABOUT IT IVE HAD 5 YEARS OF THERAPY). so i hate being bored and want to occupy my time wit something fun whatever that is. if i have a project to focus on but especially if I'm working for a game jam i have a deadline and i just decide to myself okay i will release a game now.

because ive made a decent amount of games i roughly have an idea on my capabilities, i can estimate how long it takes for me to write a story so and so long and how long it takes for me to draw stuff i need and how long it takes for me to throw stuff in renpy. these are estimates like as in I'm not accurate with it but still enough that i generally know where to start cutting ideas since the most important part is just having something to submit. i also know to plan around my brain wanting to slam my head into a wall an my hands suddenly giving up on being able to draw.

i think thats the beauty of game jams it forces you to just go for it and release something. releasing a 'bad' game is better than no game at all. experience only comes over time and i think just going for it is the best approach there is. like its literally 2 weeks 1 month whatever of your life. if you have the time and motivation go for it. make it work or fuck it up it wont matter in the grand scheme of things

im not sure what is the motivation behind the question but i do want to point out that this is just my method (if you can even call it a method) and the only way to figure out what works for you is to just try until you find something that actually works for you

idk not everyone will find it doable/fun to plan around spending two weeks gamedev 10 hours a day just cause i wanted to fit in 100 cgs for a jam game but apparently i can do that when i cheat my stupid adhd brain into hyperfocus with adhd meds

READMORE BECAUSE I CANT STOP RAMBLING

as for planning tho i think ideas on their own are worthless and its always about execution in the end. a great idea or a meh idea are the same for me but i do still enjoy the planning process so i keep notes

like i see a great tumblr post or i see some art or visual novel has some scene that inspires me: i save that shit for myself

having a big collection of random floating ideas like that helps me easily pick from especially during a jam type duration. right now i have like 4-5 half-baked project skeletons, some are literally like 3 pictures and some like naomida are a hundred hours worth of me writing world building about how the toilets work in a city with no plumbing cause its -30celcius(i love bringing this up)=

i dont normally plan that much, i tend to just wing it. like for malmaid i seriously just had some rough ideas and just went along as i wrote

same thing for dddeviance i had a handful of scenes that i really wanted to make and knew what kind of start and end it was meant to have and just figured out how to fill the in between. a lot of plot points changed vastly like halfway through i realised my devil + angel combination was stupid and i should just go for fallen angel + angel.

i think there really is no simple answer tho (as evident from the long as hell post) i don't really have a 'process' because every single game has been worked on has come with different type of planning since I'm always trying new stuff to try and distract me from boredom. like I've been using obsidian for naomida while previously I've just used a empty discord serve as my notes app for malmaid and dddeviance

and tbh with naomida I'm running to a new problem where I'm definitely planning too much. like I'm spending too much time fidgeting with details in chapter 4 even when i haven't finished writing chapter 1 just cause its so easy to get in the loop of "oh ill just change this one line" and boom 20 mins spent playing with my notes that didn't really progress my game since by the time i reach this point the whole scene might have shifted to something else

but if i had to squeeze an answer itd be something like everything related to my art or writing or games is just like "oooooo that seems fun i should remember this for later" and then i just string 10-100 of those into a story

i tend to write my stories in a format of

character A does this and that

this happens here

puppy play ryona piss orgasm

new day and then this happens here

sad thing happens

more piss orgasm

the end

and just like start filling in more details and working on my story in a nonlinear fashion until i feel like i have a strong enough skeleton that i can start writing my scenes. i hop around a lot, often preferring to write the fun scenes first like ero stuff or the ones I'm the most interested in and then the rest is just filling the blanks and stringing the cool scenes together

#idk #dev rambling i guessssssssssssssssssssssssss #asked

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yuesya · 9 months ago

Text

Land! Sweet, sweet land!

Lumine almost feels as if she could cry in this moment. She shouldn’t have chosen that merchant vessel over Beidou’s Alcor and experienced crew. At the time, the merchant’s ship was leaving sooner –two entire weeks before Beidou was planning to set sail– and Lumine had only wanted to reach Inazuma as soon as possible in order to continue her search for her brother.

They’d been hit by a storm, and the ship had capsized. Fortunately, there were enough emergency rowboats for all members on board, even if the merchant’s goods had been a complete loss to the ruthless waves. Less fortunately… it had been several long days of drifting at sea, and their dwindling supplies weren’t about to last much longer.

“We’ve made it, Lumine!” Paimon cheers. Lumine nods firmly. “We’re alive!”

Alive, and in desperate need of aid. Lumine and a few of the other stronger sailors set out to explore a bit and get a better idea of their surroundings. Hopefully they’d come across some friendly locals who’d be able to extend a helping hand, or at least be willing to just tell them where they’d washed up on–

Someone’s there.

Another person! Lumine quickens her footsteps, even as waterlogged as she is.

“Excuse me–!”

Paimon flies ahead of her, chasing the figure that she’d glimpsed. “Wait! Wait, please, we’re just hapless travelers who –ack!”

“Paimon?” Urgency quickens her footsteps, and Lumine hurries to reach her companion. “You…”

Her voice dies in her throat.

There’s a young girl standing amidst the trees, with blue-white hair that appears almost silver beneath the sunlight. Her clothing is in the distinct fashion of Inazuman dress, a mix of soft blue and lilac colors flowing down her body. It’s almost enough to make Lumine acutely self-conscious of her own waterlogged state and haphazard appearance from days of floating out at sea–

But there’s a dark purple cloth tied over the girl’s face, covering her eyes. A blindfold. The girl is blind.

Blind, and yet she’d moved so smoothly and confidently over the rough terrain. Lumine had barely managed to glimpse her earlier, and if it hadn’t been for her coloring standing out so starkly against the verdant backdrop of the trees, she would’ve thought that she’d imagined it all in her head.

The girl raises her hand –the hand that’s holding onto the back of Paimon’s dress, “Is it yours?”

Paimon squirms. “I’m not an ‘it!’”

“Yes, Paimon is my friend,” Lumine nods firmly –and belatedly realizes that the girl probably can’t even see it. Wait. Is she really blind? The way she moved, the way she seemed aware of everything around her… didn’t really seem like the motions of a blind person…

The girl wordlessly releases her grip on Paimon; Paimon immediately returns to Lumine’s side, casting the girl an unsettled, suspicious look.

“Um…” Best to just get to the point, probably. “Could you possibly point us towards where the nearest settlement is, please?”

“Head south,” the girl raises a pale hand, the one that’s not holding the basket of strange purple grass as she points towards the direction to their left. “Watatsumi’s Bourou Village isn’t far from here. You’ll find it easily once you reach and follow the road.”

“Thank you!” That’s probably the best news that Lumine has heard ever since the shipwreck. “We really appreciate it, miss…?”

The girl remains silent. Lumine trails off awkwardly.

“… Erm, what should I call you?” Lumine ends up asking sheepishly. The girl is certainly strange, but she doesn’t sense any ill will from her. And she’d helped give directions easily enough; Lumine would like to have a name for the person who’d given them assistance.

“… Gojo," the girl says. "Call me Gojo.”

#writing #zenith of stars au #genshin impact au #yes lumine meets shiki as her first encounter in inazuma #much like running into venti first thing in mondstadt!#not that she realizes it #lumine gets to the village safely with the rest of the shipwrecked crew #and proceeds to make her way to narukami island #where the electro archon SHOULD be #surprise surprise the god is missing!#oh no i wonder where she could possibly be #also also #big thanks to ko-fi friends!

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lavendertales · 1 year ago

Text

SEÑORITA: Chapter 2

pairing: Javier Peña x Murphy!f!reader

summary: Steve offers to show you around the precinct, but he's not expecting all the teasing words and the tension between you and Javier; and neither does Javier himself.

word count: 3k

series warnings: reluctant friends to lovers, lots of playful banter, mutual pining, slow burn, secret relationship, filthy smut.

series masterlist | AO3

As it turns out, a baby living in the same space as you isn’t your biggest inconvenience.

Okay, perhaps “inconvenience” is taking things too far. Olivia has been a treat these past few days; she’s just started walking and mumbling a few words, so watching her be curious about everything and reach for things and people with her little hands has been one of your weekly highlights.

But you and Steve remain far from the good buddies you were as children, and the awkwardness that floats in the air whenever you interact is very much palpable and thick, weighing down on both of you.

Even so, you at least remain polite towards each other, and you both try your hardest to become friendly again.

Steve tells you about his time in Colombia; he tells you how he caught Pablo Escobar in his final moments and how he wished Javier was there to share the sweet victory since “it would’ve been only fair”. He mentions Javier quite a lot, actually, just like he did in his letters to you. You deduce that they are good friends, bonded by a mutual goal and plenty of tragedy, and that Javier is, despite some flaws and choices, a focused and hardworking man. Trustworthy and loyal.

In other words, a good man.

“I still have them, by the way,” you tell your brother as you take another sip of coffee.

Steve blinks in surprise. “You kept the letters I sent you?”

“Well, yeah. You’re still my brother, and the fact that you took the time to write to me when you were basically in a living hell, it means a lot to me. I was worried about you.”

The warmth that fills Steve’s body is not unknown, and yet it feels like it’s the very first time he’s ever felt it such a big wave of affection towards his baby sister.

“I figured if something were to happen, you’d be… eased,” he tries to joke.

“You’re not my favorite person in the world but I don’t want you to die. Besides, do you have any idea how expensive it is to have a funeral? Not to mention the cost of retrieving your body from there… way too much work.”

You both giggle, finding odd comfort in the rather morbid way you’re making jokes, and you finish your coffees in silence. Connie is at the park with Olivia—which you suspect was done intentionally on her part—and it’s almost time for both of you to head off to work. You actually crave the library’s welcoming silence today.

“I’ve got an idea,” Steve says, washing both cups. “The precinct isn’t that far from the library.”

“Probably ten minutes by car or so.”

“Exactly. How about you stop by at lunch? I can show you around, give you a tour.”

He’s trying, you smile to yourself. He’s trying to make things great again. You want that too, so it’s not hard to meet him halfway.

“That sounds pretty good actually,” you reply and smile when Steve does.

“Cool!”

“Can you give me a ride to work?”

“Sure thing, c’mon.”

On your way, you talk more and it becomes easier, more lighthearted. You find out that Steve wrote to your parent as well, and he also called them once a week. He talked to your mother daily during the brief time he and Connie were apart, and as you hear that, your heart sinks a little. You figure how difficult it must’ve been for both of them.

And even if you don’t say it aloud, you’re very impressed by Steve’s work in Colombia. But most of all, you’re proud of him.

“What’s Javier like?”

The question replaces the brightness on Steve’s face with a gloomy and curious expression. Much as he tries to hide it, it’s there.

“Why?” he asks flatly.

You roll your eyes, chuckling. “He’s your best friend, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Steven, I’m given to understand that Colombia was very dark. The two of you are bonded together by things that the rest of us can’t comprehend. I’m just asking out of curiosity, nothing more.”

Steve’s grip tightens over the wheel, recalling some of the events in Colombia. It was very dark indeed, but most of the time he had Connie there. Javier, on the other hand… there were times Steve feared he was drowning the more vehemently he refused any external help. All he had were his brothel girls, alcohol and cigarettes.

And Steve fears he still hasn’t recovered, even a year later.

“He’s a great guy overall,” Steve replies after a while. “Tough nut to crack and stubborn, but you can rely on him when it comes down to it.”

“He does look like he’s stubborn.”

“Have you seen much of him?”

“You mean since he introduced himself last week, then you shadily pulled him over after which he fled like the plague? Hmm, no, I can’t say I have.”

Steve coos your name, almost apologetically so, but you cut him off instantly. “Even if I were interested in him, which I’m not, what’s it to you? I get that I’m your sister and he’s your best friend and that puts you in the middle, but we’re adults. It would be none of your business.”

“True, but…” Steve huffs, struggling to find his words. “Look, I’m just trying to keep you both safe and sane.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Whenever you were dating one of your bad boys, it never ended well. Remember Hyde, who spray painted dad’s car when you broke up with him?”

“Ugh. Yikes.”

“Or Mike?”

You try your hardest not to laugh. “I still can’t believe he found a skunk and sprayed it all over you.”

You suppress a giggle, much to Steve’s dismay.

“I had to sleep in the basement for a week,” he reminds you bitterly. “Wasn’t funny then, and it’s not funny now.”

“I know, I’m s—I’m sorry.”

“Ever notice how your breakups affected the rest of us, but never you?”

You shrug. “What can I say? I have a long lasting impact on these boys.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Javier’s a grown man. Those were little insecure boys. I doubt—“

“Javier isn’t fully okay after Colombia. Neither am I, really, but I’ve got a beautiful wife, an amazing daughter, and life goes on. He took it all by himself and bottled it up. Which is exactly like the kind of guy you’d fall for.”

“I thought he’s a reformed bad boy.”

Steve huffs, parking the car in front of the library and looking at you with a care he hadn’t possessed in years.

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” he says softly. “Not gonna do things like I did when we were teenagers. You’re a grown woman, Javier is a grown man as you said. He’s a little broken though, and you can be a lot to deal with… and I’m just afraid you’ll both end up getting hurt.”

“I appreciate your concern, Steven. But I promise you, I’m not interested in Javier like that.”

“All the women are at some point.”

“It’s a regular occurrence?”

When Steve hesitates, you get your answer. “Oh come on, it’s not like he’s some Adonis.”

“I don’t know, for a guy he’s pretty good looking.”

Devilishly handsome is more like it, you think.

“He is,” you agree indifferently, “but I’m not into it.”

“I’ll pick you up at 12-ish?”

You notice the topic change, but you don’t fight against it. “Sounds good,” you concede. Thanks for the ride.”

“You got it.”

Time flew by in the blink of an eye. Before you knew it, you were back in Steve’s car and on your way to the precinct. There’s a tingle in your body that you cannot explain, but you don’t fight against it either.

“So what exactly does a consultant do at a police precinct?” you ask.

“I help with cases but I don’t actually get involved. It’s a pretty sweet deal actually.”

“So it’s basically like giving advice and adding at the end, ‘if it ruins your life, it’s not my fault’?”

A hearty laugh leaves Steve’s chest, booming throughout the car. “Basically, yeah.”

“That’s a pretty sweet deal. How are you adjusting to it after all you did… in your previous job?”

“It’s a bit boring if you compare them, but it’s a nice change of pace.”

“I’ll bet. You are, after all, America’s hero.”

“Oh, stop it.”

“Come on! You know what people are saying about you! Steve Murphy, American’s fine hero, saved the world!”

You keep teasing him till you both end up laughing wholeheartedly. It’s a sentiment you haven’t had in years, and suddenly you feel grateful and lucky to have your big brother back in your life.

Steve holds the door for you, thus allowing you to get a first glimpse into his work environment. It’s as busy as any precinct, people buzzing and moving at a fast pace without paying much attention to their surroundings.

“Here,” Steve catches your attention. “This is my office.”

You scan the cubicle, noticing the picture of him, Connie and Olivia on his desk. “Pretty cozy.”

“That one over there is Javier’s.”

The difference between the two desks is quite stunning: while Steve’s is cozy and personalized with reminders of the life he has outside these walls, Javier’s is pretty empty except a few folders neatly stacked on top of each other, a pen and a stapler. His desk seems pretty empty, and you fleetingly wonder if that reflects how he’s feeling on a daily basis.

Impossible, you think to yourself. Surely he’s a ladies’ man, and surely he’s got someone to hook up with at least, if nothing more.

“Hey Jav,” your brother’s voice changes. “You remember my sister.”

Your eyes met Javier’s for a single second, frozen-like in time, and you’re quick to notice how he shifts his gaze as farther away from you as possible. As a response, you lower your head, stiffening a chuckle.

“Hola señorita,” he tells you, even his voice distant.

There’s no verbal reply leaving your mouth. You want to say something clever and witty, maybe even sarcastic, but there is a small fraction of your slightly twisted being, deep down, which considers his greeting to be an awakening of some sort. You like how the words roll so easily down his tongue. A presumably filthy and skilled tongue.

Whoa. Where the fuck did that come from?

Okay, so you might think he’s attractive. He might be sin personified with golden skin and cold attitude, which means he can be trouble.

And you’re not looking for trouble. Not anymore.

“What brings you here?”

It takes you a bit to realize that Javier’s addressing you because he’s not even looking at you; he’s looking through a folder in his hands, seemingly doing everything in his power to ignore you.

“Steve wanted to show me around the precinct while we grab some lunch,” you say.

“Hm.”

“Oh, right, lunch!” Steve exclaims. “I got us turkey sandwiches from a nice place down the street, hope that’s okay.”

“Yeah, love those.”

“I’ll be right back.”

With Steve gone temporarily, you take the opportunity to squeeze some answers out of Javier.

“Let me guess,” you start, crossing your arms at your chest and teasingly sitting on the edge of Javier’s desk. “Steven put on the big bro talk with you.”

Javier finally looks at you, somewhat surprised. “Is that a regular occurrence?”

“Oh yes. He used to do it a lot when we were teenagers. But please don’t hold my being related to him against me.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Thanks. He claims that I made his life miserable by bullying him when we were younger but if you’re asking me, he’s a bit of a wimp. When it comes to me, at least.”

“You do sound like a bully.”

This time you do chuckle. And if you wouldn’t have such great observation skills, you might’ve thought that Javier chuckled too.

“Did you bully him though?” he asks, voice less distant.

“Well… depends from which side you’re viewing things. I say I gave him reality checks. But this might explain why he’s trying so damn hard to overcompensate now by being ridiculously protective. He knows I didn’t like it then and it’s why we’re awkward around each other now, and yet here he is, going out of his way to keep you at bay.”

“He only asked me nicely to not hit on you.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Were you going to?”

“No. You’re not really… my type. No offense or anything.”

“None taken. But the question remains, why does my brother want to keep you at bay? Are you really that big of an asshole, Javier?”

He turns to you, studying your face properly for the very first time. You seem much sharper than any of the women he previously encountered, and for this reason he decides to be as blunt as possible with you.

“That seems to be the consensus,” he agrees.

“Cause I heard some storied from my brother’s time in Colombia. I heard about the infamous Javier Peña. Heard you were quite the hit with the ladies, but nothing short of ‘hero’ and ‘great friend’.”

Gradually, Javier becomes irritated. Reminders of his past life in Colombia and how much it took from him become a trigger, and he doesn’t want to relive any part of that.

“Are you gonna do this the whole time you’re here?” he asks you instead.

“I could,” you shrug. “I can see it gets a rise out of you.”

“And I can see why Steve said you can be a pain in the ass.”

“Ouch.”

But you smile, and paired with the way you said his full name, rolling the R perfectly at the end, it does get a rise out of him.

Frustration. The inability to act upon it. Curiosity. Forbidden fruit.

Too much contradiction for Javier’s personal taste.

“Listen,” he moves closer to you to whisper in dangerous proximity, “Steve asked me to not get involved with you, friend to friend. So that’s what I intend to do. More like not do.”

“Okay, that’s honorable, I respect that. But how much fun would it be to mess with him?”

Javier cocks an eyebrow in your direction, the faint scent of something floral suddenly invading his nostrils.

“Why would we mess with him?”

“Come on! Haven’t you ever wanted to just mess with him? Prank him in any way?”

“Not out of instinct.”

“You’re missing out.”

“And how exactly would we mess with him?”

“Do I detect interest in your voice?”

The playfulness in your voice, along with a hint of mischief, is causing Javier’s head to spin. You’re still not his type, but you sure seem like fun.

And he likes to have fun once in a while.

Forbidden fruit, he reminds himself.

“I figure if he sees me around you a lot, he’ll think we’re fucking, and based on your reputation, sounds plausible,” you ponder. “One of those veins in his head is bound to pop.”

“Shit, you’re a mean one. But I still want to respect Murphy’s wish.”

As if on command, Steve rushes back, handing you a sandwich and pulling Javier closer.

“I found this on Lieutenant Dan’s desk,” he mutters, but not hushed enough to not reach your ears.

Steve reveals a folder that you try to peak at while Javier rummages through it. Seconds later, his face brightens.

“New intel on the case,” Steve adds. “These sure would come in handy for closing the case.”

“So take ‘em.”

Both men stare at you like you just said the most outrageous thing in the world. “They’re classified, smarty pants,” Steve practically scolds you.

“So? You’re not taking them outside the precinct. You’re just… borrowing them, looking at words on a page.”

“If I close my eyes, you’re like the female version of Javier.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Why are you here, again?”

Javier’s sharp eyes cut through you like glass, but they don’t intimidate you.

“Apparently I’m the only one thinking rationally,” you retort.

With a loud grunt and a quick glance around, Javier turns to Steve. “Look, just—just stuff it down your pants.”

“What?”

“Do you wanna close the case or not?”

“Yeah, obviously, but—“

“Stuff ‘em down your pants.”

“Say that a lot to your lady friends?”

The glare Javier throws you doesn’t intimidate either. If anything, it only makes you bolder.

“If your brother wasn’t here, I would’ve told you where you can stuff that,” he grunts.

“Yeah, you’d wish you’d stuff something in this.”

“Both of you, cut it out, now,” Steve shushes you. “And ew. Why me, anyway? You pulled the same stunt back in Medellin.”

“They’ll suspect me.”

“You can’t play that card here too!”

“Spanish-speaking guy with a foreign family name? Trust me, they’ll fucking suspect me, Murphy.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Within a split second, you snatch the folder from Steve’s hands and, ensuring no one’s around, you tug at Javier’s belt, making enough room for the folder to slide between his shirt and his pants. Breathless, Javier can only watch in shock as you smile, so as to not raise any suspicions, and button his blazer so that the foreign element in his suit isn’t visible.

“There,” you say, “problem solved.”

“What the fuck,” Steve mutters under his breath.

“I wasn’t gonna shove a folder down your pants.”

Javier can’t think of a single thing to say. He can only watch you as you sit down, finally munching on your sandwich, and feel a concoction of feelings.

She’s not my type, he remembers.

But shit, that was hot.

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tags: @pedrostories @milkymoon2483 @ifall4dilfs @psychedelic-ink @casa-boiardi

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